LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 346.4 JANUARY, 1851. From the British Quarterly Review. (Nonconformist.) Zum Gechichtniss August Neanders. Neanders heirngaug. Von Lic. RAUR. Rede, gehalten im Sterbehause. Von Dr. FR. STRAUSS. Rede urn Grabe. Von iDr. F. W. KRUMMACHER. Rede, urn Tage der Beerdigung, den 17 Juli, 1850, in der Au/a der Universitdt gesprochen. Von Dr. KARL 1MM. NlTscis. Berlin. Karl Wiegandt. 1850. IN the death of Neander, Germany has lost one of her greatest teachers, and the Christian world one of its chief ornaments. A purer or nobler character has seldom adorned any churchone in which the loftiest powers of nature and the low- liest graces of the Gospel were more finely blended, and which more fixed therefore at once the love and the admiration of all who came in contact with it. For nearly forty years Neander has been one 4he brightest centres of interest to all in Christian ~rmany. A very halo of blessing and veneration surrounded him. And, so lovely and beloved in life, his death has been deeply lamented by all classes of his country. Pastors and professors, students and people, have alike done honor to his - memory. Multitudes, who own him as their spiritual father, have wept around his grave the tears of children. The eloquent Krummacher, his warm heart beating with emotion, pronounced his funeral eulogium; and the learned Nitsch, in the hall of the university, which he so loved and for which he so labored, delivered, the same day, a brief but affectionate sketch of his career. All, indeed, that we have heard, testifies to the wide- spread sincerity with which Germany has mourned her Neander. Bnt, beyond Germany, there are also many, we know, who will havewept for one whom, although they may have never seen him face to face, they have yet long since learned to recognize with the eye of the soul as their teacher and friend. Many who have only known him in his works (where, howevej, he may be so fully known) will, ere this, we feel, have woven, in spirit, a chaplet for his tomb. Students from all lands, who have held rich converse with his gifted and genial mind, will have brought, if silently yet no less heartily and gratefully, their tribute to his memory. For ourselves, feeling profoundly how much we owe him, we confess to have heard of his departure with a solemn and peculiar regret. It seemed to us as if we had suddenly lost some one very dear to us, with whom we were living in familiar and happy fellowship. Reaching us, as the news did, when death was busy in high places, and the mighty in rank, talent, and influence were being gathered as his spoils, we yet felt that there was for us something far more affecting in the loss of cccxLvi. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxviii. 1 Neander, than in that of any whom the world was then mourning. We felt that truly a master in Israel had fallen, that one of those great ones was gone, who, if they have lived obscurely, have yet left behind them an imperishable name whose blessed influence, we thank God, does not die with them, but lives evermore to fructify in the hearts of the good and true of every time and, through which, heing dead, they are yet destined to speak to all future generations. Contemplating, as we were, at any rate, some review of the labors of Neander, we could not more fitly carry our intention into effect than at the present moment, when he has so recently left us. We could not more fitly consider what lie has done than when his work on earth has just terminated, and he has entered into its reward. We will bring, therefore, with others, an offering to his memory, and if it should seem to any that we pass too lightly over some of his theological opinionsthat the sketch we shall draw is not severely discriminative, let them remember (not to mention other considerations) that it becomes us to tread gently around his new-made grave, and that where, from our own theological standing-point, we cannot unconditionally commend, we may yet (faithfully guarding our own views) hush our voice to a whisper. Let none fear that in this way we shall compromise the rights of the~ truth. No; we know how little he himself would have approved such a colirse. We would only have it to be understood that if we shall dwell, in this paper, chiefly on what is most satisfactory in the views of Neanderin the services which, as we conceive, he has rendered alike to theology and the church in his countryit is not thereby to be supposed that we are insensible to the lax and. erroneous opinions which some of his writings contain. It is impossible, within our space, to canvass adequately ~ll his writings, and we now propose, therefore, to confine ourselves mainly to the consideration of the positive aspect and value of his labors. Preliminary to our task, in this respect, we present our readers with what particu- lars we have been able to collect of. his life. Johanna August Wilhelm Neander was born at Gdttingen, January 16, 1789, of Jewish parents. While still quite young, he removed to Hamburg, where he spent the greater part of his youth, studying at the Gymnasium and Johanneum of that city. Very little appears to be generally known as to the circumstances of his parents. We remember hearing, when in Hamburg a few years ago, that they were of the very poorest class of Jews. From the same source we also heard how he came, in such a case, to have the opportunity of devoting himself to study; and the story is at once so very characteristic in regard to 2 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. himself, and so creditable to the party concerned, that we give itnot vouching, however, for its accuracy. We were told that the young Jewish boy, smitten even then with that absorbing love of books which so distinguished him through life, used to steal into the shop of the respected pub- lisher, whose name has since become so intimately associated with his historical labors, and there sit for hours in rapt application to the volumes kindly furnished him. And so frequent became his visits, and so peculiar appeared his devotion to the learned treasures submitted to him, that M. Perthes was led to interest himself in him, and to procure him the means of prosecuting his studies. Whether or no this be a true accountand it would delight us to have it corroboratedthe young Neander fortunately possessed in some way the means of pursuing his academical career, for which purpose he proceeded, in 1806, to Halle. Previously, however; he had abandoned Ju- daism and been baptized, receiving only then his present name. Of the peculiar cireumstcnces attending his conversion to Christianity we have no knowledge; we do not suppose, indeed, that it was marked by any special outward events, but was rather only a gradual silent change from within, the nature of which may be pretty well gathered from the glimpses he has himself given us into his life at this period, in his letters to Chamisso. In all respects, these letters are sin- gularly interesting, as the productions of a youth of only seventeen, breathing, as they do through- out, the most simple and glowing enthusiasm, and brightly revealing to us, if only by snatches, the forming course of his inner life. There is some- thing so pleasing in the circumstances of their origin, that wh shall briefly mention them. About two years before, Chamisso, in company with his friend, Varnhage n, Von Ense, Theremin the theologianthen a student, and others, had started a magazine of poetic literature, entitled The Musenalman-ach. In connexion with this undertaking, the young litterateurs formed themselves into an association under the symbol of the Pole Star o roe 7ro)~ov ecrr~oi. No more formal bond united the youthful aspirants. The Star of the North, the region of science, xvas simply intended to symbolize their united devotion to the cultivation of the true and the beautiful. Varnhagen, and Neumann, who appears to have been one of the most active of the band, having subsequently come to Ha to reside, they there formed the acquaintance of Neander. A strong ympathy, and mutual interest in the study of Plato, would seem to have drawn them together in the most cordial friendship, so that Neander adopted avith them the same symbol of noble ambition, and enrolled himself as a brother in their association. The enthusiastic Jewish youth, in his intense application to the pages of the Grecian sage, evidently made a very strong and lively impression on the two friendsfor we find Neumann thus writing of him to Chamis- so: We have made the acquaintance, among our fellow-students, of an excellent youth, entirely worthy of admission into our brotherhood of the North Star. Plato is his idolhis constant watchword. He sits day and night over him, and there are few who have so thoroughly and in such purity imbibed his wisdom. It is wonderful how entirely he has done this without any foreign im- pulse, merely through his own reflection and downright pure study. Without knowing much of the romantic poetry, he has, so to speak, con- structed it for himself, and found the germ thereof in Plato. On the world around him he has learned to look with a deep contemplative glance. This, it must be owned, is a somewhat at- tractive picture of the youthful student; and the same burning earnestness and winning simplicity here portrayed discover themselves still more filly in his own letters to Chamisso. The latter, ~t would appear, having heard in such fair terms of the new member received into their union, wrote to him in a corresponding spirit of fraternal regard. And the correspondence thus begun was continued at intervals during two years. These letters, as we have said, are altogether very interesting, and especially in relation to the manner in which his conversion to the Gos~J evidently took place. As might be inferred from the picture of him drawn by Neumann, Neanders mind appears to have passed over from Judaism to Christinity, through a species of Platonic idealism. The very same process which, in his Church history, he has described with such peculiar and graphic force, as having occurred in other great Christian teachers, seems to have taken place in himself. In that phifosophy, which, he ever continued to think, addresses itself so directly to the divine power in man, and which, in its later form, he has expressly said, contains so much that really or seemingly harmonizes with Christian truth, he found those points of contact with the Gospel which ever drew him more closely to itrevealing itself, as it did evermore, to be alone the life of his lifethe satisfaction of all his inward necessitjes. The ideals which in Plato ravished his intellectual vision, and which at first he would seem to have worshipped with that intense devotion which leaves no room for any other worship in the heart of the student, in the first fresh and glorious outburst of the in- tellectual life; these ideals, which at length, he, too, doubtless experienced, as Augustin did,* could give him no power of victory over the flesh, he gradually found realized in the Gospel, so that they henceforth not only served to dazzle his in- tellect, but to quicken and energize his life. Plato was thus to Neander, as he has been to not a few noble minds, in some sense, a schoolmaster to bring him to Christ. And while he never ceased his admiration of the philosopher, he yet ever came to embrace more and more in its depth and purity the truth as it is in Jesus. The influence of his teachers idealism may, indeed, be visibly enough traced in some of his conceptions of Christian * Gen. Church History, vol. iv., P. 13. AUGUSTUS NEANDER. doetrine, but the divine simplicity and practical power of the Gospel were ever more felt and owned by him. We cannot quote at any length from these youthful letters of Neander; but they possess, so far as we know, so unique an importance in refer- ence to his biography, apart from the insight they give us into the great spiritual crisis of his life, that we must find room for a few extracts. The following presents, in a very warm and interesting light, his relation to the brotherhood, of which he had just become a member: I thank you, (he says, in reply to Chamisso s first letter,) that you have expressed to me in writing the assurance of that friendship which already unites eternally all the like-minded who love the good and the beautiful, however circum- stances may seem to separate them, and which in time no less intimately links all those who follow under a common symbol the same noble end. Glo- rious to me is all which thus stamps with the im- press of unity various individuals, whichmould- ing with its own character whatever seems to lie most apart from itreveals itself under manifold forms ever the same. Diverse may, and, indeed, must be the exertions of every single member of q~r union, but only that thereby in the very vari- ety may be seen the unity, and thus the true stuff be formed in us from all sides. Previously I found no congenial companions with whom I could join myself in pleasant fellowship, and, from a natural timidity, I felt no impulse to seek such, when mere accident made me known to our two good friends, Varnhagen and Neumann, already associated in a kindred bond, and I was at once received by them into brotherhood. And, since then, most truly can I say, that much of which in my previous solitary life I had only a dim presentiment, has become to me clearer and brighter. * * * So let us, too, recognize each other as brothers, and mutually ex- press ourselves so. I should like also to see you, for although bodily presence is by no means neces- sary to a thorough union, it is yet very agreeable o ~be also able to look upon our friend in his external relations as well. IJutil we have this opportunity, however, let us always more lovingly and fully learn to know each other by the aid of letters. And whatever may befall us, I trust that, with Gods help, we shall meanwhile be able to over- pass, as it were, our outward restrictions, and re- alize each others presence, even as it still happens, that mere empirical necessity must submit itself to the divinely willing freedom. In these somewhat high-flown, but deeply ear- nest expressions, so beating with the pulse of a heart-warm feeling throughout, we may easily per- ceive what had hitherto been the character of Neanders spiritual lifelonely, and self-nursed, springing from a hidden inward depth of power which had not yet found vent in any active sympa- thy with the world, a fouatain of rich fulness which had fed itself in solitude, and not yet sought a channel into the light of common day. Living so exclusively in loving communion with the ideals brought before him in his books, he would seem, at this period, and even for some time afterwards, not to have been altogether free from an almost ascetic repulsion to the ordinary men and things around him. In a following letter, which possesses be- sides a peculiar interest, from the announcement which it contains of his determination to devote himself to the study of theology, this solitary and somewhat one-sided character of his life still more fully expresses itself: Dear friend, (he writes,) I was sorry that I had not the opportunity of seeing you at Hameln. Still we shall hope to meet at Halle. There will we allseparated, it would seem, as much as possible, by the mournful restrictions of a merely secular world, which is, alas! I grieve to say, everywhere around usenjoy together the inward blessedness of a civitas Dei, whose foundation is still forever friendship. The more I come to know you, the more the world dissatisfies me, as also I dissatisfy and must still dissatisfy all men who are not my friends. Their very presence stupefies me. I can- not do homage to~a common understanding, which has so withdrawn, and still ever further withdraws itself from the one centre of all existencethe di- vine spiritthe inward blessedness of the city of God, which it knows not, nor has ever tasted, having made for itself, through its own vain imag- ination, idols, according to its own cold and friv- olous notions. Yes, to it, and to all which it consecratesits idols, and its templesbe eternal war! Let every one advance to battle against it with the weapons which God has given him, till the monster is overthrown. * * * I have de- cided to study theology. God give me strength, as I wish and strive after, to know Himselfthe only Onein a sense which the common under- standing cannot comprehend, and to preach Him to the profane. Holy Saviour, Thou alone can~t rec- oncile us with the profane race, for, inflamed with a deep love to them, which they yet deserved not, Thou didst live and suffer, and die for them. Thou lovest the profanewe can only hate and despise them. There are many other passages of these letters we should like to quote, for there are everywhere, here and there, through all their exuberant and somewhat vague ideality, fine, fresh thoughts oc- curring: but one extract further must suffice, and it shall be a fragmentcloudy, though beautiful of that mystic Platonized idealism, through which, as we have said, he was now striving into the atmosphere of a purer ~nd brighter truth. The story (he says) of the two wise men of old the one of whom laughed, and the other wept at everything, expresses, so to speak, the two opposit~ poles of Heathenismcomedy, tragedyA ristoph- anes, iEschylus. Life was to it at first an un- ceasing laugh. But joyous youth, at first absorb. ing everything in its boundless mirth, at lengtk also absorbs and consumes itself. With the sea~or. of youth, its laugh toothe first fresh birth of na tures strengthpasses away. And no~v a tron bled earnestness succeeds a wild playfulness, both destined to perish. It behoved Antiquity to weep, in order that He might come, who would dry the tears of all, and reYntroduce forever the sure cheer- fulness of the holy disposition. * * * In the ancient world, first appears Fate as the external universalityin which everything individual is lost and swallowed upthe images of which are the mythical life in pdetry and the common life in the state, or patriotism. All in mass only, and in 3 I AUGUSTUS NEANDER. lump. Next is seen the individual awakening to consciousness; and now ensues division and moral strife; the individual opposing himself, with giant strength, to an overruling despotic fate. In Christ alone is the reconciliation of the individual and the universal to be found. In his ascension is seen the individual eternally substantiating himself, and em- bracing in his arms the universal. This reconcili- a~ion, too, is found expressing itself in Providence, opposed to Destiny, as also in the Trinitythe Son being One with the Father, and the individual eter- nally produced from the universal out of the One the Spirit, the Copula. For we call the universal, so far as it is indwelling in the individual, the SpiritSuch are the half-tones with which I an- swer your letter. Half-tones, truly, in some respects, sounding through a dim and perilous region of meta- physic; hut in other respects also tones of deep, though broken, meaning, showing how profoundly Neander had already penetrated into the historic meaning of Heathenism in its relation to Christi- anity. But we must now proceed with our sketch of bis life. After studying at Halle, to which, as we have already stated, he went in 1806, and where he came under the impressive influence (an influence which cannot be questioned, although we have no particular means of ascertaining its limits) of Schleiermacher, then in the first height of his fame as a teacher, he proceeded to G6ttingen; and in the place of his hirth completed his aca- demical career, under the venerable Planek. Here he was especially led to those original investi~a- tions into the sources of Christian history, which constituted the great work of his life. The influ- ence of Plauck, who had himself earned so well- merited a fame from his historical labors, was, doubtless, not without its effect in kindling and fostering within him the love for such researches. having here finished his university curriculum, he returned for a short while to Hamburg, where he continued, with all his former solitary ardor, to pursue his studies. At lent tl~,in 1811, in his twenty-first year, he commenced his career as a theological teacher, at Heidelberg, by defending his essay, IDe fldei gnoseosque idein, qua ad se invicem atque ad philosophiam referatur, ratione, secundum mentem Clementis Alexandrini. In the year following he was appointed Extraordinary Professor of Theology in the same city; and at this period he first appeared as an author, by the publication of his Monograph on the Emperor Julian. The fresh insight into the History of the Church, and the vivid and striking power of delineation, which this work discovered, at once drew general attention to the distinguished talents of its author; and marked him Out as a rising theo- logian of the first rank. He soon, accordingly, even before he had terminated the first year of his academical labors at Heidelberg, received a call to Berlin, where the King of Prussia was at that time striving to gather around him, in his newly- founded university, the ablest teachers from all quarters of Germany. Thither, some time pre viously, had come hoth Schleiermacher and Do Wette; and these illustrious men, in conjunction with our author, and others of scarcely less illus- trious name, may be said, through their mutual efforts, to have given an impetus to the youthful mind of Germany, which truly constitutes an epoch in its history. Of the three theologiansso dis- similar in many points, yet so united in the same hearty desire to shed, by their exertions, a living glory on the infant institution to which they be- longedthe last is now gone: and with Neander too, we believe, the last link of that chain which connected the present younger with the older race of professors. While its first glory is thus de- parted, however, we trust that this now famed uni- versity will continue, by the increasingly fruitful labors of its professors and students, to add even a brighter lu tre to its reputation. Now fixed in Berlin, Neander at once settled himself to those habits of intense private study (which had already, as we have seen, so marked his youth) and of laborious and consuming faith- fulness in the discharge of his public duty, which characterized his whole future career. His life, in fact, was but one silent, untiring labor, undis- tinguished, so far as we know, by any external incidents of importance, and varied only by brief spring and autumn excursions into the country; during which, however, he was by no means idle, but would be found laying under contribution the stores of some library to which he had not other- wise access. His studies continued peculiarly in the same direction in which they had begun. In the year following his appointment to Berlin his second monograph, entitled Der Ileilige Bernard und sein Zeitalter, appeared; and in the year 1818, hiswork on Gnosticism, Genetisehe Entwickel- ung der vornehmsten gnostischen Systems. A still more extended and elaborate monograph than either of the, preceding followed on Chrysostom, Der Heilige Chrysostonms und die Kirche, be- sonders des Orients, in dessen Zeitalter and again, in 1825, still another, on Tertullian,~ An- tignostikus. Geist der Tertullianus. lie had meantime, however, begun his great work, to which these several efforts were only, as it were, preparatory studies. The immediate occasion of his setting about what he had all along contem- plated as the main task of his life, was, as he has himself told us, the call for a new edition of his work on Julian. Such a call he found he could not comply with, without, in fact, re-writing this early production, and giving it an altogether new and more comprehensive form. Encouraged by his publisher, he therefore preferred beginning his General History of the Christian Religion and Church, which should embrace this as well as all the other special points to which his attention had already been directed. The first part of this enlarged undertaking accordingly made its appear- ance in 1825, comprehending the history of the thre~ first centuries, from the end of the apostolic AUGUSTUS NEANDER. age to the year 311. The remaining parts, down to the fifth, (making in all, according to the first edition, ten, according to the second, eight volumes,) have since appeared at successive in- tervals, bringing down the history of the Church to the close of the thirteenth century. Besides this grand central work, he published, in 1832, his history of the Planting and Training of the Christian Church by the Apostles ; and, in 1837, his Life of Jesus Christ, in its Historical Connexion and Historical Development works which he had all along contemplated as indispen- sable adjuncts to his General History, but in which, from particular circumstances, he found himself called upon to engage before its comple- tionin the case of his Life of Jesus, as is well known, from the necessity he felt of opposing the famous work of Strauss. In addition to all these labors, he gave to the public, first in 1822, and subsequently in 184546, a sort of popular Church History, entitled Memorabilia (Durkwfisdigkei- ten) front the History of the Christian Life : and in 1829, a volume of occasional writings, chiefly exegetical and historical; and again, in 1840, another volume of a similar character, under the title of the Unity and Variety of the Christian Life. Many extended papers besides have ap- peared from his unwearying pen, as, for example, those on Plotinus, Thomas Aquinas, Theobald Thamer, Pascal, Newman, Blanco XVhite, and Arnold,* & c. It will be abundantly evident, from our bare statement, what a life of unremitting toil Nean- ders was; and yet we have only seen, so to speak, the half of it, for his devotion to his pub- lic duties as a professor was equally ardent and assiduous. He lectured usually thrice a day, his lectures embracing within their range almost every branch of theology, exegetics, dogmatics, ethics, as well as church history. His lecture-room, in- deed, became one of the most prominent interests of his being; and whatever other engagements he may have forgotten, in the profound reverie of study in which he lived, we never heard of his failing to be with his class at the appointed hour. The care of his students ever lay as a chief bur- den on his warm heart; and, not contented with disch~crging his public duty towards them in the university. he assembled them re~ ularly of even- ings in his house, wheresitting in the midst of them as they gathered round him in a circle (his little, strange figure presenting the oddest possible spectacle in such a position)he would answer their inquiries and solve their doubts. Nothing, consequently, could exceed his popularity among the students. The very warmest feelings, indeed, of affectionate respect were cherished towards him by all classes of the community in Berlin; and the love of the students for him even sometimes reached a sort of furor. This was especially * Some of these papers, as those on Plotinus, Thomas Aquinas, and Pascal, were read before the Royal Academy of Sciences in Berlin; others appe red in the Jahrhiicher fur wissenschaftliche Kritik. manifested on his last birthday, when they met in procession, and marched through the city by torch light in celebration of it. The procession paus- ing opposite the windows of his house, he was addressed in a figurative complimentary allusion to the greatness of the occasion. This incident affected him. in a manner illustrative of the sim- plicity of his character. Stepping forward, he declared himself to be only a poor sinner, ex- claiming, in a voice trembling with emotion, and the tears trickling down his cheeksas one of the fathers had done before him 0, Divine Love, I have not loved thee strongly, deeply, warmly enough ! With all the noble qualities which thus so en- deared him as a man and a teacher, Neander, it is well known, united an amount of eccentricity in his mere manners and personal appearance, which exceeds almost all that we ever heard of any other in the same way ; and which, it is possible, was not without its influence among the students, especially in heightening the peculiar interest which they felt in him. And whatever any may think of his singularitiesin his casehowever it may have sometimes happened in that of others it is altogether impossible to ascribe them to, any degree of affectation. The bare idea of such a thing, to any who have caught even a glimpse of the pure, transparent simplicity of his character, were the wildest eccentricity in the world. It is not difficult, indeed, to see how many of his peculiarities should have arisen in the most natural manner. Leading all along so solitarily studious a lifehis intellectual and spiritual energies so completely absorbing his whole being that he would seem scarcely ever to have fully realized his relation to the actual world of social every-day life around him, it is not wonderful that a habit of the most profound and inveterate abstractedness should have grown upon him. Living so entirely in a contemplative world of his own, his deep- sunken eyes seeming rather to rest upon the busy throng of ideas within than the busy crowd of things without him, it need not surprise us that he should have so often acted as if he had forgotten altogether the world of sense in which he moved. Not that we are to suppose for a moment that he continued to cherish any of that somewhat stern opposition to the world which we have seen to express itself in his youthful letters. On the contrary, none in the maturity of his Christian convictions was ever more free from such a feeling even in his youth, as we have seen, genuinely Christian at the root, but only expressed in some- what too harsh and one-sided a manner. None ever regarded his fellow-men with a more ardent and deep-hearted intere~t; and none, we may add, in his writings has more fully exposed the false, truly anti-christian character of every form of that self-seeking spirit of isolation which would arbi- trarily withdraw itself from intercourse with the world-a phenomenon which, we need not say, often meets him in the course of his history. His own mode of life, so withdrawn from all ordinary 5 6 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. social activities, was, as Nitsch has truly said, in no degree the result of any moral determination, but simply, where not necessitated by the condi- tions of his health, the natural channel into which so contemplative and scientific an existence flowed. The very queerest manners, however, it must be owned, seem to have gradually overgrown this quiet, deep-flowing stream of his life. The Ger- man students have a perfect anthology of stories about him; such as his frequent appearance in his study, and even, it is said, in his lecture-room, half-dressedhis always going, if left alone, to his old residence after he had removed to another part of the cityhis walking in the gutterhis con- tinuing writing on the desk before him after he had come to the end of his paper. Of his aspect and demeanor while engaged in the discharge of his professional duty, which have been so often de- scribed, we give the following account, which appeared originally among the foreign correspond- ence of an American newspaper,* and which, if it have no higher value, will at least be found very piquant by those who find something ever so in- teresting even in the eccentricities of men of genius. I had the opportunity, states the writer, the other day, (March, 1849,) of seeing the celebrated Professor Neander. I xvent in the morning to the university to hear him deliver an exegetical lecture upon a chapter in the New Jestament. His personal appearance was as singular as his mode of addressing his audience was extraordinary. His forehead, broad and high, was almost wholly covered by his long black hair, and its base was hounded by a massive ridge, jutting far outwards, and surrounded by thick shaggy eyebrows. His eyes were so deeply sunken, and concealed by his half-closed eyelids, that neither their color nor their form was dis- cernible. His mouth and nostrils were somewhat rudely shaped, and his complexion was of that dark, dry, sallow cast that marks years of intense study and reflection. His form was thin, bent, and loosely knit, and his carriage and attitude the most careless and graceless possible. lie had on a white cravat, and a grayish frock-coat reaching below his knees. Fancy such a man, standing on a slightly-elevated platform ; his left arm resting on the corner of a desk four feet high, his left hand shading his eyes from the light, his right hand holding, within three or four inches of his face, a large-typed Greek Testament, from which he never withdraws his intense look; and, further, fancy him with the whole upper half of his person bent over in an angle of nearly forty-five degrees, balancing the desk upon its two back legs, and with his left foot kept constantly crossed over his right, except when occasionally, either through caprice, or to restore the equilibrium of the desk, he suddenly retracts as if about to take a desperate leap, and as suddenly replaces it; and, still further, fancy him perfectly absorbed in his subject, and speaking with a slow, monotonous utterance, inter- rupted only by a pause when he has to ask from * The New York Courier. one of the students a word which he cannot recog- nize on account of imperfect sightand you have a faithful picture of the most philosophical histo- rian, and perhaps most profound theologian living, in rapportement with his young disciples. When his instructions are not exegetical, and do not require a book, you will have to vary the picture by imagining him lecturing extemporaneously, and all the while engaged in pulling to pieces a quill, previously given him by one uf his attendants for this special purpose. I mention these things to interest but not to divert you. Notwithstanding all his peculiarities, the students seemed to regard him with a reverence approaching to homage, and to catch as a treasure every word that fell from his lips. The relation of Neander to the various parties in the German Church, involving as it does the consideration of his whole theological position, will be more fully noticed by us immediately. XVe may now only say that he was, both by nature, and by the mannerso thoroughly inward and reflect- ivethrough which he had himself attained to a profound Christian belief, of far too free and inde- pendent a spirit to ally himself closely and pro- fessedly to any party. There was something, in fact, in his mind which peculiarly revolted against all ecclesiastical and theological sectarianism, lie was so in the habit of looking all around him, and acknowledging on all sides the good that met his moral sympathy, that he could not be a party-man. This radically catholic disposition everywhere discovers itself in his writings, and, in one in- stance, has found a sort of monumental expression in the title which he has given to his paper on Wilberforce, among his occasional writings The man of God, no man of party. We find evidences of the position thus occupied by Neander in the few several events which mark his out~vard connexion, in any degree, with the ecclesiastical controversies of his day. Thus, it is well known that when the publication of Strauss so-called Life of Jesus excited such a ferment, and the loud cry was got up by one party that its circula- tion should be prohibited, Neander, on being appealed to by the minister of ecclesiastical affairs, gave it as his decided opinion that the book should not be suppressed, written, as it was, in no frivo- lous, but in a strictly scientific spirit, and that the only legitimate mode of opposing its influence was by refuting its conclusionsa task to which he would immediately address himself. When again, in the year 1845, theological strife was waged so bitterly between Hengstenherg and those whom he denominated Sehleiermacherianer, Neander, while keeping aloof from what must have been so distasteful to him as the impure spirit which characterized that controversy, yet sought by his powerful voice to quell the combatants on both sides; and, with this view, published a fly-sheet entitled Words of Peace among the contending Parties,~~* which is not without some general * Literally, among the Oppositions ~Worte des ,Frudens unter den Gegeustitzeu. AUGUSTUS NEANDER. interest in enabling us to estiAiate his theological views. We should not, indeed, be prepared to say that Neander did not in some respects carry his liberality too far, (as, for instance, in the matter of Gesenius and Wegschnder,) but still we must admire that bold, fine confidence in the power of the truth itself to work out its own ends, which he so deeply cherished, and which was so obviously the ground upon which he ever felt so disinclined to identify himself with the positive one-sided measures of any party to promote its advance- ment. It is proper for a moment to glance at Neander in his more peculiarly private relations, though here we find very little to note. He never married, but lived with his sisters, for whom he che~rished the warmest affection. One of them was gener- ally seen with him when he ventured a walk in the parks of the city, which he occasionally did; and, of late years, when, through the studious toil of his youth and prime, he had almost lost his eyc-sight, the surviving one would be seen walk- ing up and down the street, opposite to the uni- versity, waiting to accompany him home. The loss of his other sister, to whom he was peculiarly attached, which took place a few years ago, was the most trying affliction of his life. For a short time, it is said, he was quite overcome; but suddenly he dried his tears, calmly declared his firm faith and reliance on the wise purpose of God in taking her to himself, and resumed his lectures immediately, as if nothing had overtaken him to disturb his serenity. Marked by a spirit so devotedly Christian and truly amiable in all respects, it would not hecome us to pass by one of the most distinguishing traits of Neanders life. His charity was unbounded. Of his peculiar care of his students we have already spoken, but it would be difficult to convey any adequate idea of all his self-sacrifice in their be- half. Poor students were not only furnished with tickets to his lectures, but were also often provided by him with money and clothing, and he has been known even, we believe, to give his own new coat to one, retaining the old one for himself. All the money received for his lectures, it is said, was devoted to charitable purposes of one sort or another. Under his auspices, and bearing his name, an association was formed for the special object of enabling poor theological students to pursue their studies, and the profits of many of his works were entirely given to it. To one, indeed, so simple in his tastes, and so sparing in his en- joyments, as Neander, such sacrifices would cost but little. But they are not the less beautiful on that account; and what a source of blessing and of joy must they have been to many a youth who, thirsting to drink more fully at the fount of knowl- edge, must have otherwise failed of the means of doing so. Thus lived and labored Neander, till, in his sixtieth year, it might truly have been said of him, as he has himself so finely said of Luther, that old age had come upon him prematurely, by reason of his many labors, the manifold troukles which raged around him, and his sicknesses. He was still, however, assiduous as ever in the discharge of all his duties, bearing down encroaching in- firmities by the force of an indomitable will, which could brook no intermission of his appointed work. On Monday, the 8th of July, he was in his class- room as usual. Although the weather had been for some time very changeable, no solicitations could keep him back from his wonted task at the university. On that day, however, it was ob- served, notwithstanding all his efforts, that his voice failed him in the delivery of his lecturea thing altogether unusual with him. Still he per- severed to the close, when he was only able by the help of some of the students, to dismount from the platform on which he lectured; and, com- pletely exhausted, he returned home. One of his hearers on this occasion, deeply moved with the too evident signs of his approaching decay, ex- claimed, with a mournful emphasis in his voice, This is the last lecture of our Neander. On reaching home, he would yet to his work as usual; called his amanuensis, and began the dictation of his Church History, which he continued without intermission for three hours. At length the power of nature could bear up no longer, and he sought reposebut only after repelling for some time the affectionate remon- strances of his sister with a Let me alonecan- not every workman still work while he will. On the following day violent diarrhcea attacked him, and all hope of continuing his professional duties was necessarily abandoned. Still only for one day would he allow his lectures to be postponed. Next day he hoped he would be able to resume his duties. But althou~h the physicians suc- ceeded in temporarily checking his disease, the springs of life were too thoroughly exhausted within him to permit of any well-founded hope of his recovery. So far, however, did he rally, that he conceived himself sufficiently able to rise and re-commence work; and scarcely the most powerful entreaties could prevent his doing so. His voice, which had never before been heard but in the mildest accents to the servant, now rose in commanding address to her to bring him his clothes that he might get up. There is to us something inexpressibly touching in this little and so purely childlike incident. But his sister at length soothed him with the words, Think, dear Augustus, what would be said if I disobeyed the orders of the physician. It is Gods doing, and therefore we must cheerfully submit. That is true, he replied, with suddenly hushed voice, allis from God, and we must praise Him for it. Now, quiet and resigned, he requested to be removed from the darkened chamber in which he had hitherto lain, to the open, sunny room in which, for twenty years, he had pursued his untiring studies. Brought thither, he seemed to drink in with eager eyes the golden light, after which he ever so longedchild as he so truly was of the light; and as, indeed, he had only a. 7 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. few days before playfully said of himself, that he was an ojre~~o~ iou y~tou.* Somewhat revived by this change, and by the sight of the dear familiar companions of his life-long studieshis booksthe old spirit returned upon him; and his thoughts wandered now to his class-room, now to the favorite subject upon which he had proposed lecturing during the following session, The Gospel of John, contemplated from its truly his- torical point of view, and again, to his Church History, some further sentences of which he dictated regarding the German mystics of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the so-called Friends of God. At length, some one having replied in answer to his inquiry as to the time, that it was half-past nine oclock, he said, I am tired, I will now go to sleep ; and, laying him- self down, he breathed softly, Good night ; and after a few hours disturbed and painful slumber he was no more. On the stillness of a Sabbath morn, that great and gentle spirit de- parted to the God who gave it. Thus died Neander, as he had lived, working. He needed no special preparation, for his life had been but one patient preparation for the coming of his Lordi: and it appears that nothing could have been more appropriate to the actual expiry of his laborious career than the profound sense of weari- ness which, on this his last day, he expressed more than onceas on another occasion, I am weary, let us now make ready to go home ; the energies of mortality, which had held on so long, having only thus yielded at the final close of his earthly toilwhen his transfigured spirit, in all the freedom of eternity, was to rise to nobler heights of love divine, and wander through ampler fields of heavenly science. On the Wednesday following his funeral took place, attended by an immense concourse of people, and the whole extent of its procession, along two miles of the city, lined with profoundly interested spectators. The hearse was surrounded by students, some of them from Halle, carrying lighted candles, and in advance was borne the Bible and Greek Testament which had ever been used by the deceased. At the grave, music was * I have this, said he on this occasion, in commnn with the Emperor Julian, but Strauss mutt not know this. Neauders Heimgang von Lic. Rauh. This instance of playfulness on the l)art of Neander strengthens us in an opiniun which we had formed, even in reading his Church History, that, he did not want, among his other qualities, a quiet power of humor, that piquant per- ception of the felicitous and odd, which so few minds of the same genial stamp as his are ever without. Living the surt of unworldly life he did, this faculty, indeed, can scarcely he said to have been at all developed in him but there it doubtless wasand it now and then even breaks forth amid all the gravity and severe composure of his historyat least we fancy so, and have pencilled in our own copy what we conceive to he various traits of it. We also avail ourselves of the occasion of this note to express our indebtednesswe may say entirelyfor the above particulars of Neanders death, to the interesting account of Licentiate Raub among the contents of the pamphlet given at the head of our article. While appro- priating it, however, as we have done so freely, ae have not quoted it in any such strict or continuous form, as could enable us to make a more explicit and obvious acknowledgmetmt of our obligations to mt in the text. sang and addresses delivered; and it was a truly solemn sight, says the same writer* from whom we have quoted the previous sentence, to see the tears gushing from the eyes of those who had been the pupils and friends of Neander. In entering upon the examination of Neanders labors, our task, we conceive, will most appropri- ately divide itself into two divisions, in the first of which we shall consider his general position and views as a theologian; and, in the second, what he has specially accomplished in the depart- ment of church history, the main labor of his life. This, we think, will be a better plan than to attempt any successive notice of his various writings, which were, in fact, in any thorough sense, a task altogether impossible within the compass of a single articleeach of his three great works furnishing in itself ample ground for an extensive and elaborate criticism. The very comprehensive nature of our task ,then, will be borne in mind in the estimate we may express of his laborswhich, however, we trust, in most respects, will stand fully justified in its own light. It is, we believe, quite impossible at all rightly to appreciate the services of Neartder, without bring- ing clearly before us his special position among the diverse theological classes of his country. It is true that in none of his writings does Neander ex- pressly teach what is more strictly called theology. All, from first to last, as we have seen, beat more or less directly upon the historic exhibition of the Christian doctrine and life, the great task to which he felt himself especially called, and for which he was doubtless especially fitted. But in carrying out this main purpose of his studies, as well in the history of the apostolic age, and of the great Founder of Christianity himself, as in his General Church History, he was necessarily led to express with sufficient distinctness his own theological viewsfor, as he himself says, a purely objective historical work, stripped of all subjectivity in its representation, untinctured by the individual sentiments of the writer, is an absurdity. Be sides, in his various prefaces, par- ticularly in that to the third edition of his Life of Jesus, where, in opposition to judgments passed upon his book from adverse sides, he is led to express himself somewhat fully as to his posi- tionand, moreover, in his numerous occasional papers, to which we have already referred, he discovers very strongly how dear to him were his special theological convictionshow they lay at the root of all his historic labors, and alone reflected on them their full and fruitful meaning. Neander, as we have already seen, was a pupil of Schleiermaclser at Halle. For his instructor, whose colleague he subsequently became, he ever cherished the warmest regard; and while he can- not be properly classed with those who have been * A writer who gives an account of his death and burial in an American paper, and to whom we hate been indebted for one or two interesting facts in the course of our narrative. 8 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. specially called the disciples of that gifted man, he yet clearly owed to him, with so many others, a powerful excitation of his spiritual being, and in some degree, perhaps, its special direction. His emphatic declaration on hearing the death of his revered teacher The man is departed, from whom will he dated for the future a new epoch in theology, sufficiently betrays his lively apprecia- tion of Schleiermachers influence, and his syrn- pathy and concurrence with the impulse which he had imparted to the theological mind of his coun- try. It is true that Neander was, as we have al- ready remarked, of too strongly independent a bias, and too widely sympathizing a natureand besides, as we have seen, he had himself arrived at mature Christian convictions through struggles too thorou5hly personal, and a too direct, and original intuition of the divine truth and life in history, to permit of his being regarded as a mere follower of any man, however influential. Still it is equally true that we can have little difficulty in determining his general theological position as uric closely allied with that so-called middle school of theology in Germany, which takes its rise from Schleiermacher, and certainly regards him with a peculiar reverence. It does not now fall within our province to criti- cize the merits of this schoolso differently esti- mated by different parties in this country; and especially as an occasion may soon again occur of bringing it before us, in a review of the general series of theological phenomena in Germanyin conjunction with which it can alone he fully com- prehended. It will only be necessary, in the mean time, to advert in a cursory mannei to the rise and characteristics of this, at present certainly the most powerful and spontaneous tendency of the German theological mind. It is well known into what a state of utter disor- ganization religious opinion had fallen in Germany, when Schlciermacher first appeared as a religious teacher. The cold and negative spirit which so generally characterized the eight.eenth century in every province of thought, had reached in the reli- gious atmosphere of the fatherland a degree of refrigeration which threatened to destroy every vestige of higher faith and feeling. Every scholar is familiar with this state of things, in all the con- fused phenomeiia of the older or Semlerian ration- alism. Just at this crisis, Schleiermacher, under a deep persuasion of the religious necessities of his time, uttered his powerful, if not in some respects very distinct, voice in behalf of religion, in those remarkable discourses of his youth, addressed to the educated among its despisers. And pene- trated, as he truly was, by a profound Christian feeling, derived from his education among the Mo- ravians, and, at the same time, gifted with intel- lectual endowments of the highest order, he pos- sessed many qualifications for the great task which seemed a signed him, of breathing a higher and holier spirit into the theology of his country. The very full and comprehensive view of his labors lately presented in this journal, renders it quite superfluous for us to do more than indicate that special characteristic which may be considered to have constituted him, in some degree, the founder of a school. He combined, we have said, with a warm religious feeling, the highest intellectual qualities. He possessed, in fact, a very piercing and discursive mindwas thoroughly disciplined in all the science of his daykeenly susceptible of all its influences, and often strongly moved and governed by them. It is easy to see what would be the special conflict and endeavor of one formed as Schlciermacher thus was, in the position which he occupied. Feeling so equally drawn by the cords of piety and of science, he would strive to unite them on a basis securing to each its respec- tive right; and this was exactly what he did attempt to do. The rights of piety he opposed, on the one hand, to a mere negative and devouring Rationalism ; and the rights of science, on the other, to a one-sided and absorbing pietism. The claims of both he held to be equally valid ; and, so far from properly excluding each other, to be both only capable of reaching their full, healthy devel- opment by a mutual interpenetration. As piety necessarily dwarfs and disappears where not con- tinually refreshed and invigorated by the fruitful labors of critical science ; so a scientific spirit without an interest in Christianity does not, prop- erly speaking, belong to theology at all. The pro- fessed theologian destitute of such an interest is a mere scholar, occupied in working up certain elements of theology, in the spirit of that particular science from which they may happen to be de- rived. It is only the union of the two elements which can entitle any one to be considered a theo- logian, in the right sense of the word; and only, as he has himself expressed it in one of the apho- ristic expressions of his Ouflines,~ the union of these two elements, in their highest degree, and in the greatest possible equilibrium, which can constitute a Prince in the Church. The synthesis thus expressed, of a Christian and scientific interest, of a living piety and free exercise of criticism, is, we think, to be regarded as the broadest and most essential characteristic of Schleiermachers theological tendency, and of that of the school which has proceeded from him. To this ultimate and distinguishing principle we believe all the more special views of this school may be referred, and find in it their explanation. It does not desire, as has been set forth, in some sort officially, in its great organ,* piety or science, in other words, faith or knowledge, the letter or the spirit, but faith and knowledge, the h~tter and the spirit. Nor, while this principle is put forth in so marked and characteristic a manner by ~he theologians of this school, is it to be supposed that they assert it to be anything novel in its applica- tion to the exegesis of Scripture, and the formation of a biblical theology. On the very contrary, they hold it to be just the same fundamental principle upon which the reformers proceeded; and whereas * Studien und Kritiken. 9 10 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. the dead system of rationalism which succeeded to equal force and delicacy all the claims of science. the Reformation arose directly from the divorce of Less impelled to speculationwith a less system- one of the elements of this principle from the other atizing spirithe was no less thoroughly trained ,-the ethical from the theoreticalso it is only in all the exercises of philosophy. No one, in from their fresh re~inion and co~ctivity that a liv- fact, ever owned more powerfully those intellect- ing theology can once more arise. Such a theol- nal necessities which must still seek vent in spec- ogy, odequate to the necessities of their own time, ulation ; or had, in some respects, a more genial these theologians do not find ready-made in the sympathy with them. While the practical inter- dogmatic systems of the Reformation. Recognizing ests ever, upon the whole, happily predominated the full validity of these systems for their own with him, he had accordingly sounded all the depths time, they do ~iot acknowledge them to he absolute of ancient and modern thoughtentered into their expressions of the truth, hinding on the church in fruits, and made them his o~vn in the most free all ages; hut, on the contrary, strongly assert the and perfect manner. Thus highly qualified on necessity of ever seeking the truth afresh in the the one side, he was still more highly so on the divine fountain of Scripture, and of hence repro- other. So susceptible to the claims of science, ducing it in new and more comprehensive concep- he was penetrated to the very depths of his being tions, suited to the ever newly emerging wants of by an earnest Christian interest. In this latter humanity. Thus scientifically free in its views, it respect, we feel bound to recognize his superiority is yet by no means open, we conceive, (and our to his great teacher. For if Schleiermacher truly purpose now, let it be borne in mind, is not criti- was, as we most heartily believe, urged on in all cism, but simple e position,) to the charge which his labors by sincere religious feeling, which, in some have preferred against it, of abandoning all his own touching language, was the maternal historical basis for its labors. For while it does womb in whose sacred obs9urity his young life not, indeed, hold by the past expressions of the was nursed, we must still, in his illustrious churchs views, as exclusive summaries of Chris- pupil, acknowledge, in some respects, a more tian truth, ever obligatory in all respects upon the genuine Christian nature; if not a higher appre- church, yet it does very decidedly and significantly hension, yet a simpler and purer appropriation attach itself to those former symbols as points of of the Christian life ; more of that self-sacrificing the greatest importance in the historical develop- temper, or childlike ch~tir, which, as Pascal so ment of theology. It does not appropriate them as finely saw, is the peculiar spring of all its truth something fixed and unalterable, and necessarily and beauty. And thus, so penetrated himself by confining the churchs movements in all time com- a profound Christian feeling, he apprehended with ing; but it does appropriate them, in a living a thrilling clearness its necessity to the theolo- manner, as the churchs past acquirementsonly gian. Without it, he emphatically says, aiming, at the same time, through the fresh intui- there can be no theology. It can only thrive tion of Scripture, to work what is eternal in them in the calmness of a soul consecrated to God; into renewed forms, corresponding to renewed what grows amid the noisy bustle of the world, necessities. It does not render itself absolutely and the empty babble of the age, is not theology. dependent on any human doctrinal formula, but no And exactly in the same spirit, and proceeding more does it assume a proud independence of the from the same strong recognition of the absolute past dogmatic teaching of the church. It would necessity of this Christian clement in all theology, only, while firmly holding to an historical theol- xvas his favorite motto Pectus est quod theolo- ogy, at the same time strongly maintain the privi- gain facit. lege to belong to it, as well as to the church of the It will not be doubted, we think, that the Reformation, of drawing also directly from the well Christian interest, thus so clearly expressed by of Scripture the pure truth directly in the love of it. Neander, was with him practically something Time sympathies of Neander were decidedly more definite and predominant than with Schle- with this theological tendency, which we have ciermacher, and some who may be considered sought so briefly to mark. From the very outset more particularly his followers. With Neander of his career, lie felt himself poxverfully draxvn to it is, as we conceive, coniparatively rarely oh- it, at once by his own mental peculiarities, and by scured. In some of his exegetical views, indeed, all the disciplinary inthences through which he it may be found succumbing to what we must hold had passed. With a mind widely differing from to be a perverted scientific bent; but, generally that of Schiciermacher, he possessed perhaps even speaking, and on the great points of doctrine, it in rarer perfection, certainly in more harmonious will he found exerting its happy influence over union, both the scientific and Christian elements him. Wherever, in any case, the issue is he- which must combine in the theologian. Without tween the invading rights of science and the the amazing versatility and logically discriminat- native rights of a simple Christian faith, Nean- ing talent which so distinguished his teacher der is never found uttering a hesitating voice. with less acuteness and restlessly speculative His testimony is ever raised in emphatic and con- powerNeanders was yet a mind of vast com- fident terms on the side of the Gospel. And we pass, of profound intellectual depths. Character- fear this cannot be always said of Schleiermacher istically meditative, while Schleiermacher was Sometimes the dark shadow of the unchristian characteristically dialectic, he yet felt with almost speculation of his age would seem to have deep. AUGUSTUS NEANDER. ened with a sad pathos the inner tones of his being, and drawn from him a tremulous response, even on some of the very life-questions of the Gospel.* But where the essence of the Christian truth is thos concerned in opposition to the de- mands of science, Neander is ever found sound, and to all attempts of the latter to intrude beyond its own province he repliesas Nitsch has truly said of himwith a decided and even vehement No. Nor will it be supposed for a moment, from what we have already said, that he is ever found standing less decidedly forward for the genuine rights of science. This is the last thing that can be truly said of him, or is likely to be said of him by any school of evangelical theology, and it scarcely deserved, therefore, we think, the formal refutation which Nitsch has given it in his sketch, to which we have already referred. We need only quote a single sentence from the preface to the first edition of his Church History, to show with what clearness and cogency he no less up- held the claims of science Nothing, (he says,) but what can stand as truth before the scrutiny of genuine unprejudiced science of a science which does not see through the glass of a particular philosophical or dogmatic schoolcan he profitable for instruction, ductrine, and reproof; and wherever a science relating to the things of God, and their revelation and evolu- tion among man kind, has not become by misman- agement of human perversity an insignificant cari- cature or a lifeless skeleton, it must necessarily bear these fruits. Science and life (he adds) are here designed to interpenetrate each other, if life is not to be exposed to the manifold contradictions of error, and science to death and inanity. Thus allying himself with the general principle of Schleiermachers school of theology, Neander is found quite united with it in his estimation of creeds. He clearly recognizes their historical significance and value; hut declares unequivocally against their permanent validity and obligation. The Gospel itself, he says, rests on an im- movable rock, while human systems of theology are everywhere undergoing a purifying process.~ When assailed by Schulz on this very point, lie boldly replied that his only concern was whether his statements accorded with truthabove all, Christian truth; but that as to the opinions of this or that set of men he was quite indifferent, frankly acknowledging that, with the exception of the Apostles Creed, which testifies to those fundamental facts of Christianity that are essential to the existence of the Christian Church, he could not subscribe any of the existing symbols as an unconditional expression of his religious con- victions. To the Augsburg Confession, indeed, he held, in so far as it symbolizes the great fun- damental doctrines of the Reformation, the corrup- tion of human nature (not however excluding, but pre-supposing in man an element of affinity with God Gottverwandte) and justification by * See especially some of his letters. faith in Jesus as the Redeemer. In so far as it is an exposition of these essential doctrines, to- gether with the unchangeable verities to which the Apostles Creed hears witness, he regarded it as the irrefragable basis of the Evangelical Church, on which basis, he says, it protests against all popery, whether the Roman or any other impure spirit of the ageagainst human statutes, no matter of what kind. But while so far holding by the creed of the Reformation, he could by no means agree with those who con- ceived that the whole dogmatic system and the entire mode of contemplating divine and human things must return as it then existed. It requires, indeed, only a very partial acquaint- ance with the writings of Neander to perceive that he was directly opposed, from the whole bent of his theological conceptions to those who would abide unalterably by some fixed and definite sym- bol as a sum of truth forever concluded to the church. Thus, to stand absolutely by one point in the historical development of theology is, with him, to misconceive the very nature and end of the church, as the great lever of human progress, the ever young antagonist to the latest generations of all manifestations of anti-christian error. There is no doubt a divine circle of ideas, directly based on the facts of revelation so admirably summarized in the Apostles Creed, beyond which the church can never advance; but within this circle it may, and, in fact, must continue to develop itself freely, ever bringing forth from its treasury things new and old, adapted to the exigencies of its position and age. We shall, however, have occasion to revert to this important subject in the close of our paper. In connection with Neanders views on this point may he considered his views on inspiration. Along with the whole school to which he gener- ally belonged, lie rejected the idea of a mechani- cal, literal inspiration of Scripture. He did not hesitate to say, indeed, that he regarded it as one of the greatest boons which the purifying process of Protestant theology in Germany has conferred upon faith as well as science, that this view, once so common, had been so generally abandoned. The merits of this opinion we are not now called upon to discuss. We would only remark of the general question what we believe will at once be admitted by all who have really thought upon it, that it is one which must be far more thoroughly discussed before it can be con- sidered settled. We have no hesitation, however, in expressing our conviction that Neander has frequently allowed himself to be infiuenceJ by his opinion, in this respect, in too free and bold man- ner in his exegesis of the sacred record. He frequently appears to us to overstep the limits of any valid theory of inspiration; and in some of his critical views, as we have already hinted, to forget the claims of that submissive, child-like faith, of which he was in a general respect, as we have seen, the earnest advocate. But, if he has thus at times erred under the strong s vay of 11 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. the critical spirit of his country, it must, at the same time, we think, he granted that his dynami- cal view of inspiration has guided him to some important and fruitful results. It has enabled him to penetrate, more thoroughly and peculiarly, perhaps, than any before him, into the several individualities of the sacred writers. We know of none who had previously apprehended so fully or unfolded so finely the characteristic modes in which the four great representative apostles have exhibited the truththe different aspects of it, which each has more specially set forth, and its richness and depth, as revealed in this very variety of its forms of conception and representation.* If even here we may he able to trace, at times, a too strongly expressed permanence of the supposed human element, a too limited view of the respec- tive peculiarities, (as, for example, in much that he says of St. James,) it must still be owned, we think, that Neander has, in this respect, opened up a vein of Christian science of the deepest interest and importance. How early he had seized this idea of unity in variety, which he has made, as it were, the basis of his exposition of the apostolic doctrinc, we have already seen in his letters to Chcmisso. It is one of the most favorite of all his ideas, and ever reappears in the course of his writings. Both in reference to Christian science and life, he believed it to be of the utmost importance to admit their free and ever-varying development from a common centre. In the manifold all adapting forms in which they thus express themselves, he recognized one of the strongest proofs of the Divine power from which they spring, so full and expansive in its native energyever rising ~o copiously from its sacred fount as to fill every manner of earthen vessel prepared for its reception. We will now glance at Neanders more espe- cial views of the two great doctrines of sin and redemption, to whose general exposition in the Augsburg Confession we have already seen that he adheres. These may be considered the e pen- menta crucies of any doctrinal system: and, in ref- erenee to both, we think, Neander will be found to have attained more purely scriptural notions than many of that scientific school of theologians with which he is yet generally to be classed. He had certainly in this respect advanced far beyond his great teacher. An essentially defective view of sin, as is known, lay at the root of Schleier- machers theological system, and may be said to have given its whole complexion to it. In his idea sin is only the natural disorder of the human consciousness, the internal opposition between sense and spirit in man, through which, as a neces- sary transition-point in his development, he can alone be conducted to the freedom of a divine life in Christ. He did not recognize, properly speak- ing, any fall from a previous state of sinlessness. * This subject has since been expressly treated by Mr. Stanley, (the biographer of Dr. Arnold,) in his Sermons on the Apostolic Age ; a book which, if not in all things a safe guide, is rich in spiritual wisdom and marked by a fine and rare talent. Sin did not begin with Adam through an act of his own free-will, but only occurred in him, as it does in others, through the necessary conflict of the higher and lower, the spiritual and sensuous elements of his nature. It is, in short, just the result of the natural antagonism experienced by St. Paul. The flesh lusteth against the spirit; and the spirit against the flesh; and these are contrary the one to the other. The inadequacy of this view has been generally recognized by Scbleiermachers followers. It has given way, as was to be expected, to a more fundamental and thorough conception, in which sin is perceived to be something quite beyond and anterior to all such actual experience of its operationa mysterious germ of evil, introduced once for all into human- ity. But while so far more deeply apprehending the truth, there are still many of this class of theologians* who cannot be said to acknowledge clearly the full, positive conception of sin as not only evil but guiltas not only alien to, but con- demned by, God. Neander has, we think, fully seized this truly scriptural view of it. He distinctly repels, indeed, all rationalizing as to its origin. He holds that, from its very nature, as an act of the free-will, its origin must be logically incompre- hensible. It can only, he says, be understood as a facta fact possible by virtue of the freedom belonging to a created beingbut not to be other- wise deduced or explained. It lies in the idea of evil, that it is an utterly inexplicable thing; and who ever could explain it, nullifies the very idea of it. It is not the limits of our knowledge which make the origin of sin something thus in- explicable to us; but it follows from the essential nature of sin as an act of the free-will. Thus decisively ignoring all explanation of the mode of its origin, he yet strongly holds by the doctrine of original sin. The irreversible ground of this doctrine he considers to be the essential unity of the human race; according to which, sin, having once entered into the world, necessarily propa- gates itself with the gro.wtli of the race from its original point of commencement. Nor is it any mere process of subjective corruption, which, hav- ing once begun, is thus inevitably continued ac- cording to that law of human development with.- out which, as he says, there could be no history. It is essentially something more, viz., a condition of objective guilt and condemnation. The neces- sary reaction of the holiness of God against sin, implying punishment as its desert, is fully admit- ted by him, though not perhaps with uniform clearness. Without this idea of punishment, he significantly says, the reality of evil and the dignity of rational creatures cannot be acknowl- edged. It belongs to the privilege of rational beings, created in the likeness of God, and dis * Of course, we only speak here, as throughout, gen- erally, and taking Nitschs System of Christian Doc- trine to be, as it were, the text-hook of this school in Christian doctrine. M~ller and Tholuck, (who, we suppose, must he also generally classed with this school,) and perhaps Twesten, have advanced as far as Neander the two former, in some points, clearly further. 12 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. 13 tinguishes them from other natural objects, that the idea of punishment finds its application to .them. B nt while thus recognizing the important as- pects of guilt and punishment in the general idea of sin, Neander did not admit any formal imputa- tion of Adams transgression. Such a view of the matter was, in fact, one quite foreign to his prevailing mode of apprehension, his mind ever rather repudiating than seeking the certainty of definits abstract notions on subjects essentially so mysterious. A theory like that of the judicial imputation of the guilt of our first parents to their posterity could bring no light to his mind. It was enough for him that he perceived in the true unity of the race, proceeding from Adam, the prac- tical ground of the transmission of sin to his race. In Adam lay the germ of all humanity. And thus, in Adam all fell. And from the essential nature of the connexion thus subsisting between Adam and his posterity, and not in virtue of any supposed formal compact, by which he became the federal as well as natural representative of the human family, did Neander regard mankind as lying in sin and condempation. The historico- practical ground was here, as generally, the favor- ite point from which he preferred contemplating Christianity in all its relations. His mind natur- ally rested satisfied on this ground, and found no further satisfaction, but rather only perplexity, in the more precise logical explanations of more elaborated systems of theology. It was also a roost important point in Neanders doctrine of sin, which we could not well pass by, so careful and decided is his expression of it, whenever he speaks of human corruptionviz., that corrupt a.s man is, there is still latent in him the divine image in which lie was created. This imaxe is indeed nb~cered, but by no means de- stroyed. There is in man still, under all his deg- radation, a divine consciousness, an element of affinity with God, ~nd needing only the quicken- ing energy of the divine Spirit to draw it forth and cive it victory over his evil propensities. And in this fact of a divine principle rooted in man, Neander recognized the appro9riate and in- dispens ble point of contact between human nature and Christianity, whereby the latter, apprehend- ing it, is alone enabled to educate and elevate it to a higher excellence even then that fro~ which it has fallen. If we now pass to Neanders view of the doc- trine of redemption, we shall find a similar ad- vance to that which we have noted in his view of the doctrine of si.. . With Schleiermacher, re- demption was, of~ourse, made to correspo~ d with his very limited notion of the correlative truth: and was accordingly conceived by him as rather only the communication of a new divine life to humanity, than a deliverance from sin and irs penalty, once for all accomplished in mans behalf. Christ is, indeed, all in all in his system. Only through the fellowship of a living faith in him, is there any entrance into that higher spiritual cx- istence wherein man becomes freed from the dis- cord of his previous life. But, while making thus prominent the work of Christ, on one side in its continually purifying relation to humardty, Schleiermacher altogether overlooked its pecu- liarly redeeming aspect as a sacrifice for sin, com- pleted once for all in his death upon the Cross. The element of reconciliation was, in short, wholly wanting in his doctrine, and necessarily scfor failing, as he did, to see the guilt and hatefulness of sin in relation to a holy God, he could not rec- ognize any necessity for an objective reconcilia- tion between the sinner and God. In this, as in the previous case, Schlciermachers followers have generally advanced beyond him; but with most of them the peculiar doctrine of redemption, as is so obviously true of Sehleiermachers view, merges too much into the dependent doctrine of regenera- tion. The work of Christ is too much viewed by them as merely the operation of his sanctifying grace in the heartthe impartation of that divine life, which, beginning with him, continues to flow from him to the human race, transfiguring and glorifying it forever. They speak, indeed, of rec- onciliation, in contrast to Seblejermacher but it is rather only as a subjective process through which man is brought into new relations of dispo- sition to God, than as an objective wovk of atone- ment by which Christ bath, once and forever, ex- piated the offence of sin, and so reunited the sin- ner and God. They consequently reject altogether the idea of vicarious satisfaction. There is, in fact, no proper basis for this idea in their system, which places the general attribute of divine justice quite behind that of love, and regards it as prop- erly only an effect of the latter; thus completely expunging the notion of any justitia retriliutiva in the Divine nature. Nitsch, indeed, does not hesi- tate to say that if justice and law cannot thus be viewed as the effect of love, then assuredly must they be considered as 0010 and demiurgic, and inadequate to represent what is truly divine. lYe do not mean to say that in contrast to such views as these, Neander is to be regarded as having entertained what are commonly considered orthodox views on the great doctrine of the atone- men.. On the contrary, he identifies himself, in some respects very closely, with the prevailing mode of representation employed by this school in speaking of the work of Christ. No idea is more favorite with him than that of the new creation of hnman nature, ever more proceeding from. the God- man; and his language is often such, that it might he supposed this was all that he inch ded in the idea of the Christian redemption. But it is impossible to weigh impartially together his state- ments in his exposition of the apostolic doctrine, without seeing that he recognized something more objective and definite in the work of Christ than this. If he did not give to the death of the Cross all its peculiar pro~ .inenceif he did not appre- hend, with orthodox clearness, its special redemp- tive efficacy, he yet fully perceived that there was ~omething real and valid in the conception of a 14 AUGUSTUS NEANIJER. reconciling sacrifice for sin. He distinctly rejects the views, in conformity to which, the life and sufferings of Christ are considered merely as a manifestation of Gods love, and the reconciliation effected by Him as the subjective influence of this manifestation on the human heart, as by no means adequate to the import of the peculiar declarations On the respecting the work of Christ. contrary, he holds, that under the wrath of God, though in an anthropopathical form, something objective and actual is signified, something, he says, not fully expressed by the idea of punishment, but inclusive of what is the ground of all punish- mentthe absolute contrariety existing between God as the Holy One and sin, and no less, that through the offering up of Christs life for man, the barrier thus placed between the sinner and the Holy One is removed. God has thus Himself removed that which separated between Him and man. In such clearer and fuller tones does Neander speak of the doctrine of redemption; and if there be here, as elsewhere desiderated by some, a more definite completeness in his views, more of that straight logical decision so characteristic of our home theology, we must remember (not to speak of that predominating habit of mind to which we have already referred, which rather repelled than cherished the repose of strict logical proposition) the very different atmosphere which Neander breathed; the struggling period of his countrys theology through which he lived, and silently nurtured his own convictions. At the same time, we would not conceal, (for, above everything, we would not be guilty of straining the views of our author, so as to make them fit to any standard of orthodoxy, knowing well with what emphasis he would himself, in the pure, sensitive truthfulness of his nature, have repudiated such an endeavor,) we would not, therefore, conceal our opinion that there are elements in our current atonement-theology, or at least modes of presenting these elements, which could never have found sympathy with Neauder. The strongly expressed promi ence which some are in the habit of giving to the anthropopathical aspect of the divine nature here brought so con- spicuously into view, could never have commended itself to him. In such modes of represcutation, on the contrary, he only saw the characteristic exaggerations of an excessive Blutt-theologie, such as Nitsch speaks of. In this very fact, however, there are many who will recognize his peculiar strength and excellence as a theologian viz., that while apprehending so deeply the essen- tial ideas involved in the doctrine of Christian redemption, he should, at the same time, have ever so aimed to preserve these ideas free from all gross, merely human, admixture. Many will here acknowledge a signal service done to the truth a truly purifying process, which, in conformity with the higher views of an advanced science, must yet overtake much of our mere popular theology. There are other points on which we could have wished to present the doctrinal views of Neander, but we have already more than exhausted our space on this part of our subject. It is the less neces- sary, however, as, in fact, Neander everywhere expresses his conviction that the essence of Chris~. tianity consists in the central truth of redemption on the one hand, and, on the other, in the pre-sup- position of its need upon which it is foundedor the correlative truth of human corruption. Beyond these fundamental facts of the Gospel, and in regard to sonic of its more recondite mysteries, there may have been much that was wavering in his theology. He himself, as we have just seen, acknowledged this. With that noble and frank simplicity so characteristic of him, he confesses that his reli,ious life had been all along too much affected by the culture of his age, to allow him to compare himself for a moment with those men of child-like simplicitythose heroes whose divine confidence is exalted above all doubt. Most deeply did he himself feel that his doctrinal views bore the impress of his countrys intellectual strifes, that their dint and scar, so to speak, were visible everywhere in his writings. Thus, he says, very touchingly in reference to his Life of Jesus, that he was conscious it bore the marks of its production in an age of crises, of isolation, of fear, and of throes; but, truth before all things he could not seeni to be what he ~vas not, and the work must therefore just remain what it was, the niirror of the progress of his mind in an age of conflict. When he could not attain decision, therefore, he was content to say perhaps, nor was lie ashamed to do so, as he remarks, un- fashionable as that term lies now a days become in matters of science. This willing hesitancy, or contented suspension of opinion, on much that lies beyond the sphere of what he ternied the immediate Christian consciousness, was, in truth, as we have already more than once implied, one of the strongest characteristics of Neanders religious tendency, as it is of the whole scientific school of German the- ology. Logical dogmatism, of every kiud, is its abhorrence; and there can be no doubt that Nean- der owned too much what we must consider to be its somewhat one-sided influence in this respect. With him, however, this voluntary ignorance on some points was evidently a cherished peculiarity; and, according to his latest convictions, a feature in his theology which, upon the whole, he thought highly worthy of being prized. Forhe has em- phatically said, in the preface to the third edition of his Leben Jeso, my dogmatic system may, and indeed must, appear hesitating and unsatisfac- tory to those echo hare learned lo count i/ce ocratic ignorance for folly, and echo hate settled beforehand the highest questions; questions, he adds, for whose sure and clear solution, the great Melane- thou, as he expressed shortly before his death, was content to wait to the intuition of a higher life, among xvhose beatitudes he reckoned such satisfy- ing knowledge. We must now turn to a brief review of Nean AUGUSTUS NEANDER. 15 ders labors in that department of theological the time of Neander,* and to his fresh, original science in which he was above all distinguished, view of Christian history there must have appeared and in which, above all, his name is destined to be many imperfections in such a work as Musheims. perpetuated. We have seen how early, and with He could not fail, indeed, to do justice to its char- what a peculiar freshness and zeal, he gave him- acteristic excellences in that fine spirit of appre- self to researches into the history of the church. ciation which ever marked his review of the theo- As, still earlier, his days and nights had been logical products of a past age but no less could given to Plato, so in the yet spring energy of his he fail, as none can, who have attained a .right and powerful faculties, his days and nights were given adequate conception of church history, to find it in to the great fathers of the church, St. Clement, important respects quite deficient. If its arrange- St. Origen, St. Chrysostom, and St. Bernard. ment be clear and readily intelligible, presenting And there can be no doubt, that as he felt a numerous marked points for facile referencethe special call to this peculiar department of study, advantage, we believe, above all, which has so so he saw that in it there was special need for long given it, and still to some extent enables it reviving and healthful labor. Many laborers in to maintain, its predminent position as a text-book his own country had indeed preceded him in this if its imparPality be upon the whole conspicuous field for Germany has, above all, been the land and its learning he truly original and extensive, of ecclesiastical historiography, dating from the and, at the same time, thoroughly under mastery, Magdeburg Centuriators downwards. The gen- and subordinated to the fitting purpose of eluci- eral revival of theology at the Reformation neces- dating the narration, instead of merely cumbering sarily called forth researches into the early Chris it with ponderous citations, still it cannot he tian history, in order that the resuscitated truth denied that it is almost wholly wanting in other preached by Luther might he identified with the qualities no less essential. If so precise and truth taught by the early fathers ; and Flacius definite in its proportions, so direct in outline, so and his friends, in their immensely laborious and clear and accessible in its materials, it yet to a voluminous undertaking, earned well of the Prot- great extent only possesses these advantages be- estant church in this direction; and, deficient as cause its general structure is so artificial and self- their work inevitably was in scientific arrangement disposed. The field of church history is distinctly and digested narrative, it must ever remain a enough marked out by Mosheim, but his lines are noble monument of painstaking zeal, and a vaIn- often quite arbitrary, separating points which able repository for future historians. Mosheim, should have been together, and confoundin others after an interval of nearly two centuries, may he which ought to have been more definitely mdi- said to have originated church history as a distinct cated, especially the formeras, for example; in and genuine part of theological science in modern his treatment under different chapters of the pros- times; and, immediately followinu him the ex- perous and adoerse circumstances of the church, and tended labors of Shrdekh, and Walch, and Plauck, again of its doctrines and heresies ; thus, it may connect his period with that of Ne~ odor. Of the be, giving prominency to details, hut at the same works of the two former of these, who, especially time destroying all true historic connexion and es- the first, were direct disciples of Mosheim, we sential union. His work has, in fact, altogether too know almost nothing. Valuable, we understand, much of the character of those of the mere annalists from the copious store of information which they who preceded himforming rather only an aggre- contain, and manifesting in tnany respects a most gate of materials, though consistently laid together, laudable industry of research, we have yet the than a unique and harmonious composition fused best proof of their deficiency in other important by a living spirit and speaking a livin~ lesson. qualities, in the fact of Mosheims work having In this latter respectin the marked want of a ever maintained its predminence over them. As pervading Christian interestthe history of Mo- to the more recent labors of Planek, which, as we sheim, if far more perfect in other respects, must have seen, were not without a stimulating influ- still ever be found essentially imperfect. The ence on Neander, they relate chiefly to separate true character of the church as a living witness to periods and distinct sections of church historyas, the divine power of Christianity, even in the for example, his most important work on the darkest phase of its career, is by no means to be Origin, Changes and Formation of our Protestant traced in it. The path of divine light, which was Theology from the Commencement of the Refor- never entirely obscured, but may still be seen gleam- mation to the Introduction of the Formula of Con- ing, though in faint and blurred reflection, along the cord, with its continuation to the middle of the whole course even of the dark ages, ever and anon eighteenth century ; and marked, as these and all disappears in total darkness in his pages. Planeks works are, by a truly scientific spirit and It was the very strong sense of this deficiency noble tolerance, yet they cannot be reckoned in the work of Mosheit which led, as we know, limited as they thus areto have constituted any * We have omitted mention of the lahors of Ileuko and marke advance in this branch of theological Spinier on the anti-Christian or ultra-rationalizing side, and Count Sto1ber~ on the catholic side, in the field of study. church history, not merely because we only kuou of the Mosheims work, therefore, may be truly said fact of their labors, and of the very diftbrent spirit ani- to have formed the highest point to which Chris- matiu~ them, hut chiefly because we believe that the highe~t opinion which may he formed of them will not tian science had attained in this direction before afiketibe statement in the text. 16 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. the elder Mimer to engage in his history. If responding with the magnitude of the undertaking Mosheim, however, be so deficient in a pervading are the combination of qualities which it presents, Christian interest, Mimer may he said to have and the various lights in which it might be cx- sacrificed every other quality, and even often the hibited. How far he has advanced beyond the cause of truth itself, to an exaggerated estimate labors of his predecessors, will be at once felt by of this interest. With every admiration, there- those who have given his history their thoughtful fore, of the pious industry and zeal of this writer perusalfor such a perusal alone will it repay. and his brother, and fully appreciating the lively [low different a picture the church presents in his and attractive manner in which they have pre- pages to those of Mosheim; how anim~te and sented some points of the Christian history, and shaping a creation it appears in humanitygradu- the nlowiun and animating portraits even they ally transforming it with a new sanctifying energy; have sometimes drawn of its illustrious heroes, we refining only into a higher beauty and strength cannot admit tbeir work to be, in any adequate under the raging fires ef persecution; then ~radu- sense, a history of the Church, based, as it is ally obscuring, and losing its divine comeliness in in fact confessedly, on a principle which excludes the days of worldly prosperity and exaltation; such a supposition, and deficient as it is generally again reiippearing, although in a much corrupted in all scientific spirit, and especially, as we must form, as an element of life and peaceful power hold, in that impartiality of sentiment and liberal amid the darkening ferment and savage discords comprehensiveness of view, without which, even which ushered in a new European worldhow, with the most sincere intentions, historical repro- through all its sharpest oppositions, and even very sentation becomes falsified and distorted. corruptions, which present in Mosheiin only so The field of church history, therefore, as it had miserably saddening an aspect, some shade of the been hitherto only cultivated, must have appeared truth is still seen elicited, or some side of good to Neander to be peculiarly open to improving and still foundthese are the most obvious points of fruitful application. And here, in the general advantage which must strike at first every student, spirit of his theological tendency, the union of and make him feel what a different historical in- science with piety suggested itself to him as the tuition and nobler talent has been employed in the great task to be accomplished, as in other depart- work of Neander. And if thus superior to all ments of theology. Most heartily he felt, as the previous church histories, it is, though perhaps good Milner had done, though with a very differ- surpassed by them in some special qualities, no less eat grasp of comprehension, that there could be eminently apart from all contemporary efforts in no such thing truly as church history apart from his own country or in our own. If Gieseler a leading reference to the spirit and kingdom of manifest equal learning, and, as sonic think, a more God, of which the church was in all its relations clear and comprehensive classification of facts; if but the earthly symbol and representative. Other- hlase, amid all his enigmatical brevity, displays wise its history he perceived, with Herder, could sometimes more force and originality of conceptiba be nothing more than the huge body of Polyphe- and greater liveliness of narrative, the fact that inns from which the eye is thrust out. Jt was the works of these authors are still at the best only the fundamental conception, therefore, of his great compendiums of the history of the churchhand- work, that the church, through all its career, is books for the use of the student, rather than his- to be viewed as the living embodiment of the tories in the right sense of the termie~ yes no divinity of the Gospel. To exhibit it as suchin proper point of comparison between them and the his own words, as a living witness of the divine work of Neander. And as for the popular worlt power of Christianity; as a school of Christian of Guerikeif animated by a truly religious spirit, experience; a voice sounding through the ages, of and breathing a lively interest in the fortunes of instruction, of doctrine, and of reproof for all who the church, which it exhibits in a rapidly distinct are disposed to listenthis he confessed to have and impressive manner, it is yet disfigured by the been from the earliest period the great aim of his most marked p~rtialities and old Lutheran prejo- life and studies, But while thus clearly appre- dices, and in these respects, therefore, as well as hending the essential nature of his task on this in mere compass and general scientific pretensions, side, he no less fully felt its claims on the other can lay no claim to be ranked by the side of that of in relation to science; a d its peculiar difficulty he Neander. And if we look homewards, we have, saw just to consist in the combination of the two indeed, the able and judicious snmmary of Wad- in the execution of it so as to answer at once dington among the volumes of the Library of the demands of science and the great practical Useful Knowledge ; the history of the first three ~vant indicated above. For both of them, centuries by Milman, in some respects a truly he said, are in the present case closely con- splendid production, exhibiting still more, perhaps, nected ; adding immediately the emphatic deciara- than even his History of the Jews, the stores of a tion in behalf of a genuine science which we have rich and varied culture, a copious felicity of diction, already quoted. and a most benign and widely-e~ mbracing toher How worthily Neander has fulfilled, so far, in ance; but, alas, signally deficient in other indis- his General Church History, the great task pensable qualities, and at best only a commence- which he thus set before himself, it is by no means mont; and we have, lastly, the mere frabment of efisy, in so many words, to tell the reader. Cor- a commencement by \ Telch, which is not, in our AUGUSTUS NEANDER. 17 estimation, as we humbly think with deference to many whose judgment is entitled to respect, of such a stamp as to leave any special regret that it is no more thau a fragment. The church history of Neander must, therefore, for the present, rank quite alone in the assemblage of fitting qualities which it presents, and in the extent of its conception and execution; in its union of vast learning and profound philosophic penetra- tlon; its varied comprehensiveness and abundant store of materials; its insight into the living connexion of historic events, but especially into the still more living and subtle nexus which binds together the growth and development of human opinion; in its union of these rarer qualities with the most simple-hearted Christian piety, the most lively, appreciative interest in the ever-varying fortunes of the Churchthe finest, rarest discern- ment of all the manifold phases of the Christian lifethe most genuine liberality, and the most catholic sympathy. So variously noble are the qualifications which must thus unite in a church historian, wit.h others still in which, as we shall immediately show, Neander must he judged deficient, that we almost despair of seeing them combined, even so far, in any other. We may have the well-meaning piety on the One hand, and the power of intellect on the other; but to see an intellect at once of the noblest temper and the largest range, all humbled and laid low at the foot of the cross as Neanders was; all- imbued by a Christian spirit, and therefore thoroughly candid and just and lovin~ towards the most various tendencies of religions opinion and practice; and, moreover, to see a mind like this give itself to the most persevering and consuming industry, to days of unxvearying thought, and nights of ceaseless rese-reball unconscious the while of aught but of doing its appointed work in the service of Godthis is a sight, we fear ,the Church will not very soon behold againa blessing she cannot expect at every turn of her course; and still less, therefore, may we hope soon to see one possessing, besides these, other qualities of great importance, which Neander cannot be said to have hadsuch as a compact and vivid style, combining an easy exp essivene~s with dijity and forcea lively and graphic skill of narrationof what the French si~niflcantly express by the term conter generally a thoroughly graceful and harmonious power of composition. In such artistic respects, in all, in short, which imparts that nameless finish, that sculptural form, so imperishable in its pure beauty, which we are accustomed to denominate by the term classical, Neanders work, like so many German works, must be pronounced greatly deficient. His style is in his history, as in all his writings, a thoroughly teutonic style, laboring in many involved turns and parenthetical gasps after the full expression of his teeming thoughts. There is no lightness in its step, no music in its march, even in the mere ordinary narrative, although to one more intent upon the thought than the form, there is often a ripe, rich phrase, conveying a CCCXLvI. LIViNG AGE. VOL. XXVIII. 2 whole world of meaning into the mind, which has been for some time only dimly struggling through the page, while there is also sometimes in his descriptions a quaint gothic picturesqueness, which is to us, we own, wonderfully charming. We would not conceal, however, that his style is characteristically one which must to some extent repel the mere English student, whose tastes have been formed on the old classic models; and that it requires some patience and love to tolerate it, still more to find it agr~sable. The rnost~ general fault of Neanders history, in addition to this mere matter of style, is one yet somewhat connected with itviz., its pervading subjectivity. The whole course of the Church, both in its doctrinal and practical development, is represented by him too much in the light of his own transforming conception of itprinciples and traits of character are exhibited too little in a concrete form. There is, in short, too little of outward form and symmetry in his narrative. Some have complained, too, of his want of striking individual portraiturea feature in history to which we are now so much accustomed; hut while this is certainly not a very marked characteristic of his work, it is impossible, we think., to read his portraits of the British and German Missionaries, in the fifth volume, without acknowledging that it is by no means deficient in impressive, and sometimes even glowing, pictures of individual activity and zeal. Tholuck has instanced what must also to some extent he con- sidered an imperfection in Neanders historyviz., the inadequate manner in which it connects itself with the whole course of human historythe progress and improvement of general society in its different stages. The Church is seen in it too much merely in its exclusive development; the parallel and related influences of ordinary civiliza- tion, common civil and political usages, and the mere succession of worldly dynasties are too little revealed. But, with whatever imp~rfe~tion an impartial criticism must thus find in it, it remains, as we have said, quite single in its collective ex- hibition of great qualities, and a wide and un- equalled influence awaits it, we are assured, for many generations in the Church of Christ. We could have wished to bring this great work in some more minute form before our readers; hot we have already so far exhausted our space, that we cannot dwell on its more special features. We will, therefore bring our remarks to a close by adverting for a very little to what, as to sortie extent already indicated, we deem its crowning- excellence, and the peculiar service which it has rendered and continues to render to the Church in Germany, and which we doubt not it is destined no less to render to the Church in our own coun- try: we mean the singularly successful manner in which it has exhibited, consistently. with its origi- nal aim, the Christian Church as the one great living element of progress in humanity, a voi~o of instruction, and divine power of education, for all ages. To accomplish this noble task con- sistently with the demands of soieuce, asit waa,, 18 AUGUSTUS NEANDER. we have seen, among the earliest, continued to be the dearest ambition of Neanders life, and very powerfully and completely, upon the whole, has he accomplished it, to the perpetual refutation of all philosophic sciolism on the one side or the other. Of the progress of humanity there is much talk now-a-days that would lead us to suppose we must abandon altogether the old paths in which we have hitherto found rest for our souls. We must leave and demolish the ancient temple, the dwelling place of so many generations, and out of its ruins build up a new one suited to the times. The native powers of the human mind are said to be quite adequate to such a work. Having, in a previous comparatively dark age, given birth to Christianity, now that they have naturally out- grown it, they are winging themselves for a yet higher flight into the region of spiritual truth. Such views, it is known, have long been preva- lent in Germany, and have been even there spec- ially put forth as the only philosophic principles on which church history, as all history, can be written. The whole course of human develop- ment, it is maintained, is alike, the history of the church, the growth of the divine faculties inhe- rent in man, which have been ever self-evolving themselves from the beginning of time until now, just in some such way as may be conceived ex- pressed in the fine lines of Tennyson, when he says That through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened hy the process of the suns. All diverse religions are just thus, in some sort, the product of the structural operation of the same spiritual powers in man, ever necessa- rily seeking expression in new and more adequate theolo~iesin ever-advancing forms of faith. Now, in opposition predminently to views such as these is the great and ever-speaking lesson of IN eanders history. Its greatest merit, we con- ceiveand it is the merit, more or less, of all his laborsis the effectual refutation which it fur- nishes of all such pseudo-philosophy. In his pages we perceive, on the contrary, in the clearest, most indubitable manner, how essentially Christianity is exalted, both in its origin and perpetuity, above all the natural powers of the human mind, and the ordinary forms of human culture. While uniting itself in the most intimate, concrete mode with human science, in its various products, it is yet something far above itnot a philosophy reached in the necessary course of human prog- ress, but a higher wisdom and life, once for all imparted to humanity in Christ Jesus, and ever- more revealed in Him. While at its origin com- pletely coinciding with, and, in fact, appropriat- ing to itself the ordinary development of nature and reason in history, it was yet something which sprung out of a superior source than either a new power, not born in the hidden depths of mans being, but communicated from above, because Heaven opened itself for the rescue of revolted humanity ;a power which, as it is exalted above all that human nature can create out of its own resources, must impart to that nature a new crea- tion, and change it from its inmost nature. This conclusion, with which Neander sets out in his history, it is impossible we think not to own that he has completely substantiated, in his re- view of the different existent religions and philoso- phies in his introduction. There has, indeed, ever seemed to us a rare and most felicitous power of insight displaycd in this preliminary review in the manner in which the relation of Christi- anity, in its peculiar essence, is everywhere rec- ognized to previous modes of thought and faith: in the way in which he exhibits it connecting itself with these-as well with the sporadic rays of a glimmering Divine life in Heathenism, as with the more definitely revealed light of Juda- ism, and at the same time as infinitely exalted above them, not merely supplementing them, but transforming them with a new heavenly energy. In all the commingling elements of Jewish and Hellenic culture then fermenting in the minds of men, it everywhere found points of attachment; for thus in the wisdom of God was the fulness of time prepared for its introduction; but in no possible combination of these elements was there the capability of originating it. There was no magic of eclecticism which, from the mere con- flict and dissolution of the old decaying systems, could have educed such a living force as Christi- anity. It is impossible for any one to doubt this whose historical intuition is not wholly blinded by a preconceived philosophy. And the most hap- pily satisfactory manner in which Neander has shown thisnot by any attempted argument, in- deedbut by the simple exhibition of the true state of things at the time, we reckon one of his highest merits. And equally throughout the whole course of his work has he apprehended with a peculiar sat- isfactoriness the distinguishing essence of Christi- anity in relation to thc ever-revolving course of human speculation. While everywhere clearly recognizing the necessary inter-action of the purely Christian with the general mental consciousness of the age, he at the same time everywhere shows the essential independence and superdminence of Christianity over all modes of mere human sci- ence. It remains forever the same divine wis- dom and life as at the beginning; and no prog- ress of the intellect, however it may mould anew some of its conceptions, can ever affect it in its essence. In Christ, and in Him alone, there is revealed, once for all, the sum of that truth which man needs to educate him to the highest pitch of his moral nature, to which he has only evermore, with every advancing stage of his his- tory, to rise in fuller love and self-appropriation, and the full measure of which he will scarcely be able to reach with the furthest point of his ad- vancement. This ever young and ever adapting power of Christianity to all the emergencies of THE URBAN DEVASTATOR. 19 human history, as of individual life, whereby it yet by no means limited to the Protestantism of appropriates such crises, and by their very means the Fatherland, but may be seen, to some extent, leads itself on to new victory, just when they in almost every church and every Christian land. seemed to threaten its destructionthis was one And could we venture to look into the future, we of the most profoundly and dearly cherished con- believe the name of Neander would be found a victions of Neander, in the light of which he name of power, when perhaps some even more lived, and whose bright hopefulness beams through powerful in these days have perished; because all his works. This was the progress of the then, as now, it will be a name not only drawing Church,the continued process of its develop- the homage, but alluring the love of man. ment, of which he everywhere speaks so much, and upon the broad, pregnant recognition of which From the Spectator. his history is based. He could conceive of no THE URBAN DEVASTATOR. progress which should yet leave Christianity be- Ma. BURKE depicts in glowing tropes those times hind; of no Church of the future which should of despotic rule when the royal jackals, armed with pass beyond the truth as it is in Jesus. As the powers of prerogative, issued from the Gothic with him Christ is so clearly and solely the Alpha portcullis to levy on subjacent domains contributions of the Church, so is He no less its Omega, and in kind, and returned from their marauding excur- every progression of the human race he conceived sions loaded with the spoils of a hundred markets to be still only a retrogression to the God-man for the replenishment of the monarchs table. In the Eternal Wisdom revealed in humanity. The lieu of these mediteval forays, a round sum in quar- terly payments has long been substituted, which new must thus ever return into the old; and the ministers more smoothly to kingly state and the ball of human progress, thrown backxvards and carnal wants of the sovereign. But as evils can be forwards, must still cling fast to Him; for from rarely more than compromised, the ravages of pur- this point of attachment alone can the divine edo- veyance have been succeeded by an aphis consumer cation of the race draw those living and healthful hardly less devastating of the suburban ruralities. influences which, amid all its oscillations, shall Whoever has occasion to plunge deep into the bow it onwards to a higher goal. els of the land, with the aim of minute inspection in still bear an engineering or geodiesical survey, or from mere Such is the one pervading truth in the light of curiosity to trace the remains of a Roman encamp- which Neanders history shines, and in the light ment, rummage a Celtic barrow, or investigate the of which, as we have already said, he moreover changes wrought by late ferroginous diversions in lived and labored. And this latter fact it was, the old itineraries and road-side hostelries, will be let us now say in conclusion, which gave in Ger- amazed to find how bare it is of everything that in many, and must continue to give everywhere, nivili eneral exhaustion his xvants need peculiar influence to all his teaching. It F or zed guise can minister to human sustenance. proof of this g such a not be large; he may be only travelling in pilgrim was felt and seen on all hands, and it will no less or equestrian fashion, jogging leisurely from town be known hereafter, that the man who spoke so to town or hamlet to hamlet; luxuriating in the much of the divine might and enduring influence green lanes, and eying the quiet nooks and ivy- of Christianity, was one who in his daily life, and laced spires of the villages; hut if lie trusts to the in the whole circle of his labors, verified in the chances of the road for subsistence, it is seldom he most signal manner the truth of what he taught. can be sure of the most commonplace repastsay His whole being was seen to be moved a glass of bright Boniface, with eggs and, bacon, or, completely as Lord Chancellor Eldon preferred, beans and and governed by that divine power which he pro- bacon. claimed. Even the opponents of his viewsthose This woful want is not limited to any particulai who could not admit his lessonshave yet seen locality; it seems general throughout the realm. and acknowledged this. It would be difficult Miss Martinean, who appears at present intently to find, one of them has written, with an admi- occupied in dairy-farming in the North, testifies t rable frankness, among the prominent characters the resourceless condition of that portion of the of our tii e, any one whose outward life is so fully kingdom, and to the great difficulty she finds is the mirror of the divine principle surroundino it mustering for her friends a tolerable spread of th~ everyday consumables of meat, cream, and butter. so fully conformed thereto in all its relations, as In the rural parts of the metropolitan or home coun- Neanders is. What he is, he is entirely. There ties, every one knows, who has made the experi- is in him no ostentation, no catching after false ment, that there is a corresponding lack of substan- glitter and effect; no trace of the hypocrisy; so tire supplies in the small towns,villages, and farm- house wide-spread among us. Christianity is with him 5; and that the chance of meeting for love or no mere family heirloom, no mere external habit; money with a quarter of lamb, piece ofpork,chicken, or fowl of any sort, or even a basin of coskimmed but the inmost, freest fact of his life; its unceas- milk or unappropriated egg, is most precarious. ing end and aim. One so thoroughly and gra- The cottages of the peasantry, as may be expected, ciously penetrated with the truths he taught, could are in a still more denuded state; into these rarely not fail to exercise a wide impression, and to draw, do the common ahiments of the town inhabitancy as he did, many fine youthful minds under his beer, butchers meat, butter, tea, coffee, sugarfind happy sxvay. So true ~nd lovely a character, admission. At least this impoverishment may be vouched for in respect of the counties abutting on united to so noble and exalted an intellect, could the Thames; in the dwellings of the laborers of not fail of a rich harvest of influence: a harvest Essex or Kent, for instance, even those of the more which long since begun to ripen in Germany, is provident class, will seldom be found any provisions, 20 THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. beyond potatoes and meal ; of which last is made the eternal compost they call pudding, but which, without eggs or other needful element, is no more pudding than flour and water can make it. At first sight this may appear a somewhat incred- ible representation; it may appear extraordinary that in a country reputedly so opulent such a con- dition of general destitution may be found, that if an invading host were to try the experiment of a descent on the Kentish or Sussex coast, it is doubt- ful, unless it came well provided with the munitions of subsistence as well as of war, whether it would not be compelled by famine, if no other mischance befell it, to surrender at discretion long before it reached the metropolis. Still the land is notoriously not barren; it yields abundantly; but the places of production are not, except sparingly, the places of consumption. The plain fact is that the country is eaten up by the towns. The great wen of London, with the lesser wens of Liverpool, Birmingham, Manchester, and Leeds, do for miles distant consume all around them, leaving the outlying districts more bare and cleared out than in old times by the ruth- less purveyors of the henries and E~4wards. Into these consuming emporia flows all that can be col- lected from the field, hen-roost, dovecote, or dairy; by which rent or productive capital may certainly be realized, but allowing only slender commons for those living beyond the s oke. Hence the com- plaint, that people who reside in the country, with a competence of 4001. or fiOOl. a year, find a diffi- culty in supplying their tables ; all that is choice, and even ordinary articles, being sweepingly roiled off or carted to the capital and the manufacturing noclci. As a consequence, the inducements to ru- ral life are lessened, though the facilities for loco- motion have increased; for people must follow the meat wherever it is. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. Tue Iser and the Inn, as they flow from the Alps towards the Danube, move nearly in paral- lel lines, and nearly forty miles apart. As they approach the river, the space between them be- comes one elevated plain, covered chiefly with a sombre, dark, pine forestcrossed by two roads onlywhile the mere country paths, that wind through it here and there, give no space to march- ing cohn us. Morcan had advanced across this forest to the Inn, where, on the 1st of December, he was attacked cud forced to retrace his steps, and take up his position on the further side, at the village of Hohenlinden. Here, where one of the great roads dehouched from the woods, he placed Nev and Grouchy. The Austrk us, in four massive colon us, plunged into the gloomy wilderness, designing to meet in the open plain of Hoheulinden the central column marching along the hi~h road, while those on either side ma(le their way through amid the trees, as they best could. It xv~ s a stormy December mnrning, when these seventy thousand men were swallowed from sight rn the dark defiles of Hohenlinden. The day be- fore it had rained heavily, and the ro~ds were almost impassable; but now a furious snow-storm darkened the heavens, and covered the ground with one white unbroken surface. The by-paths were blotted out, and the sighing pines overhead dr oped with their snowy burdens above the ranks, or shook them down on the heads of the soldiers, as the artillery wheels smote against their trunks It was a strange spectacle, those long, dark columns, out of sight of each other, stretching through the dreary forests by themselves; while the falling snow, sifting over the ranks, made the unmarked way still more solitary. The soft and yielding mass broke the tread of the advancing hosts, while the artillery, and ammunition and baggage wagons, gave forth a muffled sound, that seemed prophetic of some mournful catastrophe. The centre column alone had a hundred cannon in its train, while behind them were five hundred wagonsthe whole closed up by the slow moving cavalry. Thus marching, it came at about 9 oclock upon Hohenlinden, and attempted to debauch into the plain ; when Grouchy fell upon it with such fury that it was forced back into the woods. In a mo- ment the old forest was alive with echoes and its gloomy recesses illuminated with the blaze of artil- lery. Grouchy, Graudjean, and Ney, put forth incredible efforts to keep this immense force from dephwing into the open field. The two firmer struggled with the energy of desperation to hold their ground; and although the soldiers could not see the enemys lines, the storm was so thick, yet they aimed at the flashes that issued from the woods, and thus the two armies fought. The pine trees were cut in two, like reeds, by the artillery, and fell with a crash on the Austrian columns, while the fre~lm fallen snow turned red with flowing blood. In the mean time, Richenpanse, who had been seut by a circuitous route with a sinale divis- ion to attack the enemys rear, had accomplished his mission. Though his division had been cut in two, and irretrievably separated by the Austrian left wing, the brave general continued to advance, and with only three hundred men fell boldly on forty thousand Austrians. As soon as Morean heard the sound of his cannon through the forest, and the alarm it spread amid the enemys ranks, he ordered Ney and Grouchy to charge full on the Austrian centre. Checked, then overthrown, that broken column was rolled back in disorder, and utterly rented. Campbell, tIme poet, stood in a tower an(l gazed on this terrible scene, and in the midst of the fight composed in part that stirring ode which is known as far as the English language is spoken. Time depths of the forest swallowed the sting- glin~ hosts from sight, but still there issued fqrth from its bosom shouts and yells mingled with the thunder of cannon, and all the confused noise of battle. The A.ustrians were utterly routed, and the frightened cavalry went plunging through the crowd of fugitives into the woodsthe artillery men cut their traces and, leaving their guns behind, mounted their horses and galloped awayand that magnificent column, as if sent by some violent ex- plosion, was hurled in shattered fragments on every side. For miles the white ground was sprinkled with dead bodies, and when the battle left the for- est, and the pine trees stood calm and silent in the wintry night, piercing cries and groans issued out of the gloom in every directionsufferer answer- ing sufferer as he lay and writhed on the cold snow. Twenty thousand men were scattered there amid the trees, while broken carriages and wagons and deserted guns, spread a perfect wreck around.J. T. Headley. THE LIFE AND MAXIMS OF LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. 21 From Sharpes Magazine. THE LIFE AND MAXIMS OF LA ROCHEFOIJCAULD. THE Maxims of La Rochefoucauld have been long regarded as the most famous collection of ma- licious truths, of pointed, searching, and sarcastic sayings, with which the world has been favored. Highly characteristic of the man, the nation, and the period, they will always possess a peculiar interest, from the view which they present of hu- man motives and dispositions, and the worldly phi- losophy which they inculcate. Those who adopt a low estimate of human nature, and who make it a rule to believe the worst of every one, delight to range themselves under the standard of La Roche- foucauld. Men of the world, or rather worldly- minded men of the meaner sort, have at all times referred to his maxims as the perfection of wisdom; and they do, in fact, display (however much we may he disposed to quarrel with some of their leading principles) a vast amount of shrewd common sense, real intelligence, and subtle insight into the ordi- nary springs of human action. It is interesting to observe how much the spirit of these maxims has been adopted by subsequent writers of the same school; how often they have been appropriatedused and misusedby authors of a misanthropical or sceptical turn; and how many of them have passed into proverbs, and be- come stock sayings and recognized truisms. Our readers may not, perhaps, be displeased xvith a few examples of this; and the publication of a new translation, illustrated with some very entertaining notes, in which many curious coincidences in thought and expression are pointed out from other writers, affords us legitimate pretext for enlarging on the subject.* It will be proper, however, to commence with a short biography of the author ; for the events of his life give an additional interest to, as they un- questionably colored, the productions of his pen. We shall endeavor as much as possible to avoid unnecessary details, although, from the position which La Rochefoucauld occupied, and the part he had played, it will be requisite to refer repeatedly to the historical events of the period. Francis, Prince of Marsillac, Baron de Vertenil, and Duke de la Rochefoucauldfor these were the titles he derived by descent from a distinguished racewas born on the 15th of December, 1613. The age in which it was his lot to live was well calculated to develop his singular talents, and was full of striking and stirring events, in which lie was destined to be no inconsiderable actor. His youth, observes a French writer, was passed under the reign of Louis XIII. and Richelien, his riper years under the regency of Anne of Austria, and his old age under the absolute sovereignty of Louis XIV. Each of these three epochs left its influence on his mind, and gave a dilkrent direc- tion to his life. his education had b~en neglected, but he was one of those spirits xvho owe more to the world than to the schools, and whose minds are better formed by intercourse with mankind than by books. ~ At the age of sixteen La Rochefoucauld com- menced the career of arms in Italy. He was soon afterwards introduced at the French court, and * Moral Refiectiuns, Senlenc~s, and Maxims, of Francis, Duc de Ia Ruehefouc, uld, newly translated fruni the French, with an Introduction amid Notes. London: Lougman. 1850. i2nio. t Encyclop6die des Gens flu Monde. Paris. 1842. received with due distinction as a cadet of one of the mioblest families in France. Cardinal Richelieti was then in the height of his power. Louis XIII. nominally reigned, but the cardinal governed though a sharp but unequal contest for supremacy was kept up between Anne of Austria, the queen regn ant, and the subtle churchman. The elder La Rochefoucauld had attached himself to the party of Anne of Austria, but, on the banishment of the Duchess de Chevreuse, the queens favorite, he fell into diserace and withdrew from court. The author of the Maxims was thus early initiated in political intri0iies, and the lessons he learned when in opposition to Richelien were nut lost upon his after life. On the death of the cardinal, in 1642, the Prince de Marsillac (as La Rochefoucauld was then called) made his reiippearauce at court, in the full expecta- tion of fimidiug a new order of things established, as soon as the powerful minister had ceased to breathe. But here he ~vas disappointed; for to his great surprise he found the court as submissive to the will of the wonderful man who had pre- sided for so many years over the destinies of his country, after his death as during his life. His relations and dependants continued to enjoy all the advantages they had gained through him; and by a turn of fortune, of which there are few examples, the king, who hated him, and who had desired his fall, was obliged not only to conceal his sentiments, but even to authorize the disposition made by the cardinal in his will of the principal employments and most important places in the kingdom.* But the life of Louis XIII. hung upon a thread, and it was confidently whispered abroad, and most anxiously expected by disappointed courtiers, that important changes were at hand. The king died, and Anne of Austria became regent during the minority of Louis XIV. All who had been excluded from favor by their attach- ment to the cause (if time queen during her struggle with Rielmelien, had now good cause to expect that their services would meet with acknowledgment and reward. But Mazarin (xvho had succeeded Richelieu, and who had adopted the policy, and fol- lowed, as closely as his narrower capacity per- mitted, in the footsteps of his predecessor) had artfully managed, before the kiogs demise, to in- gratiate himself with the qucems, and having gradu- ally won her confidence, and induced her to appre- ciate his serviceable talents, his influence became paramount under the regency. Thus, to the sur- prise of all, and the disappointment of many, the aspect of the court remained unchanged. Every day the queen showed more indifference to the friends of her ill fortune, among whom was La Rochiefoucauld, upon xxhose obsenvant spirit this first lesson on the ingratitude uf courts was nut thrown away. Very little appears to be known of the doings of La Rochefoticanid during the ood times of the regency. It is certain, however, that he was engaged in political intrigues, and was constantly plotting against the power of the regent. But the languid interest excited by the disputes of cour- tiers, and contests for royal favor, was soon to be superseded by the more aharmisug incidents of civil war. La Rochefoucauld had reached the prime of life, and was well known amnong the leading spirits of the age, xvhen the corruption of manners, the extravagance of the court, and other concurring * M~moires do la R6gence dAnne dAutriche, par La Rochefoucanld. THE LIFE AND MAXIMS OF LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. circumstances, precipitated a struggle in which he was destined to take an active part, and which, from its many ludicrous as well as serious features. forms a curious aud characteristic passage in French history. The contest to which we allude is the war of the Fronde, the origin of which was the opposition offered to the court and to the policy of Mazarin by the Parliament of Paris. Throu~h the lavish ex- travagance of royalty, the national finances were in a most disordered state, and the measures taken by the court to recruit an exhausted treasury had occasioned universal discontent. Supported by the Parisian populace, the l)arliameot commenced an organized opposition to the demands of the queen and her minister. The party of the parliament was called the Fronde, and all who supported it Frondeurs. At first, there was little thought of fighting; but the court having arrested three popu- lar members of their parliament, the inhabitants of Paris rose in revolt. Then came the day of the Barricades, and the court was compelled to yield. Barricades in the streets of Paris! The words have a familiar sound, and the reader can scarcely help reflecting, before he passes on, how often bar- ricades have been erected and blood has been shed there,during the past half century! Without entering minutely into the history of the intrigues of the period, it will be sufficient to state that the Frondeurs were not without dis- tinguished partisans. The Prince of Conti, young- er brother of the great Cond~, and his sister, the Duchess de Longueville, had been gained over by the famous Cardinal de Retz, who regarded these intestine troubles as a fine field for his intrigues and ambition. La Rochefoucauld had long indul~ed a tender passion for the Duchess de Longueville, and it is not surprising, therefore, that he warmly es- poused the cause of the Fronde, as soon as her adhesion to it was known. Indeed, according to his own account, he was principally instrumental in winning her over to the cause; for the duchess had a womanly abhorrence of politics, and it may he only tolerated them for the sake of her lover. It ~vas one of the strange features of the period, that gallantry was mixed up with the gravest inter- ests and most important pursuits: and we must not, therefore, be surprised that the Duchess de Longue- ville, who cared nothing for the parliament or the quarrel in which it was engaged, should have played a distinguished part in this memorable struggle. Giving La Rochefoucauld credit for possessing some influence with this capricious lady, remembering besides his ancient name and lineage that he was a nobleman of uncommon parts, of distinguished courage, and well versed in state in- triguesit will be readily imagined that he was a most important and distinguished member of the Fronde. The state of Paris, and the frequent recurrence of tumults and disorders, alarmed the regent, and she fled from Paris, with the young king. La Rochefoucauld and the Prince of Conti withdrew with the court; but their apparent desertion was only to serve their personal interests. At some risk, they soon afterwards succeeded in returning to the metropolis, and the Duchesses de Bouillon and Longueville successfully appealed to the popu- lace in their favor. Condd had now blockaded the city; and a ludicrous sort of warfare ensued. The citizens turned out to encounter the royal troops, and then ran away in a most disgraceful manner. Fighting became a jest; the people of Paris were amused with songs and epigrams; and the mos intolerable licentiousness prevailed. Upon one oc- casion La Rochefoucauld was commanding a detach- ment of soldiers who were escorting some provisions into the city. They were attacked, and, with the exception of their leader, instantly fled. La Roche- foucauld, however, maintained his ground for some time, till he had been severely wounded, and a horse killed under him. At length peace was restored for a season; the court came back to Paris; a reconciliation took place between Condd and his brother, and La Rouchefoucauld, with the Duke arid Duchess de Longueville, separated themselves from the Fronde. Open warfare was now succeeded by secret intrigue. By a piece of royal treachery, the Prince of Cond~, his brother, and the Duke de Longueville, were arrested and imprisoned; and the presence of the Duchess de Longueville was immediately ordered at court. La Rochefoucauld dissuaded her from obeying the mandate; and shortly afterwards re- paired with her to Normandy, where they endeav- ored to sow the seeds of civil war. The attempt was not successful, but the spirit of revolt s}read, and La Rochefoucauld himself soon took the field with a considerable force. Hostilities were now recommenced upon a more extensive scale; but it would be tedious, as well as unprofitable, to recount all the incidents of a st uggle in which it is difficult to discover what particular principle was involved, or what were the definite motives of the leading combatants. We refer to the history of the period for the details of a war, which, to quote a French writer, would have been only ridiculous if the great names of Condd and Turenne had not figured in it; where consolation under defeat was found in an epigram, and love formed and destroyed cabals; where a marshal restored a town ~ la belle des belles; where men changed their party as women changed their lovers; a war, in fine, of which the great Condd said that its history could only be properly written in burlesque verses. To the most superficial observer it is obvious that the French nobility and gentry were, at this period, unprincipled and corrupt to the last degree. The war of the Fronde is a specimen of the reckless ambition and wicked frivolity which were their principal characteristics. A low and sordid self- ishness was recognized as the mainspring of every action. A leader was followed, or a party espoused, as interest or the idlest passion prompted; to pat- riotism, or any heroic or exalted motive, there was no pretence. In this utter wreck of human virtue, we look round in vain for some character rising superior to circumstances, and affording to a de- generate age an example of moral purity and dig- nified demeanor. As for La Rochefoucauld, without ascribing to him any very exalted qualifications, we think he may be fairly regarded as a favorable specimen of his class; arid, judged by its standard of excellence, a most distinguished gentleman. If he was vain, ambitious, selfish, and worldly-mind- etl, it will be remembered that he possessed these qualities in common with all the leading spirits of his age; hut it is also beyond question that his reputation for personal courage stood high, that his manners were frank and agreeable, and that his commanding intellect raised him immeasurably above the mass of beings who relied entirely on the prestige of name and lineage for the influence they enjoyed. The openness of demeanor for which * Biographie Universelle. 22 THE LIFE AND MAXIMS OF LA ROCHEFOIJCAULD. he was distinguished procured for him the nick- name of Franchise, hy which it was insinuated that his frankness was assumed for the purpose of mis- leading others and throwing them off their guard. This imputation was not, perhaps, altogether un- founded, for, it may he borne in mind, that he has said in one of his Maxims, that, The cleverest men affect all their lives to censure all artifice, in order that they may make use of it themselves on some great occasion, and for some great interest ; an idea which Lord Bacon has adopted and admirably illustrated in his Essay on Simulation and Dissim- ulation: Certainly the cleverest men that ever were have all had an openness and frankness of dealing, and a name of certainty and veracity; hut, then, they were like horses well managed, for they could tell passing well when to stop or turn, and, at such times, when they thought the case required dissimulation, if then they used it, it came to pass that the former opinion spread abroad of their good faith and clearness of dealing rendered them almost invisible. Whilst we protest against the morality of the axiom, we would draw attention to its subtle wisdom, which the genius of Bacon so fully appre- ciated and approved, and, at the same time, remark that it curiously illustrates the character of its author, and shows how nicely he calculated the effect of every part of his conduct. La Rochefoucaulds passion for the Duchess de Longueville was, perhaps, the principal motive which induced him to take an active part in the war of the Fronde; though he was undoubtedly also actuated by a vague ambition for distinction, which, had he lived in other days, he might possi- hly have directed into a nobler channel. Dazzled by the rank and beauty of the duchessqualifica- tions which, when united in a woman at that period, rendered her all-powerfulhe became her devoted admirer and slave, till her inconstancy broke the tie that united them. In the days of his warm at- tachment, he wrote under her portrait two lines from a then popular tragedy of Dn Ryer, which he applied to his own case Pour mflriter son co~ur, pour plaire ?~ ses beaux yeux, Jai fait la guerre aux rois je laurais faite aux dieux. Towards the close of the war, whilst fighting by the side of Cond6, in the suburbs of Paris, against the troops of Turenne, La Rochefoucauld was severely wounded in the eye by an arquebus, near the gate of St. Antoine, and was temporarily de- prived of sight. Some time after, when sniarting from the inconstancy of the duchess, he introduced this incident in a skilfUl parody on Du Ryers lines Pour ce ceaur inconstant, quenfin je connais mieux, Jai fait la guerre aux rois; jen ai perdu les yeux. At the close of her life, the Duchess de Longue- ville withdrew from the gay world, and became distinguished for her piety. To such severe disci- pline did she subject herself, that it is said her death was caused by a protracted fast. Although under Condd the cause of the Fronde triumphed for a time, the military skill of Turenne and the gold of Mazarin were ultimately too pow- erful for it. Before La Rochefoucauld had re- covered from his wound, his party experienced a reverse 9f popular favor ; its leaders fell off, and others were only anxiously waiting to make ternis for themselves. At length the royal authority was universally acknowledged, and faction was said to be crushed. The bourgeoisie rallied round the throne, and the influence of the nobility declined. La Rochefoucauld beheld the ascendancy of the kingly power, and endeavored to detach himself from his party, already deserted by most of its leaders. As a professed courtier, there was, how- ever, no place for him at the court of Louis XIV., who had now assumed the functions of sovereignty; for all who had taken part in the rebellion of the Fronde were either suspected or in actual disgrace. His fortune had also severely suffered, and he had no longer the means of playing a distinguished part as a man of fashion. It is supposed that, a~ the conclusion of the war, he spent some time on his estate; but afterwards, being much embarrassed, he committed it to the management of his secre- tary, Gourville, and thenceforth lived in Paris, on a very moderate allowance ;the ornament of a small intellectual circle and entirely detached from political intrigue. At this period of his life his dearest and most intimate friend was Madame de la Fayette, a liter- ary lady of distinguished t~ste and tblent, the pupil of Menage and Rapin, and well known as the authoress of La Princesse de Ch~ves. An at- tachment of twenty years duration sprang up between them, cemented by mutual o~Aigations which both were proud to acknowledge. La Rochefoucauld had intellect, and Madame de Ia Fayette had principle; she was honest and truth- ful, and he was wise and witty. Their intimacy was thus productive of mutual advantage; as the lady modestly and beautifully observed : He gave me mind, and I reformed his heart. Another of his most sincere and attached friends was the famous Madame de S~vign6, whose life presents so many features of interest, and whose admirable letters are still read with pleasure and studied as models. It is worthy of remark that this celebrated woman always speaks of La Roche- foucauld with the utmost respect. She does not scruple to describe him as the first among all the men she ever knew for courage, goodness, tender- ness, and sense, reckoning his wit and many agree- able qualities as nothing in comparison to these. For the last ten years of his life La Rochefoucauld was a martyr to the gout, and Madame de S6vign6 repeatedly dwells on the severity of his sufferings and the exemplary fortitude with which they were endured. On the other hand, as an instance of the sensibility of his disposition, she has related how he burst into tears when an anecdote was repeated to him respecting the conduct of an officer whose arm was shot off by the same cannon-ball that deprived Turenne of life, and who, entirely regardless of the loss of his own limb, fell weeping on the body of his commander, and clung to it with transports of grief. Besides these distinguished female associates, La Rochefoucauld lived on terms of intimacy with most of the eminent literati of the age. Boilean and Racine were among his friends, and Moli~re is said to have submitted his comedies for his approval. His clearness of apprehension and refined wit recom- mended him to the society of all who had any pre- tensions to literary distinction. At length, on the 17th of March, 1680, after a severe illness of some days, he expired in the arms of the celebrated. Bossuet, who had administered to him the last con- solations of religion. His friend, Madame de Ia Fayette, is represented as having been inconsolable~ for his loss; and Madame de Sdvignd has in her letters minutely and tenderly described every mci-- dent of his last illness. 23 THE LIFE AND MAXIMS OF LA ROCITEFOUCAULD. La Rochefoucaulds two worksthe Memoirs j La Rochefoucauld was not in the wrong; but his of his own Times, and the more celebrated great error, and the error of most of those who Maxims and Moral Reflections,though written have followed in the same path, appears to consist after his retirement from politics, are impregnated in forming a low standard of human enjoyments, with the spirit of his active life. He has been de- and of the objects and circumstances capable of scribed as the moralist of the Fronde, as Cardinal conferring gratification; in a manifest devotion to de Retz was its historian. Having passed his the sensual and material; and in failing to appreci- early years in a thoroughly corrupt and demoral- ate the purest sources of pleasure and truest princi- ized society, and being endowed with no ordinary ples of happiness. faculties of observation, his views of human nature We will now refer to a few of the Maxims which are such as we might have expected him to pro- have excited the greatest attention from the subtlety mulgate. But whatever we may think of their and acuteness they evince, or the peculiar morality spirit and tendency, the Maxims will always rank they inculcate; presenting our readers, at the same among the most valuable contributions to literature, time, with some of the illustrative passages which Their great merit is of course the amount of have been collected by the new translator. In some thought and observation which the writer has dex- instances, we have been enabled to add other ex- terously managed to pack into so small a compass, tracts, which appeared to hear on the topics dis- by a rigid retrenchment of all superfluous matter cussed, or to confirm the views of La Rochefoucauld. and unnecessary words. To the great mass of We commence with a Maxim which is a type of mankind the brevity of the Maxims is one of the many more, and which has much of the sneering most acceptable qualities; it has recommended and sarcastic tone so often assumed by the moralists them to the attention of the idlest and least reflect- of the Fronde. ing, and has caused them to be easily retained in the memory, and repeated from mouth to mouth. Voltaire remarked of La Rochefoucaulds literary performances, that his Memoirs were read, and his maxims were known by heart ; and it would be superfluous for us to add the various eulogies which have been pronounced on the latter work by distin,,uisbed critics of other countries. According to the new translator, the earliest English translation of the maxims was published in 1689, under the title of Seneca Unmasked, by the celebrated Mrs. Aphra Behn, who calls the author the Duke of Rushfucnve! But it is vgyy evident that many English writers had made u~e of them before that period, and the views of human character which they inculcated had been widely adopted. It has been observed, by Voltaire, that there is scarcely more than one truth running through this celebrated book; viz., that self-love is the motive of everything. The nature of this one truth has given rise to considerable controversy, and whilst we shall endeavor as much as possible to avoid being entan,,led in metaphysical subtleties, it will not be improper for us to make a few observa- tions upon it. In the first place, we submit, it must be conceded that there are two descriptions of selfishness, or self-love; that one order or form of selfishnessnarrow and short-sighted in its nature and aimleads us to consult our own convenience, comfort, and sensual gratification, without regard to the comfort or well-being of others, and to derive our sole gratification from our own sensations of pleasure and avoidance of pain. But there is evi- dently another kind of self-love, more enlightened and exalted, which regards the performance of charitable actions, and a reasonable deference to the convenience and wishes of others, as absolutely necessary for our own enjoyment of this present existence; and althosi~h this species of selfishness is more refined, and is certainly not that which is popularly understood by the term, philosophers are undoubtedly justified in including it under the general term of self-lovea regard to self, and the pursuit of ones own interest. As Swift has pithily put it: It is allowed that the cause of most actions, good or bad, may be resolved into the love of our- selves; but the self-love of some men inclines them to please others; and the self-love of others is wholly employed in pleasing themselves. In referring every action, therefore, to the love of self, according to the verbal argument, at any rate, We have all of us sufficient fortitude to bear the misfortunes of others. A similar reflection has found expression in the writings of two other profound observersShak- speare and Swift. Every man can master a grief, but he that has it. .Much ./ldo about Nothing, Act III. Sc. 2. Men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves hot feel, but tasting it Their counsel turns to passion. * * * * * No, no! t is all mens office to speak patience To those that writhe under the load of sorrow. But no mans virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral, when he shall endure The like himself. .Much .ldo about Nothing, Act V. Sc. 1. I never knew a man that could not bear the mis- fortunes of others with the most Christian resignation. SwIFT, Thoughts on various Subjects. Of a kindred character is the celebrated maxim which has been so frequently commented on, and so much condemned In the adversity of our best friends we often find something which does not displease us. That well-disposed persons should feel a secret ~ pleasure in the misfirtisnes of others, seems at first a hard saying; but it is nevertheless, in a~~1i~ed sense, a humiliating truth, which those n7Tfo ~havb most narrowly watched the emotions of the mind have been constrained to accept. In the majority of mankind it is, perhaps, nothing more than a pleasurable feeling arising from a s~pse of indi- vidual security, or freedom from the s~ffering or ill-fortune which may have overtaken others. This feeling is entirely distinct from the unamiable sentiment of envious selfishness which rejoices iu the affliction of a friend, from pure malevolence, or impatience of anothers prosperity. It is, in fact, precisely the sentiment which is expressed in the well-known lines of Lucretius, cited by the present translator in illustration of La Hochefou- caulds maxim Suave man magno turbantibus mequora ventis, E terra alterius magnum spectare laborem; Non, quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas, Sad, quibus ipse malis careas, qula cernere suave est. Book ii. v. 1. 24 THE LIFE AND MAXIMS OF LA ROCHEFO1JCAIJLD. Of which we venture to add Creechs homely but pithy version T is pleasant, when the seas are rough, to stand And view anothers danger, safe at land; Not cause he s troubled, but t is sweet to see Those cares and fears, from which ourselves are free. La Rochefoucaulds maxim has, however, we submit, a more malicious meaning, and it was in that sense bitterly seized on by Swift, and intro- duced in the Verses on his own Death, written, it will he recollected, in the intervals of physical suffering, and under the influence of the deepest mental gloom As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true. They argue no corrupted mind In himthe fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast In all distresses of our friends We first consult our private ends, While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us. a * * * * To all my foes, dear fortune, send Thy gifts, but never to my friend; I tamely can endure the first, But this with envy makes me burst. -The maxim has been indeed generally taken, as it was probably intended, in its most ill-natured sense; and such a clamor was raised against it; that La Rochefoucauld was induced to suppress it in the last edition which he published. Byron, says the present translator, has despondingly alluded to it, (Childe Harold, canto 3,) I would believe That some for others griefs sincerely grieve. We cite the following for the sake of its pro- verbial truth, as well as for the illustration which accompanies it Those who bestow too much application on trifling things, become generally incapable of great ones. Frivolous curiosity about trifles, and laborious at- - tention to little objects, which neither require nor deserve a moments thought, lower a man, who from thence is thought, and not unjustly, incapable of greater matters. Cardinal de Retz very sagaciously marked out Cardinal Chigi for a little mind, from the moment he told him thiit he had wrote three years with the same pen, and that it was an excellent good one stillLoan CHESTERFIELD. How deplorable it is that the sound philosophy conveyed in the next axiom we have to quote, is not more laid to heart! Many who, at this day, have felt the intolerable tyranny of custom, or who have worn out a weary life in anxious agitation for the possession of something that popular opinion, not individual taste, may have marked out as desir- able. will know how to appreciate its truth. Happiness lies in the taste, and not in the thing and it is from having what we desire that we are happynot from having what others think desirable. All external concessions (says Montaigne) receive taste and color from the internal constitution, as clothes warm, us not with their heat, but our own, which they are adapted to cover and keep in. And Burns, it will be recollected, has given expression, in verse, to the same idea If happiness have not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great. But never can be blest. The truth of the following maxim has been generally acknowledged and acted on, and certainly never more than at the present time, when a fair outside show is regarded by all who are skilled in the worlds ways as a sure passport to ultimate success In order to establish themselves in the world, men do all they can to appear established there. This axiom has been copied by Goldsmith If a man wishes to become rich, he must appear to be rich. It is with true love as with apparitions. Every one talks of it, but few have ever seen it. Byron, observes the translator, was well read in La Rochefoucauld, and this maxim appears to have been the germ of the following fine stanza 0 love, no habitant of earth thou art, An unseen seraph, we believe in thee A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart; But never yet bath seen, or eer shall see, The naked eye thy forni, as it should be, The mind bath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given As haunts the unquenched soul, parched, wearied, wrung, and riven. Silence is the safest course for any man to adopt who distrusts himself. Shakspeare has given expression to the same idea in the well-known passage, subjoined by the translator from the Merchant of Venice. 0, my Antonio, I do know of those That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing. We have also rather an amusing illustration of this truth in the following scrap from Coleridges Table Talk, which recurs to our recollection. Silence, says this great conversationalist, does not always mark wisdom. I was at dinner, some time ago, in company with a man who listened to me, and said nothing for a long time; hut he nodded his head, and I thought him intelligent. At length, towards the end of the dinner, some apple dumplings were placed~ on the table, and my man had no sooner seen them, than he burst forth with Them s the jockies for me! I wish Spurzheirn could have examined the fellows head. A judicious silence, where there is a conscious-, ness of mental deficiency, is undoubtedly a mark of considerable tact. Dr. Johnson has made the following remarks on the conduct of persons before and after dinner, which may further demonstrate the prudence of this species of self-restraint. Be- fore dinner, men meet with great inequality of understanding; and those who are conscious of their inferiority, have the i~iodesty not to talk; when they have drunk wine, every man feels him- self happy, and loses that mode~ty, and grows impudent and vociferous; but he is not improved; he is only not sensible of his defects. How can we expect another to keep our secret, if we cannot keep it ourselves? 25 THE LIFE AND MAXIMS OF LA ROCHEFOIJCAULD. This idea, says the translator, has been expressed by other writers, but by none more hap- pily than by La Rochefoucauld. I have played the fool, the gross fool, to believe The bosom of a friend would hold a secret Mine own could not contain. MAssJ~eza, Unnatural Combat, Act V. Sc. 2. Toute r~v~lation dun secret est la faute de celui qul la confidLA BRUYERE, De La SociWi. Ham. Do not believe it. .Rosencr. Believe what? Ham. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. SHARSPEARE, Hamlet, Act IV. Sc. 2. The most subtle of nil artifices is the power of cleverly feigning to fall into the snares laid for us; and we are never so easily deceived as when we think we are deceiving others. A curious illustration of this maxim, the translator observes, was lately exhibited in the events which led to the defeat of the King of Sar- dinia, in Lombardy, in July, 1848. He was be- guiled by a pretended plot for delivering the town of Mautna into his hands, and, with a view of aiding in its execution, was induced to weaken his military position to such a degree, as to enable the Austrian general, iRadetzky, to attack him at a disadvantage. The Italian correspondent of the Times newspaper, (Aug. 2d, 1848,) remarks upon this : I perceive that the whole affair was, to nse a vulgar hut ex- pressive phrase, a plant, to induce the king to impoverish the left of our lines, where Radetzky saw, as events have since proved, that he might strike the surest blow. * * * * I have often noticed that cunning men are the most easily de- ceived, and I fear Charles Albert, who has the reputation of being very rus6, has thus been caught. The true method of being deceived is to think oneself more cunning than others. Here, my sa~acious friend, said Louis, take this purse of gold, and with it the advice, never to be so great a fool as to think yourself wiser than an- other. Quectin Darward. Our repentance is not so much regret for the evil we have done, as fcar of its consequences to us. You do repent As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not Heaven, Showing, we d not spare Heaven as we love it, But as we stand in fear. easmere for .Measure, Act II. Sc. 3. When our vices quit us, we flatter ourselves with the belief that it is we who quit them. The same idea has been expressqd by Swift in homely and familiar terms: When men grow virtuous in their old age, they are merely making a sacrifice to God of the devils leavings. The next maxim we have to quote has passed into a proverbial saying, the paternity of which may not be known to all those who have been in the habit of making use of it. Hypocrisy is the homage which vice renders to virtue. Massillon, says the translator, has adopted this celebrated thought in one of his sermons: Le vice rend hommage ~ la vertu en shonorant de ses apparences; and it probably also suggested to Cowper the following passage in the Task, Book iii.~ Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, (And no mans hatred ever wronged her yet,) May claim this merit stillthat she admits The worth of what she mimics with such care, And thus gives virtue indirect applause. The following two maxims, on the nature of elo- quence, should be laid to heart by all who make any pretension to that much coveted accomplish- ment; or who have anyambition, as public speakers, to please, persuade, or convince an audience. There is as much eloquence in the tone of voice, in the eyes, and in the air of a speaker, as in his choice of words. True eloquence consists in saying all that is neces- sary, and nothing but what is necessary. Much of the acuteness and subtlety for which La Rochefoncauld was so famous, is exhibited in the next maxim we have to quote Humility is often only a feigned submission, of which we make use to render others submissive. It is an artifice of pride which abases in order to exalt itself, and though it transforms itself in a thousand different ways, it is never better disguised and more capable of deceiving than when it conceals itself under the garb of humility. In illustration of this truth, the translator has subjoined the well-known stanza from the Devils Walk He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And the devil was pleased, for his darling sin Is the pride that apes humility. In all the professions, every one affects a particular look and exterior, in order to appear what he wishes to be thought, so that it may be said the world is made up of appearances. This maxim, which every one will admit has a pretty general application, is followed by another of a kindred character, which has been always enrolled among the most famous sayings of La Rochefoucauld : Gravity is a mystery of the body, invented to con- ceal the defects of the mind. This is the maxim which Yorick, in Tristram Shandg, with great imprudence would say de- served to be wrote in letters of gold. The trans- lator has also subjoined the opinions of two great thinkers and observers to the same effect, expressed in a characteristic style I have observed, says Lord Bolingbroke, that in comedies the best actor plays the droll, while some scrub rogue is made the fine gentleman or hero. Thus it is in the farce of lifewise men spend their time in mirth, tis only fools who are serious! Lord Sliaftesbury also observes, that Gravity is of the very essence of imposture; it does not only make us mistake other things, but is apt perpetually almost to mistake itself. We think very few people sensible except those who are of our opinions. That was excellently observed, say I, when I read a passage in an author, where his opinion agrees with mine. When we differ, then I pronounce him to be mistaken.Swmrr, Thoughts on various Subjects. A fool has not stuff enough to be good. In Mr. Taylors admirable drama of Philip van Artevelde, among other profound remarks, we find the following echo of La Rochefoucaulds maxim: 26 4I~ MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. 27 And Van Muck, the traitor! Stupidity is seldom soundly honest; I should have known him better. Live and learn. Old fools are more foolish than young ones. This maxim,~ observes the translator, seems to have passed into the proverb, No fool like an old fool. .Malrolio. Infirmity that decays the wise doth ever make the better fool. Clown. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly. SHAK5PEARE, Twelfth .Night. Men often proceed from love to ambition, but they seldom return from ambition to love. Las homines commencent par lamour, finissent par lambition, et ne se trouvent dans une assiette plus tranquille, que lorsquils meurent.LA BRUYERE, Du Cciur. He who admits ambition to the companionship of love, admits a giant that outstrides the ~entler foot- steps of its comrade.Ssa E. B. LYTTON, Harold. Those who are incapable of committing great crimes do not easily suspect others of them. Montaigne, says the translator, remarks, that Confidence in another mans virtue is no slight evidence of a mans own; and he adds, God is pleased to favor such confidence.~ Whose nature is so far from doing harm, That he suspects none. Kinn Lear. In the Dcdication of a volume of poems to the Duchess of Sutherland, the Honorable Mrs. Norton, alluding to some painful circumstances in her own life, has given a beautiful expression to the same idea For they who credit crime are they who feel Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts that steal Oer minds like these, an easy faith to win; And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by these who have themselves deceived. We have selected these passages from La Roche- foucaulds Book of Maxims, to illustrate the char- acter and genius of the author, and the tone and spirit of his philosophy. The extracts we have appended (and which are in general taken from the notes of the new translator) will prove in some degree the influence he has exercised upon other minds, and the wide acceptation which the princi- ples he promulgated have found in the world. MAURICE TIE1INAY~ THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. CHAPTER xvi. AN OLD GENERAL OF THE IRISH aRIGADE. IN obedience to an order which arrived at Sau- mur one morning in the July of 1798, 1 was summoned before the commandant of the scho~d, when the following brief colloquy ensued Maurice Tiernay, said he, reading from the record of the school, why are you called lir- landais B I am Irish by descent, sir. Ha! by descent. Your father was then an Emigrd B No, sirmy great grandfather. Parbien! that is going very far back. Are you aware of the causes which induced him to leave his native country B They were connected with political troubles, Ii ye heard, sir. He took part against the Eng- lish, my father told me, and was obliged to make his escape to save his life. You then hate the English, Maurice B My grandfathe~r certainly did not love them, sir. Nor can you, boy, ever forgive their having exiled your family from country and home; every man of honor retains the memory of such inju- Ties. I can scarcely deem that an injury, sir, which has made me a French citizen, said I, proudly. True, boyyou say what is perfectly true and just; any sacrifice of fortune or patrimony is cheap at such a price; still you have suffered a wronga deep and irreparable wrongand as a Frenchman you are ready to avenge it. Although I had no very precise notion, either as to the extent of the hardships done me, nor in what way I was to demand the reparation, I gave the assent he seemed to expect. You are well acquainted with the language, I believe, continued he. I can read and speak English tolerably well, sir.~~ But I speak of Irish, boyof the language which is spoken by your felloxv-countrymen, said he, rebukingly. I have always beard, sir, that this has fallen into disuse, and is little known, save among the peasantry in a few secluded districts. He seemed impatient as I said this, and referred once more to the paper before him, from whose minutes he appeared to have been speaking. You must be in error, boy. I find here that the nation is devotedly attached to its traditions and its literature, and feels no injury deeper than the insulting substitution of a foreign tongue for their own noble language. Of myself I know nothing, sir; the little I have learned was acquired when a mere child. Ah, then you probably forget, or may never have heard the fact; but it is as I tell you. This, which I hold here, is the report of a highly-dis- tinguished and most influential personage, who lays great stress upon the circumstance. I am sorry, Tiernay, very sorry, that you are unac- quainted with the language. lie continued for some minutes to brood over this disappointment, and at last returned to the paper before him. The geography of the countrywhat knowl- edge have you on that subject l No more, sir, than I may possess of other countries, and merely learned from maps. Bad again, muttered he to himself. Ma- dyett calls these essentials; but we shall see MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. Then, addressing me, he said, Tiernay, the object of my present interrogatory is to inform you that the Directory is about to send an expe- dition to Ireland to assist in the liberation of that enslaved people. It has been suggested tbat young officers and soldiers of Irish descent might render peculiar service to the cause, and I have selected you for an opportunity which will convert those worsted epaulets into bullion.~~ This at least was intelligible news, and now I began to listen with more attention. There is a report, said he, laying down before me a very capacious manuscript, which you will carefully peruse. Here are the latest pamphlets setting forth the state of public opinion in Ireland; and here are various maps of the coast, the harbors, and the strongholds of that country, with all of which you may employ your- self advantageously; and if, on considering the subject, you feel disposed to volunteerfor as a volunteer only could your services be acceptedI will willingly support your request by all the in- fluence in my power. I am ready to do so at once, sir, said I, eagerly; I have no need to know any more than you have told me. Well said, boy; I like your ardor. Write your petition, and it shall be forwarded to-day. I will also try and ohtain for you the same regi- mental rank you hold in the schoolI was a sergeant it will depend upon yourself after- wards to secure a further advancement. You are now free from duty; lose no time, therefore, in storing your mind with every possible informa- tion, and be ready to set out at a moments notice. Is the expedition so nearly ready, sir B asked I, eagerly. H~ nodded, and, with a significant admonition as to secrecy, dismissed me, bursting with anxiety to examine the stores of knowledge before me, and prepare myself wit.h all the details of a plan in which already I took the liveliest interest. Before the week expired, I received an answer from the minister, accepting the offer of my ser- vices. The reply found me deep in those studies, which I senreely could bear to quit even at meal- times. Never did I experience such an all-de- vouring passion for a theme as on that occasion. Ireland never left my thoughts; her wrongs and su~crings were everlastingly hefore me ; all the cruelties of centuriesall the hard tyranny of the penal lawsthe dire injustice of caste oppres- sionfilled me xvith indignation and anger; while, on the other hand, I conceived the highest admi- ration of a people who, undeterred by the might and power of England, resolved to strike a great blow for liberty. The enthusiasm of the peoplethe ardent dar- ings of a valor whose impetuosity was its greatest difficultytheir high romantic temperamenttheir devotiontheir gratitudethe child-like trustful- ness of their natures, were all traits, scattered through the various narratives, which invariably attracted me, and drew me more strongly to their causeeven from affection than reason. Madyetts memoir was filled with these, and he, I concluded, must know them well, being, as it was asserted, one of the ancient nobility of the land, and who now desired nothing better than to throw rank, privilege, and title into the scale, and do battle for the liberty and equality of his countrymen. How I longed to see this great man, whom my fancy arrayed in all the attributes he so lavishly bestowed upon his countrymen, for they were not only, in his description, the boldest and the bravest, but the handsomest people of Europe. As to the success of the enterprise, whatever doubts I had at first conceived, from an estimate of the immense resources of England, were speedily solved, as I read of the enormous preparations the Irish had made for the struggle. The Roman Catholics, Madyett said, were three millions, the Dissenters another million, all eager for freedom and French alliance, wanting nothing but the ap- pearance of a small armed force to give them the necessary organization and discipline. They were somewhat deficient, he acknowledged, in fire-arms cannon they had none whatever; but the char- acter of the country, which consisted of moun- tains, valleys, ravines, and gorges, reduced war to the mere chivalrous features of personal encounter. What interminable descriptions did I wade through of clubs and associations, the very names of which were a puzzle to methe great union of all ap- pearing to be a society called Defenders, whose oath bound them to fidelity to the united nations of France and Ireland. So much for the one side. For the other, it was asserted that the English forces then in gar- rison in Ireland were below contempt; the militia, being principally Irish, might be relied on for taking the popular side; and as to the regulars, they were either old men or boys, incapable of active service ; and several of the regiments, being Scotch, greatly disaffected to the govern- ment. Then, again, as to the navy, the sailors in the En~lish fleet were more than two thirds Irishmen, all Catholics, and all disaffected. That the enterprise contained every element of success, then, who could doubt l The nation, in the proportion of ten to one, were for the move- ment. On their side lay not alone the wrongs to avenge, but the courage, the energy, and the dar- ing. Their oppressors were as weak as tyran- nical, their cause was a bad one, and their support of it a hollow semblance of superiority. If I read these statements with ardor and avid- ity, one lurking sense of doubt alone obtruded itself on my reasonings. Why, with all these guarantees of victory, with everything that can hallow a cause, and give it stability and strength, why did the Irish ask for aid l If they were, as they alleged, an immense majorityif theirs was all the heroism and the daringif the struggle was to be maintained against a miserably inferior 28 MAURICE TIERNAY~ THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. 29 force, weakened by age, and incapacity, and disaf- fectionwhat need had they of Frenchmen on their side? The answer to all such doubts, however, was the Irish were deficient in organization. Not only was the explanation a very sufficient one, but it served in a high degree to flatter our vanity. We were, then, to be organizers of Ire- land from us were they to take tbe lessons of civilization, which should prepare them for free- domours was the task to discipline their valor, and train their untaught intelligence. Once landed in the country, it was to our standard they were to rally; from us were to go forth the orders of every movement and measure; to us this new land was to be an El Dorado. Madyett significantly hinted everywhere at the unbounded gratitude of Irishmen; and more than hinted at the future fate of certain confiscated estates. One phrase, osten- tatiously set forth in capitals, asserted that the best general in the French Republic could not be anywhere employed with so touch reputation and profit. There was, then, everything to stimulate the soldier in such an enterprisebonor, fame, glory, and rich rewards were all among the prizes. It was when deep in the midst of these studies, poring over maps and reports, taxing my memory with hard names, and getting off by heart dates, distances, and numbers, that the order came for me to repair at once to Paris, where the volunteers of the expedition were to assemble. My rank of sergeant had been confirmed, and in this capacity, as ~ sons officier, I was ordered to report my- self to General Kilmaine, the adjutant-general of the expedition, then living in the Rue Chan- tereine. I was also given the address of a cer- tain LestaingRue Tarbouta tailor, from whom, on producing a certificate, I was to obtain my new uniform. Full as I was of the whole theme, thinking of the expedition by day, and dreaming of it by night, I was still little prepared for the enthusiasm it was at that very moment exciting in every society of the capital. For some time previous a great number of Irish emit~ants had made Paris their residence; some were men of good position and ample fortune; some were individuals of consid- erable ability and intelligence. All were enthu- siastic, and ardent in temperamentdevotedly at- tached to their countryhearty haters of England, and proportionately attached to all that was French. These sentiments, coupled with a certain ease of manner, and a faculty of adaptation, so peculiarly [rish, made them general favorites in society; and long before the Irish question had found any fa- vor with the public, its national supporters had won over the hearts and good wishes of all Paris to the cause. Well pleased, then, as I was, with my hand- some uniform of green and gold, my small cha- peau, with its plume of cocks fisathers, and the embroidered shamrock on my collar, I was not a little struck by the excitement my first appearance in the street created. Accustomed to see a hun- dred strange military costumesthe greater num her, I own, more singular than tastefulthe Paris- ians, I concluded, would scarcely notice mine in the crowd. Not so, however; the print-shops had already given the impulse to the admiration, and the Irish Volunteer of the Guard was to be seen in every window, in all the glory of his bravery. The heroic character of the expedi- tion, too, was typified by a great variety of scenes, in which the artists imagination had all the credit. In one picture the jeune Irlandais was plant- ing a national flag of very capacious dimensions on the summit of his native mountains; here he was storming Le chateau de Dublin, a most formidable fortress perched on a rock above the sea; here he was crowning the heights of La citadelle de Cork, a very Gibraltar in strength; or he was haranguing the native chieftains, a highly picturesque groupa cross between a knight crusader and a South-sea islander. My appearance, therefore, in the streets was the signal for general notice and admiratiomi, and more than one compliment was uttered, ptsrposely loud cnou~h to reach me, on the elegatice and style of my equipment. In the pleasant flurry of spirits excited by this flattery, I arrived at the generals quarters in the Rue Chantereine. It was considerably before the time of his usual reception, hut the glitter of my epaulets, and the air of as- surance I had assumed, so far imposed upon the old servant who acted as valet, that he at once introduced me into a small saloon, and, after a brief pause, presented me to the general, who was reclining on a sofa at his breakfast. Although far advanced in years, and evidently broken by bad health, General Kilmaine still preserved traces of great personal advantages, while his manner exhibited all that polished ease and courtesy which were said to he peculiar to the Irish gentleman of the French court. Addressing me in English, he invited inc to join his meal; and, on my declimming, as havin~ already breakfasted, he said, I per- ceive, from your name, we are countrymen; and as your uniform tells me the service in which you are engaged, we may speak with entire confidence. Tell me then, frankly, all that you know of the actual condition of Ireland. Conceiving that this question applied to the re- sult of my late studies, and was meant to elicit the amount of my imiformation, I at onc~ began a recital of what I had learned from the books and reports I had been reading. My statistics were perfectthey had been gotten off by Imeart; my sympathies were, for the same reason, most elo- quent; my indignation was boundless on the wrongs I deplored, and, in fact, in the fifteen min- utes durimug which lie permitted mc to declaim without inLrruption, I had gone through the whole cause of Ireland, from Henry II. to George III. You have been reading Mr. Madyett, I per- ceive, said he with a smile; but I would rather hear something of your own actual experi- ence. Tell me, therefore, in what condition are the people at this moment, as regards poverty l MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. I have never been in Ireland, general, said I, not without some shame at the avowal coming so soon after my eloquent exhortation. Ah, I perceive, said he, blandly, of Irish origin, and a relative probably of that very dis- tinguished soldier, Count Maurice de Tiernay, who served in the Garde-du-Corps. His only son, general, said I, blushing with eagerness and pleasure at the praise of my father. Indeed ! said he, smiling courteously, and seeming to meditate on my words. There was not a better nor a braver sabre in the corps than your fathera very few more such men might have saved the monarchyas it was, they dignified its fall. And to whose guidance and care did you owe your early training, for I see you have not been neglected B A few words told him the principal events of my early years, to which he listened with deep attention. At length he said, And now you are about to devote your acquiremepts and energy to this new expedition B All, general! Everything that I have is too little for such a cause. You say truly, boy, said he, warmly; would that so good a cause had better leaders. I mean, added he hurriedly, wiser ones. Men more conversant with the actual state of events, more fit to cope with the great difficulties before them, more ready to take advantage of circum- stances, whose outward meaning will often prove deceptive. In fact, Irishmen of character and capacity, tried soldiers, and good patriots. Well, well, let us hope the best. In whose division are youl I have not yet heard, sir. I have presented myself here to-day to receive your orders. There again is another instance of their in- capacity, cried he, passionately. Why, boy, I have no command, nor any function. I did ac- cept office under General 1-Joche, but he is not to lead the present expedition.~~ And who is, sir B I cannot tell you. A ~uek ago they talked of Grouchy, then of Hardy; yesterday it was Humbert; to-day it may be Bonaparte, and to- morrow yourself! Ay, Tiernay, this great and good cause has its national fatality attached to it, and is so wrapped up in low intrigue and false- hood, that every minister becomes in turn dis- gusted with the treachery and mendacity he meets with, and bequeathes the question to ~ome official underli. g, meet partisan for the mock patriot he treats with. But the expedition will sail, general B asked I, sadly discomfited by this tone of despondency. He made me no answer, but sat for some time absorbed in his own thoughts. At last he looked up, and said, You ought to be in the army of Italy, boy; the great teacher of war is there. I know it, sir, but my whole heart is in this struggle. I feel that Ireland has a claim on all who derived even a name from her soil. Do you not believe that the expedition will sail B Again he was silent and thoughtful. Mr. Madyett would say yes, said he scorn- fully, though, certes, he would not volunteer to bear it company. Colonel Cherin, general ! said the valet, as he flung open the door for a young officer in a staff-uniform. I arose at once to withdraw, but the general motioned to me to wait in an adjoin- ing room, as he desired to speak with me again. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed when I was summoned once more before him. You have come at a most opportune moment, Tiernay, said he; Colonel Cherin informs me that an expedition is ready to sail from Roehelle at the first favorable wind. General Humbert has the command; and if you are disposed to join hint 1 will give you a letter of presentation. Of course I did not hesitate in accepting the offer; and while the general drew over his desk to write the letter, I withdrew towards the win- dow to converse with Colonel Cherin. You might have waited long enough, said he, laughing, if the affair had been in other hands than Humberts. The delays and discus- sions of the official people, the difficulty of any- thing like agreement, the want of money, and fifty other causes, would have detained the fleet till the English got scent of the whole. But Humbert has taken the short road in the matter. He only arrived at La Rochelle five days a,o and now he is ready to weigh anchor. And in what way has he accomplished this B asked I, in some curiosity. By a method, replied he, laughing again, which is usually reserved for an enemys coun- try. Growing weary of a correspondence with the minister, which seemed to make little prog- ress, and urged on by the enthusiastic stories of the Irish refugees. he resolved to wait no longer; and so he has called on the merchants and magis- trates to advance him a sum on military requisi- tion, together with such stores- and necessaries as he stands in need of. And they have complied B asked I. Parbleu! that have they. In the first place, they had no other choice; and, in the second, they are but too happy to get rid of him and his Le- gion Noir, as they are called, so cheaply. A thousand louis and a thousand muskets would not pay for the damage of these vagabonds each night they spent in the town. I confess that this description did not tend to exalt the enthusiasm I had conceived for the expe- dition; but it was too late for hesitationtoo late for even a doubt. Go forward I should, what- ever might come of it. And now the general had finished his letter, which, having sealed and ad- dressed, he gave into my hand, saying This will very probably obtain you promotion, if upt at once, at least on the first vacancy. Good bye, my lad; there may he hard knocks going where you will be, but I m certain you 11 not disgrace the good nair~e you bear, nor the true cause for which you are fighting. I would that I had youth and 30 MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. 31 strength to stand beside you in the struggle. Good bye. He shook me affectionately by both hands; the colonel, too, bade me adieu not less cordially; and I took my leave with a heart overflowing with gratitude and delight. CHAPTER XVII.LA ROCHELLE. LA ROCHELLE is a quiet little town at the bot- tom of a small bay, the mouth of which is almost closed up by two islands. There is a sleepy, peaceful air about the placea sort of drowsy languor pervades everything and everybody about it, that tells of a town whose days of busy pros- perity have long since passed by, and which is dragging out life, like some retired tradesman too poor for splendor, but rich enough to be idle. A long avenue of lime-trees encloses the harbor; and here the merchants conduct their bargains, while their wives, seated beneath the shade, dis- cuss tbe gossip of the place over their work. All is patriarchal and primitive as Holland itself; the very courtesies of life exhibiting that ponderous stateliness which insensibly reminds one of the land of dykes and broad breeches. It is the least French of any town I have ever seen in France; none of that light merriment, that gay volatility of voice and air, which form the usual atmosphere of a French town. All is still, or- derly, and sombre; and yet, on the night in which somethi2ag more than fifty years backI first entered it, a very differcnt scene was presc~mte~ to my eyes. It was about ten oclock; and, by a moon nearly full, the diligence rattled along the cove ed ways of the old fortress, and, crossing many a mote and drawbridge, the scenes of a once glorious strug- gle, entered the narrow streets, traversed a wide place, and drew up within the ample portals of La Poste. Before I could remove the wide capote wbich I wore, the waiter ushered me into a large salda where a party of about forty persons were seated at supper. With a few exceptions they were all military officers, and sous-officiers of the expe- dition, whose noisy gayety and boisterous mirth sufficiently attested that the entertainment, had begun a considerable time before. A profusion of bottles, some empty, others in the way to become so, covered the table, amidst which lay the fragments of a common table. dhdte supperlarge dishes of cigars and basins of tobacco figuring beside the omelettes and the salad. The noise, the crash, the heat, the smoke, and the confusionthe clinking of glasses, the sing- mc,, and the speech-making, made a scene of such turmoil and uproar, that I would gladly have re~ tired to some quieter atmosphere, when suddenly an accidental glimpse of my uniform caught some eyes among the revellers, and a shout was raised of Holloa, comrades! here s one of the Gardes among us. And at once the whole assembly rose up to greet me. For full ten minutes I had to sub- mit to a series of salutations, which led to every form, from hand-shaking and embracing to kissing; while, perfectly unconscious of any cause for my popularity, I went through the cefemonies like one in a dream. Wheres Kilmaine! What of Hardy ! Is Grouchy coming! Can the Brest fleet sail B How many line-of-battle ships have they B What s the artillery force! Have you brought any money! This last question, the most frequent of all, was suddenly poured ia upon me, and with a fortunate degree of rapidity, that I had no time for a reply, had I even the means of making one. Let the lad have a seat and a glass of wine before he submits to this interrogatory, said a fine, jolly-looking old chef-descadron at the head of the table, while he made a place for me at his side. Now tell us, boy, what number of the Gardes are to be of our party ! I looked a little blank at the question, for in truth I had not heard of the corps before, nor was I aware that it was their uniform I was then wear- ing. Come, come, be frank with us, lad, said he; we are all comrades here. Confound secrecy, say I. Ay, ay, cried the whole assembly together confound secrecy. We are not bandits nor highwaymen; we have no need of concealment. I 11 be as frank as you can wish, comrades, said I; and if I lose some importance in your eyes by owuing that I am not the master of a single state secret, I prefer to tell you so, to at- tempting any unworthy disguise. I come here, by orders from General Kilmaine, to join your expe- dition; and, except this letter for General Hum- bert, I have no claim to any consideration what- ever. The old chef took the letter from my hands and examined the seal and superscription carefully, and then passed the document down the table for the satisfaction of the rest. While I continued to watch with anxious eyes the letter on which so much of my own fate de- pended, a low whispering conversation went on at my side, at the end of which the chef said Its more than likely, lad, that your regiment is not coming; but our general is not to be balked for that. Go he will; and let the government look to themselves if he is not supported. At all events, you had better see General Humbert at once; there s no saying what that dispatch may contain. Santerre, conduct him up stairs. A smart young fellow arose at the bidding, and beckoned me to follow him. It was not without difficulty that we forced our way up stairs, down which porters, and sailors, and soldiers were now carrying a number of heavy trunks and packing-cases. At last we gained an ante-room, where confusion seemed at its highest, crowded as it was by soldiers, the greater number of them intoxicated, and all in a state of riotous and insolent insubordination. Amongst these were 32 MAURICE TIERNAY~ THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. a number of the townspeople, eager to prefer com- plaints for outrage and robbery, but whose sub- dued voices were drowned amid the clamor of their oppressors. Meanwhile, clerks were writ- ing away receipts for stolen and pillaged articles, and which, signed with the name of the general, were grasped at with eager avidity. Even personal injuries were requited in the same cheap fashion, orders on the national treasury being freely issued for damaged noses and smashed heads, and grate- fully received by the confiding populace. If the wind draws a little more to the south- ward before morning, we 11 pay our debts with the top-sail sheet, and it will be somewhat shorter, and to the full as honest, said a man in a naval uniform. Where s the officer of the Regiment des Guides? cried a soldier from the door at the further end of the room; and, before I had time to think over the designation of rank given me, I was hurried into the generals presence. General Humbert, whose age might have been thirty-eight or forty, was a tall, well-built, but somewhat over-corpulent man; his features frank and manly, but with a dash of coarseness in their expression, particularly about the mouth; a sabre- cut, which had divided the upper lip, and whose cicatrix was then seen through his moustache, heightening the effect of his sinister look; his carriage was singularly erect and soldierlike, but all his gestures betrayed the habits of one who had risen from the ranks, and was not unwilling to revive the recollection. He was parading the room from end to end when I entered, stopping occasionally to look out from an open window upon the bay, where by the clear moonlight might be seen the ships of the fleet at anchor. Two officers of his staff were writing busily at a table, whence the materials of a supper had not yet been removed. They did not look up as I came forward, nor did he notice me in any way for several minutes. Suddenly he turned towards me, and, snatching the letter I held in my hand, proceeded to read it. A burst of coarse laughter broke from him as he perused the lines; and then, throwing down the paper on the table, he cried out So much for Kilmaines contingent. I asked for a company of engineers and a battalion of les Gardes, and they send me a boy from the cavalry- school of Saumur. I tell them that I want some fellows conversant with the language and the peo- ple, able to treat with the peasantry, and acquainted with their habits, and here I have got a raw youth, whose highest acquirement in all likelihood is to daub a map with water-colors, or take fortifications with a pair of compasses! I wish I had some of these learned gentlemen in the trenches for a few hours. Parbleu! I think I could teach them something they d not learn from Citizen Carnot. Well, sir, said he, turning abruptly towards me, how many battalions of the Guides are coin- pleted ? I cannot tell, general, was my timid answer. Where are they stationed? Of that also I am ignorant, sir. Peste ! cried he, stamping his foot passion- ately; then suddenly checking his anger, he asked, How many are coming to join this expedition ~ Is there a regiment, a battalion, a company Can you tell me with certainty that a sergeants-guard is on the way hither I cannot, sir; I know nothing whatever about the regiment in question. You have never seen it l cried he, vehe- mently. Never, sir. This exceeds all belief, exclaimed he, with a crash of his closed fist upon the table. Three weeks letter-writing! Estafettes, orderlies, and special couriers to no end! And here we have an unfledged cur from a cavalry institute, when I asked for a strong reinforcement. Then what brought you here, boy ? To join your expedition, general. Have they told you it was a holiday-party that we had planned? Did they say it was a junketting we were bent upon ? If they had, sir, I would not have come. The greater fool you, then! that s all, cried he laughing; when I was your age I d not have hesitated twice between a merry-making and a bayonet charge. While he was thus speaking, he never ceased to sign his name to every paper placed before him by one or other of the secretaries. No, parbleu ! he went on, La maitresse before the mitraille any day for me. But what s all this, Girard Here I m issuing orders upon the national treasury for hundreds of thousands without let or compunction. The aide-do-camp whispered a word or two in a low tone. I know it, lad; I know it well, said the general, laughing heartily; I only pray that all our requisitions may be as easily obtained in fu- tue. Well, Monsieur Ic Garde, what are we to do with you ? Not refuse me, I hope, general, said I, dif- fidently. Not refuse you, certainly; but in what ca- pacity to take you, lad, that s the question. If you had servedif you had even walked a cam- paign So I have, generalthis will show you where I have been ; and I handed him the livret which every soldier carries of his conduct and career. He took the book, and, casting his eye hastily over it, exclaimed Why, what s this, lad? You ye been at KehI, at Emenendingen, at Rorshach, at Huynin- gen, through all that Black Forest affair with Moreau! You have seen smoke, then. Ay! I see honorable mention of you, besides, for readi- ness in the field and zeal during action. What! more brandy! Girard. Why, our Irish friends must have been exceedingly thirsty. I ye given MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. 33 them credit for something like ten thousand velts been seen off Oleron that morning; and, although already! No matter, the poor fellows may have there was not even the shadow of a foundation to put up with short rations for all this yetand for the belief, it served to increase the alarm and there goes my signature once more. What does confusion. Whether originating or not with the that blue li,ht mean, Girard B said he, pointing Irish, I cannot say, but certainly they took advan- to a briuht blue star that shone from a mast of tage of it to avoid embarking; and now began a otie of the ships of war. schism which threatened to wreck the whole That is the signal, general, that the embark- expedition, even in the harbor. ation of the artillery is complete. The Irish, as indifferent to the call of discipline Parbleu ! said he, with a laugh, it need as they were i~norant of French, refused to obey not have tak.~n long; they ye given in two bat- orders save from officers of their own ccuntr tories of eights, and one of them has not a gun fit and although Lerrasin ordered two companies to for service. There goes a rocket, now. Is nt load with ball and fire low, the similar note that the signal to heave short on the anchors I for preparation from the insurgents induced him Yes, to be sure. And now it is answered by the to rescind the command and try a compromise. other! Ha! lads, this does look like business In this crisis I was sent by Lerrasin to fetch what at last ! was called the Committee, the three Irish The door opened as he spoke, and a naval offi- deputies who accompanied the force. They had cer entered. already gone aboard of the Dedalu~, little fore- The wind is drawing round to the south, seeing the difficulties that were to arise on shore. general; we can weigh with the ebb if you wish Seated in a small cabin next the wardroom, I it. found these three gentlemen, whose names were Wish itif I wish it! Yes, with my whole Tone, Tooling, and Sullivan. Their attitudes heart and soul I do! I am just as sick of La were gloomy and despondent, and their loo-s any- Rochelle as is La Ilochelle of me. The salute thing but encour~ging, as I entered. A paper, on that announces our departure will be a fen-de- which a few words had been scrawled, and signed joie to both of us 1 Ay, sir, tell your captain with their three names underneath, lay before that I need no further notice than that /ie is ready. them, ~nd on this their eyes were bent with a sad Girard, see to it that the marauders are sent on and deep meaning. I know not then what it board in irons. The fellows must learn at once meant, but I afterwards learned that it was a that discipline begins when we trip our anchors, compact, formally entered into and drawn up, that As for you, said he. turning to me, you shall if, by the chance of war, they should fall into the act upon my staff with provisional ~ nk as sous- enemys hands, they would anticipate their fate lieutenant: time will shoxv if the ~rado should be by suicide, but leave to the English government confirmed. And now h~sten down to the quay, all the ignominy and disgrace of their death. mid put yourself under Colonel Lerrasins orders. They seemed scarcely to notice me as I came Colonel Lerrasin, the second in comm~nd, was, forward, and even when I delivered my message in many respects, the very opposite of Humbert. they heard it with a half indifference. Sharp, petnla1 t, and irascible, he seemed quite to What do you want us to do, sir B said overlook the fact, that, in an expedifion which Teelin~, the eldest of the party. We hold no was little better than a foray, th~re m st necessa- co~ mand in the service. It was against our ad- rily be a great relaxation of the rules of discipline vice and counsel that you accepted these volunteers. and many irregularitie ~t least winked at, which, at all. We have no influence over them. in stricter seasons, would call for punishment. Not the slightest, broke in Tone. These- The consequence was, that a large proportion of fellows are bad soldiers and worse Irishmen. our force went on board under arr~st, and many The expedition will do better without them. actually in irons. The Irish were~ without a sin- And they better without the expeditie. ,7 gle exception, all drunk; and the English soldiers, muttered Sullivan drily. who had procured their liberation from imprison- But you will come, gentlimen, and speak to mont on co~ dition of joinin~, the expedition, had them, said I. You can at least assure them made sufficiently free with the brandy-bottle, to that their suspicions are unfounded. forget their new alliance, and vent their hatred of Very true, sir, replied Sullivan, ~e can France and Frenchmen in expressions whose only do so, but with what success? No, no. If you alleviation was that they were nearly unintelli0i- cant maintain discipline here on your own soil, ble. you 11 make a bad hand of doing it when you have Such a scene of uproar, discord, and insubor- your foot on Irish ground. And, after all, I for dintion never was seen. The relative conditions one am not surprised at the report gaining ore- of guard and prisoner elicited national animosities dence. that were searcely even dormant, and many a How so, sir? asked I indignantly. bloody encounter took place between those whose Simply that when a promise of fifteen thousand instinct was too powerful to feel themselves any- men dwindles down to a force of eight hundred; thing but enemies. A cry, too, was raised, that when a hundred thousand stand of arms come to it was meant to betray the whole expedition to be represented by a couple of thousand; when an the English, whose fleet, it was asserted, had expedition, pledged by a government, has fallen CCCXLVI. LIViNG AuE. VOL. xxviii. 3 MAURICE TIERNAY~ THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. down to a marauding party; when Hoche or Kieber But never mind, I always swore that, if you sent but a corporals guard, I d go with them. A musket-shot here was heard, followed by a sharp volley and a cheer, and, in an agony of anxiety, I rushed to the deck. Although above half a mile from the shore, we could see the movements of troops hither and thither, and hear the loud words of command. Whatever the stroggle, it was over in a moment, and now we saw the troops descending the steps to the boats. With an inconceivable speed the men fell into their places, and, urged on by the long sweeps, the heavy launches swept across the calm waters of the bay. If a cautious reserve prevented any open ques- tioning as to the late affray, the second boat which came alon~side revealed so~ e of its terrible con- sequences. Seven wounded soldiers were assisted up the side by their comrades, and in total silence conveyed to their station between decks. A bad augury this ! muttered Sullivan, a~ his eye fullowed them. They might as well have left that work for the English ! A swift six-oar boat, with the tricolor flag floating from a flag-staff at her stern, now skimmed along toward us, and as she came nearer we could recognize the uniforms of the officers of Hum- berts staff, while the burly figure of the general himself was soon distinguishable in the midst of them. As he stepped up the ladder, not a trace of displeasure could be seen on his broad, bold feat- ures. Greeting the assembled officers with a smile, he asked how the wind was. All fair and freshening at every moment, was the answer. May it continue ! cried he fervently. Wel- come a hurricane if it only waft us westward ! The foresail filled out as he spoke, the heavy mass heaved over to the wind, and we began our voyage. SONGS AND HYMNS OF LIFE. NO. I. av CHARLES MAcKAY. A TRAVELLER through a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea, And one took root, and sprouted up, And gre into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, To breathe its early vows, And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, To bask beneath its boughs: The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore, It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore A little sprin~ had lost its way Amid the grass and fern A passing stranger scooped a well, Where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink He thoucrht not of the deed he did, But judged that toil might drink. He passed againand lo! the well, By summers never dried, had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside! A dreamer dropped a random thought; T was old, and yet was new A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true It shone upon a genial mind, And lo ! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flamne. The thought was s~ allits issu great; A watchfire on the bill, It sheds its radiance f r adown, And cheers the valley still! A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied, from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown A transitory breath It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. 0 germ! 0 font! 0 world of love! 0 thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last! Illustrated News. TRUST IN GOD. What I do thou knowest not now, I)ut thou shalt know hereafter. I xaow not what thou dost; all, all seems dark! Clouds of portentons blackness are oerspread; Wild billows dash upon my quivering bark, The thunders crash reverberates overhead, Yet, Lord, I 11 trust thee in lifes darkest hour, My shield, my safeguard, and my strong high towcr. I know not what thou d~st; yet I will wait Till I behold thee in heavens cloudless sky Till I shall reach that glory-circled state, In whose bright radiance darkness melts aw~y. Then shall I read thy doings here below, Inscribed in lines of light which ever glow. I know not what thou dust; yet I will know, And know to praise thee for my darkest days; Though themes of sorrow seem thy doings now, Yet they shall soon be turned to themes for praise; Yes, I will trust thee till thou kindly pour On me thy glorys coruscating shower. I know not what thou dust; yet will I hope In thee, till lifes wild troubled stream be past; Till heavens fair portals on my vision ope, Till immortality be oer me cast; Till glory on my wondering spirit break, And glad fruition follow in its wake. Oriental Baptist. 34 ENGLISH CRITICS ON AMERICAN SONGS. 35 ENGLISH CRITICS ON AMERICAN SONGS. ica, indeed, has been amazingly prolific of good writers. The large share ivlorris has had in awak- How our familiar favorites and friends look, in per- ening the latent talent of his countrymen, must ever spectivejudged of l~y those at a distanceis always he to him a high source of gratulation. And then, curions and interesfin,,. We know very well, in America, as an original writer, he has won for himself a that Morris songs spread wider, and are rememhered high place amongst literary Americans he is, in longer, than any ones else; hut to American appreciation fact, known throughout the States as The Song- we do not always find English rorroboratiou. Here is an writer of America ; and we have the authority of instance of U, howeverpart of an article on American Willis for stating that ninety-nine people out of a Poetry, hy S. C. HALL, from the Peoples Journal. hundredtake theni as they come in the census would find more to admire in Morris songs than Before us lies a heap of songs and ballads, the in the writings of any other American poet. Wil- prodnction of the rich fancy and warm heart of lis also tells us, as a proof of the generals popu- George P. Morris. Not many weeks since, at a larity with those shrewd, dollar-loving men, she public meeting in London, a gentleman claimed to publishers, that he can at any time obtain fifty no heard speak on the ground of his connection dollars for a song unread, when the whole rematn- with the public press from the time when he was der of the American Parnassus could hot sell one seven years of age. We will not undertake to say to the same buyer for one shilling ! He is the that General Morris ran his juvenile fingers over best-known poet of the country by acclamation the chords of the lyre at so very early a period, not by criticism. but it is certain he tried his hand at writing for the - Morris seenis to have had juster notions of xvhat newspapers when he was yet but a mere child, was required in a song than many who have While in his teens he was a constant contributor achieved celebrity as song-writers in this country. to various periodicals. Many of his articles at- The just notion and office of the modern song tracted notice. lie began t~ acquire a literary has been defined to be, the enhodimuent and expres- reputation and at length, in 1822, being then in sion in beauty of some thought or sentimentgay, his twentieth year, he became editor of the New pensive, moral, or sentimentalwhich is as natural York Mirror. This responsible post he continued and appropriate in certain circumstances as the to hold until the termination of that papers ex- odor to the flower. Its graceful purpose is to ex istence in 1834. hibit an incident in the substance of an emotion, to Morris accomplished an infinity of good in the communicate wisdom in the form of sentiment. A twenty years (luring which he wielded the editorial song should be the embodiment of some general pen. Perhaps no other man in the United States feeling, and have reference to some season or oc- was so well qualified for the noble task he set him- currence. self at the outset of his career as editor. Amen- It is not a very difficult thing to make words can literature was in its infancy, and subject to all rhyme; some of the most unimaginative intellects the ~eaknesses of that period. Morris resolved to we ever knew cotmld do so with surprising facility. do his utmost toxvard forming a character for it, It is rare to find a sentimental miss or a lackadaisi- and looked abroad anxiously for such as could aid cal master who cannot accomplish this intellectual him in Isis endeavor. The Mirror will ever he feat, with the help of Walkers Rhyming Diction- fondly remembered by the American literary man, ary. As for love, why, every one writes abotit it for it has been the cradle of American genius. In now-a-days. There is such an abhorrence of the it Willis, Pay, and many others whose names will simple Saxonsuch an outrageous running after not soon be forgotten, first tried their prentice outlandish phraseology, that we wonder folks are hans. In its pages clever artists of every kind satisfied with this plain term. were certain of a kind reception. Morris, indeed, We wonder they do not seekfor an equivalent in appears to have been almost a universal genimis. high Dutch or in low Dutch, in Hungarian or in He saw the wants of his countryit had no liter- Hindostammee. We wish they would, with all our ature, no drama, no school of painting. Morris heart and soul. We have no objection, provided vigorously girded up his loins, resolved to do his the heart be touched, th, t a-head should produce a utrtmost to remedy all this. None had a sharper little of time stuff called nonsense versesthat eye than he for the detection of latent talent, and this article should he committed to scented note- none were more ready by sound counsel and other- paper, and carefully sealed up with skewered hearts wise to aiti its possessor. A writer in Grahams of amazing corpulence. God forbid that we should Ma o-azine (American) spealts warmly of Morris be thought guilty of a sneer at real affection far perseverance and address in disciplining a corps of from it; such ever commands our reverence. But youthful writers; of the keen eye which could dis- we do not find it in the noisy tribe of goslings cern in some nameless manuscripts the promise of green who would fain be thought of the nightingale future power; of the firm and open temper which species. Did the reader ever contemplate a child his example inspired into the relations of literary engaged in the interesting operation of sucking a men with one another throughout the land; of the lollipop ?we assure him that that act was dictated inestimable value to America of the singular va- by quite as winch of true sentiment as puts in action riety and discursiveness of time intellectual sympa- the fingers and wits of the generality of our young thies of General Morris. amatory poetasters. in hUn this ~riter attributes the present flourish We know of none who have written more charm- ing condition and bri~ht prospeces of transatla, tie ingly of love than George P. Morris. Would to literature. He evidently possesses a personal Apollo that our rhymesters womild condescend to knowled,,c of the renowned literary general, and read carefully his poetical effusions! Bet they discourses rinht eloquently in his praise. Nor do contain no straining after effectno extrrvagrut we think that he overrates his merits in the least. irmetaphorsimo drivelling conceits; and so there is From other sources we have ourselves learned little fear of their being taken as models by thos~ much of the ,,enial nature of George P. Morris, gentlemen. Let the reader mark tIme surpassing and his gi,,antic labors as a literary pioneer. Con- excellence of the love son0s; their perfect rmatur~ sidering its juvenility as a nation, republican Amer- alness; the quiet beauty of the similes; tIme flue KINGS~ SPEECHES AND PRESIDENTS MESSAGES. blending of graceful thought and tender feeling which characterize them. Morris is, indeed, the poet of home joys. None have described more eloquently the beauty and dignity of Xrue affection of passion based upon esteem; and his fame is certain to endure while the Anglo-Saxon woman has a hearth-stone over which to repeat her most cherished household words. Here is Morris Seasons of Love. Seldom have the benign effects of the passion been more felicitously painted The spring time of love Is both happy and gay, For joy sprinkles blossoms And bairn in our way; The sky, earth, and ocean, In beauty repose, And all the bright future Is couleur de rose. The summer of love Is the bloom of the heart, When bill, grove, and valley, Their music impart And the pure glow of heaven Is seen in fond eyes, As lakes show the rainbow That s hung in the skies. The autumn of-love Is the season of cheer Lifes mild Indian slimmer, The smile of the year Which comes when the golden Ripe harvest is stored And yields its own blessings Rejose and reward. The winter of love Is the beam that we win While the storm scowls without, From the sunshine within; Loves reign is eternal, The heart is his throne, And he has all the seasons Of life for his own. What simple tenderness is contained in the bal- lad of We were boys together ! Every word in that beautiful melody comes home to the heart of him whose early days have been happy. God help those in whom this poem awakens no fond re- membrances those whose memories it does not get wandering up the stream of life, toward its source; beholding at every step the sun smiling more brightly, the heavens assuming a deeper hue, the grass a fresher green, and th~ flowers a sweeter perfume. How wondrous are not its effects upon ourselves! The wrinkles have disappeared from our brow, and fhe years from our shoulders, and the marks of the branding-iron of experience from our heart; and again we are a careless child, gath- ering primroses, and chasing butterflies, and drink- ing spring water from out the hollow of our hands. Arorind us are the hedges with golden gorse bright blossoming, as none bloom now-a-day. We have heard of death, but we know not what it is; arid the word change has no meaning for us: and summer and winter, and seed-time and harvest, has each its unutterable joys. Alas! we can never remain long in this happy dream-land. Neverthe- less, we have profited greatly by the journey. The cowslips and violets gathered by us in childhood shall be potent in the hour of temptation; and the cap of rushes woven for us by the kind hands in days gone by shall be a surer defence than a hel- met of steel in the hour of battle. No, no; we will never disgrace our antecedents. WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER. We were boys together, And never can forget The school-house near the heather, In childhood where we met The humble home to memory dear, Its sorrows and its joys Where woke the transient smile or tear, When you and I were buys. We were youths together, And castles built in air, Your heart was like a feather, Arid mine weighed down with care; To you came we~lrh with manhoods prime, To me it brought alloys Foreshadowed in the primrose time, When you and I were boys. We re old men together The friends we loved of yore, With leaves of autumn weather, Are gone for evermore. - . How blest to age the impulse given, The hope time neer destroys Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven, When you and I were boys! We regret we have not space to enter more largely into the merits of Morris; but there is one quality in his songs to which we cannot but direct attentionand this is their almost feminine purity. The propensities have had their laureates; and genius, alas! has often defiled its angel wings by contact with the sensual and the impure; but Mor- ris has never attempted to robe vice in beauty; and, as has been well reniarked, his lays can bring to the cheek of purity no blush save that of pleas- ure. From ttre Morniag Chronicle, t4th November. KINGS SPEECHES AND PRESIDENTS MES- SAGES. THEORIES of development are well-known in the domain of physics and theology, but they have not yet firmly allied themselves to constitutional his- tory, or it would be an easier matter to follow the transformation of a Kings Speech into a Presi- dents Message. There are, however, a few ob- vious stages of growth which may serve as land- marks to the student who is willing to bestow attention on a very uniruportant subject. At the era of its origin, a kings speech was distinguished by the severest simplicity of guise, being merely the request cif the shepherd for permission to shear his flock. The right royal oration of an Edward or a Henry demanded, with pregnant brevity, that the kings faithful commons would do their bounden duty by voting hiIn a subsidy; and a good deal of not very creditable labor would be spared to prime ministers, if its modern counterpart were permitted to imitate with exactness so masculine a type. But the sheep acquired the bad habit of encumbering their answer to the pastoral solicitation with what they called a statement of grievances, and hence arose the second form of monarchical address. The graciotms allocution of the Elizabeths, Jameses, and Charleses, is at once elaborate and plain-spoken. Running off occasionally into a dissertation on the divine right of kings, or diverging into an argu- ment on the ancestral prerogative of English sov- ereigns, it nevertheless condescends to no indis- tinctness of phrase in the fulfilment of its main purpose. The king snubs the listening houses, and warns them from dangerous topics of debates. Mr. Speaker hearkens on his knees. The corn- 36 KINGSt SPEECHES AND PRESIDENTS MESSAGES. mons troop back to their chamber, and proceed to vote that his majesty be humbly thanked for the paternal kindness of his language, but humbly re- quested to rid himself of evil counsellors. When the next phase of royal manifesto is disclosed, the great struggle has heen consummated, and the sovereign has hecorne the splendidly apparelled servitor of the victorious Parliameutsometimes trusted, sometimes notoccasionally influencing, but never commanding, his mastersin the exter- nals of power a Charlemagne, in the reality a Charibert. The modern speech of a modern Eug- lish monarch is, in reality, nothing at all, in the disguise of something very magnificent. Starting from the sublime, it ~,radnally neared, and eventu- ally reached, the ridiculous; and it was just at this last point of its history that it begat its legitimate descendant, the Presidential Messace. In his fa- motis anatomy of kings ~peeches, Cobbett tells us that the latter is nothing more thaw the former, written in better Eu lish, and capable of an intel- ligible construction. Although, however, it be true that the authors of the American constitution intended the message they invented to be a more respectable sort of speech, such of them as pos- sessed a head for theory assigned it a different office in the system of state. The executive being separate, in their view, from the legislature, the delivery of the message was the ceremony by which the former passed its accounts. It ~vas to be the hand, laying. a written statement of its doings before the head. Practically, however, it has been nothing of the kind. Both iii France and in America the message operates most imperfectly as an instrument for giving republican publicity to administrative mysteries. But since we ar~ justi- fied for the most part in regarding it as the produc- tion of the individual from whom it purports to emanatea personage of not less importance than a constitutional kingit is an interesting indication of the measure of ability, and of the description of character, which are exercised in the government of a great country. Examined in this light, the document which ap- pears in another part of our impression will repay attention. If it be compared with the manifestoes which have preceded it from the same hand, it seems to prove satisfmctorilv that the functions of active government are radnally educating Louis Napoleon into a ruler (if more than average cal)ac- ity. There is a sensible improvement in the tone, which is more distinct and sober than heretofore, and which points more (lecide(lly to solidity of judgment in the writer. We hav4 but few of those loosely framed collections of words whose pater- nity may be traced at first sight to Petion and his imitators; and we miss altogether the well-intended semi-socialist propositions which, to judge from his p~tmphlets, and even from his last message, con- stituted, until his elevation, the bulk of the presi- dents intellectual convictions. A well-digested and compendious account of the material progress of France, in 50 far as it has been aided by the ma- chinery of government, does credit to the authors powers of compression, and appears to show that his attention, if not his energies, has been occupied by the duties of a laborious position. We are not sure that the message possesses many merits be- sides these ; and indeed it is the special defect of its class that very few, with the exception of these, can by any possibility belong to it. Although not so vague and unsatisfactory as a royal speech, a presidential message tells us everything which we can learn from other sources, and nothing which we can only learn from it. Quite apart from those extraordinary proceedings which have ab- sorbed our notice during the last four months, n world of questions are suggested by what we read, to which it offers us not the semblance of an an- swer. The negotiations of M. Dc Persigny at Ber- lin, and the overtures recently made, or said to have been made, to the English cabinet on the sub- ject of Denmark, are instances of mysteries which this document, in accordance with the republican theory, ought indubitably to resolve. Washing- ton, Hamilton, and Adams, would most probably have declared that their disclosure was the exact object proposed to be attained by the solemn com- mitnication befiure its. But we read nothing more than a profession of synipathy with Denmark, and a promise of neutrality in the affairs of tite Ger- man confederation. In the eight or ten colunnn~ ~vhich are filled by the message of an American. president, we have noticed omissions quite as strik- ing. The passages of this document which the eye of the reader will seek with most anxiety are those, of course, which occur at its close. They illus- trate, evezi more markedly than any other part of it, the contradictions between the actual message and the character which belongs to it in the terms of the constitution. In explanation of the unpre- cedetited occurrences which have astonished Europe and alarmed France, we have not a word. The progresses of the autumnthe collision with Chan- gamierthe dissolution of the Bonapartism Club are fiddles as inexplicable as ever. Matmersof equal importance to France, which would seem t~ demand allusion, though not explanation, at the hands of the executive chiefas, for instance, the death of Louis Philippe and the legitimist pilgrim- age to Wiesbadenare without the place which they would occupy in the more meagre address of a constitutional king. To compensate for these lacunas, xve have aii anomaly which would have tltrown Si~yes into an agony of consternation. The President, who gives no account of his past cotiduct, gives us an ample sketch of his future policy, in so far as it will be affected by his mdi- vidual interests. This, although the most irregular, is by far the most interesting and important portion of the whole. It is tinmistakably indicated that Louis Napoleon relinquishes all hope and design of establishing himself in his powers by direct action upon the country. The gift of prolonged office he promises to accept from no hands but those of the united conserva- tives ; and he hints that he will merit it as the prize of uninterrupted service in their cause, and of un flaggitig hostility to their red republican antago- nists. It is even more remarkable that he points to the machinery of the constituition as affording the means of rewarding him, and suggests that ~ constituent assembly might extend the time of his incumbency, even though it should meet no earlier than l85~2. How the object can Ue reconciled with the methuud, so as to save the text of the funda- mental law, is not intimated by his languageit may be that the obscurity is desi,, ned. 37 38 DIPLOMACYNICARAGUA. From the Times, 11 Oct. right feeling; and we are always anxious to point DIPLOMACYNICARAGUA. out these apparent deviations from the right path, in order, first, to be assured of the fct if it have DiPLOMATIC intercourse between England and really occurred, or to be set riTht if we be misin- the United States of America is necessarily upon a formed ; and also, in the second place, to call the footing differing entirely from that upon which, attention of the American people to the case, he- hitherto, the intercourse between the chief Euro- cause we are sure that all the right-minded coon pean states has been conducted. The United among them would complain as much as we should States, though hound together by 5oiernn compact do of ~nv indiscretion or misconduct in a inciter so in the character of so many sovereign communities, delicate and important as a negotiation with a fur- are known to the comity of nations only s one eign, though friendly, po er. state, corresponding directly through the president. These observations have been called forth by tb~ of the confederacy with other nations. But the appearance some time since in the American pipers president by himself cannot bind and make respon- of a communication purporting to be a letter from sible the people in whose name he addresses foreign a diplomatic servant (if the United States, addressed cominunities. 1-us acts must be confirmed and to the chairman of the committee of the Senate on sanctioned in a certain form by the Senate of the foreign relations, which letter related to matters of United States, which thus becomes virtually the great importance and of exceeding (lelicacy eon- negotiating instrument (St the Union. But the nected with the mutual proceedings of Great Britein Senate is a numerous body, owing its existence to and tine United States respecting Cenitral America, popular election, and great difficulties are likely to and the great communication about to be established arise if tinder existing circurustannees present and between the Pacific and Atlantic seas. Of the pe- temporary secrecy is required. England, on the culiar statements of this letter, unany (if whiehi we contrary, gives to tine sovereign nominally the have every reason to believe are misrepresentations, whole power of negotiating and emntering into and we are not at present ahinut to speak. But tile ratifyimag treaties. Parliament has, indeed, a vir- mere fact that suds a letter was written calls for tual controi, but while negotiations are pending no severe reprehension, and will meet with it doubtless power comnstitutionahly can force the sovereigmi to so soon as tl~e circumstances are fairly laid before reveal what is gmnimmg mmn. time Americama people. There are more practical cinosequences from this Central America since tine discovery of the mm- formal theory than at first sight appear. The let- eral wealtin of Califoruia lies risen into immediate ter mnf the comistitution very much influences the amid great imopmnrtanee. Erliry one who has ever manner of proceeding and tine coinduet (if Parhia- givems attentiinnm tin the probable destiny both of mncmr uncut. That a day of responsibility naust come is Australian coli)rmies anid of the westerms citast of the known to all concerned, but a large discretion is two Americas must have foreseen tinat the day was for a time givein, amsd this discretioms is for that time miot far distant wimemi a successful attempt would be complete. Nit meddlinig is cinuntenanced, no pry- made to establish a practicable communications be- Pig iimto pending mnegotiations is permitted; mmieim of tween the two great oceans over time narrow strip all inarties conccsr mu mnamntaining timis rule, amid are of land which divides them. Tine discovery mnf the nomne the less severe when tine day of reclunning steamn-emngimne amid railroads oumly remidered this the comes. But tine Senate mnf tine United States ap- more certain; the mines of Califiirmmia isave oudy points a committee of foreigmi relations, and as tine given an immediate motive to proceed xvitin time on- formal comnsemnt of time Senate is necessary to ratify dertakin~. But such a communication was natu- all treaties with foreign states, amid the treaty is rally a subject of jealousy ammong time mmatiomns, for miot cominlete till, in fact, this consemint is given, the if any one were to get possession of it tin the ex- Senate requires to be informed pemiding mnegotiations elusion of all otisers, a inmost unjust amid damigerous of tine whole circumstances connected with the monopoly would thereby be created. Tine two transaction in question. governunemmins of America and Great Britain have, line peculiar form of the Americams constitutmon mu perfect good faith amsd mnutual good-will, dis- beimig taken into consideration by foreigmi nations, cussed this question, and a treaty vith respect tin it they wisely and wilhimngly onodify their own rules has been emitered imito ; tine commomi understamuding so as to make miegotiation with tine United States being that our relations with the States of Cemitral not omily possible, but as far as possible s~ fe amsd America should be of the same description, and easy. Foreign nininisters confide inn the discretion tinat neither governmemnt sinould acquire rights or of tine secretary of state for foreign affairs iii the privileges in tine dinminions of timose states to the calninet mnf Wasisingion, and Inc again condes in exclusion of tine other; amsd there appears to inave the Isonor amid discretioms of tine Senate amid of his b~emi a very frank amid friemehly imiterc(iurse between the owmn immediate fumictiomnaries. Secrets confided to representative of our ginvernment at Washiing- niammy persons are not often scrupuhsusly kept ton and the Secretary of State, Mr. Webster, on Still moms trained to official bmnsimness, amid umider tine thins smihiject. From tine constitution of the Ummited dominion mif hinmiorable semitiments. can generally be States, as above described, it was neeessmiry ilmat the found by the secretary us act as his subordimmates Semnate should be mane cognmzant of all that cc- amid if a mmnan be elected imito thie Senate ol time i corned ; amid, mm order to obtaimi all tine imiflirmimation United States, we have every reasinn to behmexe mieeded by tineem, the committee on foreign relatiomis that hie has gained that high positiomi by exhimbitime sim nimoned before them Mr. Squmier, wien, as mute to his fehhoxv-citixens thirough life a charectei d~a inter, mr chargd des affaires, had represemated the tiuguished not only by imitegrity, but by discietmomi Umnited States imm Ceinstral America. This person, The general result does msot belie these expecta beivy exammined by the comimmoittee sitting imi secret, tiinns; nevertheless, fruim time to time starthmn in amsd all the transactions, relating as they did to cidents occur in th& imitercourse of the Umminted pending mnegotiatiomis, being also deemed secret, States with foreign powers, whiciin are rot tn ac writes a letter to the chairmami of the connroittee, cordance with the dictates either of prudence or J l\Ir. Foot, and publishes it. The statennents of a PRUSSIAS TRUE POLICY. 39 person in a confidential station assume from that fact importance; he is believed to know more than is known to the public, and his assertions are con- sidered as almost like authorized communications, and if false, as many of them in this instance were, great mischief may follow. But the most serious and lasting evil will fall upon the United States. For the present we put aside all consideration of the merits of the particular matter, and only insist on the gross impropriety of such a proceeding on the part of a diplomatic servant of the state. See- ing such things possible, foreign nations will stand aloof, and he unwilling to meet the government of the United States with the frank and cordial spirit which ought to exist between great and friendly powers. They will say, We cannot trust your authorities, and no negotiator will be willing to risk his own reputation and his countrys interests by confiding his plans and proposals to the diplomatic representatives of the United States. However powerful, however astute the people of the United States may consider themselves, th ~y may be assured that they can never with safety neglect the good old principles of good faith and honesty. They may outwit one people or oue ne- gotiator, but they can never outwit the whole world; and we should have thought that as a nation they had already seen reason to trust to the truth of the old proverb, that honesty is the best policy. Sharp practice may be looked upon as a good joke between low attorneys, hut between great nations such conduct is a calamity to mankind. In this case, indeed, we must believe that the fault is that o.f the individual, and we expect to see signal pun- ishment follow this rave offence. Time misconduct will otherwise be connected as a natural result in mens minds with American institutions, and the real sufferers will conse4uently be the Arnericaus themselves. From the Daily News, 13 Nov. PRUSSIAS TRUE POLICY. WE stated very fully yesterday the dangers, and the very formidable combiuation of forces which menace Prussia, and exhorted our government to interfere, not, indeed, between the two rival Ger- man powers, but against the pretensions of Russia to march through Berlin to the conquest of Hol- stein, under leave of the London protocol. The resistance of Schleswig Holstein, and the integrity of Denmark, form but the stalking horse, behiud which the absolutism of Russia and Austria ad- vauces to the extermination of the liberal party and liberal ideas in Prussia. And Enoland ought to settle that question, without allowing the conti- nent to be convulsed or overwheleted by it. But whilst thus admitting that Prussia may be assailed by an amount of force more than double that of her own, and strongly advising England anti Frauce by all the rueaus in their p~~T~ to avert such an invasion, we see but one course for Prus- sia, if invaded, and that is, manly and determined resistance. If Prussia should either quietly suffer such invasion, or stoop to any base or dishonorable submission to escape it, Prussia perishes as a mon- archy and as a separate nation. And it is not only more honorable, but more prudent, as affording chances and clai~ s of future resuscitation, for a nation to perish with arms in its hands, than be kicked and crushed out of existence by the boot of a military despot. The Times, which regards the possible contest with the information and the confidence of the Austro-Russian league, declares that Prussia can- not resist; that any appeal to the liberal party or feeling in Germany cannot save it ; and that the campaign and the struggle will be decided purely by strategy and numbers. Fortune, said Napo.. leon, is always on the side of large battalions. His own experience, however, sufficiently dis- proved the die/non of Napoleon. A campaign in a country roused by hatred towards the invaders, and by spirit to resist them, is very different from a campaign amidst a neutral or indifferent popula- tion. With her numerous fortresses, her ample materials of war, her universally armed and disci- plined population, Prussia may carry on a defen- sive war. If the surface of the country be flat, it is still intersected by waters, and studded with strongly fortified towns. The Prussian coin- mander, whoever he may be, must know that he has for antagonists two powers, one of which, in- deed both, are utterly bankrupt in finances, and therefore incapable of a lengthened campaign, much less of a long and hard-fought war. He must know, too, that the very facts of such an inva- sion and its cause would arouse the German, the Polish, the Italian mimmd, as well perhaps as French ambition. Every week during which such a war would be prolonged ~vould bring strength to the liberal and weakness to the absolutist camp. In order, however, to make such a war, it would not do to make a moore war of strategy. In a mere manmovring of armies a skilful general may make the smaller number victorious, but the chances are in favor, as Napoleon said, of the gros liottelions. In a war of priuciple, a national war, it is quite otherwise. But to render the war this, Pru~sta should frankly hoist the liberal or constitutional standard. It should appeal to feelimigs which it has sorely hurt, and to parties which it has merci- lessly crushed. We do mmot, of course, allude to the extreme democrats, whom it would be hope- less and idle to conciliate. Bmmt there are mnoderate mcmi in Germany who would demand a frank dec- laration of what cause they were called upon to enter into a deadly and determined war. We are perfectly convinced that the King of Prussia and his brother have it in their power to issue a proclamation which would cause every German arrayed against them to fling down his arms. Look at the miserable and mock kings that are raisin~ this crusade, opposed by their chambers and by public opinion, every one of them obliged to tread out the last vestige of a constitetion, and unable to levy a stiver but by the aid of bayonets. Then Wurtemberg, Saxony, Ilanover, and the Franconia portion of Bavaria are just as disaf- fected as Hesse. If Prussia raised boldly the con- smitmutional and German banner, half the armies of her German opponents would pass to her side. But, we repeat, a war of moore strategy will not do this. If Prussia is to fight arid to be victorious, Prussia mnmmst fight, not as atm army, but as a nation and a nation conscious that it fights not merely for a dynasty, however duly honored, but for the rights, the ideas, and the objects, which have grown with German mind and German might, and which can neither in triumph nor in degradation be separated from them. THE GERMAN QUARREL. From the Examiner, 16 Nov. THE GERMAN QUARREL. To fight, or not to fight. That is the question which now agitates all Germany. There stand the two great powers, Austria and Prussia, squaring their fists at each other; each hoping to frighten his opponent by his own fierce look and bullying attittide. But before the set-to begins, we shall doubtless have time to run over the causes, hidden and apparent, of the quarrel; as well as to scan the condition and qualities of the combatants, and calculate the difficulties which each has to contend with, and the chances he has of success. Everybody knows that the Hoheuzollerns are but pareenus among the great powers of Europe. They owe their rise to the talents, perseverance, and unscrupulous ambition of several princes; but above all of Frederickas great a robber as any other of the great conquerors whom the world wor- ships. He found 5,000,000 and left 16,000,000 Prussians. The mediatized princes and secularized bishoprics of a later epoch furnished more and more fat offerings as a prey to the Prussian Eagle. The peace of 1815 again saw Prussia on the con- quering side, loudly demanding compensation for the sufferings and de radation she had endured; and a large share of Saxony and rich possessions on the Rhine hardly satisfied her voracity. Since that time, the industrious population of Prussia has used the long interval of peace to improve and en- rich itself beyond that of any other part of Ger- many. Its government, if not liberal, has been prudent, enlightened, active, and successful. Ed- ucation has been forced upon the commonality; trade and commerce have been encouraged by free- dom of intercotirse; arts and letters have been protected; and the learned and xvise raised to honor and distinction. The finances of Prussia have been well cared for, and the debt reduced to very reason- able bounds. A fine army has been organized, and a militia (Landwehr) system introduced, by which every citizen must serve three years in the regular army, and till the age of fifty is always subject to military service. The people of Prussia have meanwhile waxed fat and insolent on all this ~iros- perity. They look down on all other Germans, particularly the I3avarians and Anstrians, with sovereign contempt, and are cordially hated in re- turn. In the great tornado of 1848, Prussia, after two or three days good fighting, managed to trim her boat, and, by sailing with the wind, weathered the storm. She could even throw out a rope to some of her shipwrecked n~iglmhors, to which they clung with all the desperation of half-drowned wretches as they were. The federal constitution of Germany, as repre- sented by the Diet of Frankfort, could hardly be expected to escape the universal shock; and no- where was it felt more severely. By tIme consent of all pcrties, although the confederation remained, the Federal Diet was declared forever abolished; and delegates were summoned from each state to meet arid coticoct some new scheme of government. This assembly was presided over by an Archduke 4~f Austria; but at last, after debating for some months, it dissolved itself without having accom- plished anything. At this moment everything was in the greatest confusion in Germany. Austria lay prostrate, with the victorious hungarians threat- ening her capital; most of the smaller princes ex- ~isted only by Russian protection; and many had accepted Russian garrisons to guard them from their own subjects. Austria, yielding to the spirit of the time, offered the democratic constitution of the 14th of March, by which all her states were to take part in one common diet. Whereupon Prus- sia, taking advantage of the weakness of her rival and neighbor, proposed to form a union of German states to th6 exclusion of Austria, which she char- acterized as no longer Germaii, now that Italians., Hungarians, and Selaves were to form the majority of her rulimig body. Tuis move succeeded. Almost all the states joined the union, aiid Germany seemed bound hand and foot in the power of Prussia. As the king ob~ served, Prussia wotmld be absorbed in Germany, which meant that Germany would be Prussia. Gloze it over as we will, the desire of one German prince to aggrandize hiimmself at the expense of an- other, is neither more nor less than the desire of the pickpocket to appropriate the purse of the careless passer-by. it is possible that were Eng- land a party cuncerned we might not see quite co clearly. We dont pretend that our eyes are not as blind, when comuvenient, as those of our neigh- bors. As it is, we see tIme dishonesty clearly enough, and we cannot help saying so. Russia came to the help of Austria, Hungary was reduced, and Austria again raised her head amid tried to make her voice heard among the na- tions. Prince Schwartzenherg made truly the fairest offers, tIme most liheral-souuiding proposi- tions. One by one lie seduced from time union the most powerful of its supporters. Saxony, Wur~ temaiberg, hanover, amid a host of lesser satellites~ fell off from Prussi , and grouped themselves round the imperial throne. Austria generously offered to throw open all the commerce of her dependent cmes to German inidustry. She ~vould join time con- federation with all her states, and would yet be satisfied to occupy only an equal place with Prus- sia. Her proposal, too, for recalling the old diet tin) lifethough it had so lately been voted dead was modestly stated to be only for the sake of rs- modelling it on a new and popular basis. One could hardly help sympathizing now with this fair- spoken Austria, just recovering from her death.- wound, and already extending her protection t& feeble Iieighbors. One could hardly help feeling glad that the greenly and selfish ambition of Prussia was disappointed of its prey. For, as to the minor states, they were as well off with the one as with the other. Austria had sn6ceeded in detacluing tho minor states from Prussia, by assurimug their princes that th~ey might under her aegis safely set their people at defiance, and get rid of the troublesome constitutions they had gramited them; just as Prums- sia had first attached them to her car by offering securities at the least possible expense of popular concession. They sold themselves first to Prussia for the sake of maintaining as much power as they then could; they then sold themselves to Austria on the oflbr of a still greater share; arid they ~vou1d sell themselves to Russia to-morrow could they hope from her protection to achieve tIme blessimigs of per- fect absolutism. To those, however, who knew Prince Schwart- zenberg, or Austria, all the specious promises and all the liberal seemings were but cobwebs set to catch heedless flies. The truth soon began to appear in the conduct of those who had accepted Austrian protection. here a liberal ministry was changed, there a troublesome parliament dissolved, till at last the King of Saxony, protected by aim 40 THE GERMAN QUARREL. Austrian army on the frontiers, boldly declared his constitution void, and everything restored to the state it was in before 1848. That tremendous year was to be obliterated from the pages of history. The Elector of liesse soon sooght to follow the example of the King of Saxony, and Wurtemberg has since been advancing in the iame course. The Diet of Frankfort, too, now assumes a tone of authority, and insists on obedienc& to all its decis- ions. Although every member of the confedera- tion aore~d to its dissolution, and resolved that as repres~rtative of the confederation it was forever abro~ated Austria now imperiously claims all its former ai~hts and privileges. In the me-rn time, the two great questions of German policy served to embroil matters still deeper Holstein and Scbleswig. provinces chief- ly inhabited by Germans, but united to Denmark by the traties of 1815, becoming animated by the spirit Ot n~tionahty which has exerted such im- mense influence on the minds of men for the last few years, demanded a separation from Denmark. Holstein, by treaty, forms part of the German Confederation, while Schleswig does not. Both provinces now desired to be German; and excited by Prussia, which hoped to unite them to its own dominions, and thus obtain the key of the Baltic for Germany, they rose in arms against their sove- reign. Thi~ was no question of liberalism or absolutism, but a question of nationality. Ger- many, and especially Prussia, was interested in establishin~ the German ch:uracter of the two provinces, and their independence of a non-Ger- man power; while the other maritime powers of Europe, particularly England and Russia, were interested in preventing Germany from obtaini riga position on the Baltic, which would enable her to close that sea at will. That Lord Palmerston has been right throughout, in this mtter, both i nan English point of view, and as snpported by trea- ties, there can be no doubt though we cannot help lamenting the bad company into which it has buought him, arid the odium which some of the Germans have cast on England in consequence. Prussia, finding herself supported only by the German liberals, of whom she has no slight hor- ror except when she needs them as tools, at last yielded, and ~vithdrew the troops she had placed in Holstein; but she nevertheless allowed sympa- thizers in many thousands to pass over to the aid of the Holsteiners. She may have kept her engagements to the word, but to the sense she has not done so. She has in secret still fomented a war which by treaty she was bound to put down. The afThirs of Hesse, on the other hand ,stand oi~ a totally different ground. The Hessian Diet wished to adhere to the Prussian Union. The Elector changed his ministry, deserted the Union, and re-formed the Diet of Frankfort. Then, stimulated and sul)ported by promises from Prus- sia, the Hessians insisted on the dismissal of the obnoxious ministers, and refused the supplies. The Elector fled ; arid, finding that neither the civil nnr military power would obey his orders, he threw himself into the arms of the Diet of Frank- fort, and demanded their assistance. Neverthe- less, parliaments and people having no existence in the eyes of the diplomatist, and treaties and compacts hem0 made only in the name of princes end their ambassadors, Prussia had no diplomatic ri0ht to interfere where her assistance was not asked for. Her right to use a road through the country as an excuse for occupying it is but a quibble. It is true she might have assumed the proud position of Protector of justice and right, hut such was not her policy. She has cautiously avoided acknowledging the justice of the Hessian peoples resistance; but still for her own pur- poses, as the Austrian manifesto truly enough says, without the pretence even of any founda- ti()n of right, but merely from coiisiderations of political convenience and so-called interests of state, she has occupied a part. of the Electorate, while the troqps of the Confederation have seized another. And so the opposing forces were brought at last within gun-shot of each other. But hereupon, at this pleasant conjuncture, both parties were summoned to the footstool of their master, the Czar, to render an account of their stewardship. The matter was decided t.o the satis- faction of the Austrian. Prussia bowed her head, and prepared to submit in silence and in sorrow. Radowitz was dismissed because he demanded preparations for war, and the Prince Brandenburg fell sick arid died of the shame to which hi~ fatherland was forced to submit. Prussia then humbly requested Austria to open the free confer- ence ivhiich had been agreed on for the reconstruc- tion of a German Confederative Government, and begged that in the mean time she would cease her warlike preparations. But Austria. had grown insolent from her success. hungary had been subdued by Russia, Austrian soldiers boasted of their valor and their victories, and now Russia had forced Prussia to give up her ambitious schemes. Austrian diplomatists crowed over the fallen victim, and fancied they had struck the last fatal blow. In answer to Prussias reasonable demand, and after arrival of the news at Vienna of the retire- merit of Radowitz, Schwartzenberg offered as an ultimatum t.o open the conferences, on condition of Prussias dissolving the union, acknowledging the acts of the Diet, and withdrawing her troops from Hesse, Hamburg, and Baden, within a speci- fied time. The Wiener Zeitung, too, the official paper, published a manifesto, in which the pecca- dilloes of Prussia were held up to public scorn in the most aggravated manner. Austri~ s determi- nation to carry out the decisions of the Diet by force was moreover confirmed by the announce- ment that 76,000 additional troops had been called out, that the reserve battalions had been sum- moned, ann the border regiments made mobile. Bavaria, Wurtemberg, and Saxony, were at the same time announced as equally active in prepara- tion for war. So bullying an answer to the Prus- sian offers of peac~ had its instant effect. Prussia has called her sons to arms, arid cv cry man under the age of thirty-nine in the whole of the Prussian dominions is now a soldier. Frightful as this burthen must be on an industrious and peaceful l)opolation, it has been assumed with air enthu- siasm which may well make Austria tremble. Th8 cold insolence of Napoleon to their much-loved queen, even the worst oppressions of France, did not produce a greater feeling of patriotism in the Prussians than Prince Schwartzenbergs uncalled- for impertinence. And now let its look at the condition of the two combatants. The Austrian army is said to amount to 500,000 men, though it is not much more than half that number, and we doubt if it could send 100,000 into the field. Should Russia, as is rel)orted, occupy Hungary and Galhicia, another 50,000, or even 100,000, rhay be disposable. Iii 41 42 COST OF ARMING EUROPE. the mean time, however, troops most be maintained in the ~apal states, in Tuscany, and in Parma, as well as in Lombardy, or the peace of Italy could not be kept a day. Vienna is discontented, Bohe- mia cannot K left without a garrison, and nowhere can the people be called to arms without threaten- ing the s fety of the state. in the army itself, too, are from 60,000 to 80,000 lionvods. Should Prussia take into her service any of the ilunga- nan exiled generals, there is not a man of these Honveds but would flock to his st-ndard the moment it was raised. The finances of Austria, too, are in such a state that she cannot obtain a loan h any part of Europe ; and on the outbreak of hostilities there is great danger that the taxes would he refused both in Italy au d Hungary. National bankr ptcy would follow as a matter of course. We know that for a short campaign an army may depend on forced supplies either in their own or an enemys country but this war, if once begun, will he no short one. Prussia could raise a loan to-morrow on favorable conditions. No state in Europe is so slightly indebted in propor- tion to its resources as Prussia and her credit is such, that, a few months ago, while travellers were paying 51. per cent. for gold in Austria, they were often unable to obtain Prussian paper in equal exchaerre Pr6ssia has great disadvantages in her gem raphical position, so scattered and exposed as hem ~iOX1OCC5 are; and the removal of so many hinds twin labor will be a sad blow to her industry Bet a contented population, a well supplied excheqo~r strong fortresses, and 400,000 men determined to firht for their fatherland, will take some time to put down, and may make Prince Schwartzenb~r~ bitt~rly repent his Quixotic under- taking. We have not reckoned the troops of the allies of Austria, for, unless their countries are occupied by Austrians, there is not one, except Bavaria, that ~vill dare to march a man. The Hessian army is disbanded, and there can be no doubt they will join the Prussians. The Diet of Wurtem- berg has refused money for the war, and the Sax- ons are not to be trusted for a day. If Prussia raises the banner of moderate freedom, against absolutist and Russian interference, she will no doubt ha m the aid of thousands from every part of Germm ny, as well as the good-will of all Europe. Let her move her well-paid and well-disciplined troops where she will, she will he in a friendly country ; while the ill-paid, plundering Austrians will find an enemy at every step. The character of the monarchs who occupy the great thrones of Germany render the maintenance of peace more difficult than it would be were these countries sufliciemly advanced in constitutional government to render the individuality of the monarch a matter of indifference to the policy of the country. he King of Prussia is the creature of impulse and feelin5. In religion a visionary enthusiast, he mixes up his conscience ~vith all manner of matters with which it has nothing to do, and ana~es to sanctify an unscrupulous ambi- tion by dreams of traditional policy and Prussian patrtottsm. He is determined, even rash in coun- cil, but vacillating in action. He is one of those men who seldom say a silly thing, and never do a wise one. The Emperor of Austria, though a young man, is by no means deficient in talent or information. Very many months have not passed since the Hungarians were enthusiastic in their admiration of him, when, at the installation of the Palatine, he answered Kossuth in an exte~apore speech in Megyar. Bright hopes were then formed by that gallant nation for their future king. He is accus- tomed to btsiness, ~nd is said to apply to it with energy. Since he ascended the throne, however, he has been surrounded by soldiers. Soldiers are his friends, Is is enmopaniomis, his advisers. It is no wonder, then, that continually excited by such society, with an immense army before his eyes, and flattered by the foolish old King of Wurtem- berg with the title of leader of Germany, the tra- ditions of imperial power should cress his fancy, and the hope of reducing the kingdom of Prussia to an electorate of Brandenburg stimulate him to war. Bavaria is also egging him on by every means in her power, partly from jealousy, and partly from the desire to repossess her fhvorite province the Palafinate, the loss of which has reduced her to a very second-rate position. Such is the state of Europe. I3lood has already been shed, and before another week, all Germany may be engaged in a desperate war; in which case, to Prince Schwartzenberg and his insolent, overbearing policy the result will have to be attributed. English sympathies will no doubt be given to Prussia, if Prussia shows that she deserves it. For her court there can be no sympathyfor her ambitious longings there can be no sympathy. But if she honestly takes up the Constitutional Cause, she will have not only our prayers and hopes, but those of the good and honest through- out the whole of Europe. What will be the ter- mination of such a conflict no human eye can see; but, far removed as England is from the seat of war, we doubt much if she will he able to escape all participation in it, should it once fairly break out. From the Times of Nov. 18. COST OF ARMING EU~OPtt. IF anything ~vere wanting to justify even a fa- natical horror of war, it xvould be tIme aspect of Europe at this moment. Such a scene as Auster- litz, or Borodino, or Leipsic, or such a story as that of the Peninsular xvar, is horrible and ap- palling, but, coming in the midst of angry pas- sions and bloody retaliations, it imposes on the reason with a show of necessity, and drags the soul down into the anhausities of the struggle. In the present instance there is neither reason nor provo- cation. Europe is under ari~ns without any assign- able cause. Two great empires, speaking the same language, not only neighboring, but even intermixed, members of an ancient confederation, and with tIme same real interests, are bringimig into the field against one another, not only every soldier, but almost every man capable (if bearing arms. Prussia has called out her militia from every village and town, arid put themo in motion from one end of her straggling possessions to the other. Austria has summoned to (he points of collision the tribes that guard and disquiet her semi-barbarous frontmer~. On either side, France and Russia are ready to pour hundreds of thousands into the arena, should the game once begin. But what is there for two osillion armed men to decide that could not be settled by two men of peace? What is there for a hundred and fifty millions of human beings to become ene- mies about I Mr. Cobden tells a story of a boy at Captain Sibornes exhibition, who puzzled his UNION OF THE AUSTRIAN EMPIRE. 43 fath r xxitli the question What the battle of of any estimate. We may know what the Pins- Wat iloo vvas fought about? The father might, sian Laudwehr is paid to he idle, and what it costs at all events have answered that it concluded the in meat, drink, and clothing. But it can never be luuo~st and ~no4 terrible war, and introduced the known bow much that country will lose by the 1on~st and most henefici~ I peace, the world has yet sudden withdrawal of some hundred thousand inca seen J3ut x~hat account can he given of the pies- from the fields just at the time when they are cut rr~nmral amn~ung that the most iutelligent child xvanted to prel)are fur next years harvest. To woold be likely to understand One tIiiu~ at least, similar causes may he ascribed the numerous fain is very clearthat the greater part of the evil is ines which have accompanied war, aiid dealt more produced by itself. Army provokes army, and the destruction than the sword and the spear. Thus, rivalry is only bounded by the inability of the pop- while these nations are increasing their debts, they ulation to produce more armed mcii so that, if it are still more curtailing their powers of production. he asked why Europe is armed, the best reason, While there are inure to be fed, there are fewer to after all, that can be given is, Because it s feed. Yet all this happens in a time of peace, armed. with nothing but the threat and apprehension of The stay-at-home inhabitants of this blessed isle war. Germany is, as yet, only fighting with a can hardly conceive xvhat it is to live under a in~i~- shadow. There is no quarrel but what may be set- tary empire, in fact, in any omme of the four great tIed in amicable conference, and need imever have powers of Europe. Our army is comparatively arisen. At present the real quarrel is a rivalry of small, and half of it is always out of the way. armainentsxvhich shall show most men. The Thmomigh it presses rather heavily On tIme purse, it only check on so foolish a competition is a general does miot offend the semise or demoralize society agreement to reduce these excessive preparations. to anything lie the extent the foreign armies rio. When tIme Russian and Germusim powers next meet We have not several thousand soldiers lounging at Warsaw, they will set themselves right with the about every considerable town, getting into all world, amid do much to redeem the crcdit of kings, kinds of mischief, and becomnin~ inure and more if they agree to reduce their armies in a certain unfit lbr any homiest or useful (iccupation. We di) proportion, or to keep only a certain quantity of riot see our villages emptied of ablebodied ineim, amid troops under arms. This might he done, for it has the laninriomis woks of husbandry left to womeim of been doume frequently. The path of peace once en- all ag~s ~vorkmmmg under the orders of husbands or tered, there rosy soon he a rivalry in this direction fathoms tNIio h ye spent the best years nmf their life as great as that xvhich is hurrying inyriads to a in military service, arid are as disqualified as tl~cy cruel and fratricidal xvar. England and France are mi1 soos d foi agricultural labor. All this tmiay have already effected large reductions duriimg the be s eo abroad ammywhere, from tIme Bay of Biscay last year, amid may effect more; why should they to th~ Casp in Sea. On a former occasion we not press ott the Austrian, Prussian, aimd Russian have d~sermb~d what any man may see a days jour- goverornemims the wisdonm of following their exam- ney from this metropolis, in tIme inagnificeimt mild pIe before they stumble imito a war which this gen cities of Rhienish Prussia; but, as Mr. Cobden has eration immay riot live to see the cmmd of l just dashed it off with his usual felicity in his Wrexhaun speech, we think it common justice to From the Times, 19 Nov. take his description. Four umilhiomis of menthe flower of Europefrom twenty to thirty-three years UNION OF THE AUSTRIAN EWTPIRE. of age, are umider arms, hiviimg in idleiiess. There THE most important of the stipulations put for- are rio unen in the country parts there; the woineim ward by the Austrian government, itt its recent are doing their farm xvork, toiling up tim their knees proposals for the restoration and reform of time in inammure, amid arumirhst m uck amid dirt, at the age of Gerurmanic Con federation, is the demand of the Cab- thirty and forty. Thmey may be seen thus employed, met of Vienna to annex to the confederation those tanned and haggard, and looking hardly like the parts of the imperial doininions (with the excep- fair sex. They do this that the muscle and strengths tion of the Loinbardo-Venetian kingdom) which of the country umay be clothed in military coats, atid have never yet beemi included in it. All the ermiwn may carry muskets on their shouldersa scamidal lands of the etnihuire, extendimig to Galhicia, Utmn- to a civilized aimd a Christian age. We cart an- gary, Trarisylvammia, Croatia, and the Dalmatian swer for it from the evidence of our semises that coast would thereby becmmine German territory. this is no exag~eration, and, as it only aims to No doubt, such a scheme involves a chatuge iii the give one aspect of the fact, so it only gives half political ermudition of a considerable part of Cemmural its horrors. If it be inquired why the country- Europe, and calls for the dispassiommate considera- wotrien mu the continent are so ill-favmured, inascu- tion riot only of Geromany, but of the other Euro- line, and coarse, compared with our own village pean powers wlmich took a part in the territorial girls ammd dames, or why foreign husbamidry cmii- definition of tIme Gemnimanic body at the congress of tinues in so primitive and barbarous a state, or why Viemmna. If on tIme one hand it increases the rela- the poor villagers are comitent wiihm such hmumimble tive magnitude of Austria to her confederates, it fare, or why the statistics of the foreign cities may facilitate the commeession of some corresponding prove so fearful atm amount of demnorahizatioms, or, security to their indepenidemice amid influence. But lastly, why foreign populations are so promme amid we are imuclitmed to thimik that, upon the whole, such apt to arms, and so formimidable in insurrection, one a change ought to be regarded as favorable to all answer is sufficiemint for all these questiomins, arid that the interests of the parties most directly concerned is that nearly the whole population are early kid- in it, arid no less consistent with the view which napped, so to speak, from useful eniployinemits, an enlightened English policy may take of Ger- to be crowded in garrisons and cities and pam- mnami affairs. pered in idleness, to practise every vice, and forget The Austrian government has insisted on this every useful and honorable accomplishment, proposal because the constitution of the 4th of The cost of the vast operations we now witness March, and the whole policy by which the present in Germany is too great and too manifold to admit imperial ministers are actively and laboriously en- 44 INDIA. deavoring to regenerate the empire, rest upon the principle of fusion and consolidation. They are endeavoring to assimilate and combine the prov- inces of the empire by uniform laws, obligations, and privileges, and to awaken by practical meas- ures of union that national spirit which has hith- erto been confined in Austria to the ranks of the army and to the loyalty of the several states of the empire to the person of the sovereign. That sen- timent of loyalty may be shaken, and military organization cannot permanently uphold the fabric of a great nation. The time is come when Aus- tria must owe her power and importance in the rank of European states to the political combina- tion and national attachment she may infuse into her subjects by common interests and common rights. Hence it becomes an essential part of her present policy to abolish those lines of commercial and political exclusion which rendered the neigh- boring portions of her own dominions foreign to each other ; though the measures she has taken at home to unite her possessions have been used as an argument by her rivals and antagonists in Ger- many for her total exclusion from the effective union of German states. To that pretension Aus- tria replies by the offer to include her whole do- minions within the federal limits of Germany. Such a proposal can only be entertained as a matter of policy and agreement, not of right. Prussia, indeed, would have the less reason to object to it, as one of her first acts in the disturb- ances of 1848 was to throw her own extra-federal possessionsthe province of Prussia Proper, and the Polish Grand Duchy of Poseninto the con- federation. But the change proposed by Austria deserves greater consideration from its magnitude. The mere diversity of race and language in these provinces is not, we think, any serious or valid objection to their admission within the federal pale. In fact, the popular character of Bohemia, of Lu- satia, and great part of Silesia is as un-German as that of many parts of Transylvania and Hungary; but in all these regions, the dominant principle on which the government rests has for ages been Ger- man. It is the connection of these states with Germany and their allegiance to German powers which constitute their chief political importance. They have received from Germany a large portion of the civilization they possess, and, in return, they have gallantly participated in all the great strug- gles of Germany for conquest and for independence. If the military interests of the whole Germanic body are to be considered as the first condition of the independence and security of all the German states, it is impossible to draw any line of division between the different military populations of Aus- tria. In the event of a gre t struggle between Ger- many and her neighbors to the east or to the west, she can ill afford to dispense with the service of those martial tribes which inhabit the confines of the Austrian monarchy. Practically speaking, those troops are as much the soldiers of the confederation as the Landwehr on the Rhine. and it is upon the union of all these forces that the strength of the nation depends. But, in peace, the admission of these territories to the facilities of intercourse and trade, which ought to prevail throughout the con- federation, would be a still greater benefit. They have been termed in derision the backwoods of Germany ; but can anything be more useful to a densely peopled country than the existence of im- mense regions thinly inhabited, fruitful in their soil, with great similarity of climate, and a complete facility of access The German colony at Herman- stadt, which dates from the 13th century, is still a model of what may be accomplished by an indus. trious people in a~ land so favored by nature; and the proposal to open the entire territory of lion gary to German immigration, by making that coun- try an integral part of a confederation of which Germany is herself the heart, is obviously to en- courage the greatest conquest of territory that can be effected by industry, by capital, and by peace. The impolitic and unjust separation which has been perpetuated for so many centuries between the German and non German dominions of Austria has been equally injurious to her provincial and to hei national interests. As far as the policy of this country is concerned in its relation with these subjects, we can conceive no objection to any plan calculated to promote the strength and civilization of the Germanic body to its furthest extremities, and which would lead to the establishment of a more extensive system of commercial intercourse and of military defence; for, by strengthening the interests of the German people in the east, we should probably contribute to increase the wealth and to secure the independence of that portion of Europe. The Russian cabinet, which might more reasonably oppose such an aug- mentation of the strength of its immediate neighbor, is understood to have acceded to it at Warsaw, and the only serious impediment is the jealousy of a certain party in Germany to whatever looks like an increase of Austrian influence, it is not, however, required or proposed that Austrian and Prussian influence should rank in the confederation precisely in the numerical proportion of their respective pop- ulations, and they stand by right on a footing of equality. Io speak correctly, Austria would prob.. ably not owe to this change any addition to her influence in Germany, but the German people would obtain a far more direct and positive interest in the dominions of Austria. We are not, however, insensible to the extreme difficulty of carrying into effect political changes of this magnitude, at a time when jealousy, irritation, and fear have so large a share in the councils of ~tatesmen, and when no commanding authority exists to execute the most essential reforms in the constitution of Germany. We can only point with approbation to those objects which appear to us to bear the stamp of an enlarged and liberal policy, by removing provincial barriers and by connecting the most uncivilized parts of Europe with the gen- eral interests of a people advancing in industry and freedom. On that ground we should be incliiied to view the extension of the federal rights of Germany to the whole Austrian empire, north of the Alps, as a step in civilization arid peace, and we trust that the influence of our own government may be used rather to promote than to obstruct it. From the Spectator, 16th November. INDIA. THE Manchester Chamber of Commerce, after sundry fruitless attempts to prevail upon govern- ment to send a commission to India for the pur- pose of inquiring into the state and prospects of cotton cultivation there, have made up their minds to send a commissioner of their own. The chamber have been happy in their choice of a commissioner. Mr. Mackay, upon whom their choice has fallen, is favorably known to a pretty numerous public by his work on Amerrca~. BRAZIL. 45 He has had considerable experience in the collec- tion of statistical information; he has lived long enough in a foreign land to know that essential differences sometimes lurk beneath external resern- hiances in the social arrangements of two coun- tries, and to he on his guard against the erroneous inferences to which ignorance of this fact leads. lie is naturally acute, energetic, cautious. For the difficult task of investigating and reporting upon the condition of an important branch of industry, and the circumstances which are likely to promote or retard its progress among a commu- nity so different in all respects from our own as that of India, probThly a better selection could not have been made than tht of Mr. Mackay. This niovernent of the Manchester Chamber of Commerce, though interesting and important in itself, appears much more so when regarded as one of the first notes 6f preparation for the great inquest which will be summoned to sit upon our Anglo-Indian government, previously to the renew- al of the East India Companys charter. British India now includes the whole enormous region from the Suleiman range of the Beloochees and Afghans on the west, to the mountains which divide Assam from Burmah on the eastfrom the Himalaya mountains to Cape Comorin. Its popula- tion cannot fell short of a hundred millions of souls. ,The annual exports from England to India average nearly seven millions sterling. The responsibility of the I3ritish nation for the good government of such a dependency is awful. It involves directly the well-being of a hundred mil- lions of fellow-creatures-indirectly, the prosperity of the large proportion of our fellow-countrymen whose worldly means are hound up with those of a country which imports annually to the value of almost seven millions of our produce and manu- factures, sends us a corresponding value in return, and besides pays a large annual tribute to the stock- owners of the East India Company. Of the actual condition and social relations of this important dependency the people of England are very imperfectly co~nizant. In the archives of the East India Company is ample store of infor- mation, but its very bulk renders it of little avail even for the Leadenhall Street Directors them- selves. The interesting notices respecting India which occasionally come out through the press are fragmentary in their nature, the fruits of the obser- vation of isolated individoals, gleaned up amid the hurry of eu~rossing avocations, bearing upon lim- ited localities. The stirring but ephemeral inci- dents of Indian wars bear an undue proportion to facts of less obtrusive but inure pervading and abiding interest. One fact, however, is highly ~ug~estive. The foundation of our Indian empire and the establish- ment of the United States of North America as an independent nation were contemporary events. The loss of our North American colonies helped to con- centrate the attention and exertions of England upon its Indian dominions. The progress made by British India since 1760, in civilization, mate- rial wealth, and intelligent enterprise, is barely perceptible; while the United States have expand- ed from a few obscure colonies into a mighty nation, second only to our own in the value and extent of their commercial relations, second to none in intelligent and successful enterprise. The Anglo-Norman inhabitants of the old Thirteen Provinces have made the valley of the Mississippi, and the prairies beyond it, which little more than half a century ago were mere wastes, the thronged abodes of a vigorous and wealthy European popu- lation, and have extended their settlements to the shores of the Pacific. This they have clone with- out the aid of the aboriginal tribes, who have proved irreclaimably addicted to their nomads hunter habits. The Auglo-Normans who rule Britisla India have to deal with a country thickly peopled with races far advanced in civilization, though of a peculiar character ; yet in every respect the results of their efforts leg far behind those visible in America. To place the difference in a most striking point 6f view, it is only neces- sary to contrast the cotton produce and the mer- cantile marine of British India with those of the United States. There is actually a more fully- developed steam-navigation between Panama and California than between Bombay and China. These general results are palpable; their more occult causes, at least in so far as India is con- cerned, are obscure and hidden. It could be wished that many independent interests connected with British India might take the sante step that has been taken by the Manchester Chamber of Commerce, with a view to elicit the truth respect- special features of Indias social coitdition immediately concern them. The modifications in the government of British India which may be required, when the renewal of the Companys charter affords an opportunity to introduce thent, ought to be set about in a fearless yet dispassionate and reflecting spirit. It cannot be denied that the policy of the Company, in its administration of India, has too often been claar- acterized by narrow-mindedness and undtte tiro- idity. But neither ought it to be denied that many of its acts have been indicative of a liberal, intelligent, and truly princely spiritdisinterested benevolence and superiority to nasre cotivention- alities. If the progress of India since 176t) has fallont far short of that of America, the condition and temper of our possessions intrusted to the management of the East India Company contrast most favorably with those which have been aban- doned to the rule of the Colonial Office. From the Spectator, 16 Nov. BRAZIL. WHEN the agitation of free-traders was first ex- tended to sugars, we heard, for some tinte, of nothing so much as the necessity ttf conciliating Br~zil. The importance and extent of the lirazil- tan ntarl~t, fur our produce and manufecturcs,xvas as egregiously exaggerated as titat of our own sugar-producing colonies was undervalued. On all sides were heard warning voices against irri- tating the excitable Brazilians by adherin~ to a protective policy; a policy which, no doubt, was unwtse, but which, being that of almost every na- tion, could afford to intone a just cause of quarrel. These representatio. s, having served their end, are now put out of sight. The differential sugar-ditties are undergoing a process of gradual extinction; and the advocateS of their abolition, being also adherents of the present ministry, talk no more of the danger of irritatitig the Brazilians, because it is the pleasure of ministers to persist in a policy that threatens to make every Brazilian the personal enemy of every Englishman. This is not said with reference to the old griev- ances exposed by the investigations of Mr. Hutts committee. Within the 1 st twelve months th~ 46 ECONOMY OF STEAM POWER. tactics practised in the vain hope of suppressing the With singular infelicity, our foreign office, ad- slave-trade by force of arms have been modified. miralty, and cruisers, have seized the very moment The scene of the vexatious crusade against all when the slave-trade was tottering in Brazilfall Brazilian shipping, under pretext of hunting out ing under its own weightto enlist every senti- slavers, has, in great part, been transferred to the ment of natural patriotism and national vanity on coast of Brazil. It is scarcely possible for a Bra- its side, by aggressions which set at nought every zilian vessel to stir out of its own ports without principle of international law and justice. The bein~ annoyed by the interference of some of our violation of the independent jnrisdiciiun of the En~lish cruisers. Nay, in several instances, yes- Brazilian waters has also been carried int.o effect sels suspected of being intended fur die slave-trade with a degree of insolence enough to stir the most have heen attacked in Brazilian ports and carried I cold-blooded. Letters from the officers (if our off by English men-of-war. Hitherto it has been cruisers have found their way into the newspapers, cust(iinary with civilized nations to abstain from from which it appears that every outrage in I3ra- attacking even the ships of war of hostile nations zilian harbors is regarded as establishing a claim to in a friendly l)ort; but the officers of Lord Pal- speedy promotion. Upoii an excitable trol)ical merstons anti-slavery squadron now attack the population this has produced its natural effects. merchant-vessels of a friendly power in its own English sailors have been thrown out of windows harbor. These unprecedented aggressions have in Rio; English merchants have been stoned in naturally led to the mutual cannonading of Brazil- the streets; Death to the English ! is the cry ian flirts by British cruisers, and of British cruisers of the mob of the metropolis of Brazila mob no-. by Brazilian forts. wise slow to put such cries in act. The tiree selected for perpetrating these unxvar- The conduct of the Brazilian government and rantable violations of the territory of an allied legislature, thus irrit. ted by the aggressions of the power has been singularly injudicious. At the English government, and urged by the pressure very moment that English cruisers were seizing from without of their more inconsiderate country- Brazilian vessels in Brazilian harbors and battering men, has been extremely creditable. The law for Brazilian forts, the legislature of Brazil was passing repressing the slave-trade has been finally adopted; a law for the more effective suppression of the attempts to induce them to rescind privileges con- slave-trade. It may be frankly admitted that, in ceded to an English steam navigation company the past history of Brazil, similar laws appear to have been calmly and steadily resisted. The con- have been enacted, with a quiet conviction on the duct of the Brazilian government has been dignified part of the legislature that it was impossible to and just; while that of the English has been an enforce them, merely tp conciliate England by a aggravated repetition of the system of bullyiu~ and sacrifice to appearances. But this is iiot now the assailing weaker states, 51) discreditably enacted in case. Brazil is an extensive isolated mountain Greece, in Central America, and other countries. system, separated from the Andes by the compare- Where, in these circumstances, have the glib tively low land in which the river Plate and some and noisy talkers, who, when they w~re ciming at of the principal affluents of the Amazon have their a reduction of the customs-duties on she articles source, and subsiding on the shores of the ocean they deal in, were so sensitively alive to the dancrcr and the Amazon into extensive plains. The plains of irritating Brazil, now crept to l Brazil is new, adjoining the sea aiid the river are adapted to the at the least, as important a market for English growth of that tropical produce which has most produce as it was a few years ago; and aii iinpor- frequently been cultivated by negro slaves. The taut market it is, though its importance, both abso- mining districts in the hills north of Rio Janciro I lutely ~od in comparison with our own colonies, have also ~iven employment to a number of slaves, I was shamelessly exaa~erated at one time for party though there a large admixture of free laborers is I purposes. The irritation of the Brazilians, which, met with. But in the high inland plains and moon- in 1845, was put forth as a possibility, is now a tains in the south and west of Brazil, slavery, where grave reality. Yet, not one of the voices which it still lingers, is little more than nominal. There clamored to have the sugar-duties reduced in order is a large extent of territory in Brazil that has no to propitiate Brazil, now warns Lord Palmerston interest in the continuance of slavery. In the low to desist from insolent violations of international tropical lands the few whites have long been law in order to disarnn her enmity. Such tempo- alarmed at the continuous increase in the numbers rizing is all the more nidious since it is now openly of negroes. The liarties engaged in the slave- avox~ ed that the leading motive of the hostilities in trade are alone recklessly bent (In its continuance; the Brazilian waters has been, not to put down the the planters and other settlers are anxious to see it slave-trade, but to make prizes, and thereluy win checked and ultimately abandoned. As the slave- promotion for young officers. traders have been in the habit of giving long credits, ____ ___________________ their power over the planters is unquestionably great; but the power of a creditor, in moments of EcoNoseY OF STEAM Powzn In Mr. l\INi- popular excitement, when it is easy to make the I cull timber-yard and saxf-mill at Liverpool, steam- origin of his claims odious, is of a very precarious power has been applied to work the travelling- kind The new law for the suppression of time I cranes used to convey the timber about the yard. slave-trade in Brazil hues heen enacted at a ti.ne Each crane, when worked by hand, required Ihur when a desire to see it enforced is rapinlly extend- I men, whereas the steam-crane is worked by a man lug throu5hont the country; and, it may be added, I and a boy only, and (hoes double the work, the that of late years a desire to see a strong govern- wages being about 3301. per annum in one case, incuS upheld in Brazil has been increasing even in; and 07/. in the other. The steam-machine will the anarchical provinces most remote from the carry 13 logs of tinuber, weighing together 19~ centre of government. The new law against the tons, one at a time, from one end of the yard to the slave-trade is more of a reality, is more certain to other, a distance of 100 feet, in twenty-six minutes, be enforced, than any of its precursors. j at a cost of less than sixpenecThe Artisan. NEW BOOKS. 479. From the Trihune. Po s. By GRACE GREENWOOD. l2mo. pp. 190. Boston: Ticknor; Reed, & Fields. This beautiful volume consists of selections from the poems which have been widely circulated in various pe- riodicals, and which have established the rank of the author smong the most richly gifted American poets. They are singularly free from the monotony which blights the highest efforts of many of our popular versifiers, and breathe an intense, impassioned spirit, which sta~cps their claim to hem0 genuine, ori0irtal products of an ear- nest and lofty nature. The severity and wild vigor of many of these poems are relieved and softeiced by fre- ~uent gushes of tender pathos. With no affinities with the school of ml 1k-and-water sentimentalists, they abound its traits of delicate and noble sentiment. The sympa- thies of the auth.or are hopeful and 0enerous; she has not been petrided by the touch of a false cuiiservatism ; her song is in crordance with the spirit of the a0e The has faith in human dignity, in self-sacrifice, in ideal truths and under the glowin0 inspiration of this creed she pours out her soul in sweet and fiery canticles, which have a Virtue altogether more sovereign than the sonorous rin0 of hollow words. By a natural transition she facilely ~ asses into the renion of the comic and humorous but er attempts in this kind, thotigh showiu0 the health- iness of her genius, have not the brilliant polish essen- tial to the charm of sit. Her versification, always spir- ited anti vigorous, is not remarkable for smoothness, and sumetones becomes too harsh for a dainty ear. Its her preface she asks the public to re~ard this volume more as a prul use than a performancemore as a prophecy than a fulfilment; and, as a cotinterpart to this modest claim, we venture the opinion that the freitage of her ripened genius will more than redeetn the pledge of its rich blossomia0. The proem to this collection is in a strain of noble aspiration We extract a few stanzas : Some lays there are seeni only sent To add to passion s I landishitient, Or win0 the creeping hours Of souls to lifeless ease rest ned, In dreamy lan nidness reclined On pleasures couch of flowers And some are like exotics tare, Fotind bloomie in tce still soft air Of pride anti luxnr~ only And some like priceless burning gems, Set in imj)erial dialcms In very briobtuess loneiy And some in stately sluoocshness, Forsaken barks float rudderless Adowit times silent iivei Anti some are meteors on hwh, One mometit fla~htng oer the sky, Then lost in night foi ever My lays, my la~ s would they might find An echo in civ conn~vs heart, Be in its home affections shrined, Form of its chemshetl thugs a part! Be like wild flowers and comnion air, Bloomin for all breathed e ;erywhere, Ot like the lad so~~o of the bird, Gushing mr iii Jell mnoic tban heard! Earnest untn tic mtunt t icy be Lice borks before a I reeze at sea, ico~c dashsn~ piows Icoitit home, T il e onod knights bound for Palestine, Like irtists warinod by fire divine, O er irs Alp and ~peiittne Holding th~ir scay to hunts, Liko arrows fiasht,to throuoh the fight, I ike ea les on their sutsvard flight, Like to all thin0s in which we see An errand and a destiny! And would 1.0 He~ ecu that Freedoms voice, Wild, bold, defying, ttrong Might sonietitnes, like a martial strain, Peal through ty fearless sono! The soft-toned lays of sycophants May iiiine yet ring above, Clear as a clarion, and yet Their very soul be love! 0, not thatLove xvho deems her sphere Is not where falls the mortal tear, Not by the mortals hearth, As ministering angel here, Far from her place of birth; With earnest, hseavenward-aazmns eye, Amid spread wing fluttering for the sky, All yeariiing to depart she seems, And scarce permits, in her high dreams, Her/eel to touch the earth. Away with such a love! Be utine A love more glorious, more divine, That boweth to the Infinite, Whets his dimmed image meets the night, - As t were all glory and oil light That loves the wide worhil as it lies, With broken soil atid clouded skies, With chcan0ing scenes and varied lots, Attn few flowers springing in thi spots Where angel feet have trod! Let every theme with this be fraught, Let every lay, let every thought, Flash out this life of God. From the Atbion. Through the pages of various periodicals, this assumed name has become familiar to the public, far under it many a pleasant lay has been snug for tIne public gratification. We are glad, therefore, to fitid the choicest here gathered to0ether its one sniall volume, such ackitowlecige ourselves very much pleased with it. What takes our fancy par- ticularly is the vigor of thought atid the honesty of pur- pose generally evidenced itt theniso utilike are they to the dulcet warblin0sdulcet and nothiting elseof the gen- eral fli0ht of poetesses. Grace Greenwood seems to hook on life as a gift to be enjoyed, not as a burdets to be borne, amid exhibits, moreover, far 5reater syin pathy with the earnest and the grave, than with the whinitig seittimental- ists whom young lady rhymsters are apt to convert into heroes. The reader rriay relish a sample of her abilities, in place of any attempt at criticism. I ere is a passage in time proem, whirls pleases us, atid its which the apparent confusioms of intages is justified by the two last lines My lays, my lays-would they might find An echo itt my conistrys heart, Be in its home-affections shrimmed Form of itS cherished thimigs a part! Be like wild flonvers and common air, Blooncing for all, breathed every where, Or like the glad song of the bird, Gushing for all, felt more thaim heard! Earnest, umttirin0, usight they be Like barks before a breeze at sea, Whose dashing prosvs poimit home, Like good knights bound for Palestiime, Like artists, warmed by fire divine, Oer icy Alp and Apenisine, Holdimig their way to Rome, Like arrows flashing through the fight, Like eagles on their sunward flighim, Like to all thitigs itt which we see An errand and a destiny! At the risk of repeating a thrice-told tale, we further select, in proof of Grace Greenwoods joyous and witty spirit, four stanzas frons a lively piece, entitled, Wanted a Theme.t They imeed no explanatiots. I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right All odorous with the breath of love, and glosving xvith its light But thomtgh t were all a sham, mother, wise ones tlmeir heads avould shake And they d say I avas in love, mother, which were a sad mistake. * * * The terrible might do, mothersome wild, unearthly story; I might ride for a Pe0asu s, a msi0htmare into glory. But theim that Ravets there, mother, ahiove that cham- ber-door, I asked him if t would be a hitquoth the raven, Never more! * * * The fooleries of the becu-meade, mother, should I write on as I feel, The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all genteel, - And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heaviest fall They d vow I was a sour old maidand that were worse - than all! I think Ill off to bed, motherI m tired, and then it s late Time horse I rode this afternoon bad such ~ shocking gait! So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft repose, For I love a morning doze, motherI love a morning doze. 48 NEW BOOKS. From the N. Y. Eveajo Post Allan Locke, Tailor and Poet The novel of tins name recently put forth by the Harpers, is tho most poweiful that has issued from ~he En0iish press since the put lica tion of Jane Eyre. Indeed, hut or one or two passa~es which smell of the pulpit, we should he half inclined to think that it lutist have proceeded from the same vvorous and trenchant pen. It has a great many of the same characteristics, both of excellence and defect with that extraordinary work. It has the same freshness the same miginality, the sine occasional coarseness, the same ab rupt eneray of style arid the same impetuous e~rueshiess yet it differs in a groat many other respects Fheie is not in Locke the subtle analysis, and bold, broad psirttiiw of characters tim minute arid morbid self cuatoinizirt and the almost dis~ustmri. fondiiess for monstrous dcxci opments of pax~mon, wItc h distinguish tIre books of C urrer Bell , but thert is what is much bettei a deep pervadic~ sympathy wrth the great political aiid moral movemeirts of soctety and a healthful Christian philos ophy. The iritercets of Jaire Eyre and of Snirtey aic mostly coalimd to the mnijividuals of the draiiia while in Altorm Locke the persorta~es are wonderfully aggrandized and exalted by their connection with the graurler interests of society. Alton Locke is called by some a chartist, and by others a socialistic novel, but airy one who will read it to the end, will see that it is neither, iii any exclusive or technical sense of the terms. There is a great deal said of the five points of the ch itur; the hero is an avowen chartist the ~tastro1iho turrrs on the failure of the chrurtist a~rtation and now and then important questions of social reform are hinted at; but the great oliject of the riter appears to be, not so much to su~ est arty specific schemes of social or political rictiun, as to inculcate new earnest arid most conipreheisive views of C bristiarrity. The pi ofourid rehi5ious spirit which pervades the wh6le, and tue par 5ioriate elogiteuce with which the reat truths o~ Christian equality arid brotherhood are enforced, are the leadis~ features of the book. Tire upturniti~ of social wrot~ aird rottenness, tire keen probing of the ahrnses of tIre esaht lished church, and the exposure of the superficial irid hollorv pretensions of chiartism, as well as of the wndrer sort of socialism, are the mere incidents of the pIcture or rather tire instrumental accompaniment, of xx hieb the grand religious thiou~hts are the ground-tone and soul Altots Loclce is sir the form of an uutohuio~taphx and in the earlier pnruioos has all the intuit tte~s md yen similitude of a descrpuon mom life The ii cer is really persuaded that iv has hold of the histoty of a poor devil of tailor hint us the narrative adv nces the naturalne~s end probability of it dc~reases, thousli the intere~t quick cos stud exp nds I oil ho is sir tire outset a trilor gels to be a people s post is sutioduced into lii It ociety falls its hove xxritti a spien hid woman wi~houtt oarun~- to mention it, is dtsap~ointed emirronis bim~elf in a riot, is condemned to prison and finally emnn stem to Texas where he dies Thus is all the plot the book cent ins hurt it serves as the v~hicle to many brilhraut desm riptions beautiful scenes profound discussions, air pa5sionate experiences. There arc some harsh and bitter criticisruts in ti e work fiery outirurats of indignant radicalism, but its mireral tone as a whole is heuiithful, reconcihin~, auu(l elex-utel X e should think that irene of the chasse~ into whim so ciety, especialiy Enehishi, are divided, could tend rt within out improvement. One thing is remarkable of all the hate En hish x orks of fiction, which pi-ofess to deal with the gloomy conottion of the people. They all send their her~es ann beiotn~s abroad to fluish their careers. Emigration is almost the only remedy xvbich addres.es itself to tireir minds. Thus, Bulwer in thte Caxtons; Dickens in David Copperfield, and the author (if Ahuon Locke, fiuid no restio5 places for their favorites, when the requirements of the ruory render it neceasm ry to distribute the poetical justice, but in Aus- tralia or Texas. This fact is a most impusseive commen- tary upon the state of opinion, as well as of society, its Great Britain. From the Christian Register. This is a very remarkahule book. Who the author is, and boxy much reiny be true and how much fiction, we know not; but there is a vividness in the description, both of scenes amid of passions, which makes us confidenin that, though the events may be imaginary, it is a narra- tion of real experietices. It gives a terrihule picture of English society, or rather of that portion of it xvhich is stifled and hid snider tIre prosperous surface. It is the life of a chartist-naihor, atid professes to give a viexv. of tire lower classes of Euigiatul hmy one of themselves. If the work he really an anrtohuiogruphuy, personal suffering may Irave giveti to it its poxver ; but if it lie a work of iina5iiiatioit, tIre author is a trian of geunius xvhro xviii l~ heard of again. In readiuig the boole, xve have Ineen remind d of a con- versation with a Mormon leader, a man, in pine of his Mornionism, of inuchiigetrce aitel inte~rit~ whino speirt some nitie imionulrs in Errglantui, euiphoyed iii in ticittum converts to his new faith. We bath tripposed titat tire cii mists rep- resented the poorest class. He sand no uh-t his time xvas spent aniong a class Ineloxy tire chaitists a class in the maurufacturinig anud inhirin niistrucn~, Sn inuorant and degraded am not event to lcnioxv or think of irolni neal action so debased as to luave no tlrorrht beyond thue nights debaucl~, or thuc morntrxvs bread His c ulcul their was, tirat threre xvere thurce n uhhtoirs in, Eutginurud turk into this depth of brutal xvretctuednie~ He had kept xx frill jour tual of what Ire bach scen arid hrenud, a jouniuni, lie said, snich as he inuegutued ito other Inerseti lunsd erer tiucutught of, or ever had the isinemns of leepiur- F iennr tb s clams ire drew converts, anud it xvas in threur homes that hue hired. PVc caiinot but thutuik that such a jnnuirnal scouhul be far more worthy of scettu~ tune lught than those xxhichr repeat, fnur tire tlrousanruhth tutu dcscuuirninns of priaces mod works of art. He said that lie uhuun, hu betore otag to Eng- land, that line knems xvhrxt pnuverty uvas butt thu t he irever could cain regard luinneif xx reathy jnoor niar while he n-as sure of havuinuc siunphv crtrt of breach~ anid seater, and any shelter unclet xvlruu lute sisep. rhe I nolc huefore mis prunes auth exposes existitug social ox nls It Ire Is hovever p-xrtueuiharly ef the ivore intel tent cIa s of xvorlmtu- trueni erich purrurays tire huhuidrances tim I etuvurout tire hunircherm xvhuich ertush thecmi, aund thue pent up Inassiens in their ireurts It is a fiery botdc, iii whose ptcsencc the novels of feshiioniable hIP xviiher awuny. The sinahioxe pretnuress of the court jouirnurmis atud of fashion nIle lurdy novelists loote ul - rid faded coon,, hr my the side of the tern utile realities xvhiuch it briug3 up into tire sunrlidrt. Gleanings ire the Iii ef of Trelared B -1r tIre lIen- orable and Reveretid S GeneLasciN O~~OnNE. A portion of thus bniok consists of Mi 0-hot oem Let- ters to the Tinuui s xvhrnchr cnuemy tIC hr a terruhle hnietnire of the destitrition cii tilO ireamariry and the adir turn nation of the Irish Poor-lay f he anther Inns addeJ -.onue matter mvbich he thninks it sniper-i-rot to ul In lot xvirich would not have been acedint iite to tire rene--ulty of the readers of a iuexxsp ~Pi It is possule thcn~ see tinny re- turn to the volume Soectuto-- Thaw-ha-lao, or Pcearde of a Tourist B CeAnags LANMAN, auttuos of L~ s front th- ~iheghuany Motntitains. Phnladol~Thia L p relic it Crambo and Co. 1850 The author of thns xsol- h al ea~ appe red before tire reachiut~ rye iii in semerul puhiteetuon anl it is to Iris credit that be iueuproves within eve-in- snecessime airpe rune observing more sirrewdls arid dhen-ril)Iuu more fri cmlv He has travelled muchi in difihretut juan us of thus Luritud ~tates, little visited hny the coinrurnur hunch of tenuists, in I thre remote we:t beyond the shores of I aV n Snup nor, or some parts of the Atlantic coast scarech~ less lecquiented liv travellers, suneb as the peninsula of Accouri e iii \ ir ginia, iruhabited by a race of mien possesiam -, ecniiar characterand cusuonmum, of which ire Irasgimeri In crtcttatis gacceuntin this volume. Tine anttclcs entitled ub Sn as Camp, the Fur Trappers, and Prerruetuon Cur nus, are favomahule sicainpics of his iroever of dehineatiui-- American ral life, aird life in thre irsckxvoochs lie is ant anher also of much cx psrienrce, and his notices of mass flshi~rg, trout fishing, and other branches cuf tlte mInuet, are worthy of a thorough-bred dirciple of old Walton. The veIn a closes seith a collection of Indian Is-ends, made by the authror, in his travehs in tire sx-est, many of xvhich are hni5hhy imaginative and striking.N. Y. Thu. I ost. The Lmxeeeo Aex is published every Saturday, by E. LITTELL & Co., at the corner of Tremont antI Bromfield Streets, Bostomi. PAce 12F cents a number, or si~ dollars a y s.~ in advance. Rtnmittacces for any period will be t~ankfuliy recmived and promptly attemvW -e.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 34r.11 JANUARY, 1851. From the Eclectic Review. 1. A Treatise on the Esculent Funguses of England. By CHARLES DAVID BADHAM, M. D. Lon- don: Reeve and Co. 2. illustrations of British Mycology. By Mrs. T. J. Huss~y. London: Reeve and Co. NOTHING grows in vain. Not a genus nor a species exists in the whole vegetable world to which some office has not been assigned by the Creator. The heath on the mountain top, the bare and scanty herbage of the rock, the moss on the hedge bank, the lichen on the forest bough, and the fungus flourishing in the darkest and dismalest recess of impenetrable woods, have each their generation to serve, their place in the scale of being to occupy, and their ordained task to fulfil. Let us take heed, therefore, how we pour contempt upon the lowest organization which the Former of all things has been pleased to produce, and to ~idow with the functions of life. What he has created, says one, let not us think unworthy of investigation. Why, then, have we despised the humble family of the fungi l Are they without desirable form and comeliness, are they without delicacy of structure, and singularity of organiza- tion, or, finally, are they without direct and indirect value to mankind I These are questions the present article intends to deal with, and to each of which it will furnish a suitable reply. It is not difficult to account for the popular disgust entertained towards the fungi. This will be very apparent when we add that the botanical family called by this title, includes mushrooms,~ mouldiness, and toad-stools. Offensiveness of character, habits, aspect, and odor, have thus become associated with this tribe of plants in the general estimation; and, although much of a con- trary nature will be adduced in the following pages, we must, on behalf of the fungi, plead largely guilty to this indictment on the whole. Our object, however, is not to represent these plants as they are not, but to contribute to a true appreciation of them as they areas, let it be added, they have been constituted by Him who nothing made in vain, and for whose pleasure, and for the manifestation of whose glory, even the lowly fungi are and were created. Overcoming, therefore, every natural repug- nance, let us enter upon the discussion of what, we little douht, will prove both an entertaining and an instructive subject, for many of the marvels of creation not unfrequently lie under a repulsive c~terior. Let us then put the important prelimi- nary question upon the nature of the tribe of plants to which attention is to be called, and inquire, what is a fungus 1 There is its botanical diagnosis it is, says a great fongologist, a cellular, flower- Ie.ss plant, nourished through its thallus; living in ~CXLVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXVIII. 4 air; propagated by spores colorless or brown, and so times enclosed in asci destitute of green gonidia! But as all our readers are not equally familiar with the terms of botanical science, let us state the natural idea prevailing in and characterizing the fungal family, in homelier language. The fungi, then, are plants which know not the sweet adorn- ments of flowers, along whose delicate and fragile tissues run no wooden bands to give permanence and stability to the stem, or strength to their strange fantastic forms, growing often upon the graves of their dead companions, and nourished from a couch of irregular vegetable fibres. They are maintained in the world either by means of tiny granules, shed from certain parts of the plants, and often wafted on the gentlest breeze, far from their place of origin, or by the underground part called the spawn. Finally, they love not wholesome earth; nor delight to rest upon the green and sappy branches of trees, in full vigor, as do some plants; their dwelling-place is among the dead, and their chosen haunts are where animal and vegetable organizations are prostrate around them, and in the full process of disintegration and decay. Fungi are thus seen to differ from the general run of plants, in being destitute of flowers and woody tissue, in their reproduction hy spores, and in their favorite habitat, lying among the damps and streams, and mal-odors of animal and vegetable decay. They have no structures analo- gous to the branches, roots, stem, and leaves of flowering plants, and consist entirely of a variously- shaped and tinted mass of cellular structure. Various other features of their physiological his- tory will come before us in the course of this article. It may be useful to add, that botanists call by the term Volva the portion of a fungus placed in the earth. The mushroom is also distinguished into a stalk, a pileus, or cap, on the under surface of which are the gills. Hence, the upper end of the stalk is a circular shred of membrane called the ring, and when a membrane springs from the upper part of. the stalk, and covers the under sur- face of the cap, it is called the veil. These are the principal parts of a common fungus. Under chemical investigation, at the hands of some of our most expert continental chemists, the following has been the result. Fungi consist of a large per centage of water, celluloze, nitrogenized principles, three in number, fatty matters, sugar, aromatic substance, sulphur, silex, potash, and of an undetermined substance, which turns brown on exposure to air. Behold! 0 epicure, what chem- istry says of thy truffles! Housekeeper, and domestic picklerof thy mushrooms! and dabbler in inkof the mouldy islands floating on the dark bosom of thy writing fluid! BADHAM AND HUSSEY ON TIlE FUNGI. These will, perhaps, be accepted as satisfactory replies to the inquiry as to the nature of fungi. Let us now proceed to the more interesting de- partments of their natural history. The prevail- ing popular idea of these plants appears to be, that they are all comprised in the familiar class called mushrooms. Few have the remotest idea of the number and variety of the species, and of their remarkable dissimilarity from each other. While some are the pride and the glory of the market-gardener, and are displayed by him with peripheries as large as a cheese-plate, others are his unrecognized but well-known enemies in the fruit-room, and rise in fanciful elegance and of microscopic structure upon the withering dainties he has there stored up. While, again, some in- trude unwelcomely upon the romance of the deep forest dell, others dwell in the wine-cellar ; and not a few, to the aggravation of the housewife, revel upon the rich dainties of the preserve-closet. Lastly, while some attain a weight of several pounds, others float in the air like a thin smoke, and are wholly inappreciable by the most delicate balances. From these statements, it will be suffi- ciently apparent, that to suppose all fungi typified by the mushrooms, is an error well deserving an ample refutation. Few plants, in fact, exhibit such an extensive range of growth and variety of aspect. There are, probably, no fewer than from 4,000 to 5,000 species of fungi which have a place in the records of mycological* science. This immense horde of these plants appears scattered throughout almost all regions; no country or clime but has its fungal inhabitants; and neither can art contrive, nor nature contain, any place to which they will not or may not penetrate. The first plant of this order, discovered by the eminent botanist, Wither- ing, was found by him on the top of St. Pauls cathedral; this plant was the Ge-astrum. Another was found by Sir Joseph Banks in the following Tather annoying position ; having a cask of wine rather too sweet for immediate use, he directed that it should be placed in a cellar, that the sac- charine matter it contained might be decomposed by age; at the end of three years, he directed his butler to ascertain the state of the wine, but on attempting to open the cellar door, he could not effect it in consequence of some powerful obstacle; the door was, consequently, cut down, when the cellar was found to be completely filled with a fungous production, so firm that it was necessary to use the axe for its removal. This appeared to have grown firmer, or to have been nourished, by the decomposing particles of the wine, the cask being empty, and carried up to the ceiling, where it was supported by the fungus. The vaults of the London Docks are not less the choice abodes of these creatures than are the rotting heaps of manure by the open way-side, for there they cover the walls with a dense, shaggy coating, and em- brace the venerable casks with a living raiment. * ~ the Greek designation for fungus. Some love stone, some timber~ some find a con.. genial birth-place in the marble detritus of the sculptor, and some, alas! have an appetite for the vegetable fibre of our joists and frame-work, and imperil the stability of many a noble monument of architectural skill by their invincible ravages. Strange to say, some are not only parasitie upon vegetable, but even upon animal organisms. The vegetable wasp, a species of Polystrix, which constitutes so remarkable a fact in the natural his- tory of the West India Islands, is an instance where the powers of fungal life have overcome even those of animal vitality. The insect becomes filled with the filaments of the plant which thrives upon its juices, and penetrates to the minutest cavities of its body, ultimately projecting out of it, and communicating a highly singular aspect to the creature. Jhe silkworm is subject to a simi- lar disease, and perishes in large numbers by the ravages of a fungus, which occupies every portion of its body. Even the common house-fly is in- vaded by this vegetable infection; and when it is seen, as often it may be, in the autumn, sticking to the window-frame, apparently half enveloped in a whitish cloud, it will be found that a fungal has filled its body, and now reigns victorious in the place of all the beautiful organs of the insect struo- ture which have perished before it. The larva of a New Zealand moth is attacked also by a para- sitic fungus, whic~i enters it, perhaps, by some of the breathing pores, or spiracles, or by the mouth1 and, feeding upon its fluid parts, speedily replaces the whole interior by a mass of vegetable filaments. Man himself is not exempt from their invasion~ On the removal of bandages from sore surfaces, says one writer, a collection of funguses has been found growing upon them, generally about the size of the finger, and on reiidjusting the wrap- pings, a second crop came up in the course of twenty-four hours, and this for several days con- secutively. Dr. Bennet informs us, that a species of fungus occasionally grows within the air-tubes of the human lungs when they are in a disoased condition. They sometimes appear on the sur- face of the body during the occurrence of some cutaneous eruptions. Speculators in etiology have at times attributed the occurrence of epidemics to the dispersion of the spores of ministe fungi in the air, which are supposed to be inhaled into the lungs, and so obtain access to the vital organs of the body. We may reasonably mention the prob- ability of such a doctrine, and deny to the fun- guses the distinction of being in these cases the morbific cause. Cholera itselfthat direct de- stroyer of the human family, which, in the course of its thirty-two years of existence, has swept away not fewer than between sixty and seventy millions of the human racewas strenuously asserted by more than one learned physician to be a fungal disease. Fungous growths have been found in the air-cells of the lungs of an eider duck and flamingo, without, we believe, the coexistence of any class of disease. Thus much is very certain; and we may adopt the language of Fries as giving HADHAM AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. a precise expression of the fact, that their spira- They have been, on this account, called entophyta, des are so numerous, in a single individual I have just as the creatures which inhabit living animal reckoned above ten millions; so subtle, they are structures have been termed entozoa. Let us now spend a few moments in vindicating the character of fungals in respect of beauty of color. Where the wind sweeps over the untilled Highlands of the North, where the soil has not strength to bear the exhaustive growth of the cereals, and rears a tribe of humble heaths or feeble mosses as its tallest childrenthere, at the due season, will be found a fungus whose gorgeous apparel bears comparison with that of the richest flower, and exceeds the highest efforts of the col- orists art. This fungus is the Agaricus muscari us, growing in a canopy of splendid scarlet, contrasted with a stalk and gills of the purest ivory. But woe to him who partakes of this inviting plant. If it does not destroy him, it will plunge him into a state of intoxication bordering upon lunacy. At the borders of the woods, particularly under the shelter of oaks, will be found another fungus, the Cantharellus Cibarius, whose tincture might com- pare with that of many a more conspicuous occu- pant of our gardens: from spring-time to autumn its golden form may be seen glowing in the posi- tion described, and inviting the hand of the by- passernor in this case with a treacherous aspect, for it is as excellent in taste as it is beautiful in its yellow tinging. But these, lovely though they be, fade in the presence of some specimens of the Boletus luridus: here is a truly splendid fungal, the summit a snowy mound of velvet, lined with purple shaded into gold, and supported on a stalk passing from orange into the full lustre of a re- gal purple. This, too, is a magnificent enemy to the human economy. The Agaricus violaceus glories in beauty of another dye: it is of a dark violet, approaching to black, glossed over with a most peculiar coppery lustre, which no art can truly render; and it, we may add, is not only an esculent, but possesses a peculiarly rich flavor. Upon pieces of the corrugated bark of oaks, in autumn, may sometimes be found a curious fungal of another variety of beauty: this looks more like pieces of orange strewed carelessly here and there over the bark, and altogether presents a very sin- gular aspect. Principally under old oaks may be found, from July to November, a fungus which is gayest of the gay. Few Agarics, writes Mrs. Hussey, can boast of so excellent a devel- opment as this, whether the garb it selects for the nonce be of a lovely rose-color, or pervaded with lilac, having a changeable effect, or blotched, like a striped camelia, with rich crimson and white, according to the screen it has received from neigh- boring plants in its growth. Each of these various colors, at various times and places, adorns the pileus, relieving it from the pure white gills be- low. It gives no warning by its scent, or by any other external circumstances, of its deleterious quality. If the ignoramus should be tempted to taste, for a few moments all appears harmless, for it is tardily acrid; but it fully makes up for the scarce visible to the naked eye, and often resemble thin smoke; so light, raised perhaps by evapora- tiun into the atmosphere, and are dispersed in so many ways by the attraction of the sun, insects, wind, electricity, adhesion, & c., that it is difficult to conceive a place from which they can be ex- cluded. There is, therefore, no impossibility in the supposition that they may obtain access to the most secret recesses of the animal structure; al- though, as a cause of disease, it is impossible to understand their modus operandi, or to give any valid reasons for assigning any such influence at all to them. Among fungi of this class, we must also not forget to mention the Oxygena equina, which has the odd fancy fur fastening itself on the hoof~ of horses and on the horns of cattle. When we mention that several of the blights of the cereal plants, wheat and others, are due to fungous parasites upon vegetable structures, we shall sufficiently announce the alarming relation which is occupied by these despised plants to the well-being, or even the existence, of mankind. The kinds known as the Uredos and Puccinice, are among the most formidable visitations that can befall a corn district. Ask the farmer what he thinks of the smut in his corn, or of the rust and red-robin, and there will be unfolded such a tale of woe, such a history of ruin and calamity, as will convey a painful impression of the enor- mous devastation wrought by a species or two of microscopical fungi. The researches of Mr. Has- sall have demonstrated that the decay of fruit is, in a great measure, produced by them, and when the process has commenced, they then fatten upon the rotting matters. When our beer becomes mothery, (quaintly re- marks Dr. Badham,) the mother of that mischief is a fungus. If pickles acquire a bad taste, if ketchup turns ropy and putrefies, funguses have a finger in it all. Their reign stops not herethey prey upon each other; they even select their vic- tims. There is the Myrotitecium vi ride, which will only grow upon dry agarics, preferring chiefly for this purpose the A. adustus; the Mucor chrysosper- mus, which attacks the flesh of a particular Boletus; the Seleroticum cornuturn, which visits some other moist mushrooms in decay. There are some Xylo- mas that will spot the leaves of the maple, and some those of the willow, exclusively. The naked seeds of some are found burrowing between the op. pesite surface of leaves. The close cavities of nuts occasionally afford concealment to some species; others, like leeches, stick to the bulbs of plants and suck them dry.Esculent Pungu es of Eng- land, p. 8. These fungi, we must repeat, are excessively minute, or even microscopic in point of size. From experiment, it appears that their spores, or their fine conten , actually penetrate the stomata, or breathing orifices, of the plants, entering thus into their structure, where they rapidly become developed, and fulfil their destructive mission. 51 BADHA14 AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. delay, as the tortured investigator, with burning lips arid fauces, and tearful eyes, seeks in vain for alleviation. If not swallowed, however, the ef- fect shortly subsides. Upon yews and plumb- trees, in the summer-time, may often be seen a fungus which has all the aspect of a mass of sul- phur. Another, as common among the sweet turf as can be, though a minute fungus, boasts a glorious garb of orange and blood-red. High up in young oaks, in September, may be seen the liver of the oaka fungal as near like the hu- man tongue as can well be imagined, and hence termed by M. Paulet an eloquent tongue, proclaim- ing its own excellence, and inviting the passen- ger to eat it. Says Dr. Badham, It is so like a tongue in shape and general appearance, that in the days of enchanted trees, you would not have cut it off to pickle, or to eat on any account, lest the knight to whom it belonged should afterwards come to claim it of you. But the doctor forgets that such an unhappy victim of mycological re- search would not be ahie to make his demand sav- ing in dumb show! The surface is rough with b elevated papillam; the structure fibrous; the flesh softly elastic; the color bright red, looking like the tongue in the worst forms of gastro-entehitis ! As to shape, what geometry shall succeed in defining their ever-varying outlines l Some are simple threads, like the Byssus, and never get beyond this; some shoot out into branches, like seaweed; some puff themselves out into puff-balls; some thrust their heads into mitres; these assume the shape of a cop ; and those of a wine-funnel; some, likeAg. mammorus, have a teat; others, like the Ag. Clypeolarius, are umbonated at their centre ; these are stilted upon a high leg, and those have not a leg to stand upon; some are shell- shaped, many bell-shaped; and some hang upon their stalks like a lawyers xvig; some assume the form of a horses hoof; others of a goats beard; in the Clathrus cancellatus you look into the fungus through a thick red trellis, which surrounds it. Some exhibit a nest, in which they rear their young; and not to speak of those vague shapes, If shapes they can be called, that shape have none Determinate, of such tree-parasites as are fain to mould them- selves at the will of their entertainer, (the fate of par- asites, whether under oak or mahogany,) mention may be made of one exactly like an ear, of which the form is at once irregular and constant, which is given, for some good reason, to Judas, (Auri- cula Jude,) clings to several trees, and trembles when you touch it.Esculent Funguses, pp. 9, 10. As to surface, fungals still exhibit the same variety which marks their coloring and form. Some, to use Mrs. Husseys expression, look like a nest of serpents, peeping forth from the trees on which they flourish in all their scaly horrors. Others are spangled, as if with particles of broken glass. Some have a delicate feathery aspect, comparable to nothing so nearly as to the parasols of feathers, which appear in Eastern grandeurs. Some again are zoned with concentric circles, of different hues; some are clothed in a garb of, apparently, kid-skin, smooth and soft; and some take, for instance, the truffleare covered over with tubereles. Perhaps, to the unlearned in fungal history, nothing will appear more singular than what we are about to state, as to the consistence of these plants. So accustomed are we to take our gen- eral impressions of the characters of a natural family from those of a ~vell-known type, that it becomes a constant source of surprise to us to dis- cover the most opposite of external characters combined in the various members of the same tribe. The fungals furnish us with some good illustrations in point. Our impressions of them, as a family, are in the main derived from the com- moner sortsuch as the mushroom; and here the well-known fragility of this species communicates the same idea as a characteristic of the rest. But this is far from correct. Some hang upon trees like masses of trembling jelly; some are like pulp ; some are soft and mucous; others are spongy and elastic ; others, again, are mem- branous and parchment-like; others form admira- ble foot-balls, both in size and texture; others are tough, like leather; others firm like cork and, lastly, some as hard as wood. Some are so delicate as to perish on being touched ; the stern of some breaks with the softest breeze; the sturdy form of others stands unshaken in the tempest, and will endure the thrust of the travellers foot almost uninjured. How unlilte are all these, in their various particulars, to the characters of the mushroom tribe Neither have all fungals the characteristic odor and savor of the mushroom. The Agaricus alliaceus might cheat us into the belief that onions were at hand. The mucors have their own mouldy smell. Others, called by the anise-loving Linnamus suave-olens, diffuse a powerful scent of that cordial ; thus leading the polite reader to form no very refined notions of the great natural- ists olfactory sensibilities. The A garicus cinna- moneus, in color, and powerfully in odor, mimics the finest cinnamon. The Boletus salicinus has the reputation of smelling like sweet may-bloom. The Chanterelle and the odorous Agaric are per- fumed like apricots and ratafia. But, alas! many are of a positively nauseous and disgusting smell. The Phallus impudicus cannot be borne in the room, even for a few minutes. Dr. Badham tells us of an unlucky botanist who had, by mistake, taken it into his bed-room, and soon became awakened by the intolerable fmtor it diffused around; so that he was glad to open the window and get rid of it, as he hoped, and the Phallus, together; here he was disappointed sublata causa non tollitur effeetus the fmtor remaining nearly the same for some hours afterwards. A lady, who was drawing one in a room, was obliged to take it into the open air to complete her sketch. A fungus called the Clathrus becomes insupport- ably offensive in a short time, and its infective stench has given rise to a superstition entertained of it throughout the Landes, that it has the prop- 52 BADHAM AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. erty of producing cancer in those who touch it; in consequence of which the inhabitants, who call it cancrou, or cancer, cover it carefully over, lest by accident some chance to touch it, and thus become infected with that horrible disease. We shall speak of the variances of fungal savor when we advert to them as articles of diet; but it may be here mentioned, that they are as many as those of form, color, consistence, and odor. Some are as fierce as fire in this respect. Capsicums are cool in comparison therewith. Mrs. Hussey tells of a young man, ~vho, in spite of caution, insisted on tasting one species with the tip of his tongueinstantly he darted off, in a course apparently so objectless as to give painful doubts of his sanity, and was four~d ten minutes afterwards, his face half immersed in a brook which he had descried in the distance, vainly striving to cool the unquenchable flame com- municated by the fungal to his tongue. All the varieties of the flavors understood by us under the terms sweet, sour, rich, rank, and acridmany are quite without appreciable flavor of any kind. It is a remarkable fact that some fungi are phosphorescent. Mr. Gardner* relates the fol- lowing interesting circumstance in connection with this fact. One dark night, about the beginning of December, while passing along the streets of the Villa de Natividade, I observed some boys amusing themselves with some luminous object, which I at first supposed to be a kind of large fire-fly; but, on making inquiry, I was told that it grew abundantly in the neighborhood on the decaying leaves of a dwarf palm. Next day I obtained a great many specimens, and found them to vary from one to two and a half inches across. The whole plant gives out at night a bright phosphorescent light, of a pale greenish hue, similar to that emitted by the larger fire-flies, or by those curious soft-bodied marine animals, the Pyrosorncz; from this circumstance, and from growing on a palm, it is called by the inhabitants the for do coco. The light given out by a few of these fungi in a dark room was sufficient to read by. It proved to be quite a new species, and, since my return from Brazil, has been described by the Rev. M. J. Berkeley under the name of Agaricus Gardneri, from preserved specimens which I brought home. In the coal-mines near Dresden are fungi of another species, which are a safer source of light even than the safety-lamp of the illustrious Davy. These fungi. belong to the singular genus Rhizornorpha. A paper in a scientific periodical, published some years since, furnishes a good account of the curious effect pro- duced by these plants in these otherwise dark and dreary excavations. The visitor has no need of artificial illuminationthe sides and roof of the black tunnels glow with pale stars of light, which fill the abyss with a soft diffusive lustre, and create the belief that some enchanting pswer has locked us in a fairy palace, whose walls glitter * Travels in the Interior of Brazil. 1846. with gems of radiance. The light arising from a large number of them becomes almost dazzling to gaze upon. Might not these fungi be introduced into our mines with advantage l The spawn of the truffle is luminous, and is thus sometimes dis- covered with great readiness. The olive-groves of Italy are sometimes seen to be dimly illuminated with a phophoresceiit agaric; and Rumphius, in Amboyna, and Mr. Drummond, at the Swan River, speak of similar phenomena. The light produced by these various species of plants is probably due, as in ordinary cases of phosphorescence, simply to the oxidation of a vegetable product containing phosphorus. That mushrooms come up suddenly, as in a night, is a popular aphorism, older than we dare state; and certain it is, that in the rapidity, power, and size of their growth, they are wonderful plants. At the seasons of warm rains in summer, puff-balls will groxv with amazing rapidity. Particularly during electrical disturbances of the atmosphere, the fungi will sometimes spring up with a swift- ness of growth akin to the marvellous. Perhaps their expansive powers in growing are eyen more remarkable. In the Elements of Physiology, by Dr. Carpenter, a curious instance of the im- mense force of an expanding fungus is related In the neighborhood of Basingstoke, a paving- stone, measuring twenty-one inches square, and weighing eighty-three pounds, was completely raised an inch and a half out of its bed by a mass of toadstools of from six to seven inches in diameter; and nearly the whole pavement of the town suffered displacement from the same cause ! Dr. Badham says I have myself recently wit- nessed an extensive displacement of the pegs of a wooden pavement, which had been driven nine inches into the ground, but were heaved up irregu- larly in several places by small bouquets of agarics, growing from below. M. Bulliard relates, that on placing a Phallus impudicus within a glass vessel, the plant ezpanded so rapidly as to shiver its sides with an explosive detonation, as loud as that of a pistol. Of all vegetable structures, we should least expect such singular results from the expansion of the generally soft and fragile plants under consideration. We are taught by them an impressive lesson of the invincible power of the feeblest causes when their operation is constant. Strange things are told as to fungal dimensions. Some, as we have observed, are invisible to the unassisted eye, floating perhaps in the vital air we inhale; but the dimensions of others we dare scarcely venture to state, and, making the venture, we shall only do so under the shelter of authorities. The family of the puff-balls is the most prolific in the production of giant fungi. Although their usual size is small, not exceeding that of an egg, Mrs. Hussey has figured one which fully justifies, without, as she declares, the smallest help of the pencil, the description conveyed under the Greek term xguvtoe, from its striking resemblance in point of form and dimensions to the human skull. The nasal prominence and the frontal eminences, 53 EADHAM AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. with the suture between them, are well mimicked in this curious fungus. This accomplished mycolo- gist states, that the specimen was found growing among some felled timber, and in a most confined space, attaining the dimensions of a half-peck loaf. The environs of Padua produce, as it is said by Cicinelli, enormous puff-balls, measuring two feet in diameter! Mr. Berkeley, whose opinions on fungal history are sterling among botanists, quotes the case of a fungus which in three weeks grew to seven feet five inches in circumference, and weighed thirty-four pounds! Baptist Perta speaks of a fungus which in a few days attained a weight of twelve pounds, and was too large to be embraced by both the hands. Mr. Angus informs us, that in the woods of New Zealand large funguses stand out from the parent trees so boldly and rigidly as to make commodious seats! But the giant fungus of all is one whose dimensions come ~lown to pos- terity on the authority of Clusius. This monstrous plant grew in Pannonia, was discovered by a fungus-loving family, who all partook of it until they could eat no more, and there remained behind enough to fill a chariot! In the deep recesses of woods, and elsewhere, where suffered to grow unmolested, the mycological traveller may often stumble upon specimens whose enormous dimen- sions take away much of the apparent improbability from the last-quoted anecdote. The vis medicatrix naturcs, on which so much ink-shed has taken place, is remarkably exercised in the case of the fungi. Let a snail come and take his morning meal out of the summit of a splendid boletus, this power, be it what it may, immediately directs the refilling of the cavity, and it is speedily accom- plished in such a manner as to render the injury al- most imperceptible. This power, of course, greatly tends to the preservation of the individual, and thus indirectly contributes to its vast enlargement in size. Those who have given most thought to mycology are still in a position of painful uncertainty, strange to say, as to the real nature of fungi! Will it be believed 1 it is even questioned whether they be plants at all ; whether, in fact, they do not belong to some kingdom intermediate between plants and animals. And, certainly, if the extraordinary and life-like movements observed in the fibres of some species, such as those described in the next sen- tence, were a fair argument for such a theory, its supporters are not far from the truth; but, un- fortunately for their idea, equally striking move- ments exist in many higher plants than fungi, upon whose vegetable nature no question can be entertained. The following movements are de- scribed in the words of their observer, Mr. Robson, who noticed their occurrence in the fibres of the fungus called the Clathrus. At first, he says, I was much surprised to see a part of the fibres that had got through a rupture in the top of the ~GZathrus moving like the legs of a fly, when laid upon his back; I then touched it with the point of a pin, and was still more surprised when I saw it present the appearance of a little bundle of worms entangled together, the fibres being all alive; I next took the little bundle of fibres quite out, and the animal motion was then so strong as to turn the head half-way round, first one way, and then another, and two or three times it got out of the focus. Almost every fibre had a different motionsome of them twined round one another, and then untwined again, while others were bend- ing, extending, coiling, waving, & c. These movements may have been simply hygrometric. Other authors have entertained doubts of fungals being more than mere accidental developments of vegetable tissue, called into action by special con- ditions of light, heat, soil, and air. These doubts, to quote the thoughtful observations of Mr. Berke- ley, have been caused by some remarkable cir- cumstances connected with their development, the most material of which are the following : They grow with a degree of rapidity unknown in other plants, acquiring the volume of many inches in the space of a night, and are frequently meteoric; that is, springing up after storms, or only in par- ticular states of the atmosphere. It is possible to increase particular species with certainty by an ascertained mixture of organic and inorganic materials exposed to well-known atmospheric con- ditions, as is formed by the process adopted by gardeners for obtaining Agaricus carnpestrisa process so certain, that no one ever knew any other kind of agaric produced in mushroom-beds, except a few of the duoghill tribe, where raw dung has been placed near the surface of the bed. This could not happen if the mushroom sprang from seeds floating iii the air, as in that case many species would naturally be mixed together. Fungi are produced constantly upon the same kind of matter, and upon nothing else, such as the species that are parasitic upon leaves; all which is con- sidered strong evidence of the production of fungi being accidental, and not analogous to that of perfect plants. Such, however, is far from the conviction of our own minds upon the subject. M. Dutrochet has instituted some curious experi- ments which may be quoted; he found that he could obtain at pleasure different species of mould- mess by using different infusions; he also states that certain acid fluids constantly yield monilias, and that certain alkaline mixtures produce hotrytis. What is the conclusion to be drawn from these facts I That the fungi are mere metamorphoses of ordinary cellular tissue, without law of oenus or species Scarcely so. May we not rather bear in profitable recollection the recent discoveries of natural chemnistry upon the mineral ingredients peculiar to each plant When we mix up our compost for mushrooms, what is it that we do but bring together, it may be, those mineral ingredients most favorable to the development of mushrooms from spores already floating in the air, or existing hitherto unquickened in the soil Why does the botrytis select an alkaline bed, if it be not that the alkali is most favorable to its development~ Wheat will not grow in a soil destitute of siliceous matter, alkalies, and nitrogen ; yet other plants will grow there, and perhaps exclusively. We are not, therefore, to attach much weight to an argument drawn from the, at first sight, striking 54 BADHAM AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. fact, that by a mixture of certain well-known ingredients we can produce mushrooms, and that, ~nsequently, they are merely chance developments arising out of the union of certain substances. Such a conclusion is altogether unsound. It is now well known that plants have a sort of indi- vidual bill of fare upon which, and which alone, they will thrive. It appears, therefore, more probable to suppose that the seeds, it may be, of several species of fungi exist in such substances as we mix together; but the peculiar character of the mixture is favorable to the development only of one speciesthe common mushroom, the seeds of the others still lying dormant; rather than to suppose that they arise from no seminal germs, but, as it were, by an accident, which must be allowed to be constant in its occurrence. It is more in accordance with the principles of scicnce to believe that the monilia of an acid liquid was developed from a spore which found in it the suitable pabulum it required, than to imagine that the monilia is the offspring of some inexplicable process of equivocal generation, which can only take place in an acid fluid. This is not the place to pursue the discussion; and, at the risk of being thought tedious, we have followed it thus far only because the argument of spontaneous generation appears in some danger of being revived in the case of these plants. Altogether, however, it must be acknowledged that the subject is a very difficult one; the more learned the mycologist, the greater his perplexity. iDr. Badham is disposed to consider the origin of fungals from seed, as in other plants; and that, further, the seed is in most cases furnished by, or at least, latent in, the nidus in which they are de- veloped. Although the theory he advocates is defended with spirit, and although it is certain that fungi actually occur in closed fruits, and in corollas of flowers when they are sealed up in air- tight envelopes, it may still be fairly questioned whether the atmosphere does not, in a very large number of cases, waft the light sporules to their birth-place, where they become quickened into life by the usual forces. From this subject, which may not appear to all our readers in the interesting and important light, and in the attractive garb, it possesses for some, we may appropriately turn to the consideration of a curious part of fungal historytheir artificial production. The common mushroom is culti- vated to a very large extent for the supply of our markets, and its production is as certainly insured by the methods resorted to, as in the ordinary case of plants produced from seed. The following plan, by M. Roques, is recommended by its sim- plicity, and is said to be infallible Having observed that all those dunghills which abounded chiefly in sheep or cow droppings, began shortly to turn mouldy on their surface, and to bear mushrooms, I collected a quantity of this manure, which, as soon as it began to turn white, I strewed lightly over some melon-beds, and some spring caops of vegetables, and obtained in either case, and as often as I repeated the experiment, a ready supply of excellent mushrooms, which came up from a month to six weeks after the dung had been so disposed of; but as an equable temperature is in all cases desirable, to render the result certain, where this cannot be secured under the protection of glass, the next best plan is to scatter a portion of the above dungs, mixed with a little earth, in a cave or cellar, to which some tan is an excellent addition; for tan, though it kills other vegetable growths, has quite an opposite effect on funguses. Esculent Funguses, p. 42. It has been recommended to throw the water in which fungi have been washed over a suitable spot, and the result is stated to be a good crop of the same species. In the Landes, on the au- thority of Dr. Thore, we are informed that the inhabitants are constantly successful in rearing the fungi called Boletus edulis Agaricus procerus, from i watery infusion of the said plants. But Dr. Badham, who carefully experimented upon ~the subject, was wholly unable to produce the same results; and other high authorities are given, where experiments proved equally vain. Perhaps the most singular mode of producing funguses artificially is one which is largely re- sorted to by the Italian people. The fungus in this case is actually produced by a stone! This stone is called the Pictra fungliaja. Cesalpinus has given directions for procuring it the whole year through, which, he says, is to be done either by irrigating the soil over the site of the stone, or by transferring the Pietra funghaia with a portion of the original mould, and watering it in our own garden. Porter adds, that the funguses take seven days to come to perfection, and may be gathered from the naked block, if it is properly moistened, six times a year; but, in preference to merely watering the blocks, he recommends that a light covering of garden mould should be first thrown over thenr. This fungus-producing stone has a very limited range of territory, and lies imbedded frequently in a variety of soils, in consequence of which its fungus is very variable in flavor, much depending upon the kind of humus in which its matrix happens to be placed. Those that grow on the high grounds above Sorrento, and on the sides of Vesuvins, are in less esteem among the mycophagous Italians than such as are broughti into the Naples market from the mountains of Apulia; most probably the spores of the fungus in question are actually contained in the porous upper surface of the stone, merely requiring heat and moisture for their development into life. How many of the poetical dreams of our child- hood are destroyed with the advance of this cold, unspiritualizing age! No longer let the reader, as he trips homeward in the dewy evening, when the shadows of night come creeping over bill and valley, hold his breath at passing a bright and luxuriant Fairy Ring, in the meadow. No longer let him fear to put foot within its green circle, nor tremble at the consequences of disturb- ing the good people~ in their night-dances around on those once mysterious plots of gra8s~ 55 56 BADHAM AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. Mycological science comes, and with her steady finger, picks out a half-dozen agarics, and accuses them of thus marking out Natures green carpet into irregular circles. Nor have they anything to say against it. But more soberly To recapitulate the various fancies recorded on the subject of Fairy Rings would be a waste of time and paper. The fact that Agaricus arcades appears shortly after thunder-storms, gives rise to an opinion that the withered grass of its circles was lightning-blasted; and in Captain Browns notes to Whites Selborne, he quotes Mr. Johnson, of Wetherby, a correspondent of the Philosophi- cal Journal, to this effect : He attributes them to the droppings of starlings, which, when in large flights, frequently alight upon the ground in circles, and sometimes are known to sit a considerable ti[ne in these annular congregations ! If philosophy had but condescended to use a spade, the truth would then have been scented at least, for the earth be- neath these bare rings is white with the spawn of the agaric causing them, and the peculiar smell either of Agaricus orcades or A, aricus Georgii is detected instantly; in fact, it is many times more potent than that of the fungus itself.British My- cology, part xiii. Fairy Rings are of various sizes; some are as small as to possess a diameter of only a foot or so, others have a circumference of ninety or a hundred feet. The phenomenon has long puzzled botanists, and although it is better understood now than for- merly, it must be confessed that we are still in great ignorance about it. We must not be mis- understood. Let it be distinctly stated, there is not the least doubt in the minds of those who have paid the smallest attention to the subject that the cause of fairy rings is to be found in the fungi which people themthe difficulty is to account for the peculiar mode of growth which they thus adoptthe form of a circle, often of the truest mathematical proportions. It is commonly ac- counted for by supposing that the seeds of the fungi are shed at first in a circular form, and that the plants progressively enlarge, retaining the same form, by projecting their seeds to a certain dis- tance all round. In winter and spring these circles exhibit a luxuriant growth of grass of the most brilliant and refreshing green. In summer they are seared and dry. It has been on this account considered that the dibris of the past years fungi serves as manure to the grass, which is much quickened and invig- orated in growth thereby during those seasons when the fungi lie dormant; but when, as in sumnier, the fungi are awakened to activity, they then are too vi0orous for the grass, deprive it of its proper nourishment, and thrive at its expense. Sometimes they be~ome most unsightly, particu- larly when a lady is solicitous of keeping her lawn as smooth and elegant in appearance as her drawing-room carpet. The Society of Arts has offered a prize for the best method of eradicating them. We believe nothing will succeed but dig- ging up the spawn-charged soil all round, and im- planting in its place fresh soil and turf free from the same infection. Coiisidered as an article of diet, fungi assume an importance which has hitherto never been conceded to them in this country, and which indeed it is the main object of the work before us to advocate. From statistical details, which will be mentioned further on, it is rendered positively certain that a very large source of income and sustenance is annually left to exhaust itself in vain in our woods and meadows. And while we are anxious to lay down such restrictions as shall con.. fine the use of fungi within the limits of safety, we are equally anxious to obtain for Dr. Badham a fair hearing on this interesting and important topic. While it is certain that a large number of serious, and even fatal, accidents have taken plaee from the consumption of deleterious fungi, it is equally certain that the popular prejudice against them ranges far, very far, beyond the boundaries of truth, and that a large number now condemned to decay unused, or even abhorred and despised, are as useful for the purposes of the table as thos. which enjoy the prescriptive privilege of appearing there. The rule which appears to have influenced us has been the safe, but unphilosophical, one of rather condemning many innocent fungi than run the risk of one injurious species finding its way to the larder. It is very certain a large number of eminent names might be set down on the other side, and those of men who are themselves, in very truth, practisers of the mycophagus doctrines they up- hold. M. Roques, a French writer on the fungi, and an advocate for their introduction to a wider range of utility, with the enthusiasm of his nation, gives at the end of his treatise a long list of his mycophilous friends, including in the number many of the most eminent medical men of Paris. Another writer tells us, that in seeing the peas- ants at Nuremburg eating raw mushrooms, he too, for several weeks, determined to follow their ex- ample, and, with a greater degree of self-denial than can be safely recommended to other and more delicate lovers of the fungi, restricted himself entirely to this diet for several weeks. He ate with them nothing but bread, and drank nothing but water, and the odd result of this bold experi- ment was, that instead of finding his health ira- paired and. his strength diminished, he came out of his period of discipline stronger and better than before. The truth is, the only certain method of dis- tinguishing them is a proper moderate botanical acquaintance with their conformation, and charao- teristic peculiarities. For those who cannot spare the time for the attainment of such knowledge, we would strongly recommend, as an invaluable com- panion on a fungus-hunting expeditionpro- suming of course, that its object is the collection of esculent fungi for the tablethis book of Dr. Badhams. So soon as autumn comes and brings the fungi in its train, it is our own intention to put the work under our arm and plunge into the woods the very first opportunity. The admirably executed plates of the work are the chief guide- BADHAM AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. marks by which we intend to eat or avoid, to collect or reject, and we are satisfied that pursuing their indications a safe and valuable article of food ~n be obtained at a trifling cost. We must spare room for a few extracts upon the other uses which fnngi may be made to sub- serve, in addition to their esculent properties. Some, as the Polyporus suipliures, furnish a use- ful color for dyeing; the A~, aricus atramentarius makes ink; divers lycoperdons have also been employedfor stupefying bees, for stanching blood, and for making tinder. Gleditsch relates, that amadou (which is a species of fungus prepared by boiling, and then beating out in sheets) is stitched together by the poorer inhabitants of Fran- conia, who make dresses of it; and also that the Laplanders burn it in the neighborhood of their dwellings to secure their rein-deer from the attacks of gad-flies, which are repelled by the smoke. The Polyporus squamosus makes a razor strop (!) far superior to any of those at present patented and sold with high-sounding epithets, far beyond their deserts. To prepare the Polyporus for this pur- rose, it must be cut from the ash-tree in the autumn, when it has been dried, and its substance has become consolidated; it is then to be flattened out for twenty-four hours in a press, after which it should be carefully rubbed with pumice, sliced longitudinally, and every slip that is free from the erosions of insects should be then glued upon a wooden stretcher. Cesalpinus knew all this; and the barbers in his time knew it too; and it is not a little remarkable that so useful an invention should, in an age of puffing, advertisement, and improvement like our own, have been entirely lost sight of. The Agericus muscarius is largely em- ployed in Kamtschatka, in decoction with Epilobium angust~foliurn, as an intoxicating liquor.P. 20. The opening sentence of this article, quoting Sir John Pringles words, declared that nothing grows in vain. Yet in a great measure, up to the present time, the fungi have grown in vain, or near- ly so, for our fellow-countrymen. Spite of all that both can and ought to be said as to the dangers at- tending the indiscriminate use of these plants as esculents, it cannot he too widely made known that upon the broad fields, and in the wild woods of England, every year beholds the wasteful destruction of an enormous mass of excellent, safe, and nourishing food. No country is richer in esculent fungi than is our own ; while only four or five find their way into our markets. The gracious hand of Divine Providence has enriched us with at least thirty species, which may be safely partaken of, and some of which are a most excellent article of diet. No markets might, therefore, be better supplied than the English, and yet England is the only country in Europe where this important and savory food, is, from ignorance or prejudice, left to perish ungathered. In France, Germany, and Italy, this tribe of plants not only constitutes for weeks together the sole diet of thousands, but the residue, either fresh or dried, or otherwise preserved in oil, brine or vinegar, is sold by the poor, and forms a very valuable source of income to many who have no other produce to bring into the market. Well, then, may fungi be called by M. Roques, the manna of the ~poor. However desirous, we must add, we may feel to extend the resources of our struggling poor, we never wish to see a fungus market opened so long as those in authority are as negligent of the public health as they now are. Without a doubt, its first sale would be the distribution of baskets full of poison to a hundred homes. Untaught by popular experience, and unguided by a sufficient knowledge of botany, and of the diagnostic differ- ences between the safe and unsafe, species, the poor fungus-gatherer would cull indiscriminately the teeming produce of the woods and fields, the moment he was informed that many more fungi than he commonly collected were good for food, and the result may be conceived. By all means, then, let us circulate the information that food in large quantities lies scattered about the country, waiting the hand of the gatherer; but at the same time, forbid its sale, save at public markets, where its salubrity should be decided by competent authority. We might in this matter take example by the prudent regulations of the special com- mittee of health at Rome, as they are communicated to us in the following summary from the pen of Professor Sanguinetti, the official inspector of the fungus market at Rome For forty days during the autumn, and for about half that period every spring, large quantities of funguses picked in the immediate vicinity of Rome, from Frascati, Rocca di Papa, Albana, be-. yond Monte Mario, towards Ostia and the neigh- borhood of the cities of Veii and Gahii, are brought in at different gates. In the year 1837, the govern- ment instituted the so-called Congregazione Spe- ciale di Sanita, which, among other duties, was more particularly required to take into serious con- sideration the commerce of funguses, from the un- restricted sale of which, during some years past, cases of poisoning had not unfrequently occurred. The following were the decisions arrived at by this body I. That for the future an inspector of funguses, versed in botany, should be appointed to attend the market in the place of the peasant, whose supposed practical knowledge had hitherto been held as a sufficient guarantee for the public safety. 2. That all the funguses brought into Rome by the different gates should be registered, under the surveillance of the principal officer, in whose pres- ence also the baskets were to be sealed up, and the whole for that days consumption sent under escort to a central depflt. 3. That a certain spot should be fixed upon for the fungus market, and that nobody, under penalty of fine and imprisonment, should hawk them about the streets. 4. That at seven oclock, A. M., precisely, the inspector should pay his daily visit and examine the whole of the contents of the baskets, previously emptied on the ground by the proprietors, who were then to receive, if the funguses were approved of, a printed permission of sale from the police, and to pay for it an impost of one baioccho (a half- penny) on every ten pounds. 5. That quantities under ten pounds should not be taxed. 57 BADHAM AND HUSSEY ON THE FUNGI. 6. That the stale funguses of the preceding day, as well as those that were mouldy, bruised, filled with ma~,gots, or dangerous, together with any specimen of the common mushroom (Agaricus corn- pestris (!) ) detected in any of the baskets, should be sent under escort and thrown into the Tiber. 7. That the inspector should be empowered to fine or imprison all those refractory to the above regulations; and, finally, that he should furnish a weekly report to the tribunal of provisions of the proceeds of the salePp. 8, 9. Such a sanitary code would scarcely in all points suit the English market; hut it contains clauses which may prove valuable hints for the formation of a similar one, on the presumption that the sale of fungus will at some future time rise to the dignity of a commerce. It would be easy to enforce the sale of fungi only at stated places, and to command the services of many versed in mycological science at stated intervals to inspect, approve, or condemn, the specimens submitted for sale. A boon of great value would be conferred upon the public hy such an arrange- mnent, and it is little questionable that an annual means of occupation for hundreds of now idle, hungering, or even starving poor would be thus opened. We heartily sympathize with Dr. Bad- ham in this matter. While it is doubtful whether a lasting and wide benefit would be extended to the poor by the fungus trade, it is not in the least doubtful that a very considerable addition to their means of existence would be thus made for a cer- tain period in every year; and these are not the times even when a small supply of food is to he despised, or suffered to be neglected. From the statistical returns of the Roman Tribunale della Grascie, it is evident that the fungus trade is not so despicable a thing as might be imagined, when once its resources are developed, and its regularity insured. The return of taxed mushrooms in the city of Rome during the last ten years, gives a yearly average of between sixty and eighty thou- sand pounds weight; and when it is remembered that quantities under ten pounds are not taxed, that large quantities are also disposed of in bribes, fees, and presents, it may fairly he estimated at double this amount. The average price for fun- guses in the Roman market is about six bajoechi, or three pence per pound, in the fresh state; hence the actual commercial value of the fungi sold in this state at Rome alone equals nearly 2,000 a year. But the fresh funguses after all form only a part of the whole consumption; immense quantities are also sold in the dried, pickled, or preserved conditions, and the price of these is about is. 3d. per pound. Adding this to the last we should find the fungus trade of this city falls little short of 4,000 ster- hug per annum! Surely here are facts enough to set a whole expedition of fungus-gatherers on the search. Would that the British government would take a lesson for once from the Celestials, and, imitating the enlightened carefulness of that power, not only provide food for the starving, but teach them how to use that which already lies de- caying at their very thresholds. Let us hope to see ere long a niche in Covent-garden market foi the neglected fungi, and a scientific policeman, if no better may he provided, acting the part of the Inspettore aei fund hi. As we have felt anxious to set in prominence the economical importance of the fungi, we have made less frequent reference to Mrs. Husseys magnificent work than would have been the case under other circumstances. The book is truly a beautiful one. The illustrations are from the ladys own portfolio; and for scientific accuracy, delicacy of coloring, and artistic elegance of ar- rangement, we are acquainted with few illustrated works in botany which will bear comparison with them. The letter-press is in a light, agreeable style, and he must be a cold-hearted reader who cannot catch something of the mycological passion with which this enthusiastic authoress contrives to enliven her pages. There are few other lith- ographic presses in England, if any, that could have turned out such a work. The copious ex- tracts we have made from Dr. Badhams work sufficiently attest our high estimation of its merit, Most heartily do we desire for it such a circula- tion as will diffuse the valuable information (vahi. able even in a pecuniary sense) which it contains throughout Great Britain. Although we should be sorry to see beef-steaks exchanged for diet of fungi, we should rejoice to see fungi take a sup& . nor rank to the little nutricious esculents in more common use. Dr. Badhams book, by the nature and startling character of the facts it treats of, is well calculated to awaken public sympathy with its object, and attention to its subject. What country gentleman, we ask, would be without a book on his library shelves, by the help of which he might every autumn many times more than realize twice its cost, in obtaining, for the mere trouble of collection, a savory and excellent arti- cle of dietnot to mention the benefits he might thereby be enabled to confer on his poorer neigh- bors, by enlightening them upon the value and importance of what they had hitherto stigmatized as toad-stools The illustrations to this work are by Mrs. Hussey, to whom every feature of this strange family of plants seems familiar, and are executed in the best style of art. The general merit of this work makes us unwilling to look too narrowly into the vices of its occasional style, but we may reasonably ask, why a man of Dr. Bad- hams attainments and practical good sense should have thought it necessary to favor us with the youthful ode to Eupepsia, which appears at page 29, and commences with the following verse Happy the man whose prudent care Plain boiled and roast discreetly bound; Content to feed on homely fare, On British ground. (!!) Think too, gentle reader, of such lines as the following, which shine in page 31, and prove how strongly the learned Doctors muse savors of the hospital 58 THE GREAT SALT LAKE CITY. Lies the last meal all undigested still, Does chyle impure your poisoned lacteals fill, Does Gastrodynias tiny gimlet bore, Where the crude load obstructs the rigid door? Were it not for the sound, practical common sense, which forms a main ingredient in the hook, we should feel tempted to speak more severely of these poetical effusions. We may hope that, in the next edition, the Esculent Funguses of England will be introduced to the public consid- eration without this garnish. We must not omit to mention, that, in addition to ample directions for the diagnosis of the esculent funguses, some receipts for cooking them are given, which are likely to prove useful to the maitre or maitresse de cuisine. From the Western Christian Adrocate. THE GREAT SALT LAKE CITY. EARLy in April, 1847, one hundred and forty- three men, two women, and two children, started out as pioneers from Council Bluffs, Iowa. These Mormons made an entire new road on the north Bide of the Platte, crossing Elk-horn to Fort Lar- amie; they then took the Oregon trail to Fort Bridger, when they commenced a new route through the Rocky Mountains. On the 23d of July, the first camp moved into and halted at what is now called the centre of the city. In the after- noon of the same day they had three ploughs and one harrow at work. At two oclock, i~. M., of the same day, they commenced building the first dam for irrigation. The next day, Saturday, they planted five acres of potatoes. On the 28th of the same month, what they style the quorum of the Twelve Apostles as- sembled, and laid off a city as follows: Blocks of ten acres each, eight lots to the block, an acre and a quarter in each lot; the streets eight rods wide; the sidewalks twenty feet wide; the sidewalks to be beautifnlly shaded; the blocks to be surrounded by a purling brook, issuing from the mountains; every house to be built twenty feet from the front fence. No two houses front each other; standing in his own door, every man may not look into his neighbors door, but into his neighbors garden. They have four public squares, which are hereafter to be adorned with trees from the four quarters of the globe, and supplied with fountains of water. On the temple square they intend to have a garden that will cost at least $100,000 at the commencement. Their missionaries have already made arrangements in the Eastern States, in Great Britain, France, Italy, Denmark, the Germanic States, and in the islands of the sea, to gather the choicest seeds and fruits, and everything that can beautify and adorn the garden. At first the city was laid off to contain 135 blocks. Since then an addition of 05 blocks has been made on the east, and 60 on the west. They have laid off one mile square on the east of the city for a University. It will not be two years until next October since the first house was built in this city, and it now num- bers at least nine thousand. They already have convenient houses built of doliesdried brickand most of the luxuries of life. They expect an emi- gration of at least ten thousandof their own people this year. The only method of cultivation is by irrigation from what they call City Creek. Just as this creek opens in the valley from the snow-capped mountains, it divides into two main branches, which afterward sub-divide. This water, from the moun- tains to the temple block, has an average fall of nine inches in a rod, for a distance of more than ten miles, with a greater fall the further you ad- vance into the mountains. At one mile and a third from the city is a warm sulphur spring, which pos- sesses great cleansing and purifying properties, and which, it is affirmed, cures most diseases of this climate. About a mile and a half further is a hot sulphur spring. On the south side of the valley is a hot spring of pure water. The water of this spring is twenty-nine feet three inches deep. The city is located about twenty-two miles south- east of the Great Salt Lake. This lake is ~onsid- ered more saline than the ocean, three gallons of the water making one gallon of the purest, finest salt. The valley is about thirty miles by twenty- two, joining to a valley of about fifty miles by eight in width. From the entire north to the south these two valleys are studded with settlers, numbering from fifteen to twenty thousand. The lieutenant engineer, Mr. Gunnison, estimates these valleyshaving explored themas capable of sup- porting a population of from one and a half to two millions. On the south of this valley lie the Utah valley and lake, about fifty miles from the city. The name of their city is Provo, on the south side of the Provo river. The lake is pure watereight miles by fourabounding with fish. About one hundred miles south of this they have established a settlement of about one hundred and fifty families. The valley is called San Pete. Here there are many ruins covered with hieroglyphics. One place, in particular, is called by the Indians Gods Tem- pIe. Here, also, many remains of ancient pottery, both glazed and unglazed, are found in great abun- dance; and here, also, is a mountain of pure rock salt, and abundance of bituminous coal. During five months of the year there can be no communication with the north, east, or west, the mountains being rendered impassable by the snow. This city is situated about forty and a half degrees north latitude, and one hundred and eleven degrees longitude west of Greenwich. The productiveness of the soil is astonishing. We are here in the midst of their harvest, and never have we seen such wheat. We will itive you one out of many authentic accounts. M. Hol- liday, from the south of this place, raised upward of one hundred and eighty-five bushels of wheat from one bushel of seed, and three hundred bushels of potatoes from one bushel of seed. This valley is regarded as one of the healthiest portions of the globe; the air is certainly the pur- est I ever breathed. Its altitude is four thousand feet above the level of the sea; and some of the mountains on the east of the valley are more than a mile and a quarter high, and are covered with perpetual snow; while in the valley the thermom- eter frequently rises above one hundred degrees. So much for this city and valley. As to the moral and other aspects of this people, I have not i~t present time or space to write anything. It is due to them to say that I have not seen anything vicious since my arrival. They are very kind and hospitable to emigrants. The emigrants drop them a thousand commodities for a small consideration, as they change from the train to the packing method of accomplishing the remainder of their journey; while they, in their turn, are greatly accommodated in obtaining supplies and refreshments, at this little more than half-way house over plains and deserts. SOUTHEY S LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE. From the Athenaum. The L~fe and Correspondence of the late Robert & ut hey. Edited by his Son, the Rev. CHARLES CUTHBERT SOUTHEY. Vol. VI. Reprinted by Harper & Brothers. THAT we approach the close of this work with- out regret is, we must repeat, owing to no want of interest in its subject, from no question as to the value of the fullest possible portraiture of the author of Thalaba, The Colloquies, The Life of Nelson, and The Doctor,but because an increased sense that the hands which have held the pencil ar~ imperfectly skilled in draughtman- ship. Here is no satisfactory picture either of the man or of the author. It is of little purpose that the biographer in his epilogue authenticates and commends himself as under While, however, I have necessarily been obliged to leave out many interesting letters, I feel satis- fled that I have published a selection abundantly sufficient to indicate all the points in my fathers characterto give all the chief incidents in his life, and to show his opinions in all their stages. The Rev. Mr. Southey forgets that he has memory to help him. Those not possessing such aid will hardly accept the indications as clearnor admit that the chief incidents of Southeys life are sufficiently laid before the public. Let us at once add, that we do not conceive these to have lain in the poets domestic career. Regarding that, we are convinced from what is before us that affection- ate and reverent discretion has been used by the biographer. Whatever comes of minute history on a future day, we would not have the dark closet which exists in every household laid bare to a prying public, while the master-spirit of the silent mansion is hardly cold in his grave. The bad and vulgar spirit of curiosity cannot be too peremptorily barred out and discouraged in all such cases.Our censure refers to the literary life of the Laureatefor his works were with him chief incidents. We recollect how, when Southey was called on to arran~ e a biography, he gathered here a trait, there a characteristic wordfrom a third source a familiar note or memorandum pre- cious because it was individualtill in his sketch- ing the man was complete before us. When we advert, for instance, to his Life of Cowper, wrought, to use his own words, in mosaic,~~ when we recall the adroit and fascinating man- ner in which the rise, continuance and close of Cowpers chief incidentshis workswere dwelt onwe cannot reconcile ourselves to the indiffer- ence with which Southeys late literary labors are here thrown down on the page, rather than framed in the gallery of pictures. The very his- tory of this aforesaid Life of Cowper was worth inquiring into and narrating. Then, in place of anything like a satisfactory or coherent birth, par- entage and education of that queer book, The Doctor, we have merely a few scattered traits and glimpses, which convince us how rich the subject must have been if treated less slightlynot to say unsympathetically. Lastly, as regards the cor.. respondence, we seem to recollect letters in former biographical and literary workslet us instance the Lives of William Taylor of Norwich, and of Sir Egerton Brydges, and the topographical col- lections of Mr. Bray, as suggesting themselves at the momentthe variety of which warrants us in fancying that but a poor and meagre selection from the correspondence is here before us. This sixth volume begins with a portraiture of Southey when about fifty-five years old. The pas- sages concerning his manner have been furnished by a friend of the biographer His forehead was very broad; his height was five feet eleven inches; his complexion rather dark: the eyebrows large and arched; the eye well shaped and dark brown; the mouth somewhat prominent, muscular, and ~very variously expres- sive; the chin small in proportion to the upper features of his face. He always while in Keswick wore a cap in his walks, and, partly from habib partly from the make of his head and shoulders, we never thought he looked well or like himself in a hat. He was of a very spare frame, but of great activity, and not showing any appearance of a weak constitution. * * Though he did not continus to let his hair hang down on his shoulders accord- ing to the whim of his youthful days, yet he always wore a greater quantity than is usual; and once, on his arrival in town, Chantreys first greetings to him were accompanied with an injunction to go and get his hair cut. When I first remember it, it was turning from a rich brown to the steel shade, whence it rapidly became almost snowy white, losing none of its remarkable thickness, and clus- tering in abundant curls over his massive brow. * * The characteristics of his manner, as of his appearance, were lightness and strength, an easy and happy composure as the accustomed mood, with much mobility at the same time, so that ho could be readily excited into any degree of anima- tion in discourse, speaking, if the subject moved him much, with extraordinary fire and force, though always in light, laconic sentences. When so moved, the fingers of his right hand often rested against his mouth and quivered through nervous susceptibility. But excitable as he was in conver- sation, he was never angry or irritable; nor can there be any greater mistake concerning him, than that into which some persons have fallen when they have inferred, from the fiery vehemence with which he could give utterance to moral anger in verse or prose, that he was personally ill-tempered or irascible. He was in truth a man whom it was hardly possible to quarrel with or offend personally and face to face; and in his writings, even on pub- lic subjects in which his feelings were strongly engaged, he will be observed to Ibave always dealt tenderly with those whom he had once seen and spoken to, unless, indeed, personally and grossly assailed by them. He said of himself that he was tolerant of persons, though intolerant of opin- ions. But in oral intercourse the toleration of per- sons was so much the stronger, that the intolerance of opinions was not to be perceived: and indeed it was only in regard to opinions of a pernicious moral tendency that it was ever felt. * * In conversation with intimate friends he would some- times express, half humorously, a cordial commen- dation of some production of his own, knowing that with them he could afford it, and that to those who 60 61 SOUTHEYS LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE. knew him well it was well known that there was no vanity in him. But such commendations, though light and humorous, were perfectly sincere; for he both possessed and cherished the power of finding enjoyment and satisfaction wherever it was to be foundin his own books, in the books of his friends, and in all books whatsoever that were not morally tainted or absolutely barren. * * He concealed, indeed, as the reader has seen, beneath a reserved manner, a most acutely sensitive mind, and a warmth and kindliness of feeling which was only understood by few, indeed, perhaps, not thoroughly by any. lie said, speaking of the death of his uncle, Mr. Hill, that one of the sources of consolation to him was the thought, that perhaps the departed might then be conscious how truly he had loved and honored him; and I believe the depth of his affection and the warmth of his friendship was known to none but himself. On one particular point I remember his often regretting his constitutional bashfulness and reserve; and that was, because, added to his retired life and the nature of his pursuits, it prevented him from know- ing anything of the persons among whom he lived. Long as he had resided at Keswick, I do not think there were twenty persons in the lower class whom he knew by sight; and though this was in some measure owing to a slight degree of short- sightedness, which, contrary to what is usual, came on in later life, yet I have heard him often lament it as not being what he thought right; and, after slightly returning the salutation of some passer-by, he would again mechanically lift his cap as he heard some well-known name in reply to his in- quiries, and look back with regret that the greet- ing had not been more cordial. The following trait will interest students and literary collectors With respect to his mode of acquiring and arranging the contents of a book, it was somewhat peculiar. He was as rapid a reader as could be conceived, having the power of perceiving by a glance down the page whether it contained any- thing which he was likely to make use ofa slip of paper lay on his desk, and was used as a marker, and with a slight pencilled S he would note the passage, put a reference on the paper, with some brief note of the subject, which he could transfer to his note-book, and in the course of a few hours he had classified and arranged everything in the work which it was likely he would ever want. It was thus, with a remarkable memory, (not so much for the facts or passages themselves, but for their ex- istence and the authors that contained them,) and with this kind of index, both to it and them, th he had at hand a command of materials for what- ever subject he was employed upon, which has been truly said to be unequalled. Towards the earlier part of the volume, we find Southey sorely vexed in mind at the turn which politics and public affairs were taking in 1829-30 assailed by and assailing in turn the Rev. Mr. Shannon, a Catholic priest, who had assumed as existing on his part a steady enmity to Ireland anxiously corresponding with Mr. Rickman on the subject of co~iperation in laborand, though a scholar in learning and a conservative in his dis- mal view of public affairs, regarding hopefully signs of the times which have driven less erudite men into the solitude of their own libraries, and provoked philosophers professing a wider sphere of vision into howls of disdain at the superficial present as compared with the profound past. Writing about Poetry to Mr. Ticknor, in America, he says With us no poetry now obtains circulation except what is in the Annuals; these are the only books which are purchased for presents, and the chief sale which poetry used to have was of this kind. Here, however, we are overrun with imita- tive talent in all the fine arts, especially in fine literature; and if it is not already the case with you, it will very soon be so. I can see some good in this in one or two generations imitative talent will become so common, that it will not be mis- taken, when it first manifests itself, for genius; and it will then be cultivated rather as an embel- lishment for private life, than with aspiring views of ambition. Much of that levelling is going on with us which no one can more heartily desire to promote than I dothat which is produced by raising the lower classes. Booksellers and print- sellers find it worth while now to publish for a grade of customers which they deemed ten years ago beneath their consideration. Good must result from this in many ways; and could we but hope or dream of anything like long peace, we might dream of seeing England in a state of intellectual culture and internal prosperity such as no country has ever before attained. It is noticeable, however, that this prophetic largeness of view and candor of construction were at the mercy of the first strong personal impulse. Literary judgments are more than once given in these pages which we can hardly imagine that posterity will accept, far less ratify. For instance, by far the most original poem that this genera- tion has produced, according to Southey, was not The Ancient Mariner, and not Peter Bell, nor tale by Crabbe, nor Border romance by Scottnor transcendental dream by Shelleynor Byrons Childe Harold,(all, we submit, types, the prototypes of which it would not be easy to designate)but Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven, by Maria del OccidenteMrs. Brooks, of New England. We will now extract a passage or two which, in themselves bright and amusing, have small con- ncctioym one with the other. The following rap- ture over the arrival of a box of old books will go to the heart of many a bibliopole besides the author of Philip van Artevelde, to whom it was addressed October 8, 1829. My dear H. T.I have been jumping for joy: Verbeyst has kept his word; the bill of lading is in Lougmans hands, and by the time this reaches you I hope the vessel, with the books on board, may be in the river, and by this day month they will probably be here. Then shall I be happier than if his Majesty King George the Fourth were to give orders that I should be clothed in purple, and sleep upon gold, and have a chain about my neck, and sit next him because of my wisdom, and be called his cousin. Long live Verbeyst! the best, though not the most expeditious, of booksel SOUTIIEY S LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE. lers; and may I, who am the most patient of cus- tomers, live long to deal with him. And may you and I live to go to the Low Countries again, that I may make Brussels in the way, and buy more of his hooks, and drink again of his Rhenish wine and of his strong beer, better than which Jacob van Artevelde never had at his own table, of his own brewing; not even when he entertained King Edward and Queen Philippa at the Christen- ing. Would he have had such a son as Philip if he had been a water-drinker, or ever put swipes to his lips God bless you! R. S. A sketch of Barry, communicated to Allan Cunningham, who was just then engaged on his Lives of the Painters, is graphic I knew Barry, and have been admitted into his den in his worst (that is to say in his maddest) days, when he was employed upon his Pandora. He wore at that time an old coat of green baize, but from which time had taken all the green that incrustations of paint and dirt had not covered. His wig was one which you might suppose he had borrowed from a scarecrow; all round it there projected a fringe of his own gray hair. He lived alone, in a house which was never cleaned; and he slept on a bedstead with no other furniture than a blanket nailed on the one side. I wanted him to visit me. No, he said, he would not go out by day, because he could not spare time from his great picture; and if he went out in the evening the Academicians would waylay him and murder him. In this solitary, sullen life he con- tinued till he fell ill, very probably for want of food sufficiently nourishing; and, after lying two or three days under his blanket, he had just strength enough left to crawl to his own door, open it, and lay himself down with a paper in his hand, on which he had written his wish to be car- ried to the house of Mr. ~.arlisle (Sir Anthony) in Soho Square. There he was taken care of; and the danger from which he had thus escaped seems to have cured his mental hallucinations. He cast his slough afterwards; appeared decently drest and in his own gray hair, and mixed in such society as he likud. I should have told you that, a little before his illness, he had with much per- suasion bcen induced to pass a night at some per- sons house in the country. When he came down to breakfast the next morning, and was asked how he had rested, lie said remarkably well ; he had not slept in sheets for many years, and really he thought it was a very comfortable thing. He interlarded his conversation with oaths as exple- tives, but it was pleasant to converse with him; there was a frankness and animation about him which won good-will as much as his vigorous intelle~t commanded respect. There is a story of his having refused to paint portraits, and saying, in znswer to applications, that there was a man in Leicester Square who did. But this he said was false; for that he would at any time have painted portraits, and have been glad to paint them. We must pass over Amelia Opie coquetting (on the streub th of a random commendation) for a niche hard by that allotted to Elizabeth Fry, rather than taking any continuous pains to win it, to come to Southeys judgment of Bishop He- her I dare say it will generally be felt that Mr. Hebers book does not support the pretensions which its title, and still more its appearance, seems to hold forth. The materials would have appeared to more advantage in a different arrange- ment. There is certainly an air of book-making about the publication; which is not lessened by the funebrial verses that it contains. Mine might have accompanied the portrait, in which case they would have seemed to he appropriately introduced; in fact, they were composed with that design. But this hook ought not to detract from his reputa- tion, the estimate of which must be taken from those things which he prepared for the press, and from his exertions in India. He was a man of great reading, and in his Bampton Lectures has treated a most important part of the Christian faith with great learning and ability. His other published sermons are such, that I am not sur- prised my brother Henry should think him the most impressive preacher he ever heard. As a poet, he could not have supported the reputation which his Palestine obtained ; for it was greatly above its deserts, and the character of the poem, moreover, was not hopeful; it was too nicely fitted to the taste of the age. * * He had a hur- ried, nervous manner in private society, ~vhich covered much more ardor and feeling than you would have supposed him to possess. This I believe entirely disappeared when lie was per- forming his functions; at which time, I have been assured, he seemed totally regardless of every- thing but the duty wherein he was engaged. Few persons took so much interest in my writings, which may partly have arisen from the almost entire coincidence in our opinions and ways of thinking upon all momentous subjects; the Catho- lic question alone excepted. Mrs. ileber told me that I had had no little influence in directing his thoughts and desires towards India: and I have no doubt that some lines in Joan of Arc set him upon the scheme of his poem on the death of King Arthur. The last extracts which we shall this week take are from letters to Mr. Moxon. This speaks for itself: I have been too closely engaged in clearing off the second volume of Cowper to reply to your inquiries concerning poor Lamb sooner. His acquaintance with Coleridge began at Christs Hospital : Lamb was some two years, I think, his junior. Whether he was ever one of the Greczaiis there might be ascertained, I suppose, by inquir- ing. My own impression is, that lie was not. Coleridge introduced me to him in the winter of 17945, and to George Dyer also, from whom, if his memory has not failed, you might probably learn more of Lambs early history than from any other person. Lloyd, Wordsworth, and Hazlitt became known to him through their connection with Coleridge. When I saw the family, (one evening only, and at that time,) they were lodging somewhere near Lincolns Inn, on the western side, (I forget the Street,) and were evidently in uncomfortable circumstances. The father and mother were both living; and I have some dim recollection of the latters invalid appearance. The fathers senses had failed hini before that time. He published some poems in quarto. Lamb showed me once an imperfect copy: the Spar- rows Wedding was the title of the longest piece, and this was the authors favorite : he liked, in his 62 SOUTHEY S LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE. dotage, to hear Charles read it. * * Cottle has a good likeness of Lamb, in chalk, taken by an artist named Robert Hancock, about the year 1798. It looks older than Lamb was at that time; but he was old-looking. Coleridge introduced him to Godwin, shortly after the first number of the Anti-Jacobin Magazine and Review was pub- lished, with a caricature of Gilrays, in which Coleridge and 1 were introduced with asses heads, and Lloyd and Lamb as toad and frog. Lamb got warmed with whatever was on the table, became disputatious, and said things to Godwin which made him quietly say, Pray, Mr. Lamb, are you toad or frog I Mrs. Coleridge will remember the scene, which was to her sufficiently uncomfortable. But the next morning S. T. C. called on Lamb, and found Godwin breakfasting with him, from which time their intimacy began. His angry letter to me in the Magazine arose out of a notion that an expression of mine in the Quarterly Re- view would hurt the sale of Elia: some one, no doubt, had said that it would. I meant to snrve the book, and very well remember how the offence happened. I had written that it wanted nothing to render it altogether delightful hut a saner relig- ions feeling. This would have been the proper word if any other person had written the hook. Feeling its extreme unfitness as soon as it was written, I altered it immediately for the first word which came into my head, intending to re-model the sentence when it should come to me in the proof; and that proof never came. There can be no objection to your printing all that passed upon the occasion, beginning with the passage in the Quarterly Review and giving his letter. I have heard Coleridge say that, in a fit of derangement, Lamb fancied himself to be yonng Norval. He told me this in relation to one of his poems. A word more, from a later letter, in continua- lion of the subject I wish that I had looked out for Mr. Talfourd the letter which Gifford wrote in reply to one in which I remonstrated with him upon his desig- nating Lamb as a poor maniac. The words were used in complete ignorance of their peculiar bear- ings, and I believe nothing in the course of Gif- fords life ever occasioned him so much self- reproach. lie was a man with whom I had no literary sympathies ; perhaps there was nothing upon which we agreed, except great political ques- tions; but I liked him the better ever after for his conduct on this occasion. He had a heart full of kindness for all living creatures except authors; them he regarded as a fishmonger regards eels, or as Isaac Walton did slugs, frogs and worms. In conclusion of our notices of this biography we will begin by gathering one or two more traits and anecdotes of distinguished persons. The fol- lowing is one of the pleasantest letters in the col- lection TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, ESQ. Keswiek, June 3,1833. My dear Allan,Thank you in my own name, and in my daughter Berthas, fur the completing volumes of your Painters. The work is very far the best that has been written for the Family Li- brary, and will continue to be reprinted long after all the others with which it is now associated. I do not except the Life of Nelson from this; the world cares more about artists than admirals after the lapse of centuries; and as long as the works of those artists endure, or so long as their concep- tions are perpetuated by engravings, so long will a lively interest be excited by their lives, when writ- ten as you have written them. Give your history of the rustic poetry of Scotland the form of biogra- phy, and no bookseller will shake his head at it, unless he is a booby. People who care nothing about such a history would yet be willing to read the lives of such poets, and you may very well in- troduce all that you wish to bring forward under cover of the more attractive title. The biography of men who deserve to be remembered always re- tains its interest. Are you right as to Lawrences birthplace l The White Hart, which his father kept at Bristol, is in the parish of Christ Church, not St. Phillips, which is a distant part of the city. Sir George Beaumonts marriage was in 1774, the year of my birth; he spent that summer here, and Faringdon was with him part of the time, taking up their quarters in the little inn by Lowdore. Hearne lso, was with him here, either that year or soon afterwards, and made for him a sketch of the whole circle of this vale, from a field called Crow Park. Sir George intended to build a circular banqueting-room, and have this painted round the walls. If the execution had not always been procrastinated, here would have been the first panorama. I have seen the sketch, now preserved on a roll more than twenty feet in length. Sir Georges death was not from any decay. His mother lived some years beyond ninety, and his health had greatly improved during the latter years of his life. He was never better than when last in this country, a very few months before his death. The seizure was sudden; after breakfast, as he was at work upon a picture, he fainted; erysipelas presently showed itself upon the head, and soon proved fatal. I know that he painted with much more ardor in his old age than at other times of his life, and I believe that his last pictures were his best. In one point I thought him too much of an artist: none of his pictures represented the scene from which he took them; he took the features and disposed them in the way which pleased him best. Whenever you enter these doors of mine, you shall see a little piece of his, (the only one I have,) which perfectly illustrates this: the subject is this very house, and scarcely any one object in the pic- ture resembles the reality. His wish was, to give the characterthe spirit of the scene. But who- ever may look upon this picture hereafter, with any thought of me, will wish it had been a faithful por- trait of the place. He was one of the happiest men I ever knew, for he enjoyed all the advantages of his station, and entered into none of the follies to which men are so easily tempted by wealth and the want of occupation. His disposition kept him equally from all unworthy and all vexatious pur- suits; he had as little liking for country sports as for public business of any kind, but had a thorough love fur art and nature. And if one real affliction or one anxiety ever crossed his path, in any part of his life, I never heard of it. I verily believe that no man ever enjoyed the world more; and few were more humbly, more wisely, more religiously pre- pared for entering upon another state of existence. He became acquainted with Coleridge here, before I came into this country; this led to his friendship with Wordsworth, and to his acquaintance with me (for more than acquaintance it can hardly be called.) He has lodged more than once in this house, when it was in an unfinished state. This very room he occupied before the walls were plas 63 SOUTHEY S LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE. tered. Next to painting and natural scenery, he delighted in theatricals more than in anything else. Few men read so well, and I have heard those who knew him intimately say that he would have made an excellent actor. It is only of late that we have learned that among the many literary godchildren to whom Southey gave liberal and judicious counsel in the outset of their lives, the Corn-Law Rhymer was one. This gives peculiar interest to the following notice of Elliot and his works, written after the fierce political agitator had chipped the shell : I have taken those poems, [the Corn-Law Rhymes, says Southey,] as the subject of a paper for the Christmas Review, not without some little hope of making the author reflect upon the tendency of his writing. He is a person who in- troduced himself to me by letter many years ago, and sent me various specimens of his productions, epic and dramatic. Such of his faults in composi- tion as were corrigible, he corrected in pursuance of my advice, and learnt, in consequence, to write as he now does, admirably well, when the subject will let him do so. I never saw him but once, and that in an inn in Sheffield, when I was passing through that town. The portrait prefixed to his book seems intentionally to have radicalized, or rather ruffianized, a countenance which had no cut-throat expression at that time. It was a re- markable face, with pale gray eyes, full of fire and meaning, and well-suited to a frankness of manner, and an apparent simplicity of character such as is rarely found in middle age, and more especially rare in persons engaged in what may he called the warfare of the world. After that meeting I pro- cured a sizarship for one of his sons; and the let- ter which he wrote to me upon my offering to do so, is a most curious and characteristic production, containing an account of his family. I never sus- pected him of giving his mind to any other object than poetry, till Wordsworth put the Corn-Law Rhymes into my hands; and then, coupling the date of the pamphlet with the power which it man- ifested, and recognizing also scenery there which he had dwelt upon in other poems, I at once dis- covered the hand of my pupil. He will discover mine in the advice which I shall give him. It was amusing enough that he should have been recom- mended to my notice as an uneducated poet in the New Monthly Magazine. In such times as these, whatever latent evil there is in a nation is brought cut. This man appeared always a peaceable and well-disposed subject, till Lord Greys ministry, for their own purposes, called upon the mob for support; and then, at the age of fifty, he let loose opinions which had never before been allowed to manifest themselves, and the fierce puritanism in which he had been bred up burst into a flame. In our next fragment a few additional touches are laid on the portrait of Byrons antagonist and Coleridges preceptor in poetrythe retired, eccen- tric, but amiable sonneteer of Bremhill to the name of Snowdrop and Lily, have a pond to themselves, and if they are not duly fed there at the usual time, up they march to the breakfast- room window. Mrs. Bowles has also a pet hawk called Peter, a name which has been borne by two of his predecessors. The view from the back of the house extends over a rich country, to the dis- tant downs, and the white horse may be seen dis- tinctly, by better eyes than mine, without the aid of a glass. Much as I had heard of Bowles peculiarities, I should very imperfectly have un- derstood his character if I had not passed some little time under his roof. He has indulged his natural timidity to a degree little short of insanity, yet he sees how ridiculous it makes him, and laughs himself at follies which nevertheless he is continually repeating. He is literally afraid of everything. His oddity, his untidyness, his sim- plicity, his benevolence, his fears, and his good- nature, make him one of the most entertaining and extraordinary characters I ever met with. He is in his seventy-third year, and for that age is cer- tainly a line old man, in full possession of all his faculties, though so afraid of being deaf, when a slight cold affects his hearing, that he puts a watch to his ear twenty times in the course of th.o day. * * * It was last week stated that too little was said concerning the origin of The Doctor. Indeed, the biographer seems to have been fumbling for the history of its whimsical machinery with an unreadiness which becomes strange, and as amount- ing almost to the point of incompetence, when the Rev. Mr. Warters preface to the one-volume edi- tion is recollected. What the original story of the Doctor and his Horse was I am unable to say accurately, says the Rev. C. Southey. Mr. War- ter explicitly reminds us, on the authority of a letter from Southeys self to the lady whom he afterwards married, what was its origin. There is a story of Dr. D. D., of D., and of his horse Nobs, which has, I believe, been made into a hawkers book. Coleridge used to tell it, and the humor lay in making it as long-winded as possible; it suited, however, my long-windedness better than his, and I was frequently called upon for it by those who enjoyed it, and sometimes I volunteered it, when Coleridge protested against its being told~ As you may suppose, it was never twice told alike, except as to names and the leading features. Does it not justify the remarks last week offered, that the Atlienceum should have to make a p~esent to the biographer of Southey of such a passage as the abovewhich moreover has been already put in print by Southeys son-in-law? We had a right to be told all that could be told concerning The Doctor, seeing that the book was an object of solemn joy and whimsical interest to its author during many years of his life. That Soutbey piqued himself on his pleasantry, may be seen from one of his epistolary confessions Look at the history of Bremhill, and you will see Bowles parsonage; it is near the fine old Most men play the fool in some way or other, church, and as there are not many better livings, and no man takes more delight in playing it than I there are few more pleasantly situated. The gar- do, in my own way. I do it well with children, den is ornamented, in his way, with a jet fountain, and not at all with women, towards whom, like something like a hermitage, an obelisk, a cross, John Bunyan, I cannot carry myself pleasantly, and some inscriptions. Two swans, who answer unless I have a great liking for them. 64 TO LORD BROIJGHAM. 65 It was only a peculiar section of the public that at Hull. A clergyman whom she met there con- found the fooling of The Doctor pleasant. firmed this, and there seemed to be no doubt about Quaint, labored, full of odd twists of language, and itinDoncaster. It is plain, therefore, that REVERN~ painful plays upon words, it has always seemed to designates this Great-everywhere-else-unknown; but I would not swear the book to him upon such many, even among those who can master Montaigne evidence. I can resolve another of your doubts. The and relish Rabelais, while others hold that its concluding signature is not in the Garamna tongue, pleasantries have at best only that coterie signifi- but in cryptography, or, what might more properly cance which, however charming to the initiated, be called, in Dovean language, comicography. If leaves the general world blanked, puzzled, and tried, you look at it, and observe that k, e, w spell Q, rather than edified. This is not the case with the you will find that when the nut is cracked it con- tains no kernel. So much concerning a book crotchets of Lamb, or of Hood, or with the racy which is a great favorite with my family, and has wit of Sydney Smith. Perhaps the key to much helped them sometimes to beguile what otherwise of the peculiar tone of The Doctors mirth will must have been hours of sorrow. be found in the following elaborately-mystifying letter, written to a correspondent, regarding this petted child of the Laureates gayest hours Keswick, July 20, 1835. My dear Sir,A copy of the unique Opus came to me upon its first appearance, with my name printed in red letters on the back of the title-page, and, from the author, on the fly-leaf, in a dis- guised hand; in which hand, through the disguise, Ithought I could recognize that of my very intimate friend, the author of Philip Van Artevelde. He, however, if my theory of the book be well founded, is too young a man to be the author. I take the preparatory postscript to have been written in sin- cerity and sadness; and if so, Henry Taylor was a boy at the time when (according to the statement there) the book was begun. It may, I think, be inferred from everything about the book, and in it, that the author began it in his blithest years, with the intention of saying, under certain restrictions, quidlibet de quolibet, and making it a receptacle for his shreds and patches ; that beginning in jest., he grew more and more in earnest as he proceeded; that he dreamt over it, and brooded over itlaid it aside for months and years, resumed it after long intervals, and more often latterly in thoughtfulness than in mirth; fancied, perhaps, at last that he could put into it more of his mind than could con- veniently be produced in any other form; and, having supposed (as he tells us) when he began, that the whole of his yarn might be woven up in two volumes, got to the end of a third, ~vithout appearing to have diminished the balls that were already spun and wound when the work was com- menced in the loom, to say nothing of his bags of wool. To the reasons which he has assigned for not choosing to make himself publicly known, this, no doubt, may be added, that the mask would not conceal him from those who knew him intimately, nor from the few by whom he might wish to be known; but it would protect his face from dirt, or anything worse that might be thrown at it. 1 see in the work a little of Rabelais, but not~much; more of Tristram Shandy, somewhat of Burton, and, perhaps, more of Montaigne; but, methinks, the guintum quid predominates. I should be as much at a loss to know who is meant by REVERNE as you have been, if I had not accidentally heard that the only person to whom the authorship is ascribed, upon anything like authority, is the Rev. Erskine Neale. Mrs. Hodson (formerly Margaret Holford) being in the neighborhood of Doncaster, and desirous to hunt out, if she could, the history of the Opus, in- quired about it there, and was assured by a book- seller that it was written by this gentleman, who had once resided in that place, but was then living CUOXLVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxviii. 5. Here we must stop. Having spoken freely of this book as an incomplete and unsatisfactory work, we must, nevertheless, say that it is the maia quarry from which future biographers who, like Southey when writing about Cowper, work in mosaic, will draw their foundations and pillars for any biographical monument which may be on some future day raised to the diligent and gifted author of Thalaba, The Life of Nelson, and The History of the Brazils. From the Examiner. TO LORD BROUGHAM. YOUR lordship will think it strange enough to receive a letter from me, on any occasion whatso- ever. To save you the trouble of answering it, which, if addressed to you privately, your known politeness might induce, I intend to commit it to the Examiner, not without a hope that others of high station may look over your shoulder while you are reading it. The Letters and Lfe of Soul/icy are now before the public. In these it appears that your lordship, for a moment, t(iok an interest in his occupations and in his welfare. This is somewhat; indeed, it is quite as much as was ever taken by those whose cause he was zealously defending. No man can.. better judge than you, whether all the writers of a. whole century, bishops included, have written see well and so effectively in defence of the Church of England. Within that period more than twenty millions have been enjoyed by the bishops alone fon their comparatively small services. The greaten part of one million has fallen to the Bishop of Len- dons share; I mean the present bishops. It is only now, when he is in danger, not from the op- position, hut from the proximity of the Pope, that he begins in good earnest to defend the church.. He met his holiness half-way in sticking imp the candles on the altar, and only deferred the lighting of them until a later hour. He would have lbft to his holiness half the wax; but was reluetant to yield an ounce of the honey. Southey was little aware in whose defence he drew his weapon.. Hon- est and disinterested, he thought the higher minis- ters of religion were as pure and conscientious as himself. He thought the English church in danger of falling; and instead of laboring in his own great field, cultivated so long and so much embellished by him, he took the pick-axe on his shoulder and labored in the quarry for materials to support it.. And now let us consider what brought it to such a state of dilapidation and decay. It was that which the late Lord Grey perceived, when in the house LORD BROUGHAM.FAIREST ENDYMION. of lords he openly warned the bishops to put their house in order. The cry of the nation was loud against them. Honest men and brave men could ill endure that clergymen should be barons and in- habit palaces, while admirals who had served and saved their country were living in lodgings no bet- ter than alms-houses. In their plain understand- ings justly did they scoff at those insincere and hollow sophists, who represented to them that bishopri~s were little more lucrative than the sala- ries of the judges; for perfectly well they knew that the judges had given up a practice at the bar more profitable than the bench affords. Their ap- pointments were always the reward of long labor and tried abilities. If the church, which Southey so well defended, is now in greater danger than it has ever been since the reign of James the Second, who has brought it to this danger~ The bishops, I say, the bishops; some by their intemperate zeal, and alacrity in per- secution, others by their abject supineness. There is now-an outcry which makes them shake their ears. People will find other remains of pope,ry to sweep away, beside what are lying in the vestry and upon the altar. Surplices and tapers are pushed aside; palaces are about to be turned into school-rooms; the bishop is no longer to be a lord, nor the curate a pauper. Changes, more gradual than such as are now inevitable and near, would have been produced by the wisdom of Southey. What prelate ever thanked him, much less rewarded him, for his labors! Among the servants of the crown, Sir Robert Peel was the only one who acknowledged them. He would have rewarded with honors the true Defender of the Faith and the most able champion of our political institutions. I now come, by direct consequence, to your lord- ships letter. It might have been expected, from your generosity to many who are adverse to you in politics, that you would have recommended Southey for one merit or other. Several of your party, now high in office, have idly dipt an infantine hand in - the shallower puddles of literature. Small dogs abhor great ones. The fleecy petted poodles of my ladys chamber skulked away from the soli- tary guardian of the house-door. You had less cause for jealousy. I have no hesitation in declar- ing my opinion that public honors and pecuniary rewards should be bestowed on literary men. Louis the Fourteenth, when France was exhausted by long wars, granted pensions of great amount to Southeys inferiors. The money which our Par- liament has granted for building an infants stables would have richly rewarded the ten greatest ge- niuses of our country. In my opinion, an academy, not a royal one, but a literary one, ought to be es- tablished; not containing forty members, for forty men of genius never were contemporary on the globe, hot ten or twelve. Surely it would tend neither to the ruin nor the danger of the country, if five hundred pounds yearly were given to half of them, and three hundred to the other half. Such a proposal is in Southeys letter, and such was pub- lished by me twenty years ago in the Imaginary Conversations. Whatever the number, it is im- probable that I should be nominated, and mite cer- tain that I should refuse it. Whatever honor I am desirous of receiving I can confer upon myselg and would accept none whatever from any other person. In regard to emoluments, I may speak as plainly, or more so, If any of my sons accepted any place under government, I would disinherit him. There is no danger; nothing will ever be offered to me or mine; we have done nothing to deserve it; and I trust we never shall, knowing by what deserts such favors are obtained. I claim no place in the world of letters; I am alone; and will be alone, as long as I live, and after. Southey, who was foremost in the defence of that edifice which is now crumbling fast away, deserves at least that those nearest and dearest to him should not be quite abandoned. No minister has rewarded him for his services to the state; no chancellor or bishop has conferred on his only son a benefice of forty pounds a year. Sir Robert Peel would never have suffered this igno- miny to rest upon our country. Firmly do I believe him to have been the wisest and most honest minis- ter that ever served under the English crown. He was a patron of agriculture, a promoter of com- merce, a fosterer of industry, a friend of literature, and, above all, a lover of truth. He died; and with him died the hopes of Southeys family. I have the honor to be, & c. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. For the Living Age. FAIREST ENDYMION. THOUGH underneath mine eyes The whole world sleeping lies, Though as I climb the skies The hidden river flashes into sight, And all the clustering trees Seem blossoming with light, And the lone islands and the tropic seas Shine out to greet me, flashing with delight I linger on no other mountains brow. The gaze that searcheth everywhere, Through all earthly dwelling and the upp~r air, Sees nought in air or earth, Or of celestial birth, So beautiful as thou. And so I linger, linger, watching still Over that Grecian hill; All night long keeping Close and most loving watch above thy sleeping Thou on thick leaves and fragrant grass reclining Lying so fair beneath the moons full shining, Kuowest not who pours upon thee from above Such light and love. I send down to thee, on unresting ray, Gleamsvisionsthrilling fancies that surround thee And in such deep and willing trance I ye bound thee, That when my kingly brother, Lord of Day, Claimeth all heaven from his proper sphere, I leave thee in a lucid atmosphere, That folds thee safe under the myrtle leaves, Fraught with the gentle dawn of summer eves, So that the sun, which pierceth everywhere, Cometh not there. And there, beloved, far from haunts of men, Sleep till we meet again. Sometimes my heart misgives me, and I wait, Even in a noon-day sky; Pale, pale one that watcheth all too late, Fearing lest Phcebus should espy My hidden treasurethen shouldst thou awake! Thou surely from thy leafy crypt wert taken. Ah! sleep, Endymion, while the day-light burns Sleep till the evening star returns. 66 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. From Sharpes Magazine. A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. WHEN I was in Mexico, in 183, I was engaged in a rather troublesome affair; namely, the recov- ery of a considerable sum of money from a debtor of whose whereabouts not the slightest trace could be found. Speed and energy being, in this matter, of essential importance, I had addressed myself, in consequence, to several gentlemen of the long robe, who possessed reputations for never interfering in difficult cases in vain. All had commenced by promising me their assistance; but as soon as I had named the mysterious debtorwho rejoiced in the title of Don Dionisio Peraltaone and all had drawn back, opposing to my entreaties the most absurd and ridiculous excuses. This one assured me that he would never for,ive himself for causing the slightest annoyance to so gallant a caballero as Senor Peralta; that one was attached to the gentle- man in question by a compadrazgo, or companion- ship of long standing; while a third, with the most pitiful countenance in the world, brought forward as an objection the reminiscences of a boyish friend- ship. Finally, a fourth, more frank than the rest, hinted broadly that, independent of all these friendly scruples, there was the fear of a stab in the back some dark night; a proceeding which Senor Pe- raLta had, to all appearances, more than once put in practice, in order to relieve himself of a creditor whose attentions had been too pressing. The only man I know that can assist you, added he, is the licentiate, Don Tadeo Cristobal; he has a hand of iron, joined to a lions heart; in short, he is jus~ the man for you. No sooner had I received this piece of intelligence than I hastened to the C~aile de los Batanes, where d~velt, as they told me, the licentiate Don Tadco; but there a fresh disap- pointment awaited me. Don Tad~o had quitted his lodgings, and no one could or would tell me where he had now set up his tabernacle. Thoroughly wearied and discouraged at the close of a hot summers day, the whole of which had been spent in fruitless researches, I was promenading sadly enough under the Portales de los Mercaderes, or Merchants Arcades. I had resolved, as a last chance, to seek some information concerning Don Tadeo from the numerous public writers whose stalls, situated under these galleries, may be con- sidered in the light of so many offices of intelli- gence, open at all hours to the curious inquirer. But, once fairly under the Arcade, I had completely forgotten the motive which had led me to this spe- cies of bazaar, the daily rendezvous of all the idlers in Mexico, and my entire attention was absorbed by the animated picture now spread before my eyes. The reader would, I have no doubt, be less astonished at this distraction of thought, were he to picture to himself the magical aspect of the Plaza Mayor of Mexico an hour before sunset. The Portales de los Mercaderes occupy, in fact, one side of this immense square, the three remain- ing faces of which are taken up by the cathedral, the Ayuntarniento and the presidential palace. The two finest streets in Mexico open into the square between these edifices; these are the Rua de la Primera Monterilla, with its beautiful shops, and the Rua de los Plateros, almost exclusively occu- pied by silver-smiths and jewellers; then, facing these streets, wherein European commerce dis- plays all its marvels, the petty commerce of Mexico seems to have chosen for the theatre of its opera- tions the sombre arcades of the Mercaderes. At the epoch of my sojourn in the country, no inno- vating hand had as yet changed the picturesque physiognomy of these arcades. The heavy vaulted arches were supported on one side by the large gloomy-looking stores of the dealers, and on the other by massive pillars, around the bases of which were laid out a succession of alacenas, or stalls, abundantly provided with prayer-books, rosaries, daggers, and spurs. By the side of these stalls, as if to represent trade reduced to its very lowest denomination, stood a few ragged leperos, who trafficked in glass beads, rings, and trinkets, an& who, with their stock-in-trade ingeniously sus- pended from one finger, pursued their customers with most importunate solicitations. From time to time the dealers in cooked wild-fowl, or tamales,* grouped together under the shadow of the arches, mingled with the general hum of the crowd their well-known cry, A qui hay pato grande, mi alma; senorito venga sted! j~ or the briefer, and no less popular one, of Tamales queretanos. The pas- sengers and customers were quite as worthy of observation as the dealers. The brilliant colors of the dresses and tapalos, the gold of the macgas, the medley of tints in the striped sarapes, viewed in the dim light which penetrated beneath the pillars, formed altogether a scene worthy of a Venetian carnival masquerade. It was above all in the evening that the throng beneath the arcades of the Mercaderes offered a brilliant spectacle. In the evening, shops and stalls are alike closed, and the Portales beconie a political club. Seated upon the threshold of their carefully-secured doors, or gravely pacing this species of cloistered avenue, officers and civilians may be seen conversing to- gether of revolutions past, present, or to come, until the hour arrives when the now almost deserted galleries serve but as a meeting-place for lovers and their fair ones, while their dim and silent vaults echo but to the murmur of tlte love tale whispered by some Mexican youth into the ear, of his ma- morata. I had wandered for some time under the Por- tales, when the appearance of a public writers stall suddenly recalled to my mind the object of my visit. Among the traders of the Portales the pub- lic writers form a considerable corporation. It must be recollected that in Mexico, elementary instruction being to this day very generally neg- lected, the functions of the public writers have, amid this illiterate population, lost nothing of their original importance. The docile pen of the Evangclistfor such is the title that he rejoices inis required for a thousand different purposes, more or less delicate, and some of them, it must be said, equivocal enough, from the emptiest of empty love letters, to the mysterious note despatched by the hired bravo to lure his victim into some fatal ambush. The evangelist whom I had especially singled out from among his numerous fellow-labor- ers, was a little, thin, wrinkled old man, around whose nearly bald crown straggled a few grizzly locks of hair. What had originally attracted my attention to him was the peculiar expression of sar- donic joviality which animated his countenance, in other respects insignificant enough. I was about to accost this man, in order to make some inquiries of him respecting the whereabouts of Don Tadeo, when an incident occurred which constrained me to * Highly seasoned riands, flavored with pimento, & c., and cooked in a maize leaf. 1 I have good ducks, my scul; come, my young senor. 67 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. resume my original part of taciturn observer. A young girl had approached the stall of the evangel- ist. The long plaited hair, which escaped in tresses from beneath her half-open rebozo; her sun-burnt complexion; her brown shoulders, which the chemise of fine linen, bordered with lace, left almost bare; her slender waist, which no corset had ever deformed by compression; and, above all, the three petticoats of strongly contrasting colors, which fell in straight folds over her hips, all be- trayed in the young client of the evangelist the purest type of the Mexican china.* Tio Luquillas ! said the young girl. What is it~ replied the evangelist. I want you. So I should imagine, since you called me, rejoined Tio Luquillas; and, fancying that he had guessed the nature of the message which the maiden was about to dictate to him, he unfolded, with great complaisance, a sheet of highly-glazed rose- colored parchment, upon which was depicted a pair of fat cupids, apparently going through some ex- traordinary gymnastic performances; but the young c/rica waved her little brown hand with a gesture of impatience. What use can a condemned man make of your rose-colored paper 1 said she. Ah, diabolo ! said the writer, without show- ing the slightest sign of emotion, whilst the maiden p%tssed one of the long plaited tresses of her hair over her eyes. So they are adieus, eh B A sob was the chinas only reply; then, leaning over towards the ear of the old scribe, she endeav- ored to dictate to him a short letter; not, however, without frequently pausing to take breath, arid give free course to her tears. Never had the contrast of cold-blooded old age and passionate youth ap- peared to me so moving. Nor was I the only one to remark it, for there was scarce a promenader who passed the stall of Tio Luquillas who did not cast on the pretty china a glance of mingled curi- osity and commiseration. The evangelist had folded the letter, which now only required the ad- dress, when a passer-by, either more hold or more curious than the rest, advancing suddenly to the stall, interrupted the colloquy between P io and the china. The features of the new comer were not altogether unfamiliar to me, and I remembered that, having be en placed beside me at a recent bull- fight, he had commented in the most attractive man- ner possible, and with the air of a true amateur, on the merits and defects of the exhibition of which we were spectators. The present moment not being a very favorable one for me to question in my turn the evangelist, I waited patiently at a short distance from the group, until the new comer should have taken his departure. This individual, with whom I had had but a few hours conversation in the circt~s, inspired me with a sort of interest I in vain endeavored to account for. He was about torty years of age; his features might be called al- most noble, despite a cloud of sombre irony which would occasionally flit over them, imparting in its course an expression almost sardonic. Independent of the recollection of our first interview, the strangeness of his costume would have alone been sufficient to recall him to my memory; this con- sisted in an ample blue mantle, lined with red, and, for a head-dress, a vast sombrero of drab felt, bound with broad gold lace. For whom is this letter, my child B demanded he of the china, with a certain air of authority. ~ The china is the grizette of Mexico. The maiden pointed with her finger towards the presidential palace, and murmured a name which did not reach my ears. Ab! its for Pepito, is ~ exclaimed the stranger aloud. Alas! yes; and I know not how to get it sent to him. Well, well, dont fret about it; we II devise some means or other. And, stay; as I live, here is an occasion sent expressly for us. At this moment there was a general rush of the crowd towards the Plaza Mayor. A circumstance of but too frequent occurrence in Mexico, namely, an assassination, had been committed in the public street. The murderer had been seized, his victim raised from the ground, and the cort6ge was now on its way to the nearest prison. This prison was precisely the one in which the young chinas lover was incarcerated, and I was accordingly at no loss to discover the sense of the words of hope which had been addressed to her by the stranger. The procession, which was now defiling along the square, possessed in its half ludicrous, half se- rious aspect an originality thoroughly local. A cargador, or street porter, marched at the head, bearing upon his shoulders, by the aid of a leathern strap passed round the foreheadas is the custom of the Mexican portersa chair, upon which was fastened a man, or rather a dead body, over which had been hastily thrown a bloody coverlid. The assassin, in the custody of four soldiers, followed close after his victim; a few idlers, and some of the friends of the deceased, brought up the rear. Of all these men, each more or less moved or ~ pied, the most tranquil, beyond all question, was the murderer, who, with the most marvellous non- chalance, strode quietly on between his guards, a cicrarito sticking out of one corner of his mouth, from time to time addressing to his victim certain reproaches, which, to his evident surprise, remained unanswered. Come, none of your nonsense, Master Pan- chito ; said he, you know right well that I have not the means of making your wife an allowance. You think yourself a very cunning fellow to feign death in that sort of way; but for all that I m not your dupe. But, despite all the assassin said to the contrary, poor Panchito was really and truly dead; and I could not control a shudder when I gazed on the hideous corpse as it was borne close by me, with the bright sun ~hiniug on its eyes, which were wide open and fixod in a horrid unearthly stare. The stranger in the sombrero was doubtless more accus- tomed to such sights than I was, for, going straight up to the procession, he stopped it, and placed the chinas letter in the murderers hands. Listen to me, said he. You are, of course, acquainted with the illustrious Pepito Rechifla B What! he that is to be strangled to-morrowl ofcourse Jam; he is my companion.~~ Well, as his turn is sure to come first, you will see him by and by in the prison. Give him this letter for me. Ah, Senor Caballero ! interrupted the young Mexican girl, who, with heaving bosom and eyes bathed in tears, had flung herself at the murderers feet and seized, in the antique manner, the hem of his garment, for the sake of the blessed Virgin do not forget to give him this letter. I am so unhappy at not being able to see him. Yes, Linda mia, yes, replied the assassin, placing his hsnd over his eyes, and endeavoring to 68 69 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. impart a pathetic tone to his voice; I have a very soft heart also; and had it not been for this damned Panchito, ~vho was always vexing and annoying me, I should not be here, I can assure you; how- ever, Preciosita de mi alma! A piece of money, flung by the man in the som- brero to the prisoner, cut short this elegant tirade, and, the soldiers resuming their march, the little procession quickly disappeared round an angle of the ayuntarniento. A few women of the lower or- ders, with the delicate sensibility of the Mexicans, now gathered around the young china, and endeav- ored, hut in vain, to persuade her to return home. Resisting all entreaties, I saw her proceed towards the prison, and seat herself at the foot of the wall, her features veiled in the ample folds of the rebozo. The stranger in the sombrero had disappeared in the crowd, and, as the moment was now favorable for me to consult the evangelist, I tapped lightly on the old mans shoulder. Can you inform me, inquired I, where dwells the licentiate, Don Tadeo Cristobal ! Don Tadeo Cristobal, did you say! Why, he was here not two minutes ago. Here! Don Tadeo ! Did you not see how kindly he undertook to have that letter delivered to the bandit, Pepito Rechifla, which had been dictated to me by one of the prettiest chinas in Mexico ~ What! the man in the sombrero ~~nd red-lined mantle was Don Tadeo, the licentiate I Himself. And where think you shall I be able to find him now That is a question, senor, that I can hardly answer. Properly speaking, he has no dwelling- place: he lives a little everywhere, as one might say. If, however, you have got anything particu- lar to say to him, go this evening, between ntne and twelve oclock, to the Callejon delArco; you will be sure to find him in the last house on the right- hand side, as you enter from the Plaza. I thanked the writer, and, having left him a few reals in testimony of my gratitude, directed my steps towards the Callejon del Arco. Although it was scarcely seven oclock, I thought it would be well, before night-fall, to reconnoitre the house I purposed visiting a coul)le of hours later. Expe- rience had taught me that similar precautions were not to be despised in Mexico, and more especially in this instance, as the Caliejon del Arco had been pointed out to me as one of the most disreputable alleys in the capital. The appearance of this lane but too well justified the reputation it had acquired. The mass of build- ings of which the Portales de los Mercaderes forms a portion, and which is known by the name of the Impedradillo, does not form a perfect solid square. In front of the cathedral, which faces the south-west, there opens in the Impedradillo a nar- row lane, the entrance of which bears no ill resem- blance to the mouth of one of those caverns formed by the action of the sea in the per endicular face of a sandy cliff. This is the Callejon del Arco. When dazzled by the vivid sun-beams with which the Plaza Mayor is inundated, and which, reflected from the white faces of the buildings and the granite of the foot-way, has an almost blinding ef- fect, you penetrate into this narrow and tortuous alley, the eye, before it has got accustomed to the obscurity, can, after a few moments, but just dis- tinguish another street, which bisects this one at right angles, the junction point forming a small dark space. There, as in the sea-side caverns, you hear scarce a sound from without, save a low, con- fused murmur, which as much resembles the distant breaking of the agitated waves as it does the far- off tumult of a populous city. A few rope-makers stores, some massive and hermetically closed por- tals, here and there a half-open cellar, alone remind you that you are in the vast metropolis of Mexico, teeming with life and movement. The walls drip with perpetual moisture, and it is only at noon, and that too but for a short period in the middle of summer, that a furtive sunbeam enlivens for a mo- ment the sombre pavement of the Callejon del Arco. Then a little fresh life is infused into this dismal lane, until the moment when, the sun regaining the opposite tropic, all sinks once more into dark- ness and silence. It was, then, in this spot, and in one of these most disreputable-looking houses, that I was to meet the man who, as everybody had assured me, could alone unravel an affair 1)efore which all the lawyers in Mexico had recoiled in dismay. I paused for a few moments to contemplate with sur- prise the spot so singularly chosen for a lawyers place of business; but then had not the little episode, of which I was a witness, in itself suffi- ciently prepared me for the eccentricities of Don Tadeol How was the tone of easy familiarity with which he addressed the wretch whom he had commissioned before my eyes with the message to Pepito Rechifia, to be explained! how, also, the acquaintanceship which evidently existed between this last named bandit nnd the licentiate! This strange intimacy of a lawyer with thieves and murderers appeared to me, at first sight, of rather bad augury ; the prospect, however, of at length obtaining a settlement of my affair finally decided my wavering purpose, and I quitted the callejon del Arco with the full determination of returning two hours later. The night had now come; it was one of those beautiful nights of i\Iay when the moon, the volup- tuous splendor of which is unknown to the inhabi- tants of our cloudy mist-land, imparts to Mexico an aspect truly magical. Its soft beams now fell from a cloudless sky upon the pointed steeples of the churches and the colored fa~ades of the various public buildings, lighting them up in a thousand different manners. On the Plaza Mayor the crowd was no longer so dense as it had been before sun- set; it was also calmer and more contemplative. The promenaders almost whispered their observa- tions, as though fearful of disturbing the serenity of this most lovely night. The gentle sounds of waving fans and rustling silks, and now and then a little burst of feminine laughter, as pure and melodious as the vibrations of a musical glass, joined with the occasional tinkle of a far-off con- vent bell, alone disturbed the silence of the even- ing. The womeu, with their long veils, the men enveloped in the wide folds of their Spanish cloaks, glided along like shadows over the Plaza. Here might be discovered, but ill disguised beneath the ample folds of the national costume, more than one couple whose presence on such a spot, and at such an hour, would have fully confirmed the scan- dalous gossip of the salons. Mingled with this concourse of young and pretty women were also a few of those whom we style on the shady side of thirty, and not a few of the fair, but frail, douceilas chanfionas of whom Perez de Guevara makes hon- orable mention. I say nothing of the host of adventurers with which Mexico literally swarmns A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. delicious fellows these, true types of Matamores, swaggering along with their sahres and spurs jingling noisily upon the pavement. Such was the aspect of the Plaza Mayor at the hour when, slowly, and, I must confess, rather irresolutely, I threaded its gay and motley throng on my way to the Callejon del Arco. At the very first step which I took in this dismal lane, a current of cold air, like that which escapes from the ventilator of a cellar, struck me in the face, and chilled me to the hone. For some min- utes I stood motionless at the entrance of the lane, seeking to distinrruish sum e traces of light at the windows or grated doors of the houses; hut all was as dark as pitch. I accordingly made up my mind for the worst, and advanced, almost feeling my way as I proceeded, in the direction of the house, which I had noted at sunset. I had nearly reached the open space formed by the intersection of the street, of which I have already made men- tion, when the sound of footsteps advancing rapid- ly behind me suddenly reached my ears, and, look- ing back, I could just discern the figure of a man coming, as I had done, from the Plaza. I drew up to the wall to let him pass, but, in so doing, the long rapier worn by this nocturnal rambler somehow or other got entangled between my legs; I stumbled forward, and, to avoid a fall, which would otherwise have been inevitable, grasped hold of his cloak. The man stepped quickly aside, and the sudden rasping sound of the steel warned me that he had drawn his sword. Capo di Dios ! shouted he; is itmy per- son or my cloak that you want, senor thief ~t I fancied that I recognized this voice, and so hastened to reply, I am neither a thief nor an assassin, Senor DonDon I had hoped that the stranger would have come to the assistance of my memory, and have men- tioned his name, hut in this I was disappointed, for he did nothing of the kind, but, leaning his back against the door of a neighboring house, demanded roughly who I was and what I wanted with him. I seek the dwelling of the licentiate, Don Tadeo Cristobal, replied I; and, if I am not mistaken, this is the very house before which we are now standing. Ah! and who told you of this house, may I ask ~ Tio Luquillas, the evangelist. I wish to con- sult Don Tadeo on an affair of importance. Well, it is to Don Tadeo himself that you are now speaking. The costume of this individual, whose features were indistinguishable in the gloom, was, in fact, the same as that worn some few hours previously by my friend in the sombrero, whose real name Tin Luquillas had given me. I hastened to reply to Don Tadco, felicitating myself on this lucky rencontre, and demanding a few moments conver- sation with him in private. Most willingly, replied he; I am qnite prepared to enter with you upon your business; but, first of all, let us get into this housewe shall be able to converse more at our ease. And, as he spoke, he knocked with the hilt of his rapier upon the door against which he had been leaning. My profession, added he, obliges me to adopt some precautions; you will comprehend by and by wherefore. Do not be astonished at my singular domicile; they must have told you that I was an original, and they are right, too. As he spoke, a loud noise of bolts and chains undoing informed us that we were about to be admitted, and immediately afterwards the heavy door swung slowly back upon its hinges. The porter, who carried a lantern in his hamid, bowed respectfully to the licentiate, who made a sign to me to fidlow him. Crossing rapidly the za~,uan, or vestibule, we climbed a steep wooden staircase, and finally stopped before a green baize door sur- mounted by a transparency, upon which might be read the following words in letters of most gigan- tic proportions SoemEvAn FILARMONICA. A con- fused medley of discordant shouts and cries reached our ears from the saloon dignified with this ambi- tious title. Are these your clients who are kicking up such a row inside there, senor licentiate P demanded I of Don Tadeo. Without replying, he pushed open the door, and we found ourselves in a vast and dimly-lighted room. A long table, covered with green cloth, and surrounded with players, occupied the ceutre of the apartment; in addition to lights in sconces fastened around the wall, four wax-candles, as tall as those used in the Mexican churches, and contained in tin tubes, completed the illumination of the saloon. A few small tables, ranged at equal distance along the side of the room, served for those who might desire refreshments; such as infusions of tama- rinds and rose water, or Barcelona brandy. Finally, at the further cud of the room, there arose a spe- cies of hi~h dais, ornamented with rough fresco delineations of bassoons, horns, clarionets, & c., & c., doubtless for the purpose of recalling to the minds of the frequenters the original destination of the establishment. The reader may imagine my feelings of sur- prise on first putting foot into such a den as this at the moment when I imagined I was going to be introduced into a lawyers office. With some feelings of distrust I glanced at my companion; it was indeed the man that I had met at the circus, and under the Portales d~e los Mercaderes. With his strauge costume, his long rapier, and his thick dishevelled hair, Don Tadeo had, it must be confessed, much more the air of a brigand than of a sober jurist. Scarcely had he taken three steps in the room when he was accosted by two indi- viduals, who seemed, by their appearance, the fitting representatives of the cavern they fre- quented. How goes the illustrious Senor Don Tadeo to-night l exclaimed the first, a species of giant, extending as he spoke, with an air at once fero- cious and awkward, a fist of about the size and shape of a leg of mutton. Better than those whom you have a grudge against, Master Pearce, replied the liceutiate, fixing upon his interlocutor as he spoke a glance as cold and piercing as the blade of his rapier. Do you know, he continued, that your repu- tation is made now in Mexico as well as in Texas, above all since Hush ! returned the American quickly, evi- dently but little desirous of hearing the completion of the licentiates phrase. With your permis- sion, I wish to consult you. Just now, replied the man of the law, I must give the preference to this caballero, whom I met before you. 70 A LEAF FlIOM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. For mercy sake, hear me first, Senor Licen- tiate, interrupted a gray-headed individual, who wore the Mexican costume, and who squinted hor- ribly. Ah! is that you, Navaja! replied Don Tadeo, coolly surveying the Mexican, who evidently quailed beneath his eye. Is it still a question ~f that bad affair! Hush ! cried the Mexican, in his turn ; since it is your good pleasure, senor, I will take the third place. It had merely sufficed for Don Tadeo to make allusion to two episodes, neither of them proba- bly redounding much to the credit of the indi- vidual in question, to he quickly rid of their impor- tunities. I could not help admiring the po~ver possessed by my companion; a power evidently acquired at the price of an intimate and perilous commerce with the most lawless heroes of Mexi- can vagabond life. And now, Senor Caballero, said the licen- tiate, turning to me, may I have the honor of knowing who you are, and what affair it is that has induced you to consult me! It must be a delicate matter, for none have recourse to my intervention but to resolve difficulties which my fellow-laborers consider insurmountable. It is, I have no doubt, one of these worthy legists who has advised you to address yourself to me. I named the licentiate who had vaunted the intrepid heart and well-tried sword of Don Tadeo Cristobal. The latter shook his head with a disdainful smile. It is a dangerous affair, I can see, he rejoined. The man you have named is my declared enemy, and he never sends me any other jobs but these. I have a strange line of business, it must be con- fessed; and for that reason I may be excused for my promptness in unsheathing my rapier in the public streets at night. But what would you have! I am from Seville, and have not passed some years of my life for nothing among the bullies of the suburbs of Triana. You are a Spaniard ! Undoubtedly I am, and before adopting the legal profession I was what they called an uracan ~ calavera.~ You see in me, senor, a student of S alamanca, that beautiful city, in which some years ago some choice spirit composed this rhyme: En Salamanca Ia tuna Anduve marzo y abril; Ninas he visto mas de mit Pero comotu uinguna.t And I, too, senor, have made quatrains in this joyous city as well as the rest, ay, and sung them too; and it was in consequence of a serenade, interrupted, unhappily, by a duel, which was fol- lowed by the death of a man, that I was compelled to seek my fortune in New Spain. To insure suc- coss here, I possessed in an eminent degree two precious qualities which are rarely allied; namely, jurisprudence, and the art of fencing. And you yourself must have seen just now that I have not altogether lost my old uracan humor. Upon my life, senor, it is a most fortunate tbi~g that I did not put my sword through your body; but, to * Literally, hurricane gentleman ; a phrase ~vhich may he almost rendered by our slang term, out and outer. t In Salamanca I have led a joyous life in the months of March and April. Of young maidens I have seen more than a thousand, but not one equal to thee. 71 obtain my pardon for the rough greeting I gave you, permit me to offer you an infusion of tamarinds, or a glass of Catalonian refino. And, without giving me time to put in a word, he drew me towards one of the side-tables, at which we seated ourselves. My astonishment increased in measure as I improved my acquaint- ance with this singular personage. It was not until after we had been served that Don Tadeo would consent to hear an explanation of my affair, which I gave him as briefly and as clearly as pos- sible. Very good, said he. It concerns a debtor that you have not been able to find; but you know at least his name ! That is the point, said I; for it is a name which somehow or other affected your colleagues with very lively feelings of sympathy; for, after hearing it, not one has dared to take the matter in hand. Let s hear the terrible name. I am curious to learn if it will produce the same effect upon me. I will whisper it to you, replied I. My debtor is named Don Dionisio Peralta. The countenance of the licentiate did not change. And how much does he owe you! Fourteen hundred piastres. Stay, said Don Tadeo, after a moments reflection, we will ascend just now to the terrace on the top of this hotlise, where we shall be able to talk over this matter more at leisure. But, in the first place, permit me to despatch these two worthies, who are waiting for their turn. The interest of your affair, besides, demands that I should not resume my consultation with you until I have col- lected some positive information of an indispen- sable nature from the frequenters of this house. All that I require of yotm is, that you do not mani- fest the slightest surprise in case you should bear things you do not exactly comprehend. I pressed the hand of the licentiate, and we rose and approached the group of players, whi~h had considerably increased in number since our en- trance. A double row of anxious spectators sur- rounded the green cloth, upon which the piastres rolled with a very enticing sound. The licentiate passed his two clients, the Mexican and the Ameri- can, making a sign to them to wait for him, and walked u~ to a young man, who, standing amongst the spectators, kept his eyes ardently fixed upon the play-table. This youth, whose countenance was of a pale and sickly yellow, wore upon his long and sleek hair a little and almost brimless hat, and over his shoulder a threadbare sciavine, or short mantle. He looked the very picture of a solicitors clerk, regretting his inability to risk his employers entire fortune on the hazard of a card. Ortiz, said the licentiate, tapping hi[n lightly on the shoulder, have you got any writing mate- rials with you ! Certainly, replied the clerk, drawing from his pocket a roulean containing paper, pens, and ink. The hicentiate seated himself apart from the throng, wrote hastily a few lines, folded the paper, and handed it to his clerk; who, having replied to the whispered instructions of his master by a low inclination of the head, instantly quitted the room.. This done, the licentiate begged me to have patience for a few moments longer, until he should have given his two clients their promised consulta- tion, and I accordingly mingled with the crowd which pressed eagerly round the magic board. And, certainly, a more curious spectacle it has 72 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. seldom been my lot to witness than this rednion of adventurers of all species and of every clime; where the strangest types of the old Spanish romances seemed on this occasion to have met together with one consent. One highly character- istic detail above all struck me as remarkable in front of the banker lay a long Catalan knife, as bright, keen, and sharp as a razor. A charitable warning which he gave to the players soon ex- plained to me the use to which this knife was des- tined. I warn all the gentlemen here present, said he, that if one of them attempts to confound his loose cash with the bank, I 11 nail his hand without mercy to the table. As this strange threat appeared neither to astonish nor offend any one, I accordingly concluded that the case foreseen by the banker must have presented ~itself more than once. Despite, however, the strangeness of the scenes of which I was now a spectator, I had begun to get wearied of the quick and regular exchange of money which was passing before me, the monotonous sounds of which were varied only by the voice of the banker, and an occasional inter- ~jection or oath from one of the players, when my meditations in front of the green cloth were put to Aight by the return of the licentiate, who led me to a table placed at the further end of the room, at which his two clientsthe squinting Mexican and the gigantic Yankeewere most fraternally seated. The American was swigging away at a bottle of Catalonian refino, while his companion was en- gaged in the discussion of a glass of iced tamarind water, which he was imbibing in little sips. Well, senor, said the licentiate to me, with an expressive glance, here are two caballeros who will remove all your scruples of conscience on the subject of the fourteen hundred piastres you owe me; and who are ready to affirm that you can pay them in all tranquillity of mind by the cession to me of the sum in which Don Dionisio Peralta is your debtor. Senor Peralta will honor his signa- ture with the best grace in the world. I did nt say that, exclaimed the Yankee with a loud horse-laugh ; I dont know if he will pay with a good grace; all I know is, he shall pay, or else Gently, gently, interrupted Don Tadeo from the moment that Peralta becomes my debtor his life is precious to me, and I must insist upon its being respected. Senor Peralta will pay with the best grace in the world, I 11 answer for it, said the Mexican, sipping his infusion of tamariuds as if it had been fire-water. Let him pay, that is all I require, rejoined the licentiate; but is not that Pepito Rechifia I see yonder with my clerk? Come, Ortix has well fulfilled his commission.~~ The name of Pepito recalled to my mind the pretty china whom I had seen in such despair under the Portales de los Mercaderes. As for the gentleman who rejoiced in the name, he was one of those dark-complexioned, long haired, free and easy going worthies only to be met with under the tent of the wandering Bohemian, or in the streets of Mexico. As soon as Pepito caught sight of the licentiate, he ran towards him, and pressed his hand with every demonstration of the most pro- found gratitude. AIm! Senor Licentiate, said he, I shall never forget that it is to you I owe my life; I was condemned to be strangled the day after to-morrow, and it is you who have saved me from the claws of the Juez de Leiras: it is thanks to some reals from your purse that I have been restored to liberty. Yes, Senor Licentiate, do not feign astonishment; I know that it is you who are my saviour; your clerk, Ortiz, told me so. Ortiz is a blockhead, replied Don Tadeo, dryly; hut I rejoice no less at your good fortune, for I shall want to speak to you to-morrow morn- ing, and I count upon your punctuality. In the mean while here is a piastre for your supper. For my supper! That s good, faith, replied the brigand. I am never hungry but when I have nothing in the pocket. When I have a piastre I play it. So saying, the illustrious Pepito swaggered ofT to the gaming table. The Yankee and the Mexi- can rose at the same time and followed him. Don Tadeo, thus freed from his importunate clients., drew me aside. You see those three fellows, said he; think you that there are many debtors who could long resist such bailiffs; above all, when it touches a debt ceded to the licentiate, Don Taden? You doubtless understood me when I dwelt strongly on the cession in your presence; my name is one arm more to employ in this perilous war; but, the war once over, the benefits thereby derived will be for you less the expenses of the campaign, which you will permit me to deduct therefrom, along with the honors of. the victory. But how are you to get hold of this Peralta? imiquired I. Up to the prescut moment I have never been able to obtain the slightest clue to his whereabouts. rhat will be my business, and the business of those three worthies yonder, to whom I had the honor to introduce you this evening. Don Dioni- sio Peralta is a bad paymaster, but a first-rat.. swordsman. However, we shall see. he now recalled to Don Tadeos recollection that had appeared desirous of conversing more at length on the subject of my affair, and I accordingly offered to satisfy his curiosity on this point. In reality, I sought but an occasion of improving my acquaintance with this singular personage. Don Tadeo seemed to divine my secret intention. It is now half-past ten, said he, looking at his watch ; I am at your orders, senor, until midnight. Let ~us ascend to the azotea, which at this hour is deserte.d. ~The night is fine, and we can converse there at our ease.~~ On gaining the terrace, we both of us involun- tarily paused for a few moments in silent contem- plation of the majestic scene which lay outspread beneath us. At our feet lay the ancient city of the Azatecs, with its innumerable domes, cupolas, and steeples, capriciously but most brilliantly lighted up by the rays of the moon. Near us, the cathedral projected over the immense Plaza Mayor its double and gigantic shadow. Further off, the Parial reared aloft its black mass amid the spaces whit- ened by the nocturnal lights, like a dusky shoal amid the breaking waves of the ocean. Still fur. thur off might be recognized the elegant cupola of Santa. Theresa, the fine domes of the convent of San Francisco, the steeples of St. Augustine and of the Bernardines; and behind this majestic accumulation of pinnacles, cupolas, and painted steeples, the distant country might be faintly de- scribed through the white vapors which, ascending from the lakes toxvards the sky, hung around the city like a luminous curtain of silvery gauze. Don Taden was the first to break silence by ad- dressing to me some questions relative to my legal A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. affair, which he had undertaken to bring to a favor- able conclusion. I hastened to reply to his inter- rogatives, promising myself to lead him on soon to give me some revelations respecting his own pre- vious career, which could not fail of being curi- ous; but the licentiate had fallen into a deep reve- rie, and I had begun to despair of drawing him from his reserve, when the strangest chance caine to my assistance; it was nothing more than the tolling of a far distant bell, ~vhich arose soddenly like a wail amid the profound silence of the night. On hearing the bell, Don Tadeo shook his head, turned deadly pale, and, finally, hid his face in his hands. At length, with a sudden effort, he roused himself, and, grasping my arm, exclaimed, iDo you not hear that bell ! To be sure I do, replied I; and if I am not mistaken, it is the passing-bell which they are ringing at the convent of the Bernardines. At the convent of the Bernardines ! repeated the licentiate in a strangely altered tone of voice; at the convent of the l3ernardines, do you say! I should imagine so by the direction, replied I. ~Vell, well, let us descend; this sound makes me ill. Why return so soon! do you not prefer breath- ing the air of this beautiful moonlight night to that of the horribly close and smoky den we have just quitted! The licentiate did not reply. The bell, whose tollincrs became more and more distinct, evidently exercised upon my companion a species of influence to me utterly inexplicable. I know not if Don Tadeo at length remarked my undisguised sur- prise; but perhaps he but gave way to the strength of his feelings when, grasping my hand, and amid stifled sobs, he let these strange words escape You must listen to me; I never hear the toll- ing of this passing-bell without beholding, as in a strange and fantastic dream, the saddest episode of my adventurous life flit before my eyes. Nothing in me will more vividly excite your surprise when you shall have learned the horrible event this pass- ing-bell recalls to my memory. I made a sign to the licentiate that I was ready to listen to him ; and I now transcribe the story as nearly as possible as he related it to me, and with a degree of coolness and self-possession, too, that I was scarcelyprepared for after his sudden and agi- tated exordium In the year 1825, an attempt at assassination was cornniitted in Mexico. This is unhappily a circumstance of but too ordinary occurrence in the capital, and if public attention was fixed for a brief space upon the matter, it was chiefly on account of the circumstances with which it was accompanied. It was on account of this sttangeness that the affair of which I now speak, instead of being briefly re- lated in the last columns of the papers, figured among the events of more or les~ importance which possess the privilege of occupying for a week or two the attention of the frivolous and idle popula- tion of Mexico. A singular mystery, in fact, shrouded this attempt at murder. Early one morning, when the Paseo of Bu- careli* was yet empty, a hackney coach had taken up its station in a retired part of the promenade. The coachman had descended from his box, and now held himself discreetly aloof, as if he divined the motives for which he had been lured. Was it a man or a woman that this procidencia (you know that it is by this name they designate the hackney- * A public promenade in Mexico. coaches of Mexico) had led to a rendezvous! The carefully closed blinds interdicted all conjecture in this respect; but later it was known that there was in this carriage a young female of exquisite beauty, who, giving way to Creole vanity, had decked her- self for the occasion in all her diamonds. Creoles, you know, have the weakness of wishing to appear as rich as they are beautiful ; and yet, with all that she could do, this young girl was still more beauti- ful than she was rich. Some minutes had thus elapsed when a man, enveloped in the folds of a large cloak, advanced towards the carriage; the door flew open at his approach, and as quickly closed upon him. A meeting of this kind was too much a thing of daily occurrence to astonish the coachman, who flung himself beneath the shade of the poplar trees, and soon fell fast asleep. When he awoke, the carriage was still in the same place, but the shadow of the poplar trees, instead of stretching towards the west, as at the hour when he fell asleep, now pointed towards the east. In other words, the sun had now nearly completed his course, and the even- ing had succeeded to the morn. It was the hour when the Paseo began to fill. The coachman, as- tonished at having slept so long, jumped up, ran to the carriage, and called, but, receiving no reply, he opened the door. A horrible spectacle met his eyes. In a half sitting, half recumbent pestur~., lay the young female in a state of insensibility, the cause being but too clearly explained by the blood with which the vehicle was inundated. The life- blood still flowed from.a deep wound in the side, which at first sight appeared mortal, evidently in- flicted by the surely-directed poniard of some skil- ful brigand. Of all the brilliants which had sparkled on the bosom and in the ears of the young Creole not one remained. The unhappy girl had thus found an assassin in place of a lover, and theft had followed murder. The cries of the coachman soon attracted a crowd of persons, among whom was fortunately a physician, who, after a short examination, discovered that the victim still breathed. Nothing now remained but to carry her to the nearest convent, which was accordingly done. This convent was that of the Bernardines. This first duty of humanity fulfilled, the task of justice commenced. But while the physicians endeavored, and successfully too, to restore the unhappy woman to consciousness, the exertions of the magistrates to arrest the murderer were not crowned with the same success. The coachman was the first indi- vidual arrested; but his innocence being speedily recognized, he was set at liberty. They arrested afterwards a young Spaniard, whose marked atten- tions to the young Creole were known to every one. The latter learned thus at the same time the infidel- ity and probable death of her he desired to make his wife. It was a frightful blow(here the voice of Don Tadeo trembled visibly) and it almost cost him his reason. At the end of a year the Spaniard was, released for want of proofs, but he left his prison ruined by law expenses, and with his heart deprived of its sweetest illusions. He learned then that she who had deceived him, and whom he had wept for dead, still lived, but that she had renounced the world, and had taken the veil in the convent to which she had been carried after the event of the Paseo. He made no attempt, however, to see her; but all his efforts, all his thoughts, were now directed to one cud, and that end was vengeance. Mexican justice had failed in tracing the assassin; he determined upon contiuts 73 74 jag the too speedily abandoned researches, and of succeeding even where the culpable indolence of the authorities had declared success impossible. Here the licentiato paused; the convent bell still continued its dismal tollings, and I began to com- prehend the emotion which these lugubrious sounds aroused in his mind. This Spaniard, you must have already guessed, was myself. I had succeeded in abstracting from the papers connected with this sad affair a letter found upon the young girl, appointing the meeting between her and her assassin. This was for me the sole thread by the aid of which Iwas to wind my way through that sombre labyrinth in which Mexican justice had lost itself. From that moment there commenced in my career a dark and agitated period which death alone can terminate. I made up my mind to live from henceforth amid thieves and murderers, in the hope, with the aid of their revelations, of gaining knowledge of the secret which pre~iccupied my mind. Under the pretext of practising my profession, I eagerly embraced all lawsuits which offered me an occasion of interro- gating these wretches, of penetrating into their haunts and lurking-places. From that moment there was not a single crime committed in Mexico the perpetrator of which I could not at need have denounced to justice. The most secret associations of malefactors had no mysteries for me. You have doubtless heard mention made of the celebrated band of the ensebados, who, for an entire year, spread terror throughout the whole of the Mexican capital. These ensebados were men who, at night, after having imbued their bodies with grease or oil, would dart suddenly from their lurking-places on the unwary and belated passenger, and either plun- der him of his property or stab him with their poniards. One only of these bandits, as unseizable as a snake, was enabled to escape the efforts of a body of vigorous soldiers. Well, senor, this chief of the ensebados is known to me; he has not quitted Mexico, and at any day, or any hour, I can name him if need requires. This is but one of my sin- ular discoveries; I could give you a thousand. rhanks to this life of incessant and perilous re- search, I acquired a degree of experience which rendered me the dread of these wretches whose disreputable antecedents were all known to me. Very frequently also my life was in danger, and more than one malefactor has attempted to punish in my person an incommodious overseer; but the services which my knowledge of the law enables me to render them, has acquired for me, on the other hand, a number of clients sufficiently devoted to my interests to prevent a recurrence of these at- tempts, which would cost my enemies dear. At the present moment I enjoy almost with impunity the influence which I exercise over the most re- doubtable brigands in Mexico; and, as you can yourself perceive, I have at my order a well-dis- ciplined force, ready to lend support to honest men who may stand in need of my assistance. This is my case, replied I, and I cannot help felicitating myself on having been so fortunate as to meet with you; but you do not tell me if your efforts to discover the assassin of the Paseo were finally crowned with success. Completely so. I was fortunate enough to discover the evangelist whose pen, under the dicta- tion of a cowardly assassin, had traced the fatal lines which had lured my betrothed to the Paseo. This individual was known to the writer, and he put me on his track. I discovered him; I had him A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. in my power, and could at any moment deliver him up to justice. By so doing I should thus have at- tamed the end for which I had been so long and painfully striving. But, would you believe it, senor~ I did nothing of the kind. Many years had elapsed since the day on which the attempt had been committed; and, by dint of living with these unfortunates, I had learned to pity rather than to hate them. I had succeeded even in forging for myself, as it were, out of their perversity, a set of weapons by the aid of ~vhich I could terminate cer- tain affairs before which Mexican justice avowed itself powerless. The assassin of the Paseo is one of these instruments that I could break at a word; but which I prefer eniploying under my own eye in the service of my numerous clients. A fresh silence succeeded to these words; the monotonous tolling of the passing-bell still con- tinueti. Since that period I have never beheld her who was to have been my bride, but who now wears the veil, resumed Don Tadeo; but I receive news of her from time to time by a sure channel, and 1 am aware that for some time back her health has been gradually giving way. You now per- ceive why the passing-bell of the Bernardines makes me tremble. I was about to propose to Don Tadeo to descend from the terrace in order to escape the melancholy influence of this funeral-knell, when the entrance door of the azatee creaked upon its hinges, and the ill-favored Mexican, whom the licentiate had nanied Navaja, glided rather than walked towards us. He was pale with terror, and every now and then would cast an uneasy glance behind him, as if to assure himself that he was not followed. It is the demon in person, cried lie, leaning against the balustrade to regain breath. Of whom are you speaking B demanded the licentiate. Of the American; he is now at his third bottle of refino, and is roaring out xvh~t he calls his war song. It is a wild Indian under the skin of a white man. lIe has been counting up the scalps he has taken, all the murders lie has committed in his lifetime; andwould you believe it ?he as- pires to the honor of addin~ the skin of my skull to the rest of his trophies! I t~epeat to you, this man is a devilhe literally smells of blood. How modest we are become all at once ! re- plied the licentiate, in the scornful tone of voice he habitually made use of when addrcssin~ the Mexi- can. And since when, may I ask, has the sight and smell of blood been so terrible to you B It was a fearful gayety that of Don Tadeo. The questiomi which he had addressed to the Mexican had apparently excited in the breast of the latter that sort of cowardly rage and hatred which a tiger mj,ght be supposed to feel for his human cus- todian. Don Tadeo, however, appeared not to remark the impression he had made; he seemed, on the contrary, to take a peculiar pleasure in irri- tating the wretch whom he kept almost quivering with suppressed rage under his cutting sarcasms.. An allusion to the affair of the Paseo suddenly ex- plained to me the reason of this outbreak of irony. I had before me the man upon whom the licentiato had power at any moment to wreak his vengeance, but whom he permitted to live; he who had at- tempted the life of the unhappy girl whose passing- bell was perhaps even now tolling. Does not that bell from the Bernardines yonder remind you of anything B were the words made use of by Doa 76 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL IN MEXICO. remarked only that he called the attention of Don trious senor here present (here Pepito pointed to Tadeo to a group of rocky hills which rose to our me) takes regular and formal possession of this left, and over which now hovered a flock of large property in the name of the lawDios v Lw- black vultures. Without replying to Pepito, the ERTAD ! licentiate checked his steed for a moment, and Don Tadeo and I now advanced in our turns, turned his eyes towards th& hills with an expres- and, on the latters instructions, I tore up a handful sion of painful surprise. He afterwards made a of grass and cast it over my head; then I threw a sign to us to continue our course, spurring his stone over the garden wall. This was a formal horse vigorously; a proceeding which we hastened act of taking possession according to Mexican law. to follow, and some minutes latcr we were gallop- A general hurrah escaped from the assembled wit- ing through the streets of the little village in which nesses. It only remained for me now to fulfil my new property was situated. the last formality which custom imposes, namely, The house ceded to me by Don Tadeo was situ- to distribute a few piastres among the throng of ated at the furthest extremity of the village. Nu- vagabonds which had flocked from all parts to wish merous groups of peasantry, who had repaired me welcome. This done, my witnesses, under the hither in order to come in for their share of the guidance of Pepito, proceeded to the nearest tavern largesses which invariably accompany every cere- in order to dispense my bounty as best suited Them. mony in Mexico, were stationed before the house, Well, senor, said the licentiate to me, you and aided us in recognizing it. It was a little have at length succeeded in recovering your money, building of very deplorable appearance, ornamented or at least an equivalent for it. What think yon in front by a sort of corridor supported by brick of my method of doing business with refractory pillars. Numerous crevices traversed the walls in debtorsV all directions, indicating the imperious necessity I think, Don Tadeo, that you play a very dan- of a thorough repair. At the back of the house, gerous game, and I have a piece of advice to give between four walls crowned with moss and bits of you; it is simply this namely, to renounce as broken glass, lay a little garden overrun with rank speedily as possible the trade of redresser of wrongs, weeds. The care-taker who had been placed in in which, unless I am greatly mistaken, the losses the house by Don Tadeo opened the door for us, must, sooner or later, exceed by a large sum the and we entered. The interior was even more des- gains. olate than its outward appearance had promised; You see, however, that I have hitherto been the plaster of the walls and ceilings was crumbling tolerably fortunate in my enterprises. But, how- away in large patches; the worm-eaten and rick- ever that may be, in ease a chance thrust should ety stairs creaked sadly under our footsteps, and some day or other put a premature end to my ex- the garden could show scarcely any produce save istence, I am anxious that you should retain a little an inextricable mass of thistles, nettles, and house- souvenir of our acquaintance. Here is a book leek, the whole overshadowed by a few fruit-trees, which has not been included, in the inventory of of very sickly appearance. Taking it altogether, the household effects; the work is old and is of however, the dilapidated little tenement, with its some value. uncultivated dependency, might be about equal in I return you many thanks, said I to the licen- value to the sum due, and that was all I required, tiate, taking the dusty volume; but the recital especially as, with a debtor of Don Dionisio Per- that I heard from your lips on the azatee of the old altas kidney, it would not do to be too particular. house of the Callejon del Arco will recall you more After inspecting the lower part of the house and vividly to my memory than this scarce old tome; the garden, we ascended to the first floor. The it is not every client who is so fortunate as to meet first apartment which ~ entered seemed to be the with a romance such as yours when he ex~pected sitting-room, and evidently had not been, opened but a legal consultation. for years, to judge by the musty odor which saluted It was now time to return to the capital. With- our olfactories. We hastened to throw open the out waiting for Pepito, the remainder of whose day massive shutters and give admittance to the light would probably be spent at the tavern, we pushed and air. A vast quantity of cobwebs, as thick and on at a hand-gallop through the plain. The heat strong as the dry moss which floats from the cedar- was even more oppressive than it had been at our trees of Chapultepec, hung in festoons from the departure. We soon came in sight of the hills ceiling. The cupboards, which we inspected next, which Pepito had pointed out to the licentiate. were completely empty with the exception of one; The flock of vultures which hovered over the rocks that contained a thick dusty volume, which the seemed to have increased in numbers, and a fetid licentiate, after a brief examination, placed under odor reached us with the little clouds of dust which his cloak. Our inspection was soon over. Call were ever and anon wafted by the breeze across the the witnesses, said Don Tadeo to Pepito, whom plain. we had promoted on this occasion to the office of If you were curious enough to read on to the master of the ceremonies. The vagabond, majes- last page of the romance you spoke of just now, tically draped in his blue mange, forthwith ad- said the licentiate to me, I would propose to you vanced to the open window, and uttered a short but to canter up to those hills yonder; but I fear you brilliant harangue to the ragged auditory assembled have rather susceptible nerves. without. Pepitos eloquence succeeded beyond And what is there to be seen among those our expectations, and in a very few moments the rocks entrance court was filled with a far greater number Merely a dead body, that s all. Dont you of witnesses than the law requires. Never in my see how the vultures are swarming round it? One life had I beheld such a collection of cut-throat of the three worthies whom I sent in pursuit of visages. We descended, preceded by Pepito, debtor has paid in his person for the rest. the court-yard, and from thence, followed by the your Well, God is just! The man who has fallen under crowd of witnesses, into the garden. Peraltas knife is the assassin of the Paseo do Senors caballeros, shouted Pepito, in a voice Bucareli. The romance is now complete, is it of thunder, you are all witnesses that the illus- not? - PERSONAL ADVENTURES DURING THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE IN HUNGARY. Most assuredly it is; and the sight of a corpse half-devoured by vultures would add nothing to the impression left by your recital on my mind. Well, I see we must spare your nerves, said the licentiate, putting spurs to his horse, let us push on for Mexico. On the Plaza Mayor we separated with mutual promises of shortly meeting again; but fate dis- posed it otherwise. A few weeks after my instal- lation into the property given up by Peralta, I quitted Mexico, on a tour through the cities and wilds of that wonderful and, to me, most fascinat- ing country. On my return to the capital, the gaming house of the C~ailejon del Arco was closed, and the evangelist, Tio Luquillas, to whom I again applied for information of my friend the licentiate, informed me that he had returned to Spain. Since that period I have made various efforts to discover his whereabouts, but it is almost needless to say that my researches have been in vain. From the Examiner. Personal Adventures during the late War of Inde- pendence in Hungary. Comprising an Account of her Missions under the orders of Kossuth to the different posts of the Hungarian Army during the Contest. By the Baroness VON Bzcx. Two vols. Bentley. Tins is one of the most extraordinary narratives of spirit-stirring adventure that it has been at any time our fortune to fall in with. Talk of heroes indeed! recount their perils by blood and field! Why, we have here a heroine who tells us of more dangers, courageously braved and triumphantly passed through by herself, than those of all the seven champions of Christendom put together. For our own part we would rather walk up to a battery in full play every day before dinner, for any given time that might be named, than go through one half the dangers this lady calmly re- counts. The Baroness Von Beck, by birth an Hungarian, saw her husband fall when cheering on his men to defend a barricade during the October revolution in Vienna. Broken-hearted and desperate, she determined thenceforth to devote herself to the good of her country; and, on the invitation of some members of the Austrian Diet, undertook to carry a message to Kossuth and the Hungarian army. She persisted, in spite of extraordinary difficulties and dangers. She was stopped at the frontiers by the army of Windischgr~tz, and turned back three or four times. At last she managed to give the enemy the slip in the guise of a fisherman, and arrived safely at Presburg, where she declared her message to Cs6~nyi. Hereupon G3rgey, who was present at the time, requested her to undertake a mission to the north of Hungary to ascertain the strength of Simonichs army. In two days her preparations were made, and she was again on the road. But we will let her tell her own tale: On the 15th of November I received my charge, namely, to obtain accurate intelligence concerning the strength and position of Simonichs troops. I immediately took the railway to Tyrnan, and trav- elled thence by post-carriage through Nadash and Senitz to my own estate. My people were in the greatest terror and anxiety, expecting momentarily a visit from Simonichs soldiers. Their fears, however, proved happily unfounded. I remained here until the 21st, and, having received and re- turned the visits of my neighbors, took my depart- ure for Neutra, where I fell in with the first di- vision of Simonichs corps, and an uncouth mob of peasants under the command of the Pastor Hurban, a fanatical Sclavish priest. The division was on its march to Senitz, and was about two thousand strong. Having ascertained, by calctilating the quantity of provisions they consumed, that the whole force of Simonich amounted to about six thousand men, and having made accurate observa- tions on their position, I returned to my residence, where I made such arrangements of my most nec- essary affairs as a hasty visit would permit, and set out once more for Presburg, to give an account of my mission. At Senitz, which lay in the route, I found the head-quarters of a Hungarian division, commandeq by Colonel Ordody, to whom, as it imported him especially, on account of his proxim- ity to the enemy, I communicated all the infor- mation I had obtained, and authenticated it by my papers. I then started by post-carriage for Pres- burg, and waited upon G~rgey at once with a full report of my mission. He thanked me for the ser- vices I had rendered to the cause of hungary, and handed me a letter which had come by express from Kossuth. He also entrusted me with a despatch for the Embassy at Vienna. Baron Motoschitzky requested me, at the same time, to bear a letter from him to Prince Windischgriitz, containing the intelligence that his newly-purchased estate at Leska had been reduced to ashes by the Hungarian bombardment. I was glad of this last commission, as a letter to the field-marshal would be a sufficient passport for me through any part of the Austrian encampment. And should I be for- tunate enough to receive an answer from XVindisch- griitz. it would protect me from all interruption on my return. * W * The same evening all the preparations for my journey back to Vienna were finished. I had now entrusted to me a letter from Kossuth to the Embassy, a letter from Baron Motoschitzky to Prince Windischgr~tz, and many private letters from the officers to persons in Vienna. My mili- tary friends advised me to conceal the letters in my haversack. This did not appear to me good coun- sel; for I knew that, should I be stopped by the Croats, they would ransack and turn inside out everything likely to contain food; my letters would thus be discovered, and myself inevitably put to death. I had determined to make the journey in a peasants cart, as it would expose me to fewer in- quiries and stoppages than a vehicle of more im- posing appearance. I caused one of the planks of the cart to be hollowed out at the end, without breaking the surface of the side, and placed all my letters in the space thus formed. The plank was then replaced, and the joining at the end rubbed over with clay. I now felt perfectly certain that they could not be discovered by even the prying Croats. On the evening of December the 5th, I left Pres.. burg, and soon reached Wolfsthal, where Jella- chichs corps was posted. As usual, I was seized at the outposts, and subjected to a rigid examination. In anticipation of such an event, I had provided 77 78 PERSONAL ADVENTURES DURING THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE IN HUNGARY. myself with papers from a well-known fruit ware- house at Presburg, and represented myself as an agent of that house going to Vienna, to collect in some debts. In spite of all my precautions, how- ever, I was placed under military surveillance as far as Sommerin~. I was stopped and examined six-and-twenty times, but in all cases my papers proved a sufficient passport. At length, early on the 6th, the cupolas and towers of the once gay, but now humbled and mourning, city of the Kaisers appeare(l in view. I entered Vienna. It appeared to my imagina- tion invested with a sombre and tragic hue, and the ruins which marked the fierceness of the recent struggle against tyranny seemed fraught with solemn admonition to all despotic rulers. The figure of my slaughtered husband came before my mind; but the thronging memories which accom- panied it I cannot, even did I desire to, depict. It was now exactly a month since I had left the city, but the exciting events which I had passed through made it appear a much longer period. I repaired to the hotel of the Embassy, where I was received with the greatest attention, and an imme- diate answer promised to Kossuths despatch. From thence I proceeded to Sch~inbrun, with the letter to Prince Windischgriitz; bat was informed that he was gone with Jellachich to the Imperial Court at Olmiitz, and would not return till the next day. His nephew, Count Windischgriitz, whom I saw soon after ~vith Count Thun and Prince Lich- tenstein, confirmed this information. I returned, therefore, to Vienna, and occupied myself in de- livering the various letters with which I was charged. In the evening I received the promised answers of the Ambassador to Kossuths let- ter. On the next day I again visited Sch6nbrun, and was admitted to an interview with Windischgriitz and Jellachichthe two pillars of the House of Hapsburg. They received me with distinguished courtesy. Could they have divined the thoughts that filled my heart, how different would have been my reception! I handed my letter to Windisch- griitz; he read it, and seemed struck with terror at its contents. I confess it was not without a se- cret feeling of satisfaction I saw this man taste some of the bitterness of that misery into which, with a remorseless hand, he had plunged myriads of his own, and of my countrymen. He went into his cabinet to write an answer to Motoschitzky, and Jellachich remained standing in the presence of his deadly enemy. I now looked, for the first time, upon the calumniator of Hungarian honor the plunderer and destroyer of Vienna. I could scarcely refrain from giving utterance to the feel- ings of disgust and scorn that swelled within me; but I could serve my country more effectually, and was silent. He questioned me as to the number and condition of the Hungarian troops. I repre- sented them as double their actual force. Upon which he said, with apparent carelessness, that those divisions which I had not seen were probably still stronger. His drift was evidently to draw from inc some information respecting the position of the various corps, but I defeated it by taking refuge in the general ignorance of my sex upon such matters. XVindischgr~tz now returned with his written answer to Motoschitzky. He thanked me again for the trouble I had taken on his account; and, what pleased me much more, he directed Count Thun to make out an order, giving me liberty to pass, wherever I chose, unmolested by the Austri an troops, to which he appended his own signature. I took my leave; my object was accomplished, and the l~vo great generalsthe conquerors of Prague and Viennawere outwitted by a woman. In such dangerous expeditions as thesein fact as a spywhen death would have instantly followed on detection, did this enthusiastic and brave woman pass the entire time, with scarcely a few weeks rest, from November, 1848, to the end of 1849. So extraordinary an instance of passionate devotion to a cause, and of perfect indifference to danger when a service could be rendered, we scarcely recollect to have heard or read of. Certainly it has never been surpassed. During this anxious and busy period the Baron- ess Von Beck passed repeatedly through the very midst of the Austrian and Russian armies. Some half dozen times she penetrated into Vienna itself. She was present at two great battles, those of Moor and Branitzscka. She took part in the sur- render at Vilagos, and the evacuation of Comorn. At one time we find her stirring up the Poles to insurrection at Lemberg and Cracow; at another she is intriguing with Germans at Dresden and Cseks in Prague. She was now feasting the con- querors of Buda, or dancing with the heroes of Kapolna; and now dressing the wounds of the patriots, or superintending the hospitals and pris- ons. At one moment she draws out plans of cam- paigns for G~irgey, and gives counsel on state affairs to Kossuth; at another she is steaming down the Danube, listening to the silly boastings of Welden, or engaged in pleasant conversation with Paskeivich himself. Her masterpiece, however, was her visit to 1-laynan. In the desperate hope of saving the life of a friend, this intrepid woman actually bearded the tiger in his own den; and that, too, at the very time when he was revelling in the blood of his vic- tims. Had she been discovered, she would not have had twenty-four hours to live; yet she actual- ly placed herself of her own accord in the power of the hangman, and escaped unsuspected! Of all the multitude in the Neugebiiude, the only one to whom I could bring any comfort was Da- niehis. His affairs were in a fair way of arrange- ment, hut his personal danger was still great. He begged me to see Haynan, and to prevail upon him, if possible, at least, to hear Daniehis in his own defence. The prisoners knew of the death of Bathyanyi, but as yet the fatal tidings from Arad had not reached them, and every one made it a duty to conceal these atrocities from them. I left this place of mourning, and retired to my hotel. I had pledged myself to see Haynan on Danielis behalf, and my promise must now be ful- filled. I went to Hayna& s residence, and, after waiting a long time, was introduced to his presence. He received me politely, and I felt encouraged. I told him that I had come on behalf of Colonel Danielis, and mentioned that he was the father of a helpless family; that he had not fought against Austria, and dwelt particularly on his having saved the royal estates from destruction, of which, I said, I could bring him satisfactory evidence. Haynau said that the chief bailiff of the crown property had PERSONAL ADVENTURES DURING THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE IN HUNGARY. 7,9 been already with him, and had represented the services of the prisoner upon that occasion in a very favorable light; that this afforded sufficient ground for his pardon, but still lie could not be liberated until it came to his turn to be examined. This was very satisfactory. I felt emboldened to present a petitien which Kossuths mother had intrusted to me, praying that his children ipight be placed with herself. He took the paper and read it, and his natural character re- turned; he was Haynau once more; a dark frown, like a thunder-cloud, gathered upon his brow. XVhat! said he, in a voice hoarse with passion, what! do you want the children to receive the same revolutionary training as their father? The women of Hungary have the devil in their hearts, and are guilty of infinite mischief. No, I tell you; the girl shall be placed in a convent, and the hoys brought up in Vienna under surveillance. Go; that is the will of his majesty. Hc asked me how I had become acquainted with Kossuth and his mother 1 I told him what I thought proper, and he left me with a volley of filthy abuse against the illustrious exile and his family. These were bad tidings to hring to the aged mother. I tried to comfort her as well as I could, and after this visited her much more frequently than I did before. Kossuth is the Baroness Von Becks hero, her prophet, her demigod; and she sacrifices all other celebrities without compunction at the altar of his greatness. iDembiusky she treats wit.h manifest injustice; G6rgey comes out on her pages as a very Mephistopheles. Klapka himself does not escape without animadversion. But without adopt- ing her opinions either on the men she blames or the subjects she discusses, we can as little deny her the praise of great cleverness, as the possession of a wonderful power of exciting and interesting the reader. True it is that a narrative of such miracu- bus escapes, such dangerous enterprises, and such a spirit-stirring period, would be sufficient to give interest to the driest manner and the most common- place style; but the baroness adds to the charm by a warmth and vigor in the manner of her descrip- tion which testifies eloquently to her own enthusi- astic love for the cause she has adopted. It really matters nothing to what page we turn for an extract. It would not be possible to find one that should disappoint the reader. We will take by way of contrast a visit to the ruined town of Losponez, and a parting with the family of Kos- suth; but we strongly recommend the whole work to the readers attention. HORRORS OF WAR. A guerilla band, which consisted chiefly of per- sons belonging to that town, had some time before captured a Russian prince, arid more recently a courier of the sanie nation, whose despatches they took from him; both the prince and the courier were sent as prisoners to Komorn. General Grabbe, as soon as his corps obtained possession of the district, sent a requisition to Losponez to deliver up the prisoners and the despatches within twenty-four hours, or to abide his yen eance. As it was impossible to comply with this demand, he let loose his troops upon the helpless town, with full license to use the inhabitants as they pleased. I need hardly say that deeds at which humanity shudders, and which it would stain this fair paper with a burning blot of shame to record, were per- petrated. For several hours the wildest and most diabolical passions of the human heart raged in this wretched town, until at length, worn out with slaughter and wickedness, the brutal executioners of a still more brutal will set fire to the scene of their abominations, and the ashes of their unhappy victims were soon mingled with that of the liabita- tions which had witnessed these atrocities. A more pitiful and tragic scene than this town presented have I never dreamt of, much less seen. The destruction of Pesth was a holiday amusement compared with what had been perpetrated here. I cannot trust my pen even to name the horrors which I witnessed; suffice it to say, that of the whole population there was not one family left alive which would not have deemed it a mercy and a kindness to have died under the ruins of their habitations. I found a lady of rank striving to hide her shame in a ditch overgrown with weeds, for the devilish wretches had taken all her clothing from her. I gave her all the garments I could spare from my own person, and strove to comfort her breaking heart as she sobbed upon my bosom. May the laurels of Grabbe wither and cleave to his brow, an everlasting reproach for this deed of sin and infamy. Glory! is this glory I Is this the sublime integrity and virtue which we admire in the heroes of old Is this the stern sense of right which alone can make courage anything superior to a fierce brute instinct No; this was the eon- duct of a monster, with the shape of a man, and the heart of a wolf; a villain, whose name should he pronounced with loathing by all who feel one kindling blush of shame, one thrill, however feeble, of human emotion. XO55UTH 5 CHILORRN. I devoted myself now to the accomplishment of this plan, and was encouraged by one passing gleam of sunshine, which broke through the sor- rowful shades which had so long surrounded me. Kossuths family were set at liberty, that is to, say, his mother and his three sisters. His children were still in prison,~ and continued in captivity till the following year.~ They were three in num- ber; Wilma, a beautiful little maiden of ten; and two boys, Ferenz, aged eight, and Lajos, six years. The fathers bright spirit animated them all. When Haynau visited them, lie addressed them in German, and they, to his great embarrassment, answered in Hungarian, of which he was totally ignorant. The eldest lad then said to him inGer- man; What! so renowned a man as you not understand Hungarian ! Haynau scarcely knew what to say to this; it was evident that the boy looked upon the Magyar language as the natural speech of all soldiers. I visited them myself after- wards at Presburg, when little Wilma said to me; What do you think, baroness? Haynau has been to see us, and promised that we should soon leave this nasty prison. But indeed, added she with a proud look, which reminded me of her father, 1 assure you we did not ask him to let us out; for he is papas enemy. With the exceptions of being in captivity, and separated from their parents, they were as comfort- able as their friends could desire. They had a tutor and servants, and were very carefully at- tended to. The citizens of Presburg were never weary of showing their affection for them. Their ON THE MASSACRE OF A CONVENT OF NUNS AT PARIS. rooms were strewed with toys, and everything likely to please children. The slightest wish of the little creatures was instantly gratified by the good people of Presburg, regardless of expense or trouble; and it was well for the children that they did not continue long the objects of such affection- ate, almost idolatrous, homage. It might have effectually spoiled them. As for the mother of the children, whether she had concealed herself or fled, whether she was dead or living, nobody knew. I have been led into this long digression by the mention of Kossuths family, which I had now the consolation of seeing as happy as they could be, whilst he was in sorrow and exile. I had the fur- ther satisfaction, during those days, of seeing my efforts on behalf of the imprisoned Danielis crowned with the most successful results. lIe was set at liberty. He came to me immediately to thank me for what I had done, and we went together to pay a visit to the Kossuth ladies. We found them in great joy at their recovered liberty. Their house presented the appearance of a royal reception. The street was thronged with the carriages of the nobility and gentry hastening to congratulate them. It was with much difficulty we approached the door. I rejoiced exceedingly that this manifestation of public feeling took place, in spite of the suspi- cions which attached to every one who dared to ad- mire the great man, who was thus honored in his relatives. Bnt it was not mere feeling, it was a deeper principle of love and devotion. This principle fook expression in the least questionable form, for many of the richest of the Magyar nobility offered their houses and lands to the family of Kossuth, and would truly have deemed it an honor to have supplied them with everything in their possession, even to the impov- erishing of themselves. Kossuth had left the country poor, as he was born. The wealth of a nation had passed through his hands, but they were clean from any soil. Even his relatives, who were thus caressed and honored, had no earthly means of subsistence; hut the poorest peasant in Hunga- ry would have gladly curtailed his scanty meal to contribute to the ease and happiness of that name which was the object of his highest admira- tion. When I told the venerable mother that I was about to leave the country, and would probably see her son in his exile, she wept upon my neck long and bitterly; she kissed me and blessed me in the old patriarchal manner. Greet my son, said she, with all the love of a mothers heart; tell him from me to seek under the palms of the East that repose which he must not hope for in his fatherland; tell him that, though he has not been able to save it, there is a righteous and merciful Providence, which, in its own time, will bring us peace and freedom. Go, my daughter, and may God be ever with you ! With this farewell, I parted from the mother of the greatest and loftiest of men. She was a small woman, with white hair and black sparkling eyes. In her youth she had been beautiful, and had pre- served