LITTELIS LIVING AGE.No. 606.6 JANUARY, 1866. Prom the North British Review. 1. The Poetical Works of Samuel Butler. With L~fe, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes, by the Rev. GEORGE GILFILLAN. 2 vols. Edinburgh, James Nichol. 1854. 2. The Poetical IVorks of Samuel Butler. Edited, with Memoir and Notes, by ROBERT BELL. 8vo. London, John W. Parker & Son. 1855. THROUGH either of these editions of Butlers Poetical Works the new generation of book- buyers and readers have a good opportunity of becoming acquainted with a writer who, though two hundred years have elapsed since he lived, is still, in some respects, unique in our literature. The age is passed, indeed, in which any one would be likely to take But- lers poems, as some rough country gentle- man, of last century, is said to have done, as his sole literary companion and general cabinet of wisdom; and most readers who have reached their elimacteric have already a copy of Butler on their shelves, and havc pretty well made up their minds as to what the man was, and as to the amount of service for any good purpose that is still to be got out of him. Young fellows, however, who have to complete their education, cannot do so without at least dipping into Hudibras; and, besides, the farther an old author such as Butler recedes into the past, and the more the miscellany of things interposed between him and us is increased by the advance of time, the less of him remains vital, and the more nearly is he reduced to his true and permanent essence. And hence not alone for the sake of the young fellows in question may it be worth while to devote a few pages to what otherwise might be thought a somewhat fusty subject. If Dryden, Addison, Swift, and Foote, are deemed worthy of re- suscitation, even in the midst of a war with Russia, and a hundred other grave contempo- rary matters, who will have the heart to object to an hours gossip about old Samuel Butler~ One peculiarity about Butler, as one of our British authors, is that he was fifty years of age before he was so much as heard of by his contemporaries. He was born in 1612, and it was not till the end of 1662 that the first DCfl. LIYDiO AGE. VOL.XII. 1 part of Hudibras was given to the weAC This is the more remarkable when we reinen- ber through what a busy age of literary pro- duction Butler thus contrived to remain silent. He had twenty-eight clear years of life before the outbreak of the Civil Wars years dur- ing which he might actually, as a young man, have welcomed into print the last literary performances of such surviving veterans of the Elizabethan age as Ben Jonson, Donne, Drayton, Chapman, and Ford; but though other young Englishmen of this time, such as Waller, Davenant, Suckling, Milton, Denham, and Cowley, made good their entrance into literature before these giaats of the elder gen- eration had finally quitted the stage, Butler saw them vanish without so much as attempt- ing to put himself in any other relation to them than that of an ordinary reader. Then came the period of the Civil Wars and the Commonwealth, coinciding with all that por- tion of Butlers life which elapsed between his twenty-ninth and his forty-ninth year. This period, being one of turmoil and politi- cal excitement, as well as of Puritan govern- ment, was not so favorable to the purer kinds of literary production, i. e., to imaginative and calm speculative or historical literature9 as the age which it had succeeded. Still U had an ample literature, peculiar to itself a literature, at least, of satire and incessant theological and political discussion ; and, in one way or another, some at home and others in exile, such writers as Hobbes, ilerrick, Tzaak Walton, and the dramatist Shirley, all of whom had been past middle age before the civil wars began, and such younger writers as WalIer, Davenant, Suckling, Milton, Den- ham, and Cowley, who, as has just been mentioned, had taken their degree in litera- ture before the same ievolutio~iary outburst1 continued, during the era of Puritan ascend- ency, to stand before the world as active men of letters. Shirley, poor fellow, hi8 source of livelihood cut off by the suppression of the stage in 1642, had gone into the country to teach a school and live on his reputation as an ex-dramatist; ilerrick, ejected from his charge in Devonshire, as not being the kind of clergyman that a Puritan government SAMUEL BUTLER. could tolerate, was probably humming over their exile in France and Holland, we hear his old songs and fancies and writing new not a word of any publication pro or con, in ones to amuse his leisure in some cottage verse or in prose, bearing the name of Samuel near his old parish; Hobbes was abroad, Butler. It was not till after the Restoration teaching mathematics to Charles II. in his that amid the general gathering of the old exile, and writing his Leviathan and wits from their haunts, around the throne of other works, which he afterwards came over Charles II., and the sudden crop of new and to England to publish; Waller, Davenant, younger wits evoked by the license aflbrded Denham, and Cowley, also lived abroad as roy- to dramatic riot and all that had hitherto been alist exiles, till towards the end of Cromwells repressed the face or the name of Butler Protectorate, when they were permitted to emerged to challenge notice. return and write as niuch as they chose, and Of course it cannot be that Butler was pos- when Waller, at least, thought it wise to itively idle with his pen all this time. He make his peace with Cromwell and become was not heard of as a writer prior to 1062; one of his panegyrists; Suckling had died but the man who then came forth with such almost at the beginning of his royal masters a poem as the first part of Hudil3ras must troubles; Izaak Walton, having quitted his have had a good deal of quiet practice before- cloth-shop, in Chancery Lane, in 1644, was hand in the art of putting his thoughts on pa- dividing his time betwe~n fishing, the prepara- per. It becomes of some importance, therefore, tion of his book on that art, and pious recol- to find out, if possible, at what point in that lections of Donne, Hooker, Wotton, and other obscure period in Butlers life which elapsed good men whom he had known before the before the Restoration, the literary impulse kings head had been cut off; and, lastly, first seized him, what was the precise nature Milton, the true literary representative of of that impulse, and what were the circum- Puritanism and the Commonwealth, though stances which retarded so long the public ex- he had forsaken for the time the softer muse hibition of his talent. For this purpose let of his youth, was still conspicuously at work, us glance at the little that is known of this shaking the very soul of Royalism and Prel- portion of his life. acy, by his nobre prose treatises in defence Butler was the son of a substantinl farmer of the Revolution and its leaders. Nay, there in Worcestershire. He received a very good were others, nQt mentioned in the above list, school education at the Cathedral school of whose literary career began, or was continued, Worcester, under a master who had a consid- during the stormy period of the Common- erable reputation in his day for turning out wealth. The manhood of the great Jeremy pupils who afterwards became distinguished. Taylor corresponds with this period, which he It is not certainly known whether he was sent did not long survive; Richard Baxter, and to either of the Universities. There is a other non-conforming divines, became famous vague account of his having leen at Cam- during it; the quaint Fuller then penned bridge, and there is a still more vague account ~many of his writings; the philosophic Sir of his having been at Oxford; but Mr. Bell Thomas Browne, calm as a molluse in the is disposed, and we think justly, to believe niidst of the social perturbations, was pursu- that neither account is correct, and that But- ing his fantastic speculations in his study at icr never received any university education. If :Norwich ; the vagabond trooper Cleveland, he was at either of the Universities, however, now abroad with his Royalist associates, and we can well suppose that it was not then or now risking his neck in England, was inditing there that he began to write verses. It is his racketty squibs against the Roundheads, easy to see, from the nature of his writings, with especial reference to that grand topic of after he did become a writer, that he never fun with all the satirists of his party, Olivers could have had anything about him of that copper nose; a~d Miltons friend, honest An- overflowing productive disposition, that rich drew Marvell, had at least given evidence to imitative instinct, which belongs to the young those who knew him of his capacity of writing sons of Apollo, and which made his contein- well on the other side. Yet, in the midst of poraries, Milton and Cowley, poets even in all this cross-fire of writings from Royalists their teens. Milton, a fond disciple at college and Juritans, from poets and philosophers, of all that was best in classical as well a~ in from rsglishmen at home and Englishmen in modern poetry, was already himself a writer SAMUJtL BU~fL1~R. of sweet verse; and Gowley was but a flow- ing-haired child when, meeting with Spensers Faery Qucene, the imitative impulse seized him, and he began to lisp in number~s, The Muses did young Cowley raise; They stole him from his nurses arms, Fed him with sacred love of praise, And taught him all their charms. A much tougher subject, if we guess aright, was young Butler, and not the kind of infant for any Muse to dandle. When but a boy, says Aubrey, he would make obser- vations and reflections on everything one said or did, and censure It to be either well or ill ; and, wherever Aubrey got his infor- mation, it has a singular smack of truth about it. Not a flowing-haired poetic child of the Cowley stamp at all, mildly stealing away from his companions into the fields to read, but a decidedly hard-headed if not stubby- haired boy, keeping uncomfortably near to people when they were talking, and censur- ing things to be either well or ill; such, even without Aubreys hint, but merely on the principle of the boy being father to the man, should we have conceived young Butler to have been in his school-days. If he did go to college he doubtless made the most of his time there, and read books and acquired knowledge assiduously, as would become a sensible farmers son, receiving education at some expense to his family; but to Spensers Facry Qucene, and all, that class of influ- ences, we suspect he would have presented a cuticle of greater resistance than either Mil- ton or Cowley did. In short, if he was at the University, we can well believe that he left it without ever having perpetrated verse at all, or at least anything more than a few lines of such hard do~vnright doggrel as would not matter much one way or another. He may, however, have written good sound prese, of a quality quite sufficient for his pur- poses as a scholar. According to the very scanty notices that remain, that period of Butlers life which extends from his early youth till after the Restoration, is to be considered as dividing itself into three parts. First of all, from his early youth onwards, for an uneertaiii num- ber of years, but probably till about 1639, when he would be twenty-seven years of age, we find him acting as clerk in the service of Thomas Jeifries, of Earls Croombe, a flour- ishing Justice of Peace in his native county of Worcestershire. While in this service he is said to have had some thoughts of turning painter; and, as late as the middle of last century, there were some portraits and other pictures at Earls Croombe which were ~aid to have been painted by Butler during his residence there. They do not seem to have been worth much ; and, though Butler kept up his taste for the art in after-life so as to become acquainted with Samuel Cooper, the first English portrait-painter of his day, his own practice in it was probably never more than that of an amateur. There was more feasibility in the plan which he is said also to have entertained about this time of becom- ing a lawyer, or at least a country attorney; and, as evidence of some such intention, there is not only a tradition of his having entered himself at Grays Inn, but also the fact of his having left behind him among his papers a syllabus of Coke upon LittJeton, drawn up in law French in his own handwriting. Not even to the dignity of an independent country attorney, however, was Butler to be promoted. From being law-clerk to the Worcestershire Justice of Peace, we find him through what intermediate stages of amateur portrait-painting, and law-student- ship, is unknown transferred to a superior situation, as secretary, or the like, in the household of the Countess of Kent, at Wrest, in Bedfordshire. here, besides leisure to amuse himself with painting and music, he had the advantage of an excellent library, and of the conversation of the learned Sel- den, then steward of the Countesss estate, and, according to Aubreys account, privately married to her. It is this circumstance of Seldens being domesticated at Wrest at the time of Butlers service there that enables us to form a guess as to dates. Mr. Bell, finding that Selden spent the Parliamentary recess of the year 1628 at the Earl of Rents seat in Wrest, employing himself in the prep- aration of his work on the Arundel marbk~, assigns that year as the probable date of Butlers admission int~~~the Countess ser- vice. This supposition seems quite unteri- able. Butler would then have been only sixteen years of age, and there would be no room at all for his prior service at Earls Croombe, not to speak of his painting sad other occupations attributed to him while there. It seems more natural to suppose, SAMUEL BUTLER. as we have done, that he did not leave Earls Croombe for Wrest till about the year 1639; in which year, as Mr. Bell himself informs us, Selden, by the death of the Earl of Kent, became permanently domesticated in the household of the Countess at Wrest, and that on a more intimate footing than when th& Earl had been alive. The fact that But- ler is always represented by his biographers as having entered the service of the Countess of Kent, seems to confirm this; and in other respects it accords with the facts. If Butler did enter this service in 1639, when he was in his twenty-eighth year, he may have remained in it till 1651, in which year the Countess died, leaving Selden her executor and part-heir; and still there would be ample time left for a third and different ser- vice which Butler is said to have discharged before the Restoration namely, that of secretary or general man of business to Sir Samuel Luke of Cople lloo, in the same county of Bedfordshire. Sir Samuel was one of the leading Presbyterians of the county, and a Justice of Peace. lie had been a Colonel in the Parliamentary army during the Civil Wars, and Member in the Long Parliament for Bedfordshire; and, though with others of the Presbyterian leaders, he had shrunk back from the extreme proceed- ings of the Parliament about the time of the Kings death, and had, in consequence, beca one of those members whom the army lead- ers and Independents secluded about this time from farther attendance in the House, he yet appears to have retained his zeal in the general cause of the Revolution, and to have been an active magistrate in Bedford- shire under Cromwells government. The precise nature of Butlers duties in his ser- vice cannot be known; but if he entered it after 1651, when the Civil Wars in England were over, and the Commonwealth was an established fact, they. may very well have been such as a secretary, though of Royalist connections and sentiments himself, might consistently enough discharge for a Presby- terian master. As to the duration of this service, however, we are totally uninformed. We have assumed it to have begun in 1651, and it may have continued till 1660 or there- abouts i. e., through the period of the first Rump, and the Protector~hips of Cromwell and his son Richard, down to the confusions of the second Rump and Monks intrigues immediately antecedent to the Kings recall. When the King had returned, it would be natural, amid the general change of system, for Presl~yterian knights and county magis- trates to sink into comparative idleness and obscurity, and for their secretaries, especially if of Royalist connections, to look about for other situations. Such is the meagre outline, with which we must be content, of the first forty-eight years of Butlers life. It is possible, indeed, that farther research might disclose addi- tional facts, or at least verify or disprove the conjectures we have ventured to make as to the dates of such facts as are known. Meanwhile, what concerns us is to ascertain, if possible, at what point in the life, as thus laid out, Butler first felt his vocation to liter- ature, and first secretly practised the talent which was afterwards to make him famous. Now, if our chronology is correct, we have little hesitation in saying that it was some- where in what we have represented as th~ middle portion of his adult life prior to the Restoration that is, during his service with the Countess of Kent at Wrest, in Bedford- shire, from 1639 to 1651. We found this opinion on the evidence afforded by what remains of his writings, in addition to Hudilras. Of all these writings whether those included in the Genuine Remains, published from the actual manu- scripts by Mr. Thyer of Manchester in 1759, and which are indubitably authentic, or such other casual pieces in prose or verse, not in- cluded among these, as there is any probable ground for believing to have been really his there is not one which we can ascertain to have been published prior to 1660, or, at all events~ tot. 1659, if indeed any one of them was published prior to Hudibras itself in 1663. But, though none of them was certainly pub- lislzed before this period, there are one or two of them which were certainly written before it. Among these, the earliest to which we can assign a probable date is a piece of rude doggrel, calling itself a Ballad, and seem- ingly meant as a ~squib against Cromwell, about the time of li~ military successes and paramount influence in the kingdom, just before Jibe Kings death. It occurs among Tbyers Genuine Remains, where it Is printed from the manuscript. Here is a specimen, part of a portrait, which must be supposed to be that of Cromwell: 4 SAMUEL BUTLER. His face is round and decent As is your dish or platter, On which there grows A thing like a nose, But, indeed, it is no such matter. On both sides of th aforesaid Are eyes, but th are not matches, On which there are To be seen two fair And large well-grown mustaches. Now this with admiration 1i~oes all beholders strike, That a beard should grow Upon a things brow Did ye ever see the like? He has no skull, t is well known To thousands of beholders; Nothing but a skin Does keep his brains in From running about his shoulders. And so on, through a score or so of stan- ins more, the last of which, containing an allusion to the King and Parliament as both still extant, and to the civil wars as still rag- ing, enables one to assign the year 1648, or thereby, as the probable date of the compo- sition. Such as it is, it is the first authentic piece from Butlers pen that remains to us; and that which comes nearest to it in point of time is a short prose tract, entitled The Case of King Charles I. truly stated, orig- inally published from the manuscript in 1691, by an anonymous editor, after Butlers death, and reprinted by Thyer. This tract is in the form of a reply to a pamphlet, entitled King Charles Case, or an Appeal to all Rational Men concerning his Trial, prepared by John Cook, Master of Grays Inn, soli- citor to the Parliament in the proceedings against the King, and afterwards executed as one of the chief regicides. The pamphlet was put in circulation with others after the Kings death, in defence of the policy of the Commonwealth leaders; and Butler appears to have tried his hand at writing an answer, with the intention of publishing it some time or other. He never did so, however, and it was found among his papers. It may be assumed to have been written some time be- tween 1649 and 1654, the anonymous editor of 1691 speaking of it as having been penned about forty years since. Next, in point of certain date, among Butlers remains, is a piece of doggrel similar in style to that above quoted, entitled, A Ballad~about the Par- liament which deliberated about making Oli- ver King. It begins: As close as a goose Sat a Parliament House To hatch the royal gal!; After much fiddle-faddle, The egg proved addle, And Oliver came forth Noll. The topic of this piece of doggrel fixes its date at about 1656-1657, when the propriety of Olivers exchanging the title of Protector for that of King was a matter of general dis- cussion. Butler, among others, had his no- tions on the subject, of which he relieved himself, for his own satisfaction, or probably for the amusement of those about him, as above. After the death of Cromwell, and amid the confusions of Richards brief Protec- torate and the second Rump, there was less reason for reserve in such expressions of opin- ion; and, accordingly, during the year im- mediately preceding the Restoration, Butlers pen seems to have been somewhat busy. Be- sides other scraps, there is one prose piece of some length, the composition of which may be certainly attributed to the year 16591660, though it remained unpublished till after- wards. This piece consists of Two Speeches made in the Rump-Parliament when it was restored by the Officers of the Army in the year 1659, the said speeches being mock- harangues, invented by Butler, and put, the one into the mouth of an old Presbyterian member of the House, who is indignant at all that has been done by the Army during the last ten years; and the other into the mouth of an Independent, or Army-man, who hates the Presbyterians. The composition is one of some vigor; and the writer makes the two debaters abuse each other, very much as Hudibras and Ralph do in the poem, only in sober earnest, and so as to produce an impres- sion unfavorable both to a continuance of mil- tary ru1c~ or~Independency, and to a revival of mere Parliamentary government without a royal head. Had the pamphlet been published, it would really have done some service in the cause of the Restoration, while that question was being debated, and Monks intentions were uncertain. It is evident, in short, that Butler took a great interest in that question; and it is possible tha~ though the composi- tlon just mentioned was not printed, he may about this time have contributed other pieces of a political tenor which did find their way into circulation. The result of this brief investigation is, that it was not till about the 37th year of Butlers 5 SAMUF4L BUTLER. age, and when, according to our chronology, he was ia the service of the Countess of Kent, at her neat in Bedfordshire, that he began to use his pen for anything like a literary pur- pose, and that from that time he used it only sparingly, in occasional pieces of verse and of prose satire against the Puritans, till about the eve of the Restoration, when, being then in Sir Samuel Lukes service in the same county of Bedfordshire, or just about to quit that service, he found himself a sufficiently ex- pert writer to wish to appear as such, and capable not only of throwing off political pamphlets suited for the time, but also of planning and preparing a burlesque poem of some length. This account, probable on external grounds, corresponds with the impression we have of Butlers character. Always a shrewd, indus- trious, and reading man, with a quantity of grim crabbed satire in him, which may have come out in his talk, he was evidently, as we have already said, not one of that class of writers who, like Milton and Cowley, take naturally from their childhood to literary effort, as ducklings do to the water. He could always, we have no doubt, write excel- lent business-prose; but he may have been comparatively advanced in life before the idea occurred to him of breaking up this business prose, and enriching it, and fining it, and putting all his wit, and force, and po~ver of learned allusion into it, so as to fit it for the purposes of literature. Much more may it have required a distinct stimulus from without to put the idea into his head of rising above his prose altogether and becoming a poet. Such a stimulus he found at last in the un- usual social and political incidents of his time acting on his long constitutional and acquired antipathy to the Puritans. It was antipathy to the Puritans that caused Butler in middle life, at a time when he was probably known by his Bedfordshire neighbors only as a hard- headed and somewhat crusty and eccentric man of business, to become an author and a poet. He was not the only man who was so affected. Denham, in a mock-address, in the name of the poets of England, to the Long Parliament, declares that one effect of their proceedings had been to make the whole na- tion, including King Charles himself, poe The drift of this lame conceit is, that the Par- liament had made at least one of the ineentives to poetry, namely, poverty, general enough throughout the kingdom. In a somewhat different sense, Denhams conceit may be taken as true. If there was less of poetry proper in England in that age of social convulsion, there was more of that kind of poetry which consists in social and political allusion put into verse. Balked of any more effective way of giving vent to their hatred of the Puritans, the Royalists took their revenge in abundance of satirical squibs and ballads. Just as now we sometimes see a shrewd middle-aged citizen, or country-squire, who never suapected him- self of any literary tendency, suddenly moved by his interest in some controversy to write to the newspapers, or perhaps to pen a pamphlet, and by that one fatal act parting with his liberty forever after, and selling himself, body and soul, to the printers devil, so it was then. Rough old cavaliers, rather shaky in their syntax, furbished it up for the occasion, that they mi0ht have a slap at the Roundheads one way if they could not have it in another; and fellows who had never found the legiti- mate source of poetical inspiration at twenty in their mistresss eyebrow, were inspired at last, at forty, by Oliver Cromwells nose. If a sample is wanted, take the following, two scraps from a mountain of similar stuff: Cromwell wants neither wardrobe nor armour; his face is natural buff, and his skin may furnish him with a rusty coat-of-mail. You would think he had been christened in a lime-pit, and tanned alive; but his countenance still con- tinues mangy. We cry out against superstition, and yet we worship a piece of wainscot, and idol- ize an unbianchecl almond. Certainly tis no human visage, but the emblem of a mandrake, one scarce handsome enough to have been the progeny of Ilecuba, had she whelped him. Pamphlet of the year 1649. Of all professions in the town, The brewers trade hath gained renown; his ltquo~ reaches up to the crown, Which nobody can deny. He scorneth all laws and martial stops, But whips an army asround as tops, And cuts off his foes as thick as hops, Which nobody can deny. He dives for riches down to the bottom, And cries, My masters, when hehasgot em, Let every tub stand upon his own bottom, Which I~body can deny. Song of 1f1511658. It was certainly no arrogance in Butler, even if he had never written anything before, to think that he could do better than this. The main qualification that of positive irre 6 SAMUEL B1JTL~R. concilable dislike to the Puritans, and their whole mode of thought, speech, and action he had in perfection. No one can understand Butler who fails distinctly to conceive this. His antipathy to the Puritans i~ all their branches and denominations, from the most moderate Presbyterian to the most fanatical sectary and Fifth-monarchy man, was no as- sumed feeling; it was an honest inborn avcr- sion, an absolute incapacity of finding any- thing in that order of ideas or thin~s with which he could sympathize; a crabbed con- stitutional disgust with it all as cant, humbug, hypocrisy, and delusion. A man, whose habit it was to censure things to be either well or ill, there were probably very few things that he would in any circumstances have censured to be well; but there could not by possibility have been an ease Ic of things more calen- lated to provoke his perpetual ill-censure than that in the midst of which he found himself. Like Swift, an obstinately deseendental man, or bigot for the hard terrestrial sense of things, and yet living in an a~e when transcendental- ism had broken loose, and seemed to be whirl- ing heaven and earth together, he must have plodded about Bedfordshire with a kind of sneering conviction on his face that very few besides himself still knew it to be only Bed- fordshire, and n~t a county in some celestial kingdom. The more he saw, of the Purjtans in his own neighborhood, and the farther that party advanced, throughout the nation at large, from their first beginnings of zeal to their last exhibitions of religious and politi- cal enthusiasm, the more they became to him an object of satire; and if, at Sir Samuel Lukes or anywhere else, he was thrown much among their chief men, so as to have opportunities of observing them, he must have taken notes rarely. Nor was it strange that a man of his extraordinary natural wit, and extensive familiarity as a reader with all sorts of books a painter, too, and therefore akin to an author already should think of doing as others were doing around him, and putting down some of his observations in black and white. Beginning, therefore, perhaps, with some such doggrel ballad against Crom- well as that which we have quoted as the first known production of his pen, he went on, as we suppose, inditing scraps of prose and verse for his own private gratification, some of which, however, not now toThe traced, may have had a contraband circulation among the 7 Royalists during the period of Cromwells government. In prose, Butler, once he had begun, could never have had any peculiar difficulty. We have his own information, indeed, that he was by no means one of your easy scribblers, who have no trouble in dashing off a page, but a slow, serious, deliberate writer, for whom ev- ery sentence had its own pangs. His labor in putting his sense and wit into adequate prose, however, must have been as nothing compared with that which he at first found in cramming it into appropriate jingle. His matchless success at last was the result not only of perpetual care spent on every line as he wrote it, even after he had thoroughly acquired the knack of versification, but also, as we think, of considerable experiment in the beginning before he hit on the exact knack or trick that suited him. We have seen his first attempts in the doggrel ballad- stanza, then so much in vogue to supply the cavaliers with songs for their drinking bouts; and certainly we have no reason from such specimens to conclude that he would have ever set the Thames on fire in that style of rhythm. The Nobody-can-deny fellows did it much better. Then we can conceive him trying heroics, such as Dryden after- wards made his own. In these, as is proved by some samples in his later poetry, he would doubtless find himself more at ease. Pindar- ics, after the Cowley model, he would doubt- less also try; and samples remain, among his later poems, of the skill he likewise attained in that uncomfortable species of verse. As is proved, however, hy the small percentage both of Pindarics and heroics, now found in the general bulk of his poetry, he must have found himself sufficiently at home in neither. At last,. in~some lucky moment perhaps when penning the short lines for some Pindar- iche made the grand discovery of his life, and stumbled on Octosyllabics. And as the Pagans heretofore Did their own handiworks adore, And made their stone and timber deities, Their temples and their altars of one piece, The same outgoings seem t inspire Our modern self~jlled edifier, That out of things as fa~ from sense, and more, Contrives new light and revelation, The creatures of imagination, To worship and fall down before. If Butler, while yet in search of his proper literary form or mode, had penned this Pin- 8 dane passage (it is one of his), only fancy how he would have hugged the short lines, and seen them to be the very thing, and de- termined to stick to them, and forswear all farther botheration about long ones tb mix with them. Whether the discovery was thus sud4en or gradual, he and his octosyllabics did at last come together so as to understand each other. From that moment it was all right between him and the English literature. On his octosyllabics, indeed, as on his prose, he still had to bestow all pains and labor to make them pass muster before his taste; and in one of his few subsequent pieces of heroics, he complains of the trouble that, owing to his fastidiousness, verse cost him over prose, and laments the caprice that had first in- duced him to write in rhyme at all, and in- vokes a hearty imprecation on the man who first found out that curse, T imprison and confine his thoughts in verse, To hang so dull a clog upon his wit, And make his reason to his rhyme submit. These, however, are but words of course, used in satirizing another poet; and no one can. in his own heart, have better appreci- ated than Butler the force of an older Eng- lish poets defence of rhyme, when he said that sure in an eminent spirit, whom Na- ture hm~ih fitted for that mystery, rhyme is no impediment to his conceipt, but rather gives him wings to mount, and carries him not out of his course, but, as it were, beyond his power, and a far happier flight; and again, that all excellencies being sold us at the hard price of labor, it follows, where we bestow most thereof, we buy the best suc- cess; and rhyme being far more laborious than loose measures, must needs, meeting with care and industry, breed greater and worthier effects in our language. Whether Butler had ever seen these words of old Samuel Daniel we know not: but the sense of them he must have realized for himself. Accordingly, while he continued all his life to divide himself between plain prose, on the one hand, and his quaint octosyllabics on the other, as the two selected vehicles of his wit and satire, each having its advantages, he evidently had hiost pleasure in his octosylla- bics, and reserved for them his strength and the most vigorous efforts of his fancy. There is evidence even that he was in the habit of making his prose a kind of jackal for his octosyllabics, .jotting down in prose rough fancies as they occurred to him, that he might afterwards work them up into rhymes at his leisure. For some ten years, then, before the Res- toration, we are to conceiw Butler carrying on a sort of preparatory authorship in pri- vate, jotting down, partly in prose and partly SAMUEL BUTLER. in his favorite octosyllabic verse, hi~ satirical observations on all things and sundry, but especially on Puritanism and the Puritans. It was his habit afterwards, we know, to enter his stray thoughts at random in a com- monplace book, sometimes in a sentence or two of prose, and sometimes in a few distichs, or even in a single distich, of verse; and there is no reason to doubt that such was his habit also from the time when he first began to practise as an author. The habit, however, would be confirmed, and would ac- quire new consequence, from the moment when he resolved on writing a connected poem. how long he was in coming to this determination, and how or when the form and scheme of his projected poem (that the Puritans were to be the subject of it was a matter of course), was first distinctly pre- conceived, we can only guess. One thing is clear it was Cervantes Don Quixote that suggested the form which he actually adopt- ed. To invent, like Cervantes, an imaginary knight and an imaginary squire; to make the one the representative of English Presby- terianism, and the other the representative of English Independency; to send them forth on mock-heroic adventures, and to make the narration of these adventures a means of introducing all kinds of social allusion and invective, and of heaping ridicule on the two great revolutionary parties in the State, and on all connected with them such was the idea which occurr$ tb Butler in some happy hour, when, perhaps, he was turning over the leaves of his Don Quixote, in Sir Samuel Lukes farmhouse at Cople leo. From that moment Hudibras existed as a possibility; and Butlers commonplace book became, as Jean Paul used to phrase it, when he adopted a similar plan in his own case, only the , quarry for Hudibras. What was already in it could easily be worked into the fabric of the poem, and whatever was afterwards jotted down in it, was meant as so much more material. Woe to Sir Samuel L~ke and his cronies from that hour; for though Butlers intended poem was to consist, in a great measure, of what may be called disquisitional invective, levelled at classes and modes of thinking rather than at individuals, yet as he required a few per- sonal portraits for it, theirs had a chance of being painted But, though Hudibras was planned and in part ~vritten per~iaps before the Restora- tion, it was not till t~ro ycars and a half after that event that Butler had any considerable portion of it ready for the press. Probably, indeed, it was not till after the Restoration had rendered such a publication possible, by bringing into power those who could be ex- pected to read or relish it, that Butler set to SAMUEL BUTLER. work in earnest in preparing it. He had certainly every incentive to be busy; for much as was already going in the shape of satire and ridicule of the parties cast down from power, and of general fun and scurril- ity in literature, by way of outburst of hu- mor that had been repressed during the Commonwealth, and of welcome to a witty monarch and his courtiers just come over from the Continent with French mistresses and French manners to inaugurate a new era, Butler could not but foresee that such a poem as he was preparing would cut in through it all, and win a place for itself in the midst of the duller poems and plays with which the old Royalists, Davenant, Denham, and Wailer, and the new aspirants, Dryden, Sedley, Roscommon, and Co., were bidding for the ear of the town. One interruption there was, however, which he may have permitted himself with satisfaction that caused by his marriage, which took place about this time, with a Mrs. Herbert, a lady of some property. Butler, it would appear, was late in love as well as in poetry; but for this very reason there may have been less delay with his Hudibras. It was not at Sir Samuel Lukes, however, nor in Bedfordshire, that the work was final- ly written out, but in a new situation to which Butler, possibly on account of his known loyalty, was promoted after the Res- toration that of Secretary to the Earl of Carbery, Lord President of the Principality of Wales. It has been ascertained that he held this situation, and also, in association with it, as the Earls gift, the Stewardship of Ludlow Castle, at least as early as January 1661, and that he retained the Stewardship till January 1662. In that month, the Earls accounts speak of him as having vacated the office of Steward, and having been ~ucceeded by another person. The probability there- fore is, that some time in 1662 he came to reside in London, with the purpose of seeing his Hudilras through the press. The im- primatur of the First Part of the work, licensing its publication, is dated the 11th of November 1662; and though the date 1663 is on the title-page, copies were really out before Christmas 1662. We have seen a copy of the original edi- tion of this First Part of Hudibras. It is a thin little volume, decently printed, without the authors name, and with an in- timation on the title-page that the poem was written during the late wars. It was exactly such a volume as the readers of that day would be likely to take up in virtue of its mere appearance small enough to be held between the finger and hum b as one walked in the streets, or lounged at home in the evening, and to be read through at one 9 sitting. And, certainly, if one did take it up, there was little chance of his laying it down again without doing it justice. Fancy the first reader opening the book, and light- ing at once on such a beginning as this: When civil dudgeon first grew high, And men fell out they knew not why; When hard words, jealousies, and fears Set folks together by the ears, And made them fight, like mad or drunk, For Dame Religion, as for punk; Whose honesty they all durst swear for, Though not a man of them knew wherefore; When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded With long-eared rout, to battle sounded, And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist, instead of a stick Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, And out he rode a colonelling. This was certainly a promising set out, and would tempt the reader to go on. And if he did so, he was not likely to be disappoint- ed. The description of Sir Hudibras and his qualifications, now known to every school- boy, would then come upon the reader with all the freshness of its native oddity; and he must have been a grave man indeed if his gravity did not give way when he came to such rhymes as Besides, tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak; That Latin was no more difficile Than for a blackbird tis to whistle. The famous passage about Sir Hudibras rhetoric, occurring in the third or fourth page, would be read twice or thrice on the spot, before going farther: For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope And when he happened to break off I the middle of his speech, or cough, H had hard words ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by. Else, when with greatest art he spoke, You d think he talked like ether folk; For ali a sJ~etoricians rules Teach nothing but to name his tools. But, & c. But the clenching passage would, of course, be that describing the knights religion: For his religion, it was fit To match his learning and his wit; Twas Presbyterian, true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, w\m all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic bloivs and knocks; SAMUEL 10 Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough Reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if religionwere intended For nothing else but to be mended; A. sect, whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Tl~an dog distract or monkey sick; That with more care keep holy-day The wron~,, than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclined to By damning those they have no mind to. Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite, The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for. Free-will they one way disavow; Another, nothing else allow. All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin. Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minced-pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose. This passage alone would settle the fate of the book with every Courtier or Royalist that might chance to take it up. What mattered it that in going on he found very little plot or action in the book nothing but a rough rigmarole story miserably travestied from Don Quixote, and spun out through three cantos, of how the Presby- terian kni~ ht, and his Independent squire Ralpho, sally forth, each accoutred after his fashion, in search of adventures; bow they come to a place where there is to be a bear- baiting, and where a great rabble is already assembled to witness or take part in the sport, including the bear Bruin himself. Orsin, the bears master, the wooden-legged fiddler Crox dero, the warlike butcher and dog-owner Tal~ol, the tinker Magnano, and his female companion Trulla, the one-eyed cobbler Cerdon, the hostler and cattle-keeper Colon, and, besides these leaders, men and mastiffs innumerable from all the parishes round; how it entered the knights head that he ou~,ht to put down this bear-baiting as-a heathenish practice, and bow he and the more reluctant Ralpho debated the point; how at last the knight, ending the debate, spurs on his wall-eyed beast to the encounter, and how, after a fierce tussle, in which both knight and squire get unmerci- fully belabored, they succeed in routing the rabble and capturing th~fiddler, whom they carry off in triumph and put in the stocks; but how, in the end, by the rallying of the BUTLER. rabble under Trullas generalship, the for- tune of the war is reversed, Crowdero is rescued, and iludibras and Raipho, after a plenteous thumping, are themselves put in the stocks and left to discuss the comparative merits of Presbytery and Independency at their leisure. To all this burlesque tissue of incident, coarse enough in parts to please a not very squeamish taste, the more in- telligent readers of the Voem would be com- paratively indifferent; nor would it have enhanced the interest in this respect much if they had troubled themselves, as - foolish ~ommentators on the poem afterwards did, with identifying the characters with noted sectaries of the day, whom Butler never thought of or saw. It was enough that, in the course of the narration, the Puritans of all sects were burlesqued as they had never been before, and their habits of talking held up to ridicule, and that passages of odd wit and learning occurred in every page, all hitting at some laughable topic of the day, and capable of being remembered and quoted. It was probably a circumstance in favor of the full recognition of these merits in the book that the First Part~~ was published by itself, so as not to overdose the reader. The success of the book was certainly instantaneous. Not a new poem of Tenny- sons, not a new Christmas story by Dickens, has now-a-days a greater run through the town, than, allowing for the difference of times, the first part of Iludibras had during the Christmas-week of 16623. The king himself had got hold of it, and was carrying it about with him, and quoting it; the courtiers got the passages he quoted by heart; and in all the coffee and chocolate-houses the wits discussed its merits. Mr. Pepys, who was never the last to hear of a new thing, lets us know the exact day on which he first heard of the poem, and what he thought of it. To the wardrobe is the entry he makes in his Diary on the 26th of December 1662, the day after Christmas, and hither com~ Mv. Battersby; and we falling into discourse of a new book of drollery in use called Hudibras, I would needs go find it out, and met with it at the Temple: cost me 2s. (Id. But when I come to read it, it is so silly an abuse of the Presbyter knight going to the warrs, that I am ashamed of it; and by and by meeting at Mr. Townsends at dinner, I sold it him for 18d., after which, he tells u~, he went to the theatre, and coming hom6Wather late found his wife busy among her pies. Evidently, how- ever, Pepys, from his allusion to the Presbyter knight going to the warrs, had not read enough of the book even to know its subject; and finding himself in the minority in his opinion of it, and its fame on the town growing instead of abating, he thought it prudent to renew his acquaintance with it. To Lincolus Inn Fields, he writes on the 6th of February following, and it being too soon to go home to dinner, I walked up and down, and looked upon the outside of the new theatre building in Co- vent Garden, which will be very fine; and so to a booksellers in the Strand, and there bought Hudibras again, it being certainly some ill humor to be so against that which all the world cries up to be an example of wit; for which I am resolved once more to read him and see whether I can find it or no. It is no argument against the book that Pepys, even on a second trial, could not relish it much; and, at all events, the town differed from him, for such a demand was there for copies that within a fortnight after its first appearance, the publisher had to warn his customers by advertisement against a pirated edition. There seems no reason to doubt that, though the poem was published anonymous- ly, Butler at once acknowledged himself as the author. The King, it is said, in his first fit of delight with the book, proposed sending for him; and it was natural, as Johnson says, that every eye should watch for the golden shower which was to fall upon the author of a performance so exadtly to the tune of the reigning taste. Butler, however, was no Danac, but a somewhat unsocial man of fifty, with few friends in town; and the golden shower did not fall through his gar- ret. That he himself shared in the general expectation that something would be done for him, is very likely; but he does not seem to have overrated the chance. As only the author of a poem which, though a valuable service to the Royalist cause, was in some re- spects merely a posthumous service, rendered when the danger was past and the victory accomplished, he probably saw that there were other claimants closer to the Royal Ex- chequer than he could expect to be. Sensi- bly enough, therefore, he seems to have made up his mind to bide his time, and meanwhile to labor patiently at the Second Part of his poem, so as to get it out before the en- thusiasm for the first part had subsided. Already, in fact, besides pirated editions of that First Part, the town was full of pre- tended continuations and imitations, in which the story was carried on, and the style and metre of the first part copied as closely as possible. It was late in 1663, or almost ex- actly a year after the publication of the first part, that the true Second Part made its appearance, and threw all the spurious imi- tations into the shade. Thea date on the title- a e is 1664; hut the imprimatur is 4ated November 5, 1663, and the pertixLa I cious Pcpys, after borrowing a copy in the end of November, in order to avoid buying it till he found out whether he liked it better than thc first, ended by going to his book- sellers at St. Pauls Churchyard on the 10th of December, and giving an order for both parts together. having had a windfall that day of about 3, he had gone to invest it iu books; and IIudibras~ being then still, he says, the book in greatest fashion for droll- ery, he had made it one. The merits of the Second Part of Hudibras were the same as those of the Firs~, and the reception was very much the same. Some there were who might take interest in the mere continued story of the adventures of the Knight and the Squire how they were released from the stocks by the intervention of a widow whom the Knight has been courting for her money, and who, in releasing him, holds out hopes to him, on condition of his giving himself a flagellation, which he swears to do; how he put it off till next day, and then, in riding to the appointed spot, begins to reason with Ralpho whether such an oath is binding on a saint; how Ralpho, as his contribution to this problem in casuistry, suggests that some one else should take the whipping in the Knights stead, and the knight, catching at the idea, proposes that Ralpho himself shall be the man; how Ralpho instantly backs out, and there ensues an angry altercation between the two, which has almost come to blows, when it is interrupted by the oppor- tune appearance of a Skimmington Pro- cession, that is, of a village rabble punish- ing a scold by carrying her about astride on horseback, with her husband beside her, to the music of pots and pans and cleavers; how the knight attacks this as another hea- thenish show, and he and Ralpho are dis- comfitted with rotten eggs; how, recovering from this disaster, the knight proposes to go to the widow and swear that he has duly performed the promised flagellation, but thinks it worth while, on the way, togo and consult the Rosicrucian astrologer Sidrophel, as to the probable success of his suit; and how this consultation, beginning in a learned discussion between iludibras and Sidrophel, on the occult sciences, ends also in a fight in which Hudibras, Sidrophel, Ralpho, and Sid- rophels man, Whachum, all take part, and in which the conjurer has the worst of it. On the whole, however, as before, it would be the wit of the poem, i~ quaint sense and learning, its passages of sarcastic reflection on all manner of topics, and, above all, its unsparing ridicule of men and things on the Puritan side, rather than any merits it might possess of description and narration, that would recomnie~md it in higher critical quar SAMUEL BUTLER. 12 ters. The Second Part is, indeed, even more readable than the Iirst. It was high time now that the golden shower should descend, if it was to descend at all; and the truth seems to be, that by this time Butler was sorely in need of it. He may have had a little money of his own, saved out of the earnings of his previous em- ployments; and his wife had brought him some fortune, upon which he had calculated at the time of their marriage, as a means of their joint support. But this last, his main dependence, had, his bio0raphers inform us, been invested in bad securities ; so that, after a while, little or nothing was to be de- rived from it. A post or a pension, such as, according to the lax fashion of those times. might very well have been bestowed on the greatest anti-puritan satirist of the day with- out risk of public outcry, would, in these circumstances, have been extremely welcome. As it was, however, in a court swarming with Buckinghams, Lady Castlemaines, and the like, any kindly intentions that may have been entertained in behalf of a poor wit about town, soon died out and were forgotten. There is a vague story of a temporary dona- tion of 300 to Butler, out of the kings own purse, which Butler instantly expended in paying his debts; and a still more vague story of a subsequent annual pension of 100. Neither story is authenticated; at all events, the latter is false; and the literal truth seems to be, that from the first appearance of Hudibras till the poets death in 1680, he never received a single farthing from the court, or anything more substantial than empty praise. It was Butlers strange fate to flash all at once into a notoriety which lasted precisely two years; to fill the court and the town during that time with a con- tinuous shout of laughter, intermingled with inquiries who and what he was; and then for seventeen long years to plod on in indus- trious obscurity, still hearing his Hudibras quoted, and still preparing more of it, or of matter similar to it, but himself forgotten and unknown a myth rather than a man. It is as a myth rather than a man, we have said as a typical instance of talent poor, unrewarded, and miserable in its old age, rather than as an actual being of flesh and blood that the biographer of Butler is able to follow him during those seventeen years of his life which elapsed between the publication of the Second Part of his great poem and his death and burial in London. One or two facts, indeed, apper- taming to the actual man, break through the monotonous obscurit~ of these long years, and give individuality and substance to what otherwise would be a legend altogether~ It SAMUEL BUTLER. is known, for example, that Butler continued to write and to satirize his contemporaries in occasional contributions to periodicals; that the third and last part of Ifudibras was published in 1678, fourteen years after the second; that for some time before his death, he resided in Rose Street, Longacre; and that at this time he had a few acquaintances in town, who saw him now and then, and were kind to him. But whether even he resided during the whole of the last seven- teen years of his life in London, or whether during part of the time he went back to the country, or lived on the Continent, is only matter of conjecture. On the whole, our impression is, that he remained all the time, casual absences excepted, in London re- cognized there, so far as he was recognized at all, as one of the wits of the day, regu- larly indentured by his fate to literature and the town; and starting with this impression, and taking Rose Street, Longacre, as hi~ probable whereabouts in the metropolis, during the whole period in question, we shall piece together the remainder of the story as we best can. Dreadful seventeen years those were. Satirist of the Puritans as Butler was, he must have sometimes questioned with him- self whether after all the system which had come, instead of that which he had satirized, was not, in essential particulars, many times worse. He had made himself a prophet of the descendental, and here was descen- dentalism with a vengeance! Positively, as we have seen it expressed, the age of the Restoration in England was an age when it seemed as if, by one of those vicissitudes which affect the organisms of nations as well as of individuals, the universal cranium of England, without changing its actual bulk, had been suddenly contracted in every other direction, so as to permit an inordinate increase of that region which lies over the nape of the neck. The profligacy of the time~ w~s ostentatious; the public reaction against the enforced moralities and decencies of the Commonwealth, immediate and im- measurable. It was not, perhaps, that the relative proportions of virtue and vice actually existing in English sociqty were altered, for probably these proportions are more constant under all changes of system than may at first seem; but it was as in a state revolution or change of ministry Virtue went out ~ office and Vice came in. Puritanism, and whatever appertained to it, had been east down from the upper places of society, and driven back into conventieles and lurking-places and the private house~~ holds of obscure citizens, there, in token of its dissociation from power, to assume the name of Non-conformity; and the new SAMUEL BUTLER. generation of courtiers and cavaliers, who had come in with the Restoration to possess themselves of the vacant government, were far worse men than their fathers of the reign of Charles I. Nor was it only in the court and in matters of politics and government that the sudden change occasioned by the Restoration was apparent. The new literature which then came in was a fair reflex of the new condition of society. There were, indeed, exceptions. Just as the genuine Puritans had not ceased to exist in England, hut had only vacated the topmost places, and been dispersed tbrough the body-politic under the name of Nonconformists, so there remained in English society, even in this age of des- cendentalism, a few intellectual men of the old transcendental stamp. Jeremy Taylor survived the Restoration seven years; old Izaak Walton and Sir Thomas Browne lived through the whole reign of Charles II. It was chiefly, however, among men more or less connected with the Puritans during the period of their ascendency that these saving men, the salt of a corrupt time, were to be found. Conspicuous among them all was Milton. An official servant of the late Commonwealth, and more nearly identified with the Regicides by his writings than any other Englishman of the intellectual class, he had wfth some difficulty escaped the pains and penalties which the Restoration brought with it for the active heads of his party; and now, blind and desolate, a spiritual relic of the past rather than an actual part of the present, he was spending the decline of his days in some obscure retreat in London, full of his own lofty thoughts, and building up slowly the scheme of his majestic epic. With what scorn he must have looked around him, and how often, before his own death in 1674, must he have remembered the lion-counte- nance of that Cromwell, our chief of men, whom it was now the fashion to turn into jest, and whom, in their impotent rage, his enemies had torn from his grave and hanged and re-buried at Tyburn. Never far from Milton, and always most serious when he was nearest him, was Andrew Marvell. This, too, was the age of Bunyan, whom Butler might have known and quizzed before the Restoration, when he was a Baptist preacher at Bedford, within a mile or two of Sir Samuel Lukes, and who was now, not unlike Milton, embodying, in prison and under persecution, that enthusiasm of a bygone time which still dwelt in his soul, in immortal written allegories. A remnant in another sense of the intelleciLual world of the Commonwealth was James Harrington, the Republican theorist, whose Oceana, though published during the Protectorate, was still talked of. Baxter, also, and other divines more or less connected with the Puritans heretofore, were now among the lights of the Nonconformists. All these men, however, were rather in the age than of it; and in speaking of the literature of the RestoratiQn it is invariably a different order of men that we have in view those Royalist writers who, either reappearing from their various haunts and places of exile at the time of the kings restoration, or then first emerging into notice, formed the cluster of the so-called wits of the reign of Charles IL. The laureate of this new literature, and, c~x officio, therefore, its head and representa- tive man, during the first eight years after the Restoration, was Sir William Davenant. Except that he had no nose, and could not with propriety account for the loss of it, he was by no means a bad fellow. Milton liked him, and had been obliged to him for one of those offices of kindness which an influential man of letters on the winning side was able to perform for a political adversary whom he esteemed and admired; and his poetry, if not immortal, was also not immoral, and at least better than much that was going. But Davenant was rather a poet of the old school of Charles I.; he had succeeded Ben Jonson in the laureatship in 1637, and only resumed his place at the Restoration in virtue of his proved loyalty and his prior tenure of it, when he was already verging on sixty. He was still, it is true, active enough, and took a great interest in the revival of the drama, himself writing plays for the stage; but, on the whole, the conduct of the new literature devolved upon men who were his juniors. Nor, though Shirley, Waller, Denham, Cow- ley, and other Royalists of distinction in literature, were still alive to lend the lustre of their names to the opening reign of the restored monarch, were they exactly the representative men. Shirley lived but a few years to eeijo~ the pleasure of once more treading the familiar boards and seeing his own plays acted; he died in 1666 at the age of seventy. Waller was a wealthy gentle- man, advanced in life; and though he lived long after the Restoration, and continued to give evidences both of his poetical talents and wit, and of the moral cowardice which had distinguished his previous career, he never lost a certain dignity of deportment even among the youn~ scapegraces with whom he associated. Denham had a coarser fibre in him and was a younger man; but the few years he lived after the Restoration were clouded with insanity or the dread of it. The good and melancholy Cowloy, too, was more properly a man of the previous age than of this. Though only in the prime of SAMUEL BUTLZL manhood, he survived the Restoration but seven years, during which he wrote little, but lived in seclusion, neglected by the court he had served, and yet, bis metaphysical style being in the ascendant, admired beyond bounds by all the best minds in England. Of other men of the graver sprt, surviving from among the royalists of the reign of the first Charles and the Interregnum, so as to witness and become subjects of the Restora- tionilobbes, Cudworth, Barrow, and the like it is unnecessary to speak; the most ordinary knowledge of them and their writ- ings will save them from being confounded with the proper representatives of the new era. These representatives, as all know, were such younger men as Dryden, and his con- temporaries, Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, Sir George Etherege, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards EarL of Dorset, Sir Charles Sedley, William Wy- cherly, and Thomas Shadwell. It was these men, with Dryden, the most masculine and robust of them all, acting as the leader, that, mingling with the Davenants and Shirleys and Wallers and Denhams and Cowleys, who belonged in part to the past, and learning of them for a while as pupils, began, in the first years of the Restoration, to cater, ac- cording to methods of their own, for the public taste. Dryden was twenty-eight years old at the Restoration, and was just then be- ginning to be heard of; the Duke of Bucking- ham, the prince of profligates and court-wits, was five years older; the Earl of Roscommon was a year or two younger; Sir George Etherege was in his twenty-fifth year; Dor- set was twenty-three; Sir Charles Sedley twenty-two; and Wycherly and Shadwell were both exactly twenty. Their age, there- fore, fitted them to become the rising powers in the new literature ; and their tastes and faculties corresponded. They, with others not worth naming, flung themselves at once upon the town, and began to provide it with such gross entertainment as it craved. Ros- common alone was purer in his writings than in his life: Unhappy Dryden! in all Charles days Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays. Such is Popes celebrated distich, at once absolving Roscommon and condemning Dry- den and all the rest by contrast. And it is notorious that Dryden, perhaps personally the most moral man of them all, was, in the beginning of his career, the most deliberately and unnaturally coarse as a writer. He ab- solutely toiled and labored against the grain of his genius, to be suf~cicntly obscene to please the town. The reason was that the comic drama was then the form of literature in the greatest fashion, and that he had de termined to throw his powers into what was in fashion. It was not till the lighter and more rivacious wits the Buckinghams, Ethereges, Sedleys, and Wycherlys had given the town a sample of something gayer and more sprightly in the way of humorous profligacy than his lumbering prose come- dies, that he began to give up that species of effort, and to confine himself to those heroic rhymed plays of bombastic declamation after the French model, in which he remained the acknowledged master. And so, during the first eight years of the Restoration, it was this cluster of younger wits, with the solid Dryden in the centre, and the lighter Ether- eges and Sedleys skirmishing around him, that represented the spirit of the new reign. Accordingly, when Davenant died in 1668, it was Dryden that was chosen as his natural successor in the laureateship. From that time forward Dryden was nominally, as well as really, the head of the literature of the Restoration. Himself still continuing to be known chiefly as a dramatist and critic of the drama, and most of all as a writer of rhymed heroic plays, and the Ethereges and Sedleys and Wycherlys still fluttering round him and snatching at his laurels, he in turn became a patriarch, and saw new authors springing up around him, and adding them- selves to the cluster. Of these the wretched Rochester was one. He was but twenty-two years of age when Dryden became laureate, but had already filled the town with the fame of his wit and his debaucheries. The unhappy Otway in time became another, and rivalled Dryden in the tragic drama. And besides Rochester and Otway were many mi- nor men, now all but forgotten. It was not till towards the close of Charles reign that Dryden, pressed as it were by the competi.- tion of these junior wits, carried his great powers beyond the drama altogether, and, betaking himself in his comparatively old age to other forms of literature, acquired in themAhe~etter part of what now constitutes his true fame. Into this latter part of his life, however, seeing that Butler was dead before it began, it is not necessary that we should trace him. So far as the characteristic literatu,e, therefore, of the age of the Restoration was concerned, it was a genuine reflex of the prevalent social morality. It was truly a Literature of the O~ciput a literature in the production of whic~ to talk phrenologically, the back of the head was more exercised than any of the coronal or anterior organs, except perhaps wit. There was no lack of energy on it, but it was mainly oceipital energy, and there was a manifest deficiency of those higher qualities which had balanced the cc- cipital, even when there was enough and to 14 SAMUEL BUTLEL spare of that, in the older literature of Eng- land. Curiously enough, however, contem- poraneous with this inordinate and reaction- ary development of what may he called the literature of the occiput in England, were the beginnings of an intellectual movement of another kind far more beautiful, and yet, as it would appear, mysteriously cognate. We do not know what organs the phrenolo- gists would specify as being chiefly concerned in the prosecution of physical science, but supposing them to be number, individuality, eventuality, and causality, then we must conclude that, in addition to wit, these or- gans suffered no depression in that general contraction backwards which the cranium of our nation certainly underwent at the Res- toration, but rather became more vivacious in their action, as being no more bothered by any accompanying excess of ideality, won- der, and veneration. Be this as it may, it is certain that mathematical and physical re- search the application of Bacons hitherto dormant method to the facts and appear- ances of nature came in with the reign of the witty monarch. It was in 1660 that Dr. Ward, Mr. Boyle, my Lord Brouncker, Dr. Wilkins, Dr. Wallis, Sir William Petty, and otkers, founded the Royal Society, and began those readings of mathematical papers, and experiments with tubs of water, phials of quicksilver, lenses, telescopes, & c., which procured for them the name of virtuosi, and at which the town laughed. In due time other men of distinction added themselves to this illustrious little band, Wren, Barrow, Evelyn, Ilooke, as really men of science; Waller, Denham, Cowley, Dryden himself, and Spratt, afterwards Bishop of Rochester, as literary men and amateurs of science; and the Duke of Buckingham, the Marquis of Dorchester, and a few other lords, by way of the necessary sprinkling of the aristo- cracy. In 1663, which was the year when Dryden joined, there were already one hun- dred and fifteen members; and the weekly proceedings of the Society were a regular part of the gossip of the town. Isaac Newton was then a youth of twenty, concluding his studies at Cambridge; but it was not long before the Society had communications from him, both mathematical and optical, includ- ing no less substantial a one than a reflecting telescope made by his own hands, which they examined and showed to the King in 1668; and, in 1671, by which time he had succeed- ed Barrow in the mathematieal chair at Cambridge, he was elected a member. Such, epitomized as much as possible, is an account of the moral and inte.llectual phe~ nomena of English society during that period which corresponds with the last seventeen years of Butlers life. Upon such a~ public did the First and Second Parts of Hudibras fall; and in the midst of such a medley of persons, things, and interests, so far as it was represented in the metropolis, did the author of fludibras, after his first temporary flash of success, trudge out and in on his daily peregrinations from his domicile in or about Rose Street, Longacre. his personal relations with men of the time, we have ab ready said, or at least with men of the time who, from their station, could be of any use to him, seem to have been few. Here are two passages which give us all the knowledge of him in this respect that we ever are likely to have: Butlers Introduction to Lord Dorset. His Lordship, having a great desire to spend an evening as a private gentleman with the author of Hudibras, prevailed with Mr. Fleet wood Shepherd to introduce him into his com- pany at a tavern which they used, in the char- acter only of a common friend. This being done, Mr. Butler, while the first bottle was drinking, appeared very flat and heavy; at the second bottle brisk and lively, full of wit and learning, and a most agreeable companion; but, before the third bottle was finished, he sunk again into such deep stupidity and dulness, that hardly anybody could have believed him to be the author of a book which abounded with so much wit, learning, and pleasantry. Next morning Mr. Shepherd asked his Lordships opinion of Butler, who answered, He is like a ninepin, little at both ends, but great in the middle. Quoted by .Mr. Bell from the General Historical Dictionary, 173441. Butlers Introduction to the Duhc of Buck- ingham. Mr. Wycherly had always laid hold of any opportunity of representing to the Duke of Buckiagham how well Mr. Butler had deserved of the royal family by writing his inimitable Hudibras, and that it was a reproach to the Court that a person of his loyalty and wit should suffer in obscurity, and under the wants he did. The Duke seemed always to hearken to him with attention enough, and, after some time, undertook to recommend his preten- sions to hi~ lVf~jesty. Mr. Wycherly, in hopes to keep him steady to his word, obtained of his Grace to name a day when he might introduce that modest and unfortunate poet to his new patron. At last an appointment was made, and the place of meeting was agreed to be the Roebuck. Mr. Butler and his friend attended accordingly the Duke joined thembut, as the dl would have it, the door of the room where they sat was open, and his Grace, who had seated himself near it~observing a pimp of his acquaintance (the creature, too, was a knight) trip by with a brace of ladies, imme.. diately quitted his engagement to follow another kind of business; and from that time to the day of his death, poor Butler never found the least effect of his promise. Quoted by Johnson in his Lises of the Poets,from Packes Life of W~cheriy. 16 SA1~41JEL BUTLER. From these passages, and one or two other stray notices, we are able to form a guess as to Butlers habits after he became a resident in town. He was known to Wycherly, to Hobbes, to Davenant, and, in a general way, as we may fancy, to all the more celebrated wits, Dryden included. There were very few men of any pretensions to literature, either as authors or amateurs, who would miss a casual opportunity of at least seeing the author of Hudibras; and London was not then too large, nor the habits of men, as regards means of meeting at taverns, coffee- houses, and the like, too formal, to prevent such opportunities frombeing common. There are traditions also to the elkct that at first he had offers, from his more influential ad- mirers, of secretaryships and what not, but that, as he would not accept anything but what was very good, they fell off from him, and left him to himself. On the whole, however, the truth seems to be that there was something about him which unfitted him for making many friends, or being pushed on in the world. Whether from a natural moroseness, or from a morbid shyness which prevented him from seeking those who did not seek him, and even from retaining ac- quaintances who would have been glad to be intimate with him if they had had any encour- a;gement, he seems to have been more solitary than almost any other men of his time equal- ly known. There were a few persons who cultivated his friendship, and, as it were, drew him out in spite of himself; but they were mostly men of inferior note themselves, who, having ~ passion for the society of men of genius, had fastened on the author of HudThras as the man of genius whom, by reason of his very shyness and eccentricity, they could most easily monopolize. Such a man was the gossip Aubrey, a kind of Bos- well of his day, who fluttered about from one place of resort to another, and collected scraps for which we are now much obliged to him; such a man perhaps was the Mr. Fleetwood Shepherd, mentioned in one of the foregoing quotations; and such a man, above all, if indeed he was not a man of a higher class, was Mr. William Longueville, a bench- er of the Temple, mentioned by a contempo- rary as having been a man of great powers of talk and of the kindest heart in the world, who had, by industry at the bar, acquired a comfortable fortune. This Mr. Longueville is known to have been poor Butlers best friend perhaps the only real friend he had. Three times out of every four that he dined out, it would be at Mr. Longuevilles cham- bers; and if ever in the course of his days walk through town he paid a call, it would be b~ some appointment in which Mr. Lon- gueville was concerned. Yer~ seldom, how- ever, if we guess aright, would he pay a call at all; and most days of the week, when Mr. Longueville or some other crony did not waylay him, it would be his habit, after his hodiernal ramble among the old bookshops and other similar temptations, to return qui- etly home to his prose and his octosyllabics. Whether Mrs. Butler remained long alive to make his evenings at home more cheery for him; and if so, what thoughts of her old days and their vanished chances passed through her head as, sitting on one side of the fire with her knitting, she saw him si- lently worming on the other among his books and paper~, history does not tell us. And yet the life of every man and woman that once lived and i~ now dead, was, like our own while it lasted, an infinite series of small sensitive advances through a medium of circumstances; and every day of each such life contained twenty-four complete hours, and every hour of the twenty-four contained sixty minutes, and each minute of every suc- cessive sixty had to be gone through individ- nally, and enjoyed or endured to the full. And so, though it is two hundred years, or about eight trillions of pulse-beats since But- ler trudged about London, and Mrs. Butler waited for him in Rose Street, that time really was once, and those two elderly per- sons had their thoughts and their miseries, whatever they were. Regarding Butlers spiritual relations to the various phenomena of the time in which lie lived, we have the information of his own writings. And, first of all, it is abundantly clear that he never recanted his aversion to Puritanism, but persevered to the last in his original vocation as the satirist of it and its professors. Besides doing this in short inci- dental writings, some of which seem to have been published in periodicals and newspapers, he continued to do it on the same scale and in the same systematic form as before by (foolishly enough, we think; for there had been ~tiui~ enough of it) going on with his Hudibras. After fourteen years of slow quarrying, the Third Part of this inter- minable work was given to the world in 1678, or two years before his deatha second and revised edition of the two preceding parts having been published in 1674. How the Third Part was received we do not know, but probably with less noise than its prede- cessors. As befor~, the story was the least of the merits of th~ poem a mere thi~ead on which to append all sorts of digressions and dissertations. In the first canto we are re-introduced to Hudibras and Ralpho just after their adventures with the conjurer, as related in the Second Part. They begin to quarrel, and make up their minds to part company; Hudibras then makes for the 16 SAMUEL BUTLER. widows, to swear he has performed his vow in the matter of the whipping, and to ask her hand in teward; Raipho, however, has his revenge by going there before him, and making the widow acquainted with the true state of the case; whereupon a nocturnal masquerade of furies and hobgoblins is got up by the widow, Raipho assisting, and llu- dibras, after being pinched and cudgelled, is forced by the ghostly terrors of his situation to confess himself a hypocrite and scoundrel. In canto second, the poet leaves the knight and the squire altogether, and interpolates, totally without any connection with the story, a satire on Puritanism generally in the shape of a historical recapitulation of the whole course of the Civil Wars down to the Restoration, with references by name to Cromwell, Fleetwood, Lentham, Calamy, Case, Henderson, Owen, Nyc, Prynne, and others, both Presbyterians and Independents, and with more detailed but covert allusions to the politician Shaftesbury, the quaker Lilburn, & c. Finally, in the third canto, we find the knight, just released from his last scrape by the deceitful Ralpho, taking counsel with a lawyer in order to obtain the widow and her property by inveigling her into a lawsuit; as preliminary to which he writes her a letter and receives her answer. And so, the story abruptly breaks off; nor, at the same rate of progress, can any one say when it might have been finished. But though Butlei~ continued to lash the Puritans, both retrospectiveiy by references to the Commonwealth period, and also by singling out subjects of ridicule from among them in their reduced condition as Noncon- formists and Sectaries, Puritanism was by no means the sole subject of his satire. In- deed, it had never been so. In the earlier parts of his Hudibras, although satire of Puritanism and the Puritans constituted the direct and main drift of the story and its in- cessant argumentations and disquisitions, yet, as all who are acquainted with the poem know, there were passages innumerable, glancing off from the main topic at social abuses and by-topics at quackery in med- icine; at the absurdities of the law and the frauds of its practitioners; at astrology and false learning: at statecraft and its tricks; at the virtuosi of the Royal Society and their experiments; at love, widows, matrimony, and the foibles of men and women in general. And so, even more conspicuously, in the Third Part ~ of the poem, notwithstanding the attempt made in the second canto to hash up the old subject so as to serve it afresh to the cloyed public palate. In short, though Butler was consistent in his old hatred to the end of his life, he found in The new social condition in which his old age was cast, as DCVI. LIVING AGE. VOL XII. 2 well as in his own bitter experience of human fickleness and ingratitude, new food for his constitutional habit of censure. Anti-Puritan as he was, and disposed to loyalty in church and state, as on the whole the best arrangement a man could make with his conscience where all was as bad as iL could be, the state of public morals and manners which the Restoration had brought with it, found no apologist in Butler. A man advanced in life, bred up too in honest English ways, and with a natural austerity of disposition which had probabl~y always saved him from even the more venial form8 of vice, he seems to have looked about him at the on-goings of the restored court, and the public men of his latter days, with no other feelings than those of contempt and disgust. There are evidences of this in the last part of his great poem, where he almost shows an intention of falling foul of the existing powers and scourging them as he had scourged the opposite side; but the most express evidence of the fact is to be found in those scraps of prose and verse which he left behind him jottings, so to speak, in his commonplace book to be published when he was no more. Here are two illustrations the first from the collec- tion of his Prose Thoughts upon various Subjects, printed in Thyers Remains; the second from a short poetical piece there published under the title of A Sat ire on the Licentiousness of the Age of Charles II. Princes that have lost their credit and repu.. tation are like merchants inevitably destined to ruin; for all men immediately call in their loyal- ty and respect from the first, as they do their money from the latter. Tis a strange age we ye lived in and a lewd As eer the sun in all his travels viewd. * * 4 * * * * * Twice have men turned the world (that sifly blockhead) The wrong side outward, like a jugglers pocket Shook oii1 h~ocrisy as fast and loose As eer the devil could teach or sinners use, And on the other side at once put in As impotent iniquity and sin. * * 4 * * * * * For those who heretofore sought private holes Securely in the dark to damn their souls, Wore vizards of hypocrisy, to steal And slink away, in masquerade, to hell, Now bring their crimes into the open sun For all mankind to gaze~.their worst upon. Nor did Butler confine himself to ~encral and wholesale denunciations. He dissected contemporary society into its specific parts and atoms statesmen, lawyers, poets, phy- sicians, divines, wits, & c., and returned 17 SAMUEL BUTLER. apparently the same merciless verdict on each part that he did on the whole. Tho most interesting and complete of all his prose writings, for example that which, under the name of Characters, fills the whole of the second volume of Thyers Re- mains, and which must evidently, from the care with which every page is written, have occupied much of Butlers time after the first two parts of Hudibras were off his hands, and have been destined by him for indepen- dent publication consists of nothing else than n series of sketches, written with an unvarying acerbity and harshness hardly paralleled in our literature, of what Butler must have considered the typical forms and phases of English human nature in his time. We do not know how we can better give an idea of Butlers real character and tern per than by copying out this little-known list of characters Butlers analysis, as it may be called, of contemporary English society, so far as he was acquainted with it, into its constituent particles. 1. A modern politician. 40. A quibbler. 2. A hypocritical non- 41. A wooer. conformist. 42. An impudent man. 8. A republican. 43. An imitator. 4. A politician. 44. A time-server. 5. A state convert. 45. A prater. 6. A risker. 46. An hermetic philos 4. A modern states.. opher. man. 47. An alderman. 8. A Duke of Bucks. 48. A disputant. 9. A degenerate noble. 49. A sot. 10. A huffing courtier. 50. An atheist. 11. A court beggar. 61. A juggler. 12. A country squire. 52. A sceptic. 13. An antiquary. 58. A projecter. 14. A proud man. 54. A complimenter. 15. Thehenpecked man. 55. A church-warden. 16. A small poet. 56. A romance-writer. 17. A philosopher. 57. A cheat. 18. A fantastic. 58. A libeller. 19. A melancholy man. 59. A tedious man. 20. An haranguer. 60. A tailor. 21. A Popish priest. 61. A factious member. 22. A traveller. ~. A pretender. 28. A Catholic. 63. A newsmonger. 24. A curious man. 64. An ambassador. 25. A ranter. 65. A play-writer. 26. A corrupt judge. 66. A mountebank. 27. An amorist. 67. A modern critic. 28. An astrologei~ 68. A wittol. 29. A lawyer. 69. A busy man. 80. A herald. 70. A litigious man. 81. A latitudinarian. 71. A pedant. 82. A mathematician. 72. A hunter. 88. An epigrammatst. 73. A humorist. 84. A virtuoso. 74. A leader of a faction. 85. A justice of peace. 75. A debauched man. 86. A fanatic. 76. A seditious man. 87. An intelligeneer 77. An affected man. (newsman). 7~. A medicine-taker. ~8. A proselyte. 79., The rude man. 89.. A. clown,. 8.Q.~Arniser.. 81. A rabble. 100. A rebel. 82. A shopkeeper. 101. A city wit. Eman. 83. A quaker. 102. A superstitious 84. A swearer. 108. A drole. 85. A luxurious man. 104. An empiric. 86. An ungrateful man. 105. An obstinate man. 87. A Knight ofthePost 106. A zealot. (hired perjurer). 107. An overdoer. 88. An undeserving fa- 108. A jealous man. vorite. 109. An insolent man. 89. A cuckold. 110. A rash man. 90. A malicious man. 111. A pimp. 91. A squire of dames. 112. A formal man. 92. A knave. 113. A flatterer. 93. An anabaptist. 114. A prodigal. 94. A vintner. 115. A pettifogger. 95. A hypocrite. 116. A bankrupt. 96. An opiniaster. 117. The inconstant. 97. A choleric man. 118. A horse-courser. 98. A lover. 119. A glutton. 99. A translator. 120. A ribald. The fact that each and all of the characters in the above list are unsparing invectives, without one qualifying word in praise of any living thing or person, may arise in part from the circumstance that Butlers literary forte was satire, and that he deliberately restricted himself, in writing them, to the mean and ugly side of things. But whoever reads the characters will see in their uniform and inexhaustible bitterness something more than this a positive dissatisfaction of But- lers own mind with all that he saw, and a habit of finding nothing in the world that was not, if well looked into, evil and intoler- able. Were the characters classified, it would be found that only a certain propor- tion of them are taken from the Puritan or Nonconformist side of things. A good many of them are taken from the opposite side of society and politics altogether; some are taken from the literary department, and some from the scientific department, of Eng- lish life in that day; and many are altogether general, and have reference to lasting forms of human weakness, imposture, crime, and folly, ~ It was in the nature of Butlers satire, that, finding all to be equally censurable, it should express itself rather in representative portraits of classes, than in personalities. Occasionally, however, as in the character entitled A Duke of Bucks, and in inci- dental allusions to Prynne and other see- taries, whom Butler seems to have particu- larlydisliked, this rule is broken through; and in some of ~is posthumous scraps of verse, there is evidence that his satire could, when he liked, single out individual victims. Thus, among the scraps, we find a violent personal lc~mpoon on Denham; a squib on Philip Nyes beard; two mock panegyrics on Drydens brother-in-law, the Honorable Ed- ward Howard, on the occasion of a heroic 18 SAMUEL BUTLER. These were their learned speculations, And all their constant occupations: To measure wind and weigh the air, And turn a circle to a square; To make a powder of the sun, By which all doctors should b undone; To find the north-west passage out, Although the farthest way about; If chymists from a roses ashes Can raise the rose itself in glasses; Whether the line of incidence Rise from the object or the sense; To stew the Elixir in a bath Of hope, credulity, and faith; To explicate, by double hints, The grain of diamonds and flints; And in the braying of an ass Find out the treble and the bass; If mares neigh alto, and a cow A double diapason low. Men are often modest and amiable in their personal demeanor who are fierce and ag- gressive in their writings; but with all allow- ance on this score, it is too evident that a man who could not let even the venerable Royal Society alone, must have had a crabbed and ill-conditioned element in him, not likely to further his interests in life. Probably the consciousness of this, developed at last into the habitual sourness of a disappointed man, was the secret of Butlers solitary way of living. He was emphatically, as Dr. Johnson would have said, not a clubba- ble man. It is both the wisest and safest way, is one of the maxims found in his commonplace book, to keep at a con- venient distance from all men; for when men converse too closely, they commonly, like those that meet in crowds, offend one another. Poor man, he seeuis at last to have overtasked his own maxim, and to have kept at an inconvenient distance from all drama which he had written, and which men. There is good evidence that in his Butler, and most other critics, thought to last days he was literally in want. If he be sad stuff; and finally, which was boldest had made any money by his Hudzbras, it of all, a parody of Drydens own dramatic was too little to stand him in stead of every- diction, in the form of a dialogue between thing else; and hewas too slow and shift- two cats caterwauling in heroics. In fact, less, and perhaps too proud, a writer to with the whole literary world of the time, make much of such opportunities as writing as with the whole social world, Butler seems for periodicals and the like then afforded. to have been in his heart at feud. Writers, He appears, in his necessity, to have thought critics, readers all were bad; and so far as of making a desperate attempt at a drama, he thought it necessary to express his opinion then the ~pecies of literature which brought of them, it was always in censure. Above the best returns; and part of a tragedy, en- all (and the fact must out) the Royal Society titled Nero, was found among his papers. and the Virtuosi came in for an unusual But his true resource was Mr. Longueville. share of Butlers ridicule. One or two of Mr. Longueville, says Roger North, in his them, such as Boyle and Dr. Charlton, he Life of Lord Guildford, was the last patron attacks by name; and among his posthu- and friend that poor old Butler, the author nious poems and papers, there are three or of Hudibras, had, and, in his old age, he four expressly satirizing the Societys weekly supported him, otherwise he might have been meetings and their mathematical and physical literally starved. What was the exact pursuits. measure of Mr. Longuevilles kindness is unknown one always fancies that wealthy lairds and lawyers might do so very much with their purses in such cases. At all events, after a hard winter passed in his lodging in Rose Street, during which he was so ill that he never went out, and only Mr. Longuevilles charity stood between him and absolute destitution, the poet, some time in 1680, caught a fever, or a consumption, which carried him off on the 25th of Sep- tember, in the sixty-ninth year of his age. Mr. Longueville, to whom Butler had be- queathed his papers, acted as his executor. He made exertions to get up a subscription for burying his deceased friend in West- - minster Abbey; but though the pews of Butlers death in such melancholy circum- stances seems to have caused a good deal of talk in town, and became the subject of strong comment afterwards by Dryden, Old- ham, and others, the interest felt at the mo- ment was not sufficient to carry Mr. Lon- guevilles project. Accordingly, the poets remains were interred, at Mr. Longuevilles own expense, in the churchyard of St. Pauls, Covent Garden& He seems to have wished to be buried there. He was buried, says Aubrey, the 27th of Septen~ber, according to his own appointment, in the church yard of Covent Garden, in the north part, next the church, at the east end. His feet touch the wall. His grave two yards distant from the pilaster of the dore, by his desire six foot deepe. About twenty-five of his old ac- quaintance at his func~al, I myself being one. It is worth while~ reader, should you ever be passing through Covent Garden, to stand by the railing of the now somewhat dingy churchyard, on the west 8ide, a little away from where the market gardeners chaffer among their baskets and cabbage-leaves, and to identify, by Aubreys description, the spot 19 SAMUEL BUTLE1~. where the author of Hudibras is buried. It was, one may say, the centre of his domain of exercise and observation while he was ~tlive. It is very near Rose Street, and round it lie the Strand, Fleet Street, Gerard Street, Drury Lane, and all the other classic old streets in which the literary men of that time (the Shaksperes and Jonsons of a former age had kept more to the south and east) had their haunts and dwellings, and which still, in later generations, though the tendency continued to be north and westward, served for the Addisons, and Johnsons, and Gold- smiths, to live and walk in. Ah, London! thou perpetual home of a shifting multitude, how, as into a vast sieve, the generations keep descending amid thy brick-built streets and alleys, only to trickle away and dis- appear beneath into thy catacombs and ceme- teries. Awhile thou boldest us; but the reservoir is filling over us with the perpetual rain, and we, too, are sinking, sinking, towards the ancient dead! Butler, says Aubrey, was of middle stature, strong set, high-colored, with a head of sorrel hair, a severe and sound judgment; a good fellow. Again, from another source, he was-of a leonine-colored hair, sanguine, ~holeric, middle-sized, strong; a boon and witty companion, especially among the com-. pany he knew well. As regards his good fellowship, we have already seen, on other evidence, how far that is to be understood; one is glad, however, to know, by way of curiosity, that his complexion and hair were so nearly of Cromwells own color. The form of his face in the portraits is heavy and sullen. Our impression of Butlers general char- acter as a man on which his character as a writer may be regarded as a superstruc- ture has, we trust, already been conveyed. He seems to have been a man of grave, ~orrect, and somewhat morose nature, deci- dedly of that order of mind which, by way of philosophic distinction, may be called the descendental; a man, the basis of whose in- tellectual being was strong, solid, but very hard and very earthly sense. One might compare him with Swift, who, however, had a more savage and demoniac element in him, which led him farther, and brought him in contact at least with the infernal side of that which transcends the visible. On the whole, one can best realize Butlers exact character by regarding him as, more peculiarly than any other man of his age., the polar opposite to Milton, Milton the transcendental man ~f his time, and the noblest literary represent- ative and defender of that class of sentiments and opinions which Ntler derided. This contrast, or polarity in the intellectual world, is discernible in all ages, though it is not always instanced in so remarkable a manner. There are always men who can stand no nonsense, who take their footing on what they call the hard fact of things, who have an innate turn for undervaluing whatever is high, extreme, and unusual, either in thought or action high metaphysics, high art, high poetry, high Calvinism, high anything. On the other hand, there are always men who, from some constitutional peculiarity, call it ideality, heart, enthusiasm, artistic sense, tendency to the metaphysical, or what you will, revel in the high, feel at home in it, and prefer it. It is from the first class more particularly that satirists are born; except when, as sometimes happens, a man of the other class steps out, clothed in the very thunders of his high contemplations, to satirize the satirists themselves, and prove to them the celestial, if only by its thunder. Milton himself was a satirist, when he chose, in this sense ; Butler was a satirist in the other. His philosophy of human nature was that of the lowest schools; and there is no maxim that he repeats more frequently, and with a more bitter emphasis, both in verse and in prose, than that interest alone governs the world, and that those who proceed on any other supposition are fools. Thus: All the business of the world is but diver- sion, and all the happiness in it that mankind is capable of, anything that will keep it from re- flecting upon the misery, vanity, and nonsense of it, and whoever can by any trick keep himself from thinking of it, is as wise and happy as the best man in it. . . . The chiefest art of gov- ernment is to convert the ignorance, folly, and madness of mankind, as much as may be to their own good; which can never be done by telling them truth and reason, or using any direct means, but by little tricks and devices (as they cure madmen) that work upon their hopes and fears, to which their ignorance nat- urally inclines them. Thoughts on various subjects. ThesI~are precisely the cardinal notions of the sceptical or descendental philosophy; and the constitutional tenacity with which Butler held to them explains his whole ca- reer and character. How could such a man be other than an antagonist of Puritanism, the very essence of which consisted in a be- lief in the possibility of an actual reign of God through His saints, on earth? ha~ are all histories apd records of actions in for- mer times, said tromwell, but a revela- tion of God, that He hath destroyed, and tumbled down, and trampled under foot whatever He hath not planted? Compare this magnificent definition of history from the Puritan point of view with Butlers comic one, from his, and say whether it was 20 SAMUEL BUTLER. possible for the two nren not to oppose each other: What else does history use to tell us, But tales of subjects being rebellous? But that same disbelief of Butler in all that was high or divine in human nature and his- tory which led him thus to oppose Puritan- ism, and to regard it as nothing more than a temporary outbreak of madness drawing hy- pocrisy along with it, was also the secret root of his other dislikes and antipathies. Hence his satires on speculation as such ; on the heroic forms of literature; on chivalry towards women; on abstract reasoning in politics; on theory of all kinds, and on what he called the foolish investigations of the physical philosophers. All these were to him but so many other forms of that affection of mind for the supra-sensible, that devotion to the unseen and untangible, which Butler had derided in his attacks on the Puritans. There were many ways, he thought, in which men entertained themselves with Fools Para- dises of what should be, not what is ; and he made it his business to ridicule them all, as equally contrary to sound sense and pru- dence. And yet, curiously enough, there are instances in which Butler, by the very pene- trating excess of his hard sense, comes out, so to speak, at the other side, and by rumi- nating on descendentalism itself, contrives almost to become transcendental for a mo- ment. There is a kind of serene sorrowful wisdom in some of his sayings, shcwing that in his old age, and when severe experience had reduced ~his sense to the form of a quintessence, he did touch on the extreme and metaphysical, if only in abjuring it. Thus: The understanding of man hath a sphere of activity, beyond which, if it be forced, it becomes inactive, as it does vigorous by being confined. Unless a vine be pruned, it will bear no fruit; and he that related to the Senate, de coercendis Imperii terminis, was no unwise statesman. Opinion of knowledge has ever been one of the chiefest causes of ignorance; for most men know less than they might, by attempting to know more than they can. Thoughts upon various subjects. Again, The end of all knowledge is fd~understand what is fit to be done, for to know what has been, and what is, and what may be, does but tend to that. Ibid. In these, andother similar sayings, we have Butler at his highest; but a very great part of his writings, especially of his prose writ- ings, consists of serious and ~hvere thought and criticism, shewing no mean sagacity of observation, strength of judgment, and hon est integrity of purpose. As all know, how- ever, it is his wit that has made him immor- tal; and it is by the prodigious amount and concentration of this one quality in his writ- ings and that too, in the exact sense in which psychologists are wont to define wit when they distinguish it from the apparently similar but really greater quality of humor that these writings will live in our litera- ture~ Here are a few specimens from his prose writings Governments are not built as houses are, but grow as trees do. And as some trees thrive best in one soil, some in another, so do govern- ments; but none equally in any, but all gener- ally where they are most naturally produced; and therefore t is probable the state of Venice would be no more the same in any other coun- try, if introduced, than their trade of glass-mak- ing. One that is proud of his birth is like a tur- nip there is nothing good of him but that which is under ground. His (the courtly fops) tailor is his creator, and makes him of nothing: and though he lives by faith in him, he is perpetually committing iniquities against him. A proud man is a fool in fermentation. He (a literary plagiarist) is like an Italian thief that never robs but he murders, to prevent discovery. When he (a versifier) writes, he commonly steers the sense of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers do calves by the tail. A Popish priest is one that takes the same course that the devil did in Paradise; he begins with the woman. A traveller is a native of all countries, and an alien at home. . . . His observations are like a sieve, that lets the finer flour pass and retains only the bran of things. . . . He believes all mens wits are at a stand that stay at home, and only those advanced, that travel; as if change of pasture did make great politicians as well as fat calves. He (the amateur of science) is like an ele- phant, that, though he cannot swim, yet of all creatures most delights to walk by the rivers side. Butlers verse is but his prose put through a process of metrical torture, trituration, and re-compression, so as to come out more com- pact, knotty, and glittering. He had early found out, as we have seen, the advanta~e that would be given him by calling to his aid the additional stimulus,~to odd intellectual invention afforded by metre and rhyme; and from that time, though he continued to write in prose, it was with a mental reservation in favor of doggrel, and especially octosyllabic doggrel, with plenty of double and triple rhymes in it, as the natural and proper form of his highest literary efforts. Accordingly, 21 22 SAMUEL BUTLER. it is in his doggrel that we have Butler at his best. The stuff or essential fabric of the writing is still the same namely, hard, bare, ruthless sense, often directly polemical in its tenor, and always cynical; the pecu- liar literary excellence whereby this sense is recommended and set off is, as before, wit, or odd associations of images supplied by the fancy; but the wit is richer and more exquis- ite from the very fact that the fancy, in pro- ducing it, has worked under the additional restriction and stimulus of metre and rhyme. Let us cull a handful of specimens at ran- dom. If he that in the field is slain Be in the bed of honor lain, He that is beaten may be said To lie in honors truckle-bed. Some have been beaten till they know What wood a cudgel s of by the blow. For what is worth in anything But so much money as t will bring? The sun had long since in the lap Of Thetis taken out his nap, And, like a lobster boiled, the morn From black to red began to turn. And we are best of all led to Mens principles by what they do. For the more languages a man can speak His talent has but sprung the greater leak. As beasts are hunted for their furs, Men for their virtues fare the worse. A teachers doctrine and his proof Is all his province and enough; But is no more concernd in use Than shoemakers to wear all shoes. Success, that owns and justifies all quarrels, And vindicates deserts of hemp with laurels, Or, but miscarrying in the bold attempt, Turns wreaths of laurels back again to hemp. In the Church of Rome to go to shrift Is but to put the soul on a clean shift. A convert s but a fly that turns about After his heads pulled off, to find it out. In such sententious distichs, many of which, to use Johnsons words, have passed into conversation, and been added as pro- verbial axioms to the general stock of prac- tical knowledge, we have the essence of Butlers poetry. Just, however, as Butlers judgment, by the very excess of its devotion to the hard and the material, did now and then attain to the verge of the spiritual and metaphysical, so his fancy, in its sheer search after the witty and the quaint, sometimes reaches the limits of the poetical and beau- tiful. Thus: Love is too great a happiness For wretched mortals to possess; For, could it hold inviolate Against those cruelties of fate Which all felicities below By rigid laws are subject to, It would become a bliss too high For perishing mortality, Translate to earth the joys above; For nothing goes to Heaven but Love. Such passages shew that the author of Iludi- bras had a vein in him of finer material than the merely burlesque or Hudibrastic. That vein, however, he did not cultivate; and hence, so long as Butler is remembered, it will be only, in the first place, in his defunct capacity as the contemporary opponent and satirist of the great Puritan movement in England; and, secondly, in his more perma- nent character as the author of a great num- ber of sayings and maxims which, though conceived in the spirit of the cynical philoso- phy, and used at first to burlesque Puritan- ism and other high matters, are still so terse and good and sensible as to be available, in consistency with any philosophy whatever, for general human purposes. Even in the former, or his defunct historical capacity~ Butler may have done good, for hypocrisy mingles with all things, and the Hudibrastie is on n~~od of beating it out. How vo BE BEAUTIFUL. As we were about to start, I saw the captain move to an elevated position above the wheel; and it was interesting to see how quickly and completely the inward thought or purpose alters the outward man. He gave a quick glance to every part of the ship. He cast his eye over the multitude coming on board the ship, among whom was the American ambassador to England, who, if the captain may be said to embody the ship, may be said with equal truth to embody in his official person a na- tions right and honor. H~ saw the husbands and wives, the mothers and children, intrusted to his care; and his slender form, as he gave the orders for our departure, seemed at once to grow more erect and firm ; the muscles of his face swelled ; his dark eye glowed with a new fire; and his whole person expanded and beau- tified itself by the power of inward emotion. I have often noticed this interesting phenomenon; and have come to tl~ conclusion, if man, or woman either, wishes to realize the full power of personal beauty, it must be by cherishing noble hopes and purposes by having something to do and to live for, which is worthy of humanity and which, by expanding the capacities of the soul, gives expansion and symmetry to the body which contains it. Professor Uj~ham. THE SALIC LAW IN FRANCE. From The Spectator, 20 Oct. TILE SALIC LAW IN FRANCE. NAPOLEON THE THIRD must be content with half a chance in the matter of the succession. There is no doubt that an heir born to him might have a great effect in subduing many impatiences and many feelings of uncertainty in the French people. At present the Em- pire stands too conspicuously dependent upon a life tenure, and the heirship that presump- tively presents itself is not such as to recon- cile the people to the dynastic succession. Could a Napoleon the Fourth be pre- sented to the French people even in his cradle, many calculations that will tempt agitators against the present Napoleon would be extin- guished. In England, we should consider it of little matter whether the child that is promised should be a boy or a girl; but in France, for the dynustic succession a girl is un rien; and the Emperor must at the best be content to wait five weary months before ascertaining whether a princess is added to the charge of his family, or a prince becomes prospectively the perpetuator of his line. It might be thought that a powerful mili- tary leader, who has seized the throne, who has abolished one constitution and decreed another, could settle this matter of the suc- cession autocratically, and with a stroke of his pen substitue the general law of Europe fbr the Salic law. Napoleon could perform4 many acts less consonant with sound sense than that, and yet any such stroke of policy would, we imagine, be absolutely beyond even his absolute power. He might, it is true, plead the example of other states, and show that the~ had not lost either in power or in stability by accepting the female suc- cession. The Frankish lands are indeed the exception on this point. The state which is contesting the lead in Europe with the West- ern Powers, Russia, has in the days of its most rapid progress been under the sway of female sovereigns. Austria, who has oftener than once held the balance of power, has been under the sway of Maria Theresa. Spain has reverted to the national law, after the assumption on the part of the Bourbons that they were to carry with them into the Penin- sula the rule of succession that has prevailed in their own family; and, se~fted on the uni- ted thrones of Isabella and Ferdinand, Ferdi- nand the Seventh restored the succession to his daughter the Second Isabella. It is a mere party attachment, without any question of male or female succession save as a tech- nical pretext, that has created any hope that ever existed for the Carlist faction. At this moment France is proud to be the ally of England; and there is not a class in the country but must attest the firm state of our succession, and the orderly condition of lhe country under a female sovereign. But we believe that not all these precedents would enable the Emperor Napoleon to set aside the ancient usage of France and decree by antic- ipation that his child should succeed, be it boy or girl. Our opinion only coincides with that of Frenchmen, and it is the more curious that this conclusion should almost instinctively be settled; since in France woman plays and has always played a part at once more con- spicuous and more generally recognized ths~n in this country. Notwithstanding our female succession, no Queen, regnant or consort, could imitate Catherine de Medicis in active and tyrannical administration. In high society of France, the stateswoman has as often ruled as the statesman, and. Madame de Maintenon exercised an influence more positive than that of Mrs. Masham. In the middle class of France, woman is the man of business; in the humblest class she is the laboring man. It is not only that she does the hard work after the fashion of barbarous or savage countries, as among the Russians or the North Ameri- can Indians, but she combines with, that prin- cipal share of the business of life at least a full share ot~ social or personal influence. It might be expected that in France, therefore, woman would be considered as having a stronger vight~ to share the succession than in this country. Nor is it that our neighbors regard the laws of succession as absolutely sacred against interference. It is within the memory of liv- ing man that the law of inheritance in France has undergone the most sweeping and funda- mental changes. Property, which used to go to the eldest son, subject to charges which have been common in~enost countries, and even stronger elsewhere than in France, is now divided amongst all the children; and France has adopted that law of gavelkind which we are gradually abolishing even in Kent. It is easier, then, to change the law of succession for every family in the country 23 THE SALIC LAW IN FRANCE. than for the throne; although the experience of other states, the position of women in France, and every reason of practical sense as it would be called, dictates a reversal of the Salic law. Could such matters be settled on pure rea- son, the edict of Napoleon the Third could be framed in five minutes, and the proclama- tion of it in the Moniteur would confer the succession on his child, be it boy or girl. But it is too late for a coup detat of that kind. It might have been possible, perhaps, when the First Napoleon founded the Empire upon the ruins left by the Republic. But, willing to employ the theatrical properties of antiqui- ty, Napoleon the First went back to tradition, restored Charlemagne in all his legendary su- premacy, sewed the drapery of his own state with the golden bees, and left the Salic law undisturbed. It was Napoleon, therefore, who clinched that half-prohibitory rule, and confirmed the eternal prejudice of the French people against a female monarch. France has oftener than once considered what ruler she should have; she has substituted one branch of the Bourbon family for another, one dynasty for another; she has changed King for Emperor, Emperor for King, and King for President; she has been content to do with- out a monarch at all; but to set aside the Salic law the great fundamental rule for French dynasties before the Revolution would be a breach of etiquette which French* manners could not sanction; and we feel that all the absolute power of Napoleon the Third would dash itself to pieces in the attempt to modify that little regulation. No doubt, there is reason for the prejudice, although probably reason does not consciously assist in establishing or maintaining it. We know well enough in this country, that a female sovereign can do at least as well as a man upon the throne. The kind of business which a monarch has to exercise in modern times does not in general belong exclusively to either sex. There is a certain fidelity to established rules, an appreciation of character in the selection of public servants, a reduction of state questions to the simplest elements functions in which woman, with her simpler and more instinctive mind, is better even than man. If a female sovereign goes right, she exercises over the men that serve her a species of influence which lends an air of chivalry to their zeal, and calls forth a greater power in the administration of the state a higher pea sonal zest in its servants, and a vigor of mind such as none but a genius with a crown on could hope to realize if he were a man. As to the pageantries that fill up the intervals of state business, is it possible to conduct them half so well or so gracefully as when the supreme head is a lady? Nor have femaI~ sovereigns failed to call forth in different times the most warlike powers of the state. From the days of a Semiramis to our own, we have examples ready to our hand. The servants of Elizabeth began those chivalrous enterprises abroad, by sea and land, which commenced the naval if not the military history of Eng- land. The hungarian was ready to draw hi~ sword and use it unto the death for his King Maria Theresa. Russia was not less war- like under Catherine than under her Emperors. And the warlike spirit of England has revived the more readily, no doubt, because a female sovereign can again call out the spirit of chiv- alry. France, however, is not only warlike as a state not only possesses within her con- fines military traditions but the whole or- ganization of the country tends to the mili- tary. Her factions, not content with the battle of the registration court, appeal against each other to arm~. The very 6piciers of middle-class society are National Guards, and claim to determine the balance of power in times of civil conflict. The political state of France is one of chronic civil war, kept down by that party which happens to consti- tute the garrison in power. RFrance not only posse~es.~an army or a military order, but she is an army, or more than one; and in- stead of requiring a sovereign to give the royal command for her military movements, she needs a captain of the garrison, to defend the citadel against the factions that are con- tinually besieging it. It is this thoroughly military organization, this constant antago- nism of one military party against another, which probably renin~rs it necessary for France to have a man on the throne, and that man, if possible, a great captain. 24 26 A NEW FACE FOR AN OLD HOUSE. From Chambers Journal. A NEW FACE FOR AN OLD HOUSE. AN impression prevails that one conse- quence of Her Majestys visit to Paris will be the gradual adoption of a system for promot- ing the beauty and salubrity of the Great Metropolis. The New Metropolitan Buildings Act will effect something, and might very properly be made the basis of a general scheme of improvement. London will perbaps never look so bright and cheerful as Paris; but with a purified river and a smokeless atmosphere, its appearance would be surprisingly different from what it is at present. What we want in sunlight might be made up in color tbat is, color on the walls. There is no reason why dead and dingy surfaces of brick should remain dead and dingy; for there is an avail- able means by which they may be covered with a weather-proof glaze of almost any color, onwhich impurities would hardly lodge, or would be washed off with every shower of rain. We mentioned the subject some months ago in the Journcl, and think it worth repeat- ing at the present juucture. A paper on Hydraulic Lime, Artificial Stone, and Different Novel Applications of Soluble Silicates, addressed by M. F. Kuhl- mann to the Acad~mie des Sciences at Paris, takes up the subject in theory and practice. The author tells us that when once the marked affinity of lime for silicic acid was discovered, the silicifying of stone became an easy me- chanical process; and further, that the action of lime on metallic oxides has led, and will lead, to important results in art. He lays down the law, that whenever a salt reputed insoluble in water is brought in contact with the solution of a salt the acid of which forms, with the base of the insoluble salt, a salt still more insoluble, there is an exchange; but in most cases the exchange is but partial, admit- ting the formation of double salts. By direct application of this law, be has succeeded in giving a certain degree of silicification to chromate of lead and of lime, to numerous metallic carbonates, and to so~me oxides, par- ticularly oxide of lead. Another stepwas the application of alkaline silicates to painting; and instead of oils and the ordinary vehicles, M. Kuhlmann uses a concentrated solution of silicate of potash, finding it work well with v~rmilion, green, ultramarine-blue, the ochres, oxide of chrome, and some others. These colors applied to a wall become, so to speak, part of its sub- stance, and are almost imperishable. Pre- pare your wall; paint it either plain, or any design according to taste; then sprinkle the whole surface with the solution of potash above mentioned, or of soda, and you cover it with a permanent glaze. Advantage has been taken of this discovery in the decoration of public buildings at Munich, and other places in Germany, and with the happiest effects. And in another way: when the Munich theatre was rebuilt, the inflammable materials were saturated in the solution, to render them fire-proof. It is known that fire takes but little hold on even stuffs and cottons that have been treated with the solution. Should the cost of the silicated colors be objected to, the wall may be painted with or- dinary water-colors, and then coated with the solution. This is applied by means of a small hand-pump, or a syringe fitted with a rose, so that the steam shall fall as a light shower. The liquid soon dries and forms a glaze, wind and weather-proof. What scope is thus af- forded for ornamental frescoes, or many species of decoration, which might beautify our streets for years, unsullied by dust or smoke! Wood, affected as it is by moisture, is not so well adapted for the silicated colors as brick or stone. The most suitable kinds, ac- cording to M. Kuhlmann, are ash and horn- beam. But glass, porcelain, and metal, if quite dry, take the colors readily. In glass particularly, a semi-transparence is obtained, which renders it applicable, at low cost, to the windows of private houses or of churches; and we all know what admirable effects can he produced by colored panes artistically in- troduced. At this point, the author makes the following practical remarks : Artificial sulphate of b& ryta, applied by means of the silicate of potash to glass, gives to the latter a milk-white color of great beauty. The sulphate becomes intimately incorporated with the silex; and after a few days, cannot be washed off even with hot water. On sub- jecting the glass thus painted to the action of an elevated temperature, a beautiful white enamel is produced on the surface, which would economically replace the enamels tl~at have oxide of tin for their base. T.Jltrania- rine-blue, oxide of chrome, and colored or p0?.. phyrized enamels, are a great resource in this new method of painting; for if there be no chemical combination in all these applications A NEW FACE FOR AN OLD HOUSE. of color, there is at least a very powerful ad- herence determined by the silicious cement, of which the hardening is doubtless facilitated by the excessive division wherewith it is pre- sented to the action of the air. M. Kuhlmann has further succeeded in using his silicated colors for designs on paper- hangings, on cotton and woollen cloth, and in letter-press printing. The processes, he says, differ very little from those in use in the various modes of printing. One impor- tant condition is to maintain the silicious colors in a uniform state of humidity during their application; whether the application take place with blocks of wood or metal, or by having recourse to type. All the colors thatl have applied, he adds, on stone, wood, metal, or glass, serve for printing on paper or woven cloths. Typography, color-printing, the application of gold or silver in powder or in leaf, can all be executed with the same facility, taking care, with certain colors, to keep out sulphur in the preparation of the silicates. Ultramarine is fixed in cloths with more solidity and economy by the silicate of potash, than by the methods now in use. Here we have a wide range of applications arising out of M. Kuhlmanns discovery; and that the range will be extended, is not doubt- ful. We may add, that by grinding the char- coal used in the preparation of Indian-ink with silicate of potash in solution, a writing-ink is obtained almost indestructible by chemical agents; and the same solution, mixed with a decoction of cochineal, gives a red ink, the color of which resists for a long time the action of chlorine and the acids. Specimens of M. Kuhlmanns art are to be seen in the French Exposition. Perhaps some practical member of the Society of Arts, during his visit to Paris, will inform himself of the means by which the discovery may be made available in this country. Mr. Bar- lows lecture on the subject at the Royal In~ stitution has already done something towards making it known. DANCING A~m DANCING TuNEs. A century and two or three years ago, the dancing master of a southern Scottish town wrote out manuscript instructions for his pupils, of whom my father was one; and a copy is now before me which may suggest some musical and other minor mat- ters relating to the amusements of our progeni- tors, curious enough for a notice in N. & Q. It is entitled: The Dancing Steps of a Horapipe and Gigg. As also, Twelve of the Newest Country Dances, as they are performed at the Assemblys and Balls. All Sett by Mr. John Mgill for the Use of his S~hool, 1752. I do not know that the dancing instructions for sixteen steps in the hornpipe, and fourteen in the gigg, woukl be very intelligible now-a-days ; see- ing that in the former, the second, third, and fourth steps are slips and shuffle forwards, spleet and floorish (?fiorish) backwards, Hyland step forwards ; and there are else- where directions to heel and toe forwards, single and double round step, slaps across forward, twist round backward, cross strocks aside and sink forward, short shifts, back hops, and finally, happ forward and backward, to conclude the gigg with & iclat. The lists of the minuets and reels preserve some ancient names, but I cannot answer for Master Mgllls orthography. The first are: The Prince of Hesses, Lady Fanny Askins (?Erskine), Lady Rothes or My Lord Cathcart, The Duke of Yorks, Miss Jtays Sweetest when shes Naked (fie), Miss Forestors, The Old Assemblys, Fools, ilasees (?Asses), Captain Ross, Lady Grizel Mobtgomeries, Mager Askin, Mrs. Lorcereter (?), Miss Surchills (?Chur chills), and General Blanes. The reels are: Toluch Gorum, Cameronions March, Doun youn Banks, Miss Frazers, Miss Macdonalds,Queens- berry House, Your welcome to the Twon again (can hardly and yet must be the Jacobite air Yire welcome to your am again), A Mile to Ride, The Corporal, Lochels, Jock Humes, Miss Murrays, Short Apron, Lady Rothesse s new, Miss Clark, and Mrs. Murrays. The twelve country dances are mostly figured to well-known tunes, which have descended to the present, such as: Up and war them a Willy; Because he was a Bonny Lad; Old Age and Young-~ l~y Wife s a Wanton wee Thing; Rat- tling Roaring Willy, & c. ; but there are others which might provoke some inquiry, as, for in- stance, The Cadgers of the Cannogate; Ephey MNab; The Cornal or Backel; The Lads of Dunse; Jock of the Green, & c. Several of the tunes mentioned have become immortal in the4 songs of Burns. Others sleep in personals and localities; but jet there may be some to interest your Scottish readers, and perhaps bring corre~ondence on the subject of old Scotch music, wifich may be both instruc- tive and amusing. Though the fiddle no longer prevails in that country, it is to be hoped there is still a national feeling for its bygone stralas I ,Notes and Queries. IV. ,L 26 PHILIP THE SECOND OF SPAIN. 27 From the Atheiueum. flexible, and full of variety, Mr. Prescott History of the Reign of Philip the Second, narrates the incidents of Philips reign. His King of Spain. By William H. Prescott. story moves swiftly, but is nowhere incom- 2 vols. Bentley. plete. The personages are well grouped, the order of circumstances and the order of Tax history of the reign of Philip the time are well reconciled, the events are Second is not the history of Spain alone. It neither confused nor isolated. The book is spreads, in greater or less proportion, over as once pictorial and sober, critical and dra- Portugal, Italy, France, the Netherlands, matic. Germany, England, the Islands of the Med- When Philip the Second ascended the ab- iterranean, the coasts of Northern Africa, dicated throne of Charles the Fifth, there and the continent of the New World. It was no monarch in Europe to whom such a includes political and religious revolutions, sway had fallen. He was King of Spain, a Mohammedan and a Catholic crusade, with Castile, Aragon, and (Jranada iio longer the story of St. Elmo and the great Armada, independent States, but provinces. He wa~ a Protestant and a Morisco revolt, the King of Naples and Sicily, and Duke of desolation of Holland and of Granada: epi- Milan. He was Lord of Franche-Compt6 sodes of national and of personal romance, and the Low Countries, lie was titular of memorable wickedness and memorable King of England by virtue of his alliance sufferings, of heroism and misery, the with Mary. He possessed the Cape de Verd story of Alva and of Don Carlos, of Egmont, Islands, the Canaries, Tunis and Oran in Hoorne, and Montigny. Africa, the Philippine and Spice Islands in Throughout this period, Philip the See- Asia, Mexico, Peru, and part of the West end presents a singularly dramatic figure. Indies in America. In his army were the Though the champion of the Church, he veterans who had fought at Pavia and Muhl- makes war upon the Pope. Though the berg, who had been led by Almagro and, enemy of France, he marries a French prin- Pizzaro. His navy was supreme, except in cess. The husband of one English Queen, the narrow seas contested by England. The he offers to marry her successor, and after- mines of Zacatecas and Potosi replenished an wards attempts the invasion of her king- exchequer wasted by the ambitious prodigality dom. His first wife is a princess of Portu- of Charles the Fifth. To these advantages gal; his second, a Queen of England; his he added some of the benefits of experience. third, a princess of France; his fourth a He had already been exercised in the arts of princess of Austria. his glory is that he government, and stood at the head of the raised Spain to her highest position among Roman Catholic princes. Such were the cir- the modern empires, yet to him belongs cumstances of Philips position when he as- the reproach of having sown the seeds of her sumed the crown. Mr. Prescott, in an ad decay. mirable chapter, lays out the political scheme Mr. Prescotts narrative of the remarkable of Europe, as its states were then distributed; and diversified events distinguishing this pe- but it is not from this point that his narrative nod is constructed, in great part, of new commences. The more familiar story of materials. As the history extends over many Charles the Fifths abdication forms an ap- countries and touches the fortunes of many propriate prologue, with the history of the States, so the historians researches have run youth of Philip, and of his visit to England. through nearly all the libraries of Europe. His first wife, of the royal house of Portugal, With the assistance of some zealous friends had died whei~ the ill-starred Don Carlos was Don Pascual de Gayangos deserving par- born; and through the politic intervention ticular mention he has drawn from the of his father he had formed his alliance with archives and private collections of Great our own Mary. The historian has not Britain, Belgium, the Netherlands, France, neglected this opportunity to enliven his Spain, Germany, and Italy, materials which narrative with a pleasant account of the give to this book an original as well as an ceremonies and rejoicings which attended authentic chijracter. With this mass of new this event. Philips progress to London and evidence he has compared the published rec- Winchester was a continuous scene of heraldic ords of the time, and the result is a narra- and festal pomp, and Mr. Prescotts de- tive which as far as it has gone deserves scription of it is as fuilbof life and spirit as to rank with the best historical works by the proces~ional cavalcade. contemporary writers. For, in addition to Some embarrassment occurred as to the its substantial value as a contribution to the political, religious, and social annals of Eu- person who should give the queen away, raost admirable part of the ceremony not provided for. After a rope, it derives some of its brief co,aference, it was removed by the Marquis qualities from the peculiar genius of its of Winchester and the Earls of Pembroke and author. In a warmly-colored style clear, Derby, who took it on themselves to give her PHILIP THE SECOND t~I~ SPAIN. away in the name of the whole realm; at which the multitude raised a shout that made the old walls of the cathedral ring again. The marriage service was then concluded by the Bishop of Winchester. Philip and Mary resumed their seats, and mass was performed, when the bride- groom, rising, gave his consort the kiss of peace, according to the custom of the time. The whole ceremony occupied nearly four hours. At the close of it, Philip, taking Mary by the hand, led her from the church. The royal couple were followed by the long train of prelates and nobles, and were preceded by the Earls of Pem- broke and Derby, each bearing aloft a naked sword, the symbol of sovereignty. The effect of the spectacle was heightened by the various costumes of the two nations, the richly-tinted and picturesque dresses of the Spaniards, and the solid magnificence of the English and Flem- ings, mingling together in gay confusion. The glittering procession moved slowly on, to the blithe sounds of festal music, while the air was rent with the loyal acciamations of the populace, delighted, as usual, with the splendor of the pogeant. Philip appears never to have received much gratification from his English allignee. He would, perhaps, have been better pleased had the Queen been less demonstrative in her love; but his fathers abdication, recalling him from the English Court, w s speedily followed by the Papal war, which engaged him in military and diplomatic enterprises. His Italian eampaign, ted by the Duke of Alva, was so cautiously conducted, that when Pontecorvo had opened its gates, when Anagni had been sacked, and when his viciorious army was spread over the suburbs of Tivoli, he refrained from pushing his success, and awaited offers of peace. Paul the Fourth, however, had a different spirit. In an interview with two French gentlemen, who, as he had reason to suppose, were interest- ~ng themselves in the affair of a peace, he ex- claimed: Whoever would bring me into a peace with heretics is a servant of the Devil. Heaven will take vengeance on him. I will pray that Gods curse may fall on him. If I find that you intermeddle in any such matter, I will cut your heads off your shoulders. Do not think this an empty threat. I have an eye in my back on you, quoting an Italian proverb, and if I find you playing me false, or attempting to entanje me a second time in an accursed truce, I swear to you by the eternal God, I will make your heads fly from your shoulders, come what may come of it V In this way, concludes the narrator, one of the parties, his Holiness con- tinued for nearly an hour, walking up and down the apartment, and talking all the while of his own grievances and of cutting off our heads, Un- dl he had talked himself quite cut of breath. The issue of the war was favorable to Philip, though lie retained none of his Italian conquests, and even deputed the Duke of Alva to make his submission to the Papal chair. On reaching the Vatican, the Spanish com- mander fell on his knees before the Pope, and asked his pardon for the offence of bearing arms against the Church. Paul, soothed by this show of concession, readily granted absolution. He paid the Duke the distinguished honor of ,iving him a seat at his own table; while he complimented the Duchess by sending her the consecrated golden rose, reserved only for royal persons and illustrious champions of tfle Church. But to Paul fell the losses of the was. The desolated Campagna, the dispersed army, the mutinous populace of Rome, his injured reputation, Isis diminished influence, were proofs that there was a ruler in Europe with the courage and the power to defy and a~sail the head of the Church. The French war the victory of ~t. Quentin, celebrated by the building of the Escurial, the surprise of Calais the in- vasion of Flanders and the battle of Grave.. lines, supply Mr. Prescott with a succession of picturesque episodes, which he works into his narrative with equal care and skill. UpQn the conclusion of peace the king of Spain was again a widower, for Elizabeth had succeeded Mary on the English thro~. Philip seems to have regarded widowerhood as wasted time, for a month had not elapsed after Marys remains had been deposited in Westminster Abbey, when he made direct offers to the inheritor of her crown. Her Protestant policy turning him from this idea, he took a bride, as the first-fruit of peace, from France. Elizabeth, Mr. Prescott thinks, was considerably piqued not, perhaps, be- cause she had refused Philip, but beq~ise Philip had been so easily consoled. Your master, said she, in a petulant tone, to Feria, must have been much in love with me not to be able to wait four months! The ambassad~r answered somewhat bluntly, by throwing the blame of the affair on the Queen herself. Not so, she retorted, I never g~ive your King decIded answer. True, said Feria, the refusal was only implied, for I would not urge your highness to a downright No~, lest it might prove a cause of offence between so great Princes. The historian has surmountedwith singular art th~ obvious difficulties of his subject. The extension of Philip~ influence into the policy of so many states, his various wars, hi multitude of political transactions, simulta- neous or successive, rendered it no easy task to preserve the clearness and unity of the narrative. Thus, the defection of the Netherlands, though an episode in Philips career, was a distinct event, with features 28 PHILIP THE SECOND OF SPAIN. and proportions deserving a separate history. Its incidents form an uninterrupted line, parallel with almost the entire course of the Spanish tyrants reign, continually demand- ing the narrators attention, yet with con- temporary movements, of nearly equal mag- nitude, engaging him in other parts of Europe. Mr. Prescott recognizes this per- plexity, and overcomes it by adopting a system of historical grouping, in which the several events revolve round one principle, which was the guiding force of Philips reign his determination to uphold the power of the Church in relation with that of the Throne throughout his dominions. Tracing the origin and cause of these po- litical, religious, and military events, Mr. Prescott fills his canvas with accessory de- tails, with delicately tinted pictures of social life, witfi grand architectural per- spectives, with pageants, described in lan- guage which reflects the gorgeous varieties of Burgundian pomp and splendor. He keeps in view, also, the latter days of Charles the Fifth, corroborating, g!nerally, the works of Pichot, Mignet, and Stirling. The fanaticism of that monarch, tinged with insanity, was intensified in Philip. When Seso, the Florentine, was condemned to the stake, at Yalladolid, he was led past the royal gallery, ~r grand stand of the Inquisition. On his way to the place of execution, De Seso pathetically exclaimed to Philip, Is it thus that you allow your innocent subjects to be per- secuted? To which the King made the memo- rable reply, If it were my own son, I would fetch the wood to burn him, were he such a wretch as thou art! It was certainly a charac- teristic answer. When Philip was united to his third wife, he had previously been married only by proxy, she had to modify her habits accord- ing to the traditions of Spain. A manuscript of the time, by an eye-witness, gives a few particulars respecting her manner of living, in which some readers may take an interest. Among the persons connected with the Queens establishment, the writer mentions her confessor, her almoner, and four physicans. The medical art seems to have been always held in high repute in Spain, though in no country, considering the empirical character of its pro- fessors, with so little reason. At dinner the Queenwas usually attended by some thirty of her ladies. Two of them, singularly enough as it may seem to us, performed the office of carvers. Another served as cupbearer, and stood by Her Majestys chair. The rest of her attendants stood round the apartment, conversing with their gallants, who, in a style to which she had not been used in the French courts,~kept their heads covered during the repast. They were there, they said, not to wait on the Queen, but her ladies. After her solitary meal was over, Isabella retired with her attendants to her chamber, where, with the aid of music, and such, mirth as the buffoons and jesters of the palace could afford, she made shift to pass the evening. Necessarily, a large space is devoted by Mr. Prescott to the career of the Duke of Alva, with whose achievements English readers are not unfamiliar. The establish- ment of the Council of Blood the rule of terror the massacres and confiscations the executions of Egmont and Hoorne and the secret assassination of Montigny are related at length, with such corrections of preceding writers as the documents at Mr. Prescotts command enabled him to offer. It is curious to meet in Alvas correspondence with an exhibition, whether affected or real, of human tenderness. It would not be fair to omit in this con- nection some passages from Alvas correspon- dence, which suggest the idea that he was not wholly insensible to feelings of compassion, when they did not interfere with the performance of his task. In a letter to the king, dated the 9th of June, four days only after the death of the two nobles, the duke says: Your Majesty will understand the regret I feel at seeing these poor lords brought to such an end, and myself obliged to bring them to it. But I have not shrunk from doing what is for your Majestys service. Indeed, they and their accomplices have been the cause of very great present evil, and one which will endanger the souls of many for years to come. The Countess Egmonts condition fills me with the greatest pity, burdened as she is. with a family of eleven children, none old enough to take care of themselves ; and she, too, a lady of so distinguished rank, sister of the count-palatine, and of so virtuous, truly Catholic, and exemplary life. There is no man in the country who does not grieve for her! I cannot but commend her, he concludes,. as I do now, very humbly, to the good grace of your Majesty, beseeching you to call to mind that if the Count, her husband, came to trouble at the close of his days, he formerly rende~ed great service to The ~tate. The reflection, it must be owned, came somewhat late. Yet the Countess, thus pitied by Alva, was by him denied all access to her husband, even in his last moments. The sentence which consigned him to death reduced her to beggary. But the character of Philip, no less than that of his viceroy, wns implicated in these terrible crimes, especially in the judicial assassination ~ Montigny, in the dungeon of Simancas. Montigny was warned, one day before his death, that the executioner would visit him privately in his cell. Philip had truly remarked, there was no occasion for him to make a will, since he had 29 30 PHILIP THE SECOND OF SPAIN. nothing to bequeathe, all his property having Malta is brought into Mr. Prescotts narra- been confiscated to the crown. If, however, any tive, to which it gives the tone of chivalric debt pressed heavily on his conscience, he was to romance. The defence of St. Elmo supplies be allowed to indicate it, as well as any provision one or two examples in the writers best which he particularly desired to make for a style. special purpose. This was on the condition, however, that he should allude to himself as The artillery of the Turks now opened with about to die a natural death. Montigny profited dreadful effect, as they colicentrated their fire by this to express the wish that masses, to the on the naked walls of St. Elmo. No masonry number of 700, might be said for his soul, that could long withstand the tempest of iron and sundry sums might be appropriated to private ponderous marble shot which was hurled from uses, and that some gratuities might be given to the giganth~ engines of the beciegers. Frag- certain of his faithful followers. It may interest ments of the wall fell off as if it had been made the reader to know that the masses were punctu- of plaster; and St. Elmo trembled to its found- ally performed. In regard to the pious legacies, ations under the thunders of the terrible ord the king wrote to Alva, he must first see if nance. The heart of the stoutest warrior might Montignys estate would justify the appropri- well have faltered as he saw the rents each day ation; as for the gratuities to servants, they growing wider and wider, as if gaping to give were wholly out of the question. At about entrance to the fierce multitude that was swarm- two oclock on the morning of the 16th of ing at the gates. October, when the interval allowed for this solemn preparation had expired, Father Castillo The grand assault was made. waited on the governor and the alcalde, to in- The besieged now concentrated their aim form them that the hour had come, and that on the formidable body of janizaries, who, as their prisoner was ready to receive them. They already noticed, were hurrying forward to the went, without further delay, to the chamber assault. Their leading files were mowed down, of death, attended by the notary and the and their flank cruelly torn, by the cannon of executioner. Then, in their presence, while the St. Angelo, at less than half a miles distance. notary made a record of the proceedings, the But though staggered by this double fire ox~ grim minister of the law did his work on his front and flank, the janizaries were not stayed unresisting victim. in their career, nor even thrown into disarray. Heedless of those who fell, the dark column came The malice and hypocrisy of the King and steadily on, like a thunder-cloud; while the his agent did not end here. groans of the dying were drowned in the loud Proceedings were instituted against the battle-cries with which their comrades rushed to memory of Montigny, as had before been done the assault. The fosse, choked up with the against the memory of the Marquis of Bergen. ruins of the ramparts, afforded a bridge to the On the 22(1 of March, 1571, the Duke of Alva assailants, who had no need of the fascines with pronounced sentence, condemning the memory which their pioneers were prepared to fill up the of Florence de Moatmorency, Lord of Mont- chasm. The approach to the breach, however, igny, as guilty of high treason, and confiscating was somewhat steep; and the breach itself was his goods and estates to the use of the crown; defended by a body of knights and soldiers, who it having come to his knowledge, the instru- poured volleys of musketry thick as hail on the meat went on to say, that the said Montigny assailants. Still they pushed forward through had deceased by natural death in the fortress the storm, and, after a fierce struggle, the front of Simancas, where he had of late been held a rank found itself at the summit, face to face prisoner! with its enemies. But the strength of the Turks was nearly exhausted by their efforts. Tl~ey A splendid drama was then being enacted were hewn down by the Christians, who came before the world. The Ottoman Empire, fresh into action. Yet others succeeded those the dread of the Christian nations, repre- who rell ~ till, thus outnumbered, the knights seated to the West the martial spirit of that began to lose ground, and the forces were more race which, distributed into many branches, equally matched. Then came the struggle of had overwhelmed the East, and broken up man against man, where each party was spurred all its empires. The Turkish navy, emulating on by the fury of religious hate, and Christian that of Spain, contested with it the ascen- and Moslem looked to paradise as the reward of dency of the Mediterranean. Fortified him who fell in battle against the infideL No stations, distributed along the Andalusian mercy was asked; none was shown; and long and Valencian coasts, a roving fleet of gal- and h~rd was the conflict between the flower of on guard, and successive the Moslem soldier~r and the best knights of leys, perpetually Christendom. In ~e heat of the fight an expeditions against the Barbary strongholds, audacious Turk planted his standard on the did not suffice to cheek the aggressive im- rampart. But it was speedily wrenched away pulses of the Mohammedan powers. The by the Chevalier de Medran, who cut down the heroic fraternity of the Knights of St. John Mussulman, and at the same moment received opposed them at many points, but also ex- a mortal wound from an arquebuse. As the. cited them to new acts of hostility and contest lasted far into the day, the heat became ~a~ii~g. All the epic story of Rhodes and intense, and added sorely to the distress of the PHILIP THE SECOND (XE SPAIN. combatants. Still neither party slackened their efforts. Though several times repulsed, the Turks returned to the assault with the same spirit as before; and when sabre and cimiter were broken, the combatants closed with their daggers, and rolled down the declivity of the breach, struggling in mortal conflict with each other. In this contest the knights made use of iron hoops, bound with cloth steeped in nitre and bitumen, which when ignited burned with inextinguishable fury. These hoops rolled down upon the assailants, inclosed them in fiery circles, and produced a con- flagration amid the mass of their flowing attire. Many vivid and artistic passages might be gleaned from this portion of the narrative. Perhaps, however, a more popular interest attaches to the sad career and mysterious fate of the Kings son, Don Carlos, Prince of Asturias, and to that of his step-mother, Isabella, Philips young and beautiful wife. The most horrible suspicions arose in Europe when this youthful prince and youthful queen were cut off untimely. They were constituted the hero and heroine of many a dark and extravagant romance. In no depart- ment of the work has Mr. Prescott been more successful in his researches, particularly with respect to Isabella. He has, it may be said, restored tbc incident from romance to history. Doubts still remain, but the story which Alfieri, Schiller, and Montalvan, in Italy, Germany, and Spain, and Lord John Russell in England, have rendered dramatic, is at least placed in such a light as to assist materially the judgment of the reader. Don Carlos, motherless from his infancy, was spoilt in his childhood. He grew up wayward, overbearing, sceptical, and with all the qualities incident to a sickly constitution. It is said, and believed, that when Philip the Second married Isabella of Valois, at Toledo, his son looked on her jealously. But we should be slow to believe that Isabella could have felt anything like the tender senti- ment that romantic historians have attributed to her, for a boy of fourteen, who had so few per- sonal attractions to recommend him. Mr. Prescott illustrates his audacious and passionate character by a number of anec- dotes. ordering the leather to be cut in pieces and stewed, he forced the unlucky mechanic to swab. low this unsavory fricassee as much as he could get down of iton the spot. Again: On one occasion he made a violent assault on his governer, Don Garcia de Toledo, for some slight cause of offence. On another, he would have thrown his chamberlain, Don Alonzo de Cordova, out of the window. These noblemen complained to Philip, and besought him to re- lease them from a service where they were exposed to affronts which they could not resent. The King consented, transferring them to his own service, and appointed Rny Gomez de Silva, his favorite minister, the governor of Carlos. But the Prince was no respecter of persons. Car- dinal Espinosa, President of the Council of Cas- tile, and afterwards grand-inquisitor, banished a player named Cisneros from the palace, where he was to have performed that night for the Princes diversion. It wai probably by Philips orders. But however that may be, Carlos, meeting the Cardinal, seized him roughly by the collar, and laying his hand on his poniard, ex- claimed, You scurvy prb~st, do you dare to pre- vent Cisnevos from playizig before me? By the life of my father, I will kill you The trem- bling prelate, throwing himself on his knees, was too happy to escape with his life from the hands of the infuriated prince. He once wrestled in a fury with the Duke of Alva, and tried to stab his uncle. Cred- ible witnesses testify, however, to his love of truth, his liberality, and, to other marks of a good disposition, But we must hasten to the end. His fathers conduct towards him long appeared unaccountable. The Prince, it seems, had for some time felt himself insecure in his fhtbers palace. He slept with as many precautions as a highwayman, with his sword and dagger by his side, and a loaded musket within reach, ready at any mo- ment for action. For further security, he had caused an ingenious artisan to construct a bolt, in such a way that by means of pulleys he could fasten or u~fa~t~n the door of his chamber while in bed. With such precautions, it would be a perilous thing to invade the slumbers of a des- perate man like Carlos. But Philip was aware of the difficulties; and he ordered the mechanic to derange the machinery so that it should not work: and thus the door was left without the usual means for securing it. The rest of the story is contained in a man- uscript narration by the Ayuda de Camera, in attendance on the Pi~ice. It was the fashion for the young gallants of the court to wear very large boots. Carlos had his made even larger than usual, to accommodate It was about eleven oclock on the evening a pair of small pistols. Philip, in order to pro of the 18th when he observed the King coming vent the mischievous practice, ordered his sons down stairs, wearing armor over his clothes, boots to be made of smaller di~nensions. But and his head protected by a helmet. He was when the bootmaker brought them to the palace, accompanied by the Duke of Feria, captain of Caries, in a rage, gave him a beatin~ and then, the guard, with four or five other lords, and 3]. 82 twelve privates of the guard. The King ordered the valet to shut the door, and allow no one to enter. The nobles and the guard then passed into the Princes chamber; and the Duke of Feria, stealing softly to the head of the bed, se- cured a sword and dagger which lay there, as well as a musket loaded with two balls. Carlos, roused by the noise, started up, and demanded ~ho was there. The Duke, having got posse~- sion of the weapons, replied, It is the Council of State. Carlos, on hearing this, leaped from his bed, and, uttering loud cries and menaces, endeavored to seize his arms. At this moment, Philip, who had prudently deferred his entrance till the weapons were mastered, came forward, and bade his son return to bed and remain quiet. The Prince exclaimed, What does your majesty want of me? You wifl soon learn, said his father, and at the same time ordered the win- dows and doors to be strongly secured, and the keys of the latter to be delivered to him. All the furniture of the room, with which Car- los could commit any violence, even the andirons, were removed. Tbe King, then turning to Feria, told him that lie committed the Prince to his especial charge, and that he must guard him well. Addressing next the other nobles, he directedthem to serve the Prince with all proper respect, but to execute none of his orders without first reporting them to himself; finally, to guard him faithfully, under penalty of being held as traitors. At these words Carlos exclaimed, Your majesty had better kill me than keep me PHILIP THE SECOND OF SPAIN. a prisoner. It will be a great scandal to the kingdom. If you do not kill me I will make way with myself. You will do no such thing, said the King ; for that would be the act of a madman. Your majesty, replied Carlos, treats me so ill that you force me to this extrem- ity. I am not mad, but you drive me to des- pair! Other words passed between the monarch and his son, whose voice was so broken by sols as to be scarcely audible. Don Carlos died in his prison, the causes of his arrest, the method of his death, unknown. In default of documentary ev~- dence, Mr. Prescott argues the case ; but his argument is too elaborate for quotation. It does not altogether tend to clear the king from the imputation of an unnatural mur- der. With reference to Isabella, however, Mr. Prescotts opinion is more decided. He rejects the idea that she entertained any love for Don Carlos, or that he excited the jeal- ousy of the king. The incident of her death oceurring soon after that of the prince, gave rise to the endless hypothetical tragedies at- tached to her own and her step-sons name. Further than this the narrative is not con- tinued. When complete, it will rank justly with Mr. Prescotts former works, which have taken permanent place in all hist~i1cal Librarie& LIBERTY. The Japanese, whom we regard as being at best only semi-barbarians, never punish any one for escaping from prison. They hold that it is the natural right of every one to exert his ingenuity for regaining his liberty, and, when retaken, no harshness is used in the conveyance back or subsequent detention. If there be blame anywhere, it is with those who suffered him to escape through remissness in vigilance. This we have on the authority of a Russian, who was one of the few survivors from a vessel wrecked on their inhospitable coast. After being incarcerated according to their ac- customed rule, he escaped to where he expected a boat would take him to some of the European ships in the offing, but he was recaptured, and lodged again in prison. He was greatly sur- prised at his mild treatment afterwards, which he feared was only preparatory to a cruel death, trn he learned their criminal-escape law. But he took care not to test its leniency too far by a second attempt at evasion, and he was liberated by some particular treaty or convention. Query, would not this refined notion of liberty, entertained by those generally deemed barbari- ans, be worth imitation by what we call polished nations? When we capture an escaped delin- quent we load him with fetters, and punish him by various restrictions on his usual indulgences, and sometin~s even in hi~ food. Besides these seventies by underlings, the law deems escape from prison a crime, and the culprit feels its ef- fects accordingly. Notes and Queries. Dn. JOHNSON A5 A CoNvERSATIONIsT. In the English tongue, I suppose we must place Samuel Johnson high among the talkers of society. lie was abundantly furnished in all the dispositions and accomplishments that qualify a man to be a great talker. Strong-minded and strong-hearted though he was, he hated to be long alone; and, though pugnacious and self- willed, h looked for sympathy, and he loved society. Indolent by constitution, and averse to the labor of composition, expression in some way was a necessity to his vehement and teeming intellect. Reading always, and reading every- thing, thinking with a constancy and veraatility equal to his reading, his reflective faculty turned all to use, and his memory lost nothing that was available. With his sound, piercing, vigorous understanding; with his fancy, quick, bright, and ready; with hi~s hosts of words, effective in the heavy forces an~the light, splendid on pa- rade and invincible in battle, he seemed to be in one person the Goliah and the David of conver- sation; strong to wield a spear that was as a weavers beam, and nimble to whirl a pebble from a sliBg. Ths Yarwood Papers. CHESS AND WAR. Vrom Chambers Journal. CHESS AND WAR. Tkur.v, Napoleon 111. finds employment for his subjects in France as well as in the Crimea, thought 1, when lately threading my way amongst piles of building materials, and the wreck of dismantled houses, in search of a favorite haunt of bygone days in the fair city of Paris. My search was in vain. The Caf~ de la R~genee, that for more than a century had been the head-quarters of Parisian literature and chess-playing, had fallen before the modern march of improvement, and I could not discover even the spot upon which this world-renowned resort had so long stood. The R6gence was established about 1718, during the regency of the Duke dOrleans, from which circumstance it derived its name. It immediately became, and till nearly the close of the eighteenth century continued to be, the principal rendezvous of the leading French literati of the period. The profligate Duc de Richelieu, Marshal Saxe, the two Rousseaus Jean-Baptiste and Jean-Jacques Voltaire, DAlembert, Holbach, Diderot, Marmontel, Grimm, are but a few of the cel- ebrated names that frequented its large, low- roofed, dingy, sand-bestrewn salon. Grimm tells us that a guard used to mount daily at the R~gence, to prevent the mob from breaking the windows, so eager were they to see Jean-Jacques Rousseau attired in his fur- cap nnd flowing Armenian robe. Benjamin Franklin, too, when in Paris, was a constant visitor to the R6gence, and there, in all proba- bility, acquired the first idea of his entertain- ing Morals of Chess; for towards the end of the lasteentury, the Rdgence gradually became mare of a chess than a purely literary resort. To the litt6rateurs of the petit-maitre school succeeded the stern men of the revolution. Robespierre, who, in spite of the change of fashion, still wore hair-powder and ruffles; played chess in the R~gence with the close- cropt, shabby-looking Fouch6. Another player of that peried was the young sons- lieutenant of artillery, who subsequently as- tonished the world as the Emperor Napoleon. About this time, too, arose the Rdgence being their fostering alma mater the great school of chess-players, which has made France so celebrated for the game. Legalle, Phili~ dor, Boneourt, Deechapelles, Mouvet, La Bourdonnais, St. Amant, with a host of other DOYL LIVING AGE. VOL. xii. 3 less renowned celebrities, bring the series down to almost the present day all now, save St. Amant, numbered with the dead the very hall, that has so often resounded with their victories, levelled to the ground. As may well be supposed, the R6gersce, when it had a local habitation and a name, was rich in traditionary lore. The tablee where Voltaire and Rousseau used to sit, were, to a late period, known by their names. I have drunk coffee at Jean-Jacques, and played chess en Voltaire. The most cherished legend, however, was, that Robespierre, who was passionately fond of chess, granted the Ii& of a young royalist to a lady, the lover of the proscribed, who, dressed in male attire, came to the Rdgence and defeated the sanguinary dictator at his favorite game. We would gladly believe this redeeming trait in the char- acter of one who has so much to answer for, but the story sounds too like a myth. You might mollify the heart of the most tigerly die.. posed of the human race with a good dinner and a bottle or two of Cbs de Vougeot, best you cannot disturb the equanimity of the mild- est-mannered man, or annoy his amour propre in a greater degree, than by giving him check- mate. Still, as the relater of the legend said, let us hope it is true.~~ The French novelists have laid many of their scenes in the R6gence, and the compilers or manufacturers of facethe have found it a fertile soil. Of the latter, there is one that even our own learned Josephus Millerius, of witty memory, would not have been sorry to record. It relates how a certain man fre quented the R6gence, six or seven hours daily, for more than ten years. He never spoke to any one; and when asked to play, invariably refused, but manifested great interest in the games playe& by~thers. One day, at length, a very intricate and disputed question arose between two players. The bystanders were appealed to; but the opinions on each side were equal. The taciturn man was then calledin as umpire. He hesitated, stammered, and, when pressed, acknowledged, to the ex- treme astonishment of all, that he knew noth- ing whatever of the game, iiot even the initia- tory moves. Why, then~ exclaimed one, do you waste so many precious years watch- ing a game you can take no possible interc~t inl.I am a married man, was the quiet reply, and Ifind inysc~f more c able here than at home with my wife. GHI~SS AND WAR. Deschapelles wa~ probalily the best, and certainly the most remarkable, chess-player that ever entered the salon of the Caf6 de la R~gence. He was naturally endowed with an exclusively peculiar talent for rapidly ac- quiring a complete mastership over the most intricate games of skill. At trick-track, a very difficult and complicated game, some- what resembling backgammon, he was un- rivalled. Polish draughts, a highly scientific game, little inferior to chess, he mastered in three months, beating the very best players of the day, though seven or eight years is gen- erally considered a fair period for a person of ordinary abilities to become a second or third rate player. More extraordinary still: he always asserted that he acquired all he ever knew of chess in four days! I learned the moves, he used to say; played with Bernard [a celebrated player] ; lost the first, second, and third day, but beat him on the fourth; since which time II have neither ad- vanced nor receded. Chess to me has been, and is, a single idea. I look neither to the right nor to the left; but I simply examine the position before me, as I would that of two hostile armies, and I do that which I think best to be done. Still more extraordinary is the manner in which this preternatural faculty was developed. In his first youth, Deschapelles was considered to be a person of rather inferior abilities. Joining, however, the army of the republic, he was one of a small body of French infantry which was charged by a brigade of Prussian cavalry: in the meh~e, his right hand was shorn off; a sabre-cut clove his skull, and another gashed his fl~ce diagonally from brow to chin. This was not all. The whole Prussian brigade galloped twice over his mangled body; once in the onslaught, and again in their retreat. Desehapelles was subsequently picked up, and carried off the field, his head presenting a ghastly mass of fractures. To the surprise of everybody, he ultimately recovered; and to his death, which occurred but a few years since, he~ ever attributed his unparalleled en- dowments, as regards games ~f skill, to the botdeversement his brain received on that aw- ful occasion! Great men, in their varied walks of life, are generally modest; Deachapelles, however, was an exception to the rule. Yet his as.. suzapticp, if not wa~rq~ted, was at least sup.. ported by his merits: it was a sort of military frankness, rather than gasconade. He was as proud, and talked as much of his success, in growing prize-melons in the Faubourg du Temple, as he was of his chess-victories ia the Palais Royal. In short, it seemed that in ew erything he turned his mind to, he was success- ful; and so much were the Parisians impressed with the idea of his universal abilities, that the Gauls one of the secret societies of 1832 had seriously proposed, in the cycut of a forcible change of government, to create M. Desehapelles dictator of France. Mouret, chess-teacher to the family of Louis-Philippe, was one of the most amusing of the later frequenters of the R~genc~. It was he who, shut up in a drawer barely suf- ficient to contain a good-sized cat, for many years conducted the moves of the celebrated, but improperly termed, automaton chess- player, in almoet all the principal towns of Europe. Many were the amusing aneedofes he used to relate, when subsequently revealing the secrets of his prison-house. Though the slightest noise, the least audible intimation of a living creature being concealed in the chest~ apparently ifiled with wheels and other mechanism, upon which the automaton played would have been fatal to the deception, Mouret never lost his presence of mind, sare upon one occasion. It happened thus: TIle automaton was exhibiting in the capital of one of the minor German principalities, and, as usual, drawing crowded audiences. A professor of legerdemain everybody i~ a professor now-a-days who was performing in the same place, finding his occupation gone through the superior attractions of the wood~~ en chess-player, determined to discover, and expose the secret. Aided by his long pro- fessiona~l experience of the deceptive art, lie soon saw through the trick, which more learned persons had only distantly guessed at; and, assisted by an accomplice, raised a sudden outery of fire just as the automaton was in the midst of an interesting game. The noise of the alarmed spectators rushing from the room struck a momentary panic to the heart of Mouret, who, believing himself about to burned ~live, struggled so violently to release himself from his concealed bondage, that he rolled the automaton, turban, cushion, and all, over on the floor. Macizel, the vfr ikl& exhibitor, instantly flying to the rescue, 34 CHESS AND WAR. dropped the curtain; but next day the auto maton left the town, and the astute conjuror remained master of the field. In justice to chess, it must be added of poor Mouret, the most amusing of story-tellers, that he was the only first-class chess-player I have ever met with who extinguished fine abilities, sacrificed character, and destroyed life, by over-indulgence in strong waters. But I have wandered too long among the traditions of the R~gence. Fatigued and disappointed by my fruitless search after the building itself; I made my way round to the Place du Palais Royal, and seating myself in a peculiarly comfortable arm-chair, com- menced an agreeable flirtation with a glass of lemonade. There, while musing on the chess- paladins of the past, I was startled by an appearance which, at first glance, I took to be a spectre, but immediately after recognized as one of the last living relics of the olden tune. It was the tall, thin, black-stocked, frock-coated, buttoned-up, linenless-looking, grisly old Pole, with the unpronounceable name, who for many years has been so well known to the Isabitu~s of the R~gence. I never met any one who could spell and pro- nounce his most cacophonous of names; but that did not matter, as he had long held the titular rank of colonel; while the youngsters of the R~gence behind his back, though, be it said gave him the sobriquet of Leipsic, from his interminable, and not always very well-relished, accounts of that famous battle. He was doing the flaneur business in grand style, when, like the Ancient Mariner, I held him with my eye, and, to keep up the nau- tical allusion, soon brought him to anchor in the chair beside me. Our first greeting being over, we lamented the dccadence of chess and the fall of the R~gence; then spoke of other matters of general and peculiar interest. As I suspected the great question of the day, to him at least, related to dinner, I at once, by a quiot invitation, set his mind at rest on that important subject, and then inquired where the Parisian chess-players now mus- tered. Some of them, he replied, are aristos shut up in clubs a vile system, excuse me, though borrowed from your own country. A few still worship Caissa, the divine goddess of chess, in a caf6; come, he continued, let me introduce you to hei~modcrn tem- pie. I found the temple of Caissa, as my com- panion rather magniloquently denominated it, to be, in spite of plate-glass, gilding, and marble-topped tables, little better than a third-rate caf~ and saw, as soon as I entered, that the fane of the goddess was desecrated by draughts and dominoes the games of boors and children. The Pole invited me to play, but I declined; for not relishing either the air of the place or the tone of its com- pany, I had at once made up my mind to remain but a few minutes. We had di& - cussed a demi tasse each, and were about to depart, when a young soldier entered the salon a Zonave, who had been wounded at the Alma. I am an Englishman, and, of course, having a thorough contempt for en- thusiasm, detest scenes and all such sort of things; still, I could not refrain from frater- nizing with the brave fellow, from shaking the remaining hand of one who had lost the other fighting beside my own countrymen. Then the filling and emptying of glasses, the universal rite and symbol of fraternity, had to be duly celebrated. Did we not trinquer together! Did I not, in honor of the occa- sion, drink a whole petit verre of that, to me at least, horribly offensive compound offen- sive to the olfactory as well as the gustatory nerves cr~mc dabsinthe! The entrance of the soldier, like the break- ing of a potent spell, unloosed a score of tongues. Draught, domino, and chess-play- ers threw up their games to converse on the all-absorbing topic of the war. With no lit- tle amount of vociferation and gesticulation, the movements of the allied armies were freely criticized, and approval or censure loudly proclaimed by the wordy disputante. II need scarcely observe, that there are mat- ters eonneoted~with the war humiliating and painful to English ears with true French politeness, these subjects were not brought forward in my presence. But as the hot debate was rapidly leading towards that unpleasant direction, the wily old Pole cie- ated a diversion by exclaiming: After all, gentlemen, war is but chess, and chess is war. What! shouted th~ Zouave, with that indescribable emphasis which a Parisian gainiss gives to the simple pronoun quoz. I repeat, replied the colonel, that the principles of chess and war are the same, and in chess will be foand a complete epitome CHESS AND WAR. of the art of war. For instance, no one can play at chess without first acquiring a perfect knowledge of the various moves which dis- tinguish the different pieces, neither can a general command an army who is ignorant of the simple evolutions of a peloton.. How can a man handle a number of regiments, who cannot manoeuvre a single battalion True, true, chorused a number of voices. It evidently appeared that the Pole had mounted his hobby; and the audience, for- getting their previous debate, had unan- imously determined that he should ride it for their amusement. When opening the game, continued the colonel, we direct our moves so that no one of our pieces or pawns can neutralize the effect of another; while, at the same time, we place them where they cannot be attacked with impunity, and in the most advantageous positions for assaulting the enemy. A skil- ful general will act on a similar principle. He will select the ground most favorable for the action of his infantry and cavalry, taking care that they do not restrain the fire of his artillery; and, by the same rule, he will use all the means in his power to prevent the enemy from deploying his forces in so advan- tageous a manner. At chess, this can be done only by having the first move. There are first moves also in war. The general who first takes the field acts on the offensive, his opponent being compelled to act accord- ing to the manner in which he is attacked. And, as in chess, it is no very great disadvan- tage to be forced to act on the defensive; for, in the course of a campaign, the attacking army will be almost sure to make some mis- take, which, if promptly taken advantage of by its opponents, will change the defence to an attack. In war, as in chess, it is much more difficult to attack than to defend. The great secret of success in chess is foresight, not only to direct your own moves towards a definite object, but also to penetrate the intentions of your adversary. It is the same in war. Your enemy makes a certain move- ment; it is for you to divine his motives for doing so. This is absolutely indispensable, if you wish to be in a position to parry sue- oessfully his attacks. A small disadvantage in chess, a crowded situation, an unsupported piece, a neglected opportunity of castling, and other apparent trifles, frequently leads to the loss of the game. So it is in war: the fate of arms depends upon a number of minute particulars and combinations. We should be astonished if we knew the very small links in the chain of circumstances which have lost great battles, and neutralized the effects of glorious campaigns. But I am tiring you, my children, with the garrulous gossip of an old soldier and chess-player. No, no! was vociferated from all parts of the room. Proceed, if you please; we are all attention. Well, I will say a few words more. I need not tell you that, when a projeeted attack at chess is foiled by the superior de- fences of your adversary, it should be imme- diately abandoned, and your men placed in another position of attack, or on the defensive. In war, an obstinate persistence in attack has been fatal to the fame of many great generals: they lost their men, and with them the means of forming another attack, on a less formidable position, and even the power of making a vigorous defence. A great general is never obstinate. Napoleon I., particularly in his Italian campaigns, was the beau-ideal of a chess-player. The art of war, as exemplified by that great general, wholly consisted in the proper application of three combinations; first, the disposition of his line~ of operation in the most advantageous manner, either for attack or defence; secondly, the skilful con-~ centration of his forces, with the greatest possible activity, on the weakest or most im- portant point of the enemys lines; thirdly, the simultaneous employment of this accumu- lated force upon the position against which it was directed. This is exactly the correct system of attack at chess. Theprinciples of defensive operations in war and chess are pre- cisely similar. It is an acknowledged prin- ciple., tl~t the basis of a plan of attack should form the best possible line of ~lefenee. This fundamental rule can never be violated with impunity; for nothing is more embar- rassing than a sudden transition from oflbn- sive to defensive operations when false moves, or an unfortunate oversight, has deranged the plan of an assault. There like- wise is considerable analogy between the abilities required t~ form a great general and a skilful chess.player. The commander of an army should possess a complete knowledge of the general principles of war, which may be required during a tedious campaign, or demanded by the exigencies of actual conflict. 36 ChESS AND WAR. He must plan, arrange, and conduct prelimi- nary operations; act with promptness and decision in cases of emergency; judge of the importance of a position, or the strength of an intrenchment; discover, from the slight- est indications, the designs of the enemy, while he shrouds his own in impenetrable obscurity; and, at the same time, preside with unshaken self-possession over the shift- ing fortunes of the tumultuous battle-field. A skilful chess-player requires qualities of a similar description. To a perfect mastery of the difficult art of selecting and occupying, with the utmost rapidity, a commanding position, he must add a thorough knowledge of all the many and complicated varieties of stratagems and snares, which he is alternately called upon to invent and put into practice to see through and defeat. All great generals have been chess-play- ers; and it is a curious fact, that the tra- ditions of both the East and the West relate that chess was invented during a siege. The Ilindoo legend states, that it was invented by the wife of Havan, king oe Ceylon, in order to amuse him with an image of war, while his metropolis was besieged by Ramah, in the second age of the world. The West- ern tradition, however, is more feasible. According to it, the game was invented 4by Palamedes, to amuse the Grecian warriors during the ten tedious years of the siege 6f Troy. Sinon, it is said, was one of the most celebrated of the Greek players, and derived the idea of the wooden horse, with which he finally checkmated the Trojans, from the knight of the chess-board. This awful climax recalled me to myself. I had begun to fancy myself in the R~gence, when, startled by the appearance of that wooden horse, I looked round and saw that I was in a vulgar caf~ without traditions and without celebrities. Catching the old soldiers eye, I made a significant gesture, implying that I was going to dinner, and walked out. I had gone but a few paces ere he rejoined me; and I was soon happy to find that neither his appetite, nor his immense fund of anecdote, was at all affected by his lecture on Chess and War. WORK FOR HEAVEN. IF thou have thrown a glorious thought Upon lifes common ways, Should other men the gain have caught, Fret not to lose the praise. Great thinker, often shalt thou find, While folly plunders fame, To thy rich store the crowd is blind, Nor knows thy very name. What matter that, if thou uncoil The soul that God has given; Not in the worlds mean eye to toil, But in the sight of Heaven? If thou art true, yet in thee lurks For fame a human sigh, To Nature go and see how works That handmaid of the sky. Her own deep bounty she forgets, Is full of germs and seeds; Nor glorifies herself, nor sets Her flowers above her weeds. She hides the modest leaves between, She loves untrodden roads; Her richest treasures are not seen By any eye but Gods. Accept the lesson. Look not for Reward; from out thee cl~se All selfish ends, and ask no more Than to falil thy place. From the Church Journal. HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. (PsALM 127: 2.) As from the glare of busy, feverish day, We turti with longing to the holy stars, Feel the soft air of night around us play, And bless it for the respite from our cares; So to the grave the earnest Christian turns, Weary of sin, and stained with many tears, So his poor bruised heart within him burns With longing for this covert from his fears. As we hear music, in the hush of night, Sounding far off, as if the angel bands Were in harp-strings of the star-beams briglltj Close by the door of heaven, with skilful hands; So, through the awful stillness of the grave The Christian soldier hears the glorious psalm Of those blest souls his Master came to save And who, through Him, have won the victors palm. As weary children to their mothers care Hasten, like birds unto the parent nest, Kneel by her side, and sa~heir evening prayer, Then fall asleep, close nestled to her breast; Even so Gods children, con~ing to the eve Of lifes last weary day, pray him to keep With his kind care the dear ones they must leave, And then He giveth His beloved sleep. .M. 38 WAR POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. Part of an article in the British Quarterly Review, contumely poured upon that very religion WAR POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. which the republicans of Italy would dis- the Western Powers are re- grace l What community of sentiment can ON the west, there be between the Protestant Magyar, who ~ affect to be restrained,by dread . stimulating or evoked a revolution in attempting to render of revolutions, by fear of the Sciavonic element subservient to his rule, embroiing themselves with the two great and the chivalrous Pole, who regards his dis- Powers whose territories would be concerned tinction as the leader of that elenient as the in the struggle. Now, we should like to proudest badge which his country could know what England has to fear from foreign nationalities. It is true that the French assume * Emperors throne would not be the more People, because they hear of the word revolutionist applied indistinctly to all popu- secure for a revolt in Hungary, or from the lations who are struggling against their rulers proclamation of another Roman republic, in behalf of chimerical schemes of government The hint that he gave Europe, in not allow- which never had any existence, imagine the ing Kossuth to pass through his dominions, Poles to be exactly in the same predicament; fully proclaims his feelings on this head; nevertheless, lie has a strong predilection for and Russia, with an insolence that defies the plans of his uncle,* and there is nothing comparison, has taken care to spread this im- in the reconstruction of Poland that need pression, with a view to intimidate Germany alarm him about the rising of the Red Repub- and the conservative classes of Europe. But licans in any part of Europe. No doubt we have no more right to apply the word revolutionist in this sense to the Poles, than there are anarchists in Poland, as there are that of anarchist to the man who, having everywhere else. When the government of been recently plundered of his money and a state is in solution, the people have the watch, denands their restitution. If any more excuse for forming their own opinion, hut the generality are strongly in favor of an such stigma is to be used, it must be applied hereditary monarchy, and if the country rose to the imperial spoilcr who, like a thief in the of itself to-morrow, they would aim at no night, watched for opportunity to filch their other form of government. But, in resum- liberties from their grasp, appropriate their ing their independence under the protection territories, and slay their independence. In of the Western Powers, the Poles would only reclaiming these, the cause of the Poles is be too glad to accept any polity their deliver- essentially that of order and justice, and, as them; nor is it at all likely such, has been maintained by the most con- em pressed ulon servative statesmen in Europe ; by the Cas that the uprising of this people at the dic- tation of two conservative states, to fulfil a tlereaghs and the Metterniebs, by the Talley- political neeessity, would awaken any hopes rands, by the Hardenbergs, and the Stems, the democrats of Hungary or Italy. who, had not the Lion escaped from his lair among at Elba, would have risked another European Instead of a national outbreak, raging with war for their deliverance. The Poles do not that fury as to emit sparks to light up the inflammable materials which smoulder in other aim 4 visionary constitutions and long-for- countries, the movement might be effected gotten codes buried under the accumulated with as much order and regularity as if the dust of centuries; their rights are those of provinces were merely turning out, as they yesterday, and embrace everything that i& were wont, to fire a feu de joie over the sacred to order, not only in political aifran- election of a new sovereign. What commu- chisement but religious freedom. The wounds nity of feeling can there be between the * It is true that the imprudent conduct of a few exiles, In republican of Italy, who would deprive the fraternizing with the Red Republicans, seems to fly in the Pope of his estates and enthrone another face of this reasoning; but if we judge of the Polish nation from these specimens, w& .~hall fall into the absurdity of the Goddess of Reason on the altar of the Apos- Portuguese, who formed tTjeir estimate of the refined people Catholic Pole, who regards as of Edinburgh from the Scoteh marauders, who, in the lYe- tIes, and the ninsular war, carried off their wives, and plundered their the foulest blot upon his national honor the cellars. we indeed marvel that the Poles are so reserved as they are. If the conservative classes turn their backs upon a people, they must expect them to fall into unseemly * The sympathies of Napoleon~ Foreign Minister, count ways, and catch at every straw which promises to better Waiewski, strongly incline to the Poles; and Count do Per- their condition; but once admit them to their ranks, they slgny, his London ambassador, is no less committed to their will assert the respectability of their pretensions, and bid cause. good-bye to these messieurs. WAR POLICY OF GREAT flRITAIN. which other nationalities complain of, have long since been cicatrized; the people have become assimilated by the lapse of ceAturies to the systems from which they would fain tear themselves; nor could the fulfilment of their wishes afford any advantage, but in some cases be attended with detriment, to their neighbors: wheras Poland is yet bleeding from her recent mutilations, and her resto- ration is necessary as a shield to European civilization. During the last sixty-two years she has nndergone eight modifications, and every storm which bursts over Europe never fails to lead to some re-adjustment of her ter- ritory. What care we about the Doges of Venice, the Viadislaves of Hungary, or the charter which Rienzi drew out for his Roman confederates, or the compact which the first Leopold entered into with the Magyar l These things are all past redemption; but we do care about the violation of treaties which at present harasses Europe; which keeps a nation of twenty millions of gallant people continually upon the eve of insurrec- tion, and threatens the world with future complications. In removing this state of things, hy admitting the Poles to their for- mer rank among nations, instead of stimulat- ing revolutions we shall only give an addi- tional guarantee to peace and order in Europe. We shall prevent wild and visionary dreamers from allying their cause with that of a con- servative people, and remove that foul blot from the scutcheon of sovereigns so often cited in extenuation of the most scandalous excesses of democracy the partition of Poland. But a question akin to the one we have been_considering, is, whether Poland, once reconstructed, will be able to carry out the objects which the Western Powers would have in view in restoring her nationality l Do not her former dissensions lead to the supposition that she would again become a prey to intestine discord and relapse into the power of Russia l We have no wish to extenuate the anarchical excesses into which Poland fell during the former period of her government, but very slight reflection will suffice to show that these are to be attributed not to the character of the people, but to the nature of their institutions. While other nations, in their advance to a higher civiliza- tion, had rid themselves of the medimval sys- tem of elective monarchy a~hd the liberum veto, the Poles retained these usages, and soon experienced their effects in internal diB- cord and the introduction of foreign influence. As long, indeed, as tl~e Jaghellons reigned~ and the election of the monarch was, as elsewhere, only treated as a simple formula or theory, Poland was considered as a power of the first rank; her kings were treated with the highest consideration by forei~,n courts; their alliance was courted, and their armies feared; but when this dynasty became extinct and the Poles insisted upon the actual realiza- tion of elective monarchy and of exclusive obedience to laws passed by a unanimity of votes, then faction stalked abroad, dissension crept into their diets, and Russian gold decided the policy of the country. If the Poles con- sequently erred, it was on the side of conser- vatism. They steadfastly adhered to institu- tions which had become obsolete, and expe- rienced the usual penalty of such an error, in subjection to foreign domination. The gal~. lant endeavor, however, on the part of the Poles to retrieve this mistake, which led to the constitution of 1791, and their unan- imous support of order and rational liberty from 1806 to 1830, during the period they enjoyed a national government, sufficiently demonstrate that no people are fitter to be trusted with independent action, or are so likely to turn their freedom to proper account. If a century and a half of internal weakness and disunion is to form an argument for de- priving any country of self-government, what nation in Europe would stand the test? The mistakes of the Poles sprung from the best qualities of their nature; and, in their efforts to repair them, they risked their best blood, provoked the most relentless hostility, and endangered their national existence. They fell, not from being a prey to internal anarchy, but~from twenty-five years success- ful effort to ameliorate their government; which, had the Western Powers done their duty, would have been permanently accom- plished, and Poland might have attained her former rank among the most prosperous nations of the age. If Catherine had been prevented from arresting all attempts - at internal improvement, had she not been allowed to make the change from an elective to an hereditary monarchy and the abolition of the liberum veto a pretext for subverting the national existence of Poland, there is n& reason to suppose that the Poles at the pres- ent day, in the wisdom of their laws and 39 40 the regularity of their internal administra- tion, would have been inferior to any of their ueighbors. The gallant army of 70,000 men that the little duchy of Warsaw placed at the disposal of Napoleon, which proved a model of discipline and bravery, even to his own soldiers; and the heroic achievements i~n the insurrection of 1830, which covered the Polish arms with glory, show that, in the efficiency of their military measures, they are not likely to be surpassed by any nation in Europe. Let us not, then, visit the effects of our own shortcomings on the Poles, but recognize their independence, and give them a strong and enlightened govern- ment; and we may rely upon it that they will be the last nation in the world to forfeit their independenee.* But the great obstacle to securing Turkey on the western side, and inflicting an incura- ble blow upon Russian encroachment, is sup- posed to be the likelihood that Prussia and Austria would fling their swords into the Russian scale, and bring their combined forces to operate on Poland, with a view to the se curity of the duchy of Posen and Gallicia, in which case we should only render the cause of the Poles more hopeless, and diminish our own chances of bringing the contest to a suc- cessful termination. Undoubtedly, if such results would follow, it would be as well to restrain our hands; but are we certain that Prussian and Austrian interests lie in the di- r~otion which such forebodings point out, or that circumstances are so changed since the 4~ongress of Vienna as to lead the two leading German States to regard as a curse that which in 1815 they would have considered as a bless- ing? The popular idea with regard to the 4uchy of Posen, Dantzic, and Gallicia, is that the sovereigns of Prussia and Austria volun- tarily entered into a joint intrigue with Rus- ~a for the purpose of annexing these states to their dominions, with no other view than that of territorial aggrandizement, and that * ~~ is amusing to hear Mr. (3obden talk about the anar- chy of the Poles during the former period of their hietory, and 4eclare them, on this account, unworthy of self-govern- nient. If there was one thing more than another that led to their sohjogation it was their reliance on pacific measures, tl~g absence of federal alliances with other states, the neglect of their national defences, and the reduction of their army in fine, the adoption of the very course of policy which Mr. Cohden so earnestly impresses upon this coun- try as the only means of securing its greatness. Instead of reviling the Poles for the cours they pursued from the end of the sixteenth to the middle of the eighteenth century, Mr. Cobden ought, if he places any faith in his theories, to s4ept them ashis pet nation. WAR POLICY OF GREAT ~3RITAIN, they were equally culpable with Catherine in the crime of the partition of Poland. Bat the fact is, Frederic and Maria Theresa, in allowing Catherine to take her first share of the spoil, in return for the provinces which bordered upon their dominions, only acted in the interest of the balance of power. They knew that Poland had already become defacto a dependency of Russia. The inundation of the Polish provinces with Russian troops, the removal of senators from the diet by Cos- sacks, the submission of the country to a king chosen by the Czarine, and the exercise of supreme power by her ambassador, showed them that if they did not close with the offers of Catherine, that empress would take posses- sion of the entire country. Instead therefore of regarding these possessions as conquests, they looked upon them simply as pledges, to be restored to Poland when that country should be in a condition to reclaim its own. The subsequent encroachments of Russia, until she appropriated one half of the Polish territory, leaving to each of her German acces- sories only one-fourth; the intrigues of Alex- ander with Napoleon, who did not scruple to sacrifice the Polish dominions of his German allies, in order to keep his own intact; and the claims which the same Alexander enforced with respect to the duchy of Warsaw at the congress of Vienna, opened the eyes of German statesmen to the designs of Russia, and proved that they had only become the tools of her ambition. By consenting to the partition of Poland, all that Prussia and Austria finally obtained was the accession of a few leagues of territory to their dominions, while Russia advanced her empire by several degrees of longitude to the west, and placed her iirmier in the position they now occupy, threatenin~ Moravia tmd threatening Berlin. Instead of a peaceful neighbor, Germany found herself in contiguity with a warlike power, who uses the immense vantage-ground her new posses sions gave her to domineer over Turkey, and to coerce Germany into acquiescence with her views. Prussia has already seen her~ terri- tories invaded, and the Russian flag float over the walls of her frol4ier cities, when she chose to have a policy of~ her own; and Austria has been threatened with little less than de- struction, because she endeavored to arrest the Russian forces in their former attempts upon the dominions of the Turk. By placing Po- land as a barrier between these states and thei~~ WAR POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. restless neighbor, we should really be doing them the most inestimable service in the world, and realize the wishes that their highest states- men have entertained during the last half century, whose names they yet pronounce with reverence whose policy they yet regard with honor. We should restore to them inde- pendent action, and preserve them from the degrading condition of being the cats-paw to Russias aims at universal conquest, and secure their existence.* Instead of exciting their hostility by such a line of action, we should really ensure their secret sympathies and sup- port. The fact of their giving no encourage- ment to the work, is only another proof of how much they stand in need of it. A Rus- sian army concentrated at Lenczyca would be sufficient to blow up the Prussian monar- chy. A victory gained by the Russians in the vicinity of Moravia might break the Austrian empire in pieces. If the Polish banner was unfurled to-morrow in the plains of Samogitia, the German states would no doubt bluster, menace, and do nothing, until they saw the independence of the coun- try and their own security firmly established, when they would be as ready to join in the shout of triumph over Russia as ourselves. Were Austria and Prussia to receive no equivalents for the loss of two millions of sub- jects and the loss of a few thalers of revenue which they would cede to Poland, still, con- sidering the immense benefits which the aifranchisement of that country would confer upon them, it surely cannot be for a moment supposed that they would be otherwise than * The policy of Russia as respects the seizure of Poland and her aims seith regard to the German powers are effec- tively portrayed in the following articles of the testament of Peter the Great: Art. 4.-- Divide Poland, by fomenting internal dis- order and dissensions gain over the nobles hy the power of gold; exercise influence over the diets; act upon the elections by means of bribes; iotroduce your partizans into the dietines; lrotect them; introduce Russian troops into the country, and cause them to sojourn there until an op- portunity occurs for fixing them there forever. Should the neighborin., powers raise difficulties, satisfy them for the moment, by dismembering the country, until you are able to retake in detail what you Isave been obliged to renounce. Art. 10. court and carefully preserve the Austrian alliance, ostensibly favor her plans of dominion in Germany, and secretly excite against her the jealousy of the provin- ces. Do everything to induce both parties to seek the in- tervention of Russia, and to enable her to exercise a kind of guardianship over the countries which may facilitate eture domiiiion. Art. 11. Gain over the House of Austria to the pro- ject of driving the Turks out of Europe; and after the cap- ture of Constantinople, trick it out of its part of the booty, either by engaging it in wars with the old states of Europe, or by leaving it in possession of part of the conquests, to be wrested from it at a latter period. Has Germany sufficiently weighed the import of these clauses? 41 glad of the exchange; but as long as the bel- ligerents are ready to compensate them in kind by the grant of far richer provinces than those they would be invited to surrender,* it becomes a positive mystery to determine in what respect the reconstruction of Poland could give chagrin to these states. Must they be deemed so desirous of dishonor, such abso~ lute candidates for disgrace, as to hug their fetters as things beyond all price, and reso~ lutely to strive against a course of events which must ensure to them perfect freedom of action, remove a dangerous aggressor froni their boundaries, and release them from a thousand fretful fears, contumelies, and anx- ieties, and that without the loss of a single rood of territory, or the diminution of a thaler to their exchequer l Can these two states be deemed so dead to their interests as to draw the sword against the only power that can eventually save them from being swallowed up by the greedy cupidity of Russia, against the power which has been the champion of their liberties in a hundred hard-won fields of battle, and struggled for their rights when they had not a gun to fire in their defence? It is true that Austria still remembers the revolt of her Hungarian subjects, and that Prussia has not forgotten the conduct of her Polish subjects in 1848; but Prussia will recol- lect that the excesses of the duchy of Posen were the natural consequences of the violation of her own solemn pledges at the dictation of Russia; and Austria cannot bat acknowledge that the alliance of the Western Powers affords as good a security for the integrity of her dominions as that of Russia, that the reconstruction of a state only recently * The territories that Austria and Prussia might receive in exchange for their Polish dominions are so patent that everybody divines them. The Danubian principalities, which Turkey proffered to cede to Russia in payment of the expenses of the last evar, would very readily be placed by the same power at the disposal of Austria, in return for her compliance, and would serve, in the hands of Vienna, as a constant shield against the encroachments of Russia. Turkey might, in that case, be indemnified in return by the restitution of a portion of her possessions in Asia and on the Euxine. Austria has before volunteered to resign cal- licia for Illyria; why should she now refuse a much better exchange? The Poles are quite ready to forego their claims to Dantzic and that part of the Baltic shore formerly termed Polish Russia, which is almost indispensable to Prussia, on account of its geographical position; as it would not be de- sirable for sovereigns so powerful as the kings of Prussia to be reduced to the necessity of requesting a Polish pass- port when they chose to visit their eastern provinces. For the duchy of Posen that gift of Dana6, from which Prus- sia has received more trouble than profit she might, as Chevalier Bunsen suggests, receive excellent indemnifica- tion by the annexation of some of those small principalities which separate her from Holstein in the north, and which are locked up within leer possessloiss on the side ci ringia. 42 destroyed in the interest of order and conser- vatism, is not likely to lead to a counter revival of-long-forgotten claims in the interest of confusion and anarchy, that between two populations so alien in blood, language, and religion as the Poles and the Magyars, there i8 not the remotest chance of fraterniza- tion or collusion of feeling. Of course there is nothing done without risk, from the cross- ing of a street to the governing of a kingdom; but it is the custom of nations as well as indi- viduals rather to hazard dangers which are more remote and contingent, than entangle themselves in the meshes of those that stare them in the face. Are Austria and Prussia prepared, for the sake of the slightest possible contingency of insurrection, to continue in their present state of dependence, and risk the certain danger of losing their estates in perpetuity Let us foim a juster estimate of their situation, and judge of their future con- duct more in consonance with nature. If they declare their unwillingness now to be a party to any pacification which shall aim at depriv- ing Russia of a single rood of territory, it is simply because the enemy is only a few days march off their capitals, and they do not find themselves in a condition to arrest his pro- gress. Like the dwarfs in the tale, they threaten and storm because they know if they acted otherwise their giant oppressor, when the fight was over, would pommel them for their want of allegiance; but if we despise their simulated menaces, and lay the tyrant on his back, they will be the first to thank us for their deliverance. But the Western Powers have it at their disposition to avoid a settlement with Ger- many until they have reclaimed Russian Poland, and all intimidation on the side of Russia shall have ceased. The Poles, who are ready enough to enter into any arrange- ment with a view to extricate themselves from their present difficu~ Aes, would willingly agree with their compatriots in Posen and Gallicia to allow these provinces to remain as they are, until the remainder of the country had been wrested from the enemy, an army formed, and a central government established at Warsaw, to exercise supreme authority as the embodiment of the national will. With respect to the ability of the Western Powers to accomplish these ol~jects, it would be absurd to question it. Ministers can as easily revolutionize Poland as call a hackney-coach. WAiL POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. They need only unfurl the Polish banner to- morrow, to gain over from the enemy 60,000 or 70,000 of his most effective troops; and the ranks of these would be enormously swelled by the band of emigrants who would flock to the standard. The descent of such a force, reinforced by a detachment of the allied army, upon Samogitia, and supported by the operations of a moderate fleet, would suffice to raise Poland in a few days. Were Riga seized, an open town, but the fron- tiers of which might be easily fortified, the military road to St. Petersburg would be interrupted, and any scattered detachments in Samogitia would be obliged to retire, and the insurrection of Lithuania assume a regu- lar form. The success of this movement might be expedited by a diversion in the South, outfianking Russia on the side of Bessarabia, and forcing her to retire upon Poldovia or Ukraine. No matter what may be the actual amount of soldiers in Poland; no large army could interfere to check the advancing career of such forces, as the hos- tility of the country would keep the greater number of the Russian troops dispersed in garrisons over 40,000 square miles of territory, and preclude their assuming any combined form of defence, The enemy, pushed back by the invading army, and hampered by the spreading insurrection, in order to adopt any regular plan of military operations, would, as in 1812, be under the necessity of concen- trating his forces behind the Duciper. The ground might in this manner be won in a handful of days, with the exception of a few fortified places, which might take some time to reduce, but which would not hinder the Poles from assuming the attitude of a nation, and exercising legislative authority in the courrtry.~ No doubt it is easy to beat an enemy on paper; but we do not know that we have stated anything that has not been already accomplished under less favorable cir- cumstances. In 1812, Russia was supported by England on the side of Turkey, and she had the assistance of her powerful fleet to flank her operations in Lithuania; yet, as soon as the Frepch crossed the Nicinen, though Russia ha~ only to defend a single front, she was obliged to relinquish half her European possessions and fight her first bat- tle at Smolensko. Surely what France effect- ed single-handed against Russia supported by the armaments of England, France and Eng WAR POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. land combined can achieve against Russia isolated. If we judge from the past, a strong force need only show itself in the neighbor- hood of Vilna, to find the entire country at their feet. Their subsequent career would not be one of conquest, but of bloodless ova- tion and triumph. Having, then, the power, it is for the nation to inquire why ministers restrain their hands; it is for the people of this country to inquire why those parts of the enemys dominions remain untouched which not only afford a facile and tempting conquest, but which, when secured, would put an end to his restless schemes of spoliation and aggran- dizement. In the hands of the British peo- ple lie the mighty issues of the present con- test. The book of the past is before them, fraught with lessons to instruct and to guide. By the apathy of past generations with regard to the foreign rule of the minister, hundreds of millions have been added to the debt, for no other purpose than to blot the records of this country with ignominy and disgrace, with wars so conducted as to defeat their object, and so terminated as to lead to more disastrous outbreaks in future. Is the present generation prepared to swell this awful catalogue with another page of calamities, and to transfer the burdens imposed on them by an unwise ancestry, with an additional load, to posterity I If ministers persist in the narrow policy hitherto pursued, such, infallibly, will be the result. The Butes and Harleys are still in the ascendant, court intrigue and back-stair influence are yet in operation: but let the nation raise its voice, and these phantoms will be laid. Never did a crisis more momentous call for the interference of the people: never have they possessed the power to interfere with so much effect. Not only their own welfare and security are at stake, but the destinies of Europe, the interests of humanity, tremble in the balance ; let them exert the influence which their advanced state of civilization has given them, to place the war upon its proper footing, and compel the ministry whom they have forced to draw the sword to wield it with effect. They already have nobly evinced their sympathy in behalf of Turkey; hut is Poland less worthy of their regard? Let us not have two weights and~two measures; or be so benighted in our philanthropy as to enfeeble our resources to protect the heathen- 43 ish Mussulman while we leave the chivalrous follo~ver of our own creed to rot in misery and disgrace. If the security of Turkey be good as an end, as a means necessary to obtain it the independence of Poland is surely far more worthy of the efforts of a free Christian nation. We cannot ensure our safety with- out protecting Turkey; we cannot effectually protect Turkey without reconstructing Po- land. The greatest captain of modern times saw at a glance the vulnerable side of Russia lay in that part of her dominions; but hav- ing driven her legions out of the country, he neglected to resuscitate its nationality; and, when bound to the ocean rock, he attributed to that oversight his speedy fall from the high elevation to which he had attained, lie clanked his own fetters, beeause he neglected, with the means in his hands, to strike off the fetters of the people who had helped him to greatness. Shall we, in like manner, blindly shut our eyes to the opportunity, and only wake to discover our error when it has produced the mischiefs natural to it? Shall we leave it to the future historian to point the same moral at us, and in writing our epitaph, say, here is a nation who, in the days of its power, saw the liberties of a weaker state extinguished without raising an arm in its defence; aAd when the time came in which it could have retrieved its error, as a means of securing its own safety, it slighted the opportunity and fell under the yoke it might so easily have averted from the neck of others. The decis- ion of such questions must depend on the atttitude which the people assume at the present juncture. If they prove themselves equal to the emergency, they will convert a calamitous present into a noble future, into a future which, in the enjoyment of the accumulated blessings transmitted to it, will look back on the present age as illustrious, not only in having humiliated an overbedring power, and freed defenceless countries from its grasp; but in having disentangled our war policy from the meshes of court intrigue and political faction, and established it on the broad basis of the natid~s interests, securing to the power of England a vitality as inde- structible as the justice which supports the foundations of her greatness. [We add, from the same Review, part of their Epilogue on Affairs since, & c.J WAIL POLT!CV O~ 4BE~LT BIITMN. Since the appearance of our last number, the great fact in this country in relation to the war has been the desertion of the nation- al cause by men from whom the nation had a right to expect better things. The smaller Peelites we could spare without concern. Sir James Graham might add yet another change to the all sorts of changes which have pre- ceded, and no man feel much either of sorrow or surprise. But that Mr. Gladstone and Lord John Russell should have gone over to the side of the enemy at such a moment is a grave matter. The statesmanship of the first has proved to be the statesmanship of books mawkish and treacherous when brought into the actual world. The statesmanship of the second has been the great Whig drag, im- peding nearly all liberal measures in the Low- er House for many years past. Lord John may now attempt to play the great Liberal again for such has been his wont in every season of displacement but it will be too late. The experiment has been made too often. Most sincerely do we hope, that no great interest of this country will ever be intrusted again, either to our late Chancellor of the Exchequer, or to our late representative at Vienna. We may say of Lord John as of Lord Brougham, it would have been well for his reputation if he had lived out little more than half his days. Lord Palinerston is no prodigy either of political consistency or of political earnestness. The war, too, it may be, has had too much respect in its beginning to the safety of dy nasties, too little to the freedom of peoples. Bat shall we cry out for this reason Let there be no war? So have some men played the game of Russia, rcfusing to cripple the great foe of liberty at all, because every lessor, foe is not to be equally crippled at the same time. Our status quo dream, however, is noW of the past. We have drifted far beyond that. Austria and Prussia might have made the war too much a war of dynasties thanks to those powers, there is now the chance of its becoming something much batter. The hoisting of the Union Jack on the isthmus of Perekop may rouse the sleepers at Vienna and Berlin, but they will have slept too long. Sebastopol has fallen. The Crimea evac- uated, Russia, we are told, will only be less disposed than ever to think of peace. No doubt of it. If Alexander II. should sub- mit, like Louis XIV., to humiliating terms, it will be because the strong hand of neces- sity has imposed them. Russia must not be expected to think of peace while she has the slightest chance of regaining what she had lost in war. It is an idiot dream to suppose that she may be soothed into peaceful tenden- cies. If her brigand temper be ever curbed, it must be by the strong hand. But the power of Russia, say some, is great, her will indomitable. Yes and see you not in that the horrors of the sway with which Europe is menaced The truth lies in a small space. The Allies must beat, or be beaten that is, must save the independence of Europe, or resign it to Czarism.. THE PRESENT. Do not crouch to-day, and worship The old Past, whose life is fled. Hush your voice to tender reverence; (?rownd he lies, but cold and dead: For the Present reigns our monarch, With an added weight of hours, Honor her, for she is mighty! Honor her, for she is ours! See the shadows of his heroes Girt around her cloudy throne; And each day the ranks are strengthend By great hearts to him unknown; Noble things the great Past promised, Holy dreams, both strange and new; Dut the Present shall fulfil them, What he promised, she shall do. She inherits all his treasures, She is heir to all his fame, Aj~d t~e light that lightens round her Is the lustre of his name; She is wise with all his wisdom, Living on his grave she stands, On her brow she bears his laurels, And his harvests in her hands. Coward, can she reign and conquer If we thus her glory dim? Le.t us fight for her as nobly As our fathers fought for him. God, who crown~the dying ages, Bids her rule, and us obey Bids us cast our lives before her, With our loving hearts, to-day! House/sold Wcssvi*. 4,4 THN SONG OF HIAWATHA. rrom the Examiner. The Song of Hiawatha. By Henty Wads- worth Longfellow. Bogue. Mu. LONGFELLOW has here done his best to accomplish for the Indian border-land of America what years ago Walter Scott did for our own Scottirh border-land. He has given it a poetical interest, and sought to link with it enduring associations. Nor will such a service be a slight one. All future wander- ers across those prairies, all who may pene- trate the pine forests of the North-western States, track the course of the Upper Missis- sippi, or explore the shore of the Great Lake, will have reason to be grateful to the poet. Something to complete the charm was absent until now. No tradition linked the present with the past. No rich imagination, no warmth or wealth of fancy, had lighted up the scene. Travellers and tourists in Amer- ica hereafter wrn owe a debt of honest grati- tude to the Song of Hiawatha. And here at home we have reason to be grateful. In giving a new life to the far West, Mr. Longfellow has also brought the spirit of it to our firesides. We get all that was worth preserving of the Red Man, and may gladly and gratefully consign the rest of him to extirpation and silence. The Song of Hiawatha is a tale of Indian zaythology. Its hero is one who lived, prayed, toiled, and fasted for his peoples good; who was prophet and king, at once a ruler and a seer, the first of all the mystery men; who taught the maize to grow, and the weeds to yield their healing virtues; who invented the canoe for the waters, and hunt- ed down the enemies of his race; and who at last, his mission ended, and his work per- formed, underwent human loss and sorrow, and faded away in the light of dawning Christianity. With this main story are ~interwoven tradition and lcgend, descriptions of scenery and sketches of life, pathetic, humorous, fanciful, playful, all very fresh and new, and all tinted with the rich color- ing of an Indian summer. The mctre of the poem has been boldly chosen but we are not disposed to think unwisely. Its unrhymed trochees appear at first monotonous and strange; but as we read on we see their meaning and intention better, and still as we advan.e they speak to us mors and mo~ elearly of the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries. These innumerable echoes are one of the most marked features in the song. Like the Hebrew poets, whose verses reply to each other in measured cadence, the Indian song~ singer never fails to repeat the more emphatic closing lines of every section, varying in words. the sam~ in substance. The result is a peculiar and original, and certainly very effective, wildness. There is, however, another peculiarity in the poem, which is also as certainly original, but not effective at all. This is the too abundant use of Indian words. So far is this carried, that if Mr. Longfellow had wished, in his professional capacity, to give us a course of Ojibway, he could hardly have done more. Nor might we gracefully have declined such a close to the duties of a chair he has discharged so long with so much honor. But as English readers and not Amer- ican students, we must protest against an introduction of such c~uantities of miserable, harsh, unpleasing, useless words into an English poem. Proper names are admissible. Minnehaha (so called after the most spark- ling of waterfalls), Nokomis, Hiawatha him- self, and others to these we cannot reason- ably object. But to be bored with the Ojib- way for blue heron, or crawfish, or seagulls, is quite unnecessary. They add no real local truth to the picture. They weary and annoy the reader. What possible object can lines like these serve unless it be to remind us how Adam named the animals: Saw the wild rice, Mahnoinonee, Saw th blueberry, Meenahga, And the strawberry, Odahmin, And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, And the grape vine, the Bemahgut. Or these: Kago, kego! do not touch it, Ah kaween! said Mudjekeewis. Mr. Longfellow must really be persuaded to banish from his flfth~r his fiftieth edition, such speeimens of unknown tongues. Small blemishes are they, however, in a volume of so much beauty and tender grace. Every page shows us something we would gladly transfer to our columns, particularly 46 that section of it which seems to us fullest of fancy and choice expression the Hunt- ing of Pau-Puk-Kecwis. But we have space only for two short quotations, by no means remarkable; we could easily choose a hundred such. hiawatha has a fricnd, Chibiabos, the sWeet singer, who has died, and Hiawatha sits in his wigwam lamenting. He is dead, the sweet musician! He the sweetest of all singers He has gone from us forever, He has moved a little nearer To the master of all music, To the master of all singing! 0 my brother, Chibiabos! And the melancholy fir trees Waved their dark green fans above him, Waved their purple cones above him, Sighing with him to console him, Mingling with his lamentation Their complaining, t~heir lamenting. As brief must be our closing extract. Hiawatha has wooed and won fair Minnehaha (or Laughing Water), a daughter of the Dacotahs. lie is bringing her home, and all nature is rejoicing in his joy. The bluebird and the robin sing out congratulation, and the THE SONG OF mAWATHA. squirrel watches them as they travel throtgh his woods. From the sky the sun benignant Looked upon them through the branches, Saying to them, 0 my children, Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Lifh is checkered shade and sunshine: Rule by love, 0 Hiawatha! From the sky the moon looked at them, Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, Whispered to them, 0 my children, Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble, half is mine, although I follow: Rule by patience, Laughing Water! Mr. Longfellows reputation will, we think, be raised by the & ng of Hiawatha; it is by far, in our judgment, the most original of all his productions; though we do not expect it to be immediately popular. Its peculiarities of subject, of treatment, particularly of metre, may forbid this. But when these get famil- iarized to the taste and the ear, its beauties will open out and display themselves more freely, and it will appear generally what it really is, a charming poem, and an undoubt- edly high work of art. ~Ew SreT IN WHITE. To whom did Henry IV. refer in his opening speech to the Parlia- ment, when he made the following announce- ment ? And whereas the King hath certainly under- stood that a new sect hath risen up, clothed in white vesture, and assuming to themselves great sanctity, and whereas the people of this realm may lightly consent and be perverted by its nov- elty, their alms be diverted, and the kingdom itself be subverted, should the new professors enter the realm: therefore, by the advice of the Lords spiritual and temporal, the King hath ordained by proclamation that every county and seaport shall be shut against them; and any one harboring or maintaining them shall forfeit all that he is able to forfeit. Rolls. J.w. EMosheim has given some account of this sect in his Eccies. Hist., book in. pt. ii. ch. 5: In Italy a new sect, that of the White-clad Breth- ren, or the Whites (fratres albati, seu Candida), produced no little excitement among the people. Near the beginning of the fifteenth century a certain unknown priest descended from the Alps, clad in a white garment, with an immense num- berof people of both sexes in his train, all clothed like their leader, in white nen, whence their name of the White Brethren~ This multitude marched through various provinces, following a cross borne by the leader of the sect, and by a great show of piety, so captivated the people that numberless persons of every kind joined its ranks. Boniface X., fearing seine plot, ordered the leader of this host to be~ apprehended and committed to the flames. After his death the multitude gradually disp rsed.] .)Votes and Queries. QiJOTATIONS WANTED. Who are the authors of the flAlowing? Qui js~et in terra, ton habet unde cadal. Vox audita pent, litera scripta maneL Fiat justitia, runt ceelum. Indocti discunt, et ament meminisse p& riti. (This is the motto to Laharpes Cours de Lit- tfrature.) He equalld all but Shakspeare here belows Death hath a ths~sand ways to let out life. Forgiveness to the injured does belong, But they neer pardon whe have done the wrong.~~ J. SN. Pxs ADELP1I1~%. ,Nbtes and Queries THE CRAYON. From the Critic. The Crayon: a .Tournal devoted to the Graph- ic Arts and the Literature related to them. Vol. I. New York: Stiliman and Du- rand. London Triibner and Co. Tins first volume of an American weekly publication, the scope of which is sufficiently indicated by its title, deserves notice on ac- count of its novelty of plan, as well as the enthusiasm that evidently actuates its con- ductors. It offers no bait of pretty engrav- ings, like the so-called Art periodicals of our own country, but relies upon an earn- est exposition of; and commentary upon,the profound principles of the graphic arts to interest and edify its readers. Its motto is from Modern Painters Whence, in fine, looking to the whole kingdom of organ- ic nature, we find that our fu~h receiving of its beauty depends, first on the sensibility, and then on the accuracy and touchstone faithfulness of the heart in its moral judg- ments; and Ruskins writings are its chief oracles. The editor has disinterred and re- published a long series of papers entitled The Poetry of Architecture; or the Archi- tecture of the Nations of Europe, considered in its Association with Natural Scenery and National Character, by Kata Phusin, which appeared in Loudons Architectural Maga- zine about eighteen years ago, and are from the hand of Ruskin. These are interesting as compositions, belonging to the vernal sea- son of a style which has since reached so elaborate and full-colored a development, and also as showing the cai~ful study and thought bestowed by the young man upon his subject, along with that nicety of obser- vation, at once poetic and microscope, which is so rare and exquisite a gift. But these papers also exhibit very distinctly, in their cruder modes of expression, his tendency to fantastic and incoherent deductions from ill- established premises, assuming the ~uise of logical accuracy and the boldness of mdispu- table truth. We also, from an attempt or two which are utter failures, catch a hint of the deficiency of humor in Ruskin, in com- mon perhaps with most very dogmatic mQn. The Oxford graduate is much more pas- sionately honored and admired in America than in his own country; and from this feel- ing, a somewhat amusing incident took its rise in connection with the Academy of Dc- sign in New York last spring. An Americnn enthusiast, it appears, visiting Mr. Ruskins house at Denmark Hill, in hIs absence, obtained from the house-keeper, in addi- tion to other precious little reminiscences of genius, probably the first preserved draw- ing he ever made, and which had long hung framed under that roof. Another drawing, a slight sketch, was purchased by the in- defatigable worshipper from a clerk in the employ of Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co., Ruskins publishers; and this last, with autograph appended, was sent to the New York Academy Exhibition, where it excited much criticism and considerable ridicule. Mr. Ruskin, on hearing of this transaction, is naturally very much annoyed, and writes a letter to The Crayon, of which the following passages have niore than merely local inter- est: Until I was 18 or 19, t was totally ignorant of the first principles of drawing and as I never had any invention, it would be difficult to produce anything more con- temptible in every way than the sort of sketch I used to make in my boyhood. Nor do I at present rest my hope of being of ser- vice as a critic on any power of painting. When I praise Turner, I do not think I can rival him, any more than in praising Shak- speare I suppose myself capable of writing another Lear. But I can now draw stead- ily, thoroughly, and rightly, up to a certain point; and as the American public have seen my child-work, I shall be grateful to them if they will do me the justice to examine, with some attention, the drawing which I shall take care to have in the next New York Exhibition, if it may then be accepted.... You sent me two rather formidable queries in your last private note to me. On one What are the limits of detail? I have something like sixty pages of talk in the third volume of Modern Painters, which, if I live, will be out about Christmas; but I may answer hurriedly, as you will at once under- stand what I mean, that as far as you can see detail you should always paint it if you intend your picture to be a finished one, and to be placed where its finished painting can be seen. . . . In every picture intended for finished work, and intended to be seen near, the limit of detail is visibility and no other The Crayon is also an advocate of the Pre-~aphaelite school of painting, which appears to have many warm admirers on the other side of the Atlantic. For the rest, it contains some poetry, not particu- larly noticeable either as bad or excellent, and a great deal of resthetie criticism, which is, we much fear, like most such ware, rather enthusiastic than strong, rather flatulent than nutritious. Enthusiasm, however, is at all events a living c~pdition, and we wish our youthful contemporary all manner of success and development, internal and cx- ternal. 47 DUST. A SIMILE. PATIENCE ON A MONUMENT. I KNEEL within the church alone All through the long, long day, And list the nights low breezes moan Amid the turrets gray; In summer-time I faintly hear The laugh of merry children near, Their voices blithe and gay Hushed by the aisles and walls of stone Down to a sad soft under-tone. They play amid the quiet graver That thickly lie around, And softly to the silent caves Comes the untroubled sound; The long grass trembles in the air, The wild thyme sheds its perfume there Above the hallowed ground, And daisies, like Faiths upward eye, Gaze ever deep into the sky. Here have I heard the bridal yawn In faltering accents low, Have gazed on fair unfurrowed brows Unworn by wave of wo; Have heard the pastors voice proclaim The union of heart and name, And seen her tears oerfiow Who saw the strange new path untried, And feared, yet joyed, to be a bride. And I have seen through silent aisles The dead brought solemnly Past the gray columns ancient piles, Beneath my gaze to lie; And while the clear, calm voice of prayer Silverly fell on the husluid air, Have seen the mourners eye Turn with a fierce despair on me, As though I mocked his misery. I gazed with calm and tranquil gaze Upon his bloodshot eye; The sunlights soft and pleasanC rays Fell on him tenderly; A prisoned robins quiet lay Whispered his wild despair away Like tones of memory, And gentler thoughts around him crept, Until he bowed his head and wept~ I watch~amid the slumberers here, And the long years roll on; Each Sabbath, listening throngs appear, Each week, I am alone; New faces fill each vacant nook, New children turn their thoughtful look Upon my brow of stone, New tombstones stare in moonlight cold, New lichens grow upon the old. The gray-haired minister will pas~ Amid his flock to rest, Soon oer his head the waving grass By strangers feet be prest; The suns last parting rays will come, And squares of light amid the gloom Fall softly on my breast, Till, rising from their si~nt caves, The dead shall leave me but their graver. Chambers Journal. I. B. V. DUST. Dtrsr we were, and dust to be, Dust upon us, dust about ua, Dust on everything we see, Dust within us, dust without us; Saith the preacher, Dust to dust! Let them mingle, for they must. Dust we raise upon the road, Dust we breathe in dancing-hall; Dust infests our home abode, Dust, a pall, is over all! Tis the housewifes daily bread, Dust, the emblem of the dead. When the sky above is fair, And the sun upon the streams, Floats the dust throughout the air, Gleaming in its fallen beams; Every mote is like a man, Dancing gaily while he can. Ere the tempest gathers strong, Blows at times the warning gust, Oer the plain it sweeps along, Tempests thrall, a cloud of dust; Every mote is like a man, Flying from Oppressions van. Now the swollen clouds grow dark, Comes the long-expected flood, Falling deluge-like and stark; Dust is beaten down to mud, So are times when men must grovel In the palace as the hovel. Thus we are but motes of dust, On the ground and in the air~ Blown by pleasure, fear, and lust, Beaten down to low despair; Born of dust, to come to dust, Let us mingle, for we must. A SIMILE. BY H. w. LONGFELLOw. Swwvr, slowly up the wall Steals the sunshine, steals the shade; Evening dampe begin to fall, Ev.eaii~ shadows are displayed. Round me, oer me, everywhere~ All the sky is grand with cloude, And athwart the evening air Wheel the swallows home in cr~wdn. Shafts of sunshine from the West Paint the dusky windows red; Darker shadows deeper rest Underneath and overhead. Darker, darker, an more wan In my breast the Ahadows fall; I.Tpward steals the life of man, As the ~unshine from the wall. From the wall into the sky, From the roof along the spire; Ah, the souls of saints that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher~ 48 ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE.PART XIII. 49 PART TILE LAST. BOOK m. Zaidee take different directions. There is a painful hesitation between them when they ad- CHAPTER ~ ~ JOURNEY. dress each other, which Zaidee understands very well, but which Percy cannot understand; and TIrEa~E was no very long time necessary to once more his thoughts, baffled and perplexed, bring to completion the scheme of Mary; it centre upon Mary Cumberlands beautiful sister, was still fine weather although the end of Oeto- who is so like his own. Unconsciously to him.. ber, and Mrs. Cumberland became very soon self, this rencontre increases Percys difficulty. enthusiastic about the visit to Cheshire, to Cas- She is not Mary Cumberlands sister; she is only tle Vivian, and the Grange. I expect to see an adopted child. It suddenly occurs to Percy quite a delightful sight in your brothers return that Mary meant him to draw some inference to your attached peasantry, Mr. Vivian, said from this fact, which she stated to him so ab- Mrs. Cumberland; and Mr. Cumberland himself ruptly; and, more than ever puzzled, Itis was persuaded to go with the party, to initiate thoughts pursue the subject; but he can draw the country gentlemen there into his views, and no inference; he is only extremely curious, in- perhaps to extend his own ideas. There are terested, and wondering; he never thinks of Zai- many admirable customs hidden in the depths of dee in connection with this beautiful and silent the country, said this candid philosopher; girl. some ancient use and wont in the matter of And the next day their journey began. Trar- welcome, I should not be surprised and I am elling in a railway carriage, even when you can a candid man, sister Burtonshaw. So the phi- fill it comfortably with your own party, is not a losopher gave his consent; and hers, too, with a mode of journeying favorable to conversation. sigh of regret for Sylvos place, gave Mrs. Bur- Leaning back in her corner, covered up and half tonshaw. concealed under Aunt Burtonshaws shawls, During the one day which they spent in Len- looking at the long stripes of green fields, the don before starting for Cheshire, Zaidee, who fiat lines of country that quivered by the window felt this journey full of fate for her, a new and with the speed of lightning, Zaidee found in this decisive crisis in her life, wandered out, in her dreaded journey a soothing influence which restless uneasiness. Mary did not watch her calmed her heart. Convinced as she was that quite so jealously as she had done, and she was Marys object was to try her fully, by bringing glad to be alone. Without thinking, Zaidee her into close contact with her own family, Zal- strayed along those unfeatured lines of street dee had earnestly endeavored to fortify herself till she came to the well-remembered environ- for the ordeal. But through this long day, ment of squares which surrounded Bedford when her thoughts were uninterrupted, when n~ Place. Thinking wistfully of her old self, and one spoke but Percy and Mary, whose conversa- her vain childish sacrifice, Zaidee passed timidly tion was not for the common ear or Aunt Bur through it, looking up for Mrs. Disbrowes tonshaw, whose addresses were more general, house. Some one before her went up to this and chiefly directed to the subjects of taking house hurriedly as Zaidee advanced, but hesitat- cold or taking refreshments a pleasant delw- ed, as she did, when he perceived a great many sion of going home stole upon Zaidees weary carriages, with coachmen in white gloves and heart. Mr. Cumberland, who had been greatly favors, a large bridal party before the door. struck at the very outset of their journey by the The gentleman before her paused a little, and so large sphere of operation for his educational did Zaidee; there was a momentary commotion theory, his decorated and emblazoned letters, in in the little crowd, which made an avenue be- those names of railway stations at present in- tween the door of the house and the carriage scribed in prosaic black and white, was making drawn up before it, and forth issued a bride in notes and sketches for this important object, to flowing white robes and orange blossoms, not lose no time; Mrs. Cumberland was enjoying her too shy to throw a glance around her as she step- languor; Mrs. Burtonshaw presided over the ped into the vehicle. Zaidec shrank, fearing to draughts, the windows, and the basket of sand- be remembered, when she found how she recog- wiches. There was no painful idea, no scrutiny, nized at once Minnie Disbrowes saucy face. And or search, or suspicion, in all these faces. Go- Mr. Disbrowe is with the bride; and there is ing home! The dream crept over Zaidees mamma, of still ampler proportions, but not less mind, and it was so sweet, she suffered it to comely, than of old; and a string of bridesmaids, come. She closed her eyes to see the joyous in whose degrees of stature, one lesser than the drawing-room of the Grange, all bright and gay other, Zaidee fancies she can see Rosie and Let- for the travellers Elizabeth, Margaret, Sophy tie and Sissy, the little rebels who tried her so Philip even and Zaidee coming home. sorely once. Looking on all this with interested These Impossible dreams were not common to eyes, Zaidee does not immediately perceive that Zaidee; she yielded herse~,f up to the charm of this is Mr. Percy Vivian who was bending his this one with a thankful hart. course to Mrs. Disbrows. When she does per- That night they spent at Chester, where l~fr. ceive him, there is a pause of mutual embarrass- Cumberland made great progress in his scheme ment. He is wondering if she can know these for the railway stations. There was still another people, and she is wondering wh~ he should call days respite for Zaidee, for to-morrow they had at Bedford Place; but the carringes sweep on arranged to visit Castle Vivian, and the next with their gay company, and after the inter- day after that to continue their journey to the change of a very few formal words, Percy and Grange~ DCVI. LIVING AGE. VOL. xli. 4 60 In the morning Percy left the party early; he had some business, and Was to rejoin them by- and-by, but they started without him for Castle Vivian. It was a beautiful October day, bright and calm like summer, but with a bracing breeze, and all the face of the country gleaming with a shower which had fallen over-night. The loaves were dropping from the trees upon their path, the clouds hurrying along the horizon be- thre the wind, leaving great plains and valleys of clear sky, ns bright as sunshine; unseen streams trickled behind the hedge-rows, the air i~s full of a twittering cadence of singing-birds and waters. Here and there a bit of rude un- cultivated land threw up its group of ragged firs, and spread its purple flush of heather, begin- ning to fade, before the travellers; and the woods were rich in autumn robes, against which now and then the playful gale made a sudden rush, throwing a handful of yellow leaves into the air, iihich caught them gently, and sent them down- ward in silent circles to their parent soil. When they had come to the gate of Castle Vivian, Percy met them. He was very anxious that the young ladies should alight, and walk up the avenue with him, while the elders of the party drove on. Come, Lizzy, come, Mary cried, as she sprang from the carriage. Zaidee obeyed with some astonishment. Within the gate the road ascended between high sloping banks of turf, here and there broken by an edge of pro- jecting rock or a bush of furze. Percy led his companions up a narrow ascent, half stair, half path, to the top of the bank, from whence they looked down upon the well-kept carriage-road, with its sandy crystals sparkling in the sun. At some little distance before them, where the road, gradually sweeping upward, had reached to the level of the banks, a stately avenue of elms threw their lofty branches against the sky; and at a long distance within these you looked down upon the noble front of a great house, a building of the age of Elizabeth, planting itself firmly with a massive and solid splendor in a bright enclosure of antique gardens. The great deep porch of the central entrance was occupied by servants, one after another looking out as if in expectation; and the balcony of a large window close by the door was filled with a company of ladies : down below, too, in the carriage-road, and dotted along the banks, were other specta- tors looking out anxiously as if for some ex- pected arrivaL Percy led his companions on till they had alniost reached the entrance of that lofty cluster oT elm trees, and were but a little above the level of the road. Let us wait here, said Percy, in whose voice there was a juiver of emotion. The heir is coming home to-day we will see him pass if we wait here. Mary did not speak, but Zaidees surprise was too great for caution. The heir?~~ and she turned towards him with an eager glance of inquiry. Sir Francis Vivian is dead, said Percy; his successor is to take possession to-day. Had he a son? askedZaidee. He had no son; this is the heir of the fain- fly, scarcely the heir of Sir Francis Vivian. We ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE. PART XIII. make strange wills in our family, said Percy, who, though restless and expectant, could still smile. Sir Francis left his property under pe- culiar conditions, he concluded abruptly, look- ing with astonishment at Mary, whose touch upon his arm had brought his explanation to s close. But Mary was looking at Zaidee, and he, too, turned to look at her. Percy was the un- witting instrument of Marys plot; he was rather excited, full of a vague and startled expecta- tion; but she had not told him the reason of her contrivance, and his mind was busy with specu- lations. Still more uneasy grew Percy as his eyes followed Marys glance. Zaidees beautiful figure, standing on this elevated ground, was distinctly relieved against the far-off line of sky. She was standing shading her eyes with her hand, as she, too, gazed down the road in expec- tation of the new master of Castle Vivian, and her eyes were looking far into the air, half wist- ful, half indifferent; her cheek was paler than its wont her hair was loosened a little by the wind. Percy could not recollect where he had seen this simple attitude, so full of unconscious grace and pre-occupied attention, but it was strangely familiar and well known to him. While he stood in doubt, a very handsome gray- hound slowly approached the group, and, with the instinct which directs these animals to lovers of their kind, seated himself, after a few dis- dainful sniffs at the others of the party, by Zai- dees feet. Percy started with a suppressed ex- clamation. Long years ago Sermo was dead long years ago Zaidee was lost. This was a beau- tiful woman; this was not the brown girl of the Grange; but the group before him was Zaidee and Sermo; the attitude and the conjunction burst upon him with a sudden flash of recogni- tion. His voice did not disturb Zaidee; her mind was absorbed with this g~ ze of hers look- ing for the heir of the house of Vivian; but he felt upon his arm the warning touch of Marys hand. Marys eyes were meeting his with a glance of warning; and there, ringing along the road, were the cheers of the spectators, and the sound of carriage-wheels. There was not a sound or motion more between these watchers; Zaidee, unconscious of their scrutiny, looked down upon the arriving stran- ger. ~ carriage approached rapidly; the spectators on the roadside raised their hats and waved their hands, and cheered his approach with unusual animation. Who was the heir of Sir Francis Vivian? She looked down upon him with her dark wistful eyes, anxious and yet weary, touched with the listlessness of her long endurance. She was not prepared for any trial; she had given herself this day to rest. The car- riage was an open carriage, and one man alone sat within it: he was bronzed and darkened, a man beyond his ~rly youth. Zaidee looked at him with eyes which flashed out of their pas- sive observation into the keenest scrutiny. In the greatness of her amazed and troubled joy, she could no longer restrain herself. As the car- riage-wheels crashed by, over the sandy soil, Zaidee cried aloud, It is Philip Philip. Philip is the heir! ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE. PART XLII. Her voice rose and broke in this great moment- ary outcry, and she stood still for a moment, with her hands raised and her face flushing like the sky under the sun; then her beautiful arms fell by her side; suddenly she came to herself. She turned round upon them, drawing back a step, and looking out from her sudden flush of joy with a chill creeping to her heart. She did not look at Mary, she looked past her, full upon Percy Vivian, and with eyes fuji of supplicating terror. Percy, almost unmanned, did not say a word in that moment. He only put out his arms, held up his hands before her; shut out everything from her eyes with an eager gesture. Home, Zaidee, home, said Percy; there is no other place in the world you can only flee to our own home. For he did not even think of her in this ex- tremity. Flight was the first idea in the minds of both. I bar you I bar you; you are ours now and forever, cried Percy, grasping her hands together, and forgetting even his brother. Zaidee Zaidee Zaidee there is nowhere to flee to but home! CHAPTER XXXI. HOME. flUT they were lingering still upon this same spot. Zaidre, who made no single effort to deny her identity, with tears in her beautiful eyes, and her face full of bnpplicating earnestness, stood withdrawn from them a little, pleading that they would let her go. Her whole heart was in this dreary prayer of hers. Withdrawing from Mary her friend, and Percy her cousin, she turned her face away from stately Castle Vivian, and looked out upon the desolate and blank hor- izon over which the clouds were stealing, and from whence the chill of approaching winter came in the wind. Zaidee had forgotten for the moment that she had just seen Philip pass to a better inheritauce than the Grange. She forgot everything except that she was discovered, and that they were about to take her, the supplanter, the wrongful heir, to the home whose natural possessor she had defrauded. She would not permit either of them to hold that trembling and chilled hand of hers, she only besought them Let me go away. The new master of Castle Vivian had reached the house by this time, and entered, and from the door came a hasty message to call these loiterers in. This pretty figure ran towards them, across that flickering breadth of light and shadow, the path under the elm trees. In her haste her fair hair came down upon her neck in a long half- curling lock; but Sophy Vivian, though she was now the Rev Mrs. Burlington, a married lady, did not think her dignity at all compromised, but ran on breathless and laughing, as she caught the rebellious tress in her pretty hand. Before she had reached the end of the avenue she began calling to them. Percy, Percy, why are you lingering? Philip has come every one is there but you; mamma is anxious to see Miss Cum- berland. I am sure this is Miss Cumberland. Come, come; how can you linger so? Philip is at home. And by the time she had reached this climax, Sophy came up to the little group which had delayed so long. Sophys lilies and roses were as sweet as ever, her blue eyes were bright with tears and laughter, her pretty firee was dimpling and sparkling all over with the family joy. But when she reached as far as Zaidee, whose face she had not seen at first, Sophy came to a sudden pause. Zaidee could give but one glance at her first and dearest companion, whose wistful and amazed look was turned upon her. Trembling, overpowered, and helpless, she covered her eyes with her han(1, and turned away to hide the burst of weeping which she could no longer control. Percy, said Sophy, in a low and hurried voice, who is this that is so like our Elizabeth who is it that weeps at seeing me? Percy made no answer. The hound still sat at Zaidees feet, raising his large eyes wistfully to the discussion, sympathetic, and making earnest endeavors to discover what the subject of all this distress and wonder was. Sophy no longer noted Percy and his betrothed; she saw only these two figures the dog with his head raised, the beau- tiful stranger turning away from all of them, and struggling with her sobs and tears. She was too hurried, too much excited, to wait for an answer to her question. She fell upon Zaidee, suddenly, clasping her soft arms round her, taking possession of the hands which no longer made an effort to withdraw~themselves. It is Zaidee! Zaidee! Nobody can deceive me ! it is our own Zay, cried Sophy, with a great out- burst. Did you think I would not know her? I ! you know me, Zaidee? say you know me and you were coming of your own will to wel- come Philip. I knew you would come home when Philip hat Castle Vivian. Zay ! only speak to me say you know me as I know you. The two spectators of this scene bent forward anxiously to listen. Yes, Sophy, said Zaidee, among her tears. Zaidee offered no resistance to the close embrace, and made no longer any effort to withdraw herself. Sophy, with her arm round her new-found cousin, looked back to them, waving them on, and hurried forward, breathless with her haste, her crying, her laugh- ing, her joy of tears. The hound stalked sol- emnly forward by Zaidees side, mending his stately pac~ a~ Sophy at every step quickened hers. Percy Vivian and Mary Cumberland, left far behind, looked into each others faces. When did you discover this? said the one; and How slow you were to find it out! said the other. Percy had by no means subsided out of his first bewildered and joyful amazement. But Marys satisfaction and delight were altogether un mingled, and had the most agreeable shade of seif-gratulation in them. They would never have found her but for me, said Mary Cum- ierland to herself, and it 4s not in nature that the planner of this successful plot should not be a little proud of her wisdom and her skill. The windows were open in the great drawing- room in Ca.stle Vivian, and some of the family had come to the balcony, once more to wonder at Percys delay, and look out for him. Can this be Miss Cumberland whom Sophy is bringing 51 ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE. PART XIII. forward so? asked one. Who does the dog belong to? said another. Elizabeth, Eliza- beth who is this? cried Margaret. They began to wonder, and to grow excited, especially asPercy was visible in the distance, approaching quietly with the real Miss Cumberland. At this moment the distant ringing of Sophys voice came to their ears there was a great start, and rush to the window. Zaidee, Zaidee! cried Sophy, at the highest pitch of her sweet youthful voice. I have found Zay here is Zay, mamma Philip, here is Zay; she has come home ! And when Zaidee reached the porch, it was to be plunged into such a vehement embrace, such a conflict of exclamations, of inquiries, of won- ders such an eager crowd of faces and out- stretched arms, such a tumult of sound, that what little strength remained to her was over- powered. She saw them all through a mist, face behind face. Even Aunt Vivian herself, though she was still an invalid, was first at the door, wrapped in her shawl, to see if Sophys wonderful discovery was true, and Zaidee grasped the arm of Elizabeth to save herself from falling. She was half led, half carried into the great, warm, hospitable room they had left, in which Mr. Cumberland, Mrs. Cumberland, and Aunt iBurtonshaw stood together at one of the windows in a group, looking out upon the approach of Percy and Mary, alA marvelling what was the cause of all this excitement. These good people were mightily amazed when they saw this tri- ~mphal entry of their own Elizabeth, whom Mrs. Vivian held very firmly by one hand, whom Mrs. Morton supported on the other side, whom Sophy danced joyously before, her fair hair streaming down upon her neck, and her pretty figure instinct in every line of it with the sim- pleat and fullest joy. Margaret, behind, looked over Zaidees shoulder, guarding her on that side; and behind all walked the newly-arrived Lord of Castle Vivian, a little withdrawn from the group, a little disconcerted, his eyes fixed upon the universal centre, and a flush upon his face. The procession marched on, never inter- mitting in its cries of joy and welcome till it reached Mrs. Vivians chair, and then the ranks pened, the family dispersed themselves around this domestic throne, and Mrs. Vivian took her place in it, still holding firmly by her captive, whom Elizabeth still supported by her mothers side. Now, we are all here. Philip has come home, said Mrs. Vivian, with her voice trem- bling. Zaidee, child, look in my face, and tell me it is you. But Zaidee could not look in Aunt Vivians face; she sank upon her knees, half with inten- tion, half from faintness. This attitude was quite involuntary, but it filled Mrs. Vivians eyes with tears, and she extended her arms, and drew the beautiful sinking head to her breast. Do you remember? said Mrs. Vivian, look- ing round upon them; and so well they all re- membered little orphan Zaidee kneeling by the hearth of the Grange t~t dear warm family hearth by the house-mothers knee. You need not be sad now, Zaidee, said Sophy in her ear; no need to be sad now. Philip has Castle Vivian; Philip is the head of the house. He ought to have given you the Grange now, if it had not been yours before. He cannot have everything, Zaidee. Philip has Castle Vivian, and it is nothing but joy now that you have the Grange. Sophy was the wisest in her practical comfort- ings. Zaidee lifted up her drooping head. Is Philip the heir of all? said Zaidee. She was answered by a cry of assent from the whole of them, and Philip came near. This Philip was scarcely more like the Philip of seven years ago than Zaidee was like the Zaidee of that time. It was not only that he was now in the flush and prime of youthful manhood, with powers de- veloped by trial, and a character proved and established, but the wonder was that Philip, who came forward eagerly, drew back again with an extraordinary deference and respect, which Zaidee could not comprehend; and in- stead of the eager and overwhelming joy of the others, Philip could only stammer and hesitate, and finally express in a little effusion of warmth, which brought a renewed flush to his cheek, his delight in seeing his cousin. He said My cousin; he did not say Zay. . Zaidee? Zaidee? said Mrs. Burtonshaw, coming forward at last when there was an opening for her; what do they mean, Eliza- beth? Tell them y6ur proper name, my love. Mrs. Vivian and her family are mistaken strangely. What is the meaning of it all? Your name was Elizabeth Francis before you were adopted by Maria Anna, and I do not know what this means indeed I do not know. Yes, indeed, she is my adopted daughter, Elizabeth Cumberland, said Mrs. Cumberland, adding her word. My dear Mr. Vivian, I am convinced there is some delightful tale to be told here. Elizabeth, explain it to us. Who are you, child? Zaidee rose from her knees, but stood before them in a stooping, humble attitude, looking at no one. I am Zaidee Vivian, she said hur- riedly. I left the Grange because Philipwould not take his natural right, but left it to me. I have deceived you, Aunt Burtonshaw I have deceived every one though every one ha~ been so kind t~me. But it was all that I might not defraud Philip that I might fulfil Grandfather Vivians latest will. Some spell is upon Philip, that he cannot say a single word of acknowledgment. His mother answers for him. Philip has Castle Vivian now, Zaidee take your own place, dear child. Sit down by me once more. It is my business now to satisfy your kind friends that you have not deceived them. Tell Mrs. Cumberland, Percy, Zaidees story ,and thank her for us all that she has kept obr child so tenderly. Bring Miss Cumberland to me bring me my new daughter, Percy and thank her mother for her goodness to our other child. And Zaidee is a great beauty! cried Sophy. Zaidee is more beautiful than Eliza- beth. Mother, look at her! Why, Philip is afraid of Zaidee; and instead of little Zay, the 52 ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE. PART XIII. 53 greatest beauty of all the house has come home and was accepted as spokeswoman by universal to Castle Vivian to-day! consent. The great room was lighted in every part, but CHAPTER XXXII. EVERYBODYS STORY. entirely deserted for this closer circle round the fire. While just outside the circle, with a small Now that we are all here together, says reatling-table before him, piled with old volumes Sophy, I think, instead of every one telling from the library, Mr. Cumberland sat ready to her own story, I had better tell Zaidee all about hear anything that struck his wandering fancy, it what has happened to us all. but pursuing his favorite whim of the moment, This day had worn on from morning to evening through various Psalters and antique Bibles, with in spite of its great excitement, and they were great devotion. The conversation within the now assembled round the fireplace a wide circle was occasionally broken by an exelama- circle. Mrs. Vivian, seated on one side of the tion of rapture from Mr. Cumberland over some hearth, occupied just such a seat of honor and emblazoned initial, but these did not come suffi- supremacy as she had in the Grange; and half ciently often to break upon any more important hidden within her shadow was Zaidee, with Aunt speech. Vivians hand resting upon her low chair. Aunt Well, Zaidee, said Sophy, when we could Vivian was supported on the other side by Philip, heir nothing of you, Philip had to go away. who had been greatly thrown into the shade by And here is Captain Bernard Morton! But you Zaidees return. He was no longer the hero of remember Captain Bernard, Zay, who married the day; the family fdte celebrated the recovery Elizabeth? and this gentleman is Sir David of the lost child much more than the return of Powis, who married Margaret. Margaret is the head of the house; and Philip was still sin- Lady Powis. Did no one ever tell you? And gularly silent and discomposed, and gave abun- they live at Powisland, just over the Dee; and dant reason for Sophys saying that he was this is Reginald Burlington. He is Rector of afraid of the beauty. He looked at her very Woodchurch now, Zaidee, since Mr. Powis went often, this chief of the house of Vivian; he re- away. And and we live there, you know, ferred to her after a stately sort as my cousin. when we are not at the Grange; and we are all But Philip did not seem able to join in the family very happy; and Elizabeth has four children; overflow of rejoicing over our Zay.~ He was and Margaret has two; and Percy is a great a great deal more respectful of the stranger than author, and writes books; and Philip has come any other individual present. He showed the home to be a great man, and the head of the most courtly and observant regard of her; and family; and mamma has got well again; and we Zaidee never looked up but she found Philips wanted nothing to make this the happiest day eyes retiring from her own beautiful face. But in this world, said Sophy, her eyes running in spite of this, she was wonderfully disappointed over with tears and gladness, but to have in Philip. He was so cold, he must surely be Zaidee back again; and Zaidee has come back angry. Her heart was sore within her by reason again the same as ever, but a great beauty as of this one remaining pain., well; and Philip is at home; and if any fairy And Mrs. Cumberland, Zaidees kind and fan- should ask me to wish now, I am sure I could ciful patroness, sat at Philips right hand, the not tell what to think of, everything has come object of his most particular attention. Mrs. so full of joy! Cumberland indeed had given up her son-in-law This brief epitome of the family history was elect, who was only the genius of the family, in received with great applause by the sons and preference for the head of the house, and the . sons-in-law, to whom it alluded. Zaidee sat head of the house lavished upon her his greatest quite silent, listening very eagerly, yet in reality cares. Then came Elizabeth, in her matronly making very little of it. She sat close by Aunt and noble beauty, with Zaidees little gold chain Vivian, with a strange perception of her changed round her beautiful thrcat; and there was Mary position a strange dreamy realization of the Cumberland, rather shy and discomposed, be- time which~ ws~ past. Nothing of all these tween Mrs. Morton and her sister Margaret. seven years was so strangely bewildering to her Margaret was indisputably the most splendid as the events of to-day. She could recall every- person present. In dress and manner alike, thing except these crowded and hurrying hours. this once pensive Margaret was much more of which had swept away, before their flood of sur- the great lady than either her mother or sister; prise and sudden enlightenment, all the barriers and a pretty boy, rather fantastically but very which she had built about her life. She was richly dressed, was seated on her footstool, and seated by Aunt Vivians side she was sur- leaning his head upon her knee. Then came rounded by all the endearing bonds of the fain- Captain Bernard Morton, then a fair, high- ily she was grasped on every side by new featured man, bland and lofty, in whom the relationships; and, most wonderful change of grand manner was still more apparent. And all, she was now no longePhilips supplanter, then came Aunt Burtonshaw, extremely bewil- but only the heir of the Secondary estate the der~l, and Percy, and the young clergyman jointure-house, the younger sons portion; and who had once been Mr. Wyburghs curate, and Philip was of Castle Vivian, the head of the whose intimacy at the Grange had filled good house. She heard the voices rising in general Mr. Green with terror for the ~young ladies. conversation; she heard Mary Cumberland do- Last of all pretty Sophy Vivian, leaning forward tailing, with a happy readiness, the gradual light from her corner, volunteered the family history, thrown to herself upon Zaidee, and how at last 54 ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE. PART XIII. she was convinced of her identity when news with a tender brightness. You are glad that of Mrs. Vivians illness came; she heard the I have Castle Vivian, said Philip; do you wondering exclamations of Aunt Burtonshaw, know how I have it, Zaidee? He had never and the joyous voice of Sophy ringing a uni- called her Zaidee before, and she looked up versal chorus to every other felicitation; she gratefully, thinking the cloud had passed away. heard it all, but only as some one far off might But it did not seem that Philip could bear this hear. She was in a maze of strange bewilder- upward look, for he turned his head from her a ment was it possible that she was at home? little, and led her down again rather abruptly, that her name was Zaidee Vivian, and not as he began to speak in the plainest and most Elizabeth Cumberland? that she was restored matter-of-fact style. Sir Francis Vivian had to her identity, to herself, and to her friends? no son, said Philip; his only heir was a favor- Zaidee sat bending her beautiful head upon her ite adopted child, and he would not confer the hands uncertain, wondering; then falling back lands of the Vivians upon one who bore another at last on one thing certain, pausing to ask her- name. So he bequeathed to me the house itself, self why Philip had not a word to say when on condition that I was able to purchase the Zaidee was found again, lands attached to it for a sum he named a suf- When the barrier of a night was placed be- ficient sum to endow richly his adopted son. I tween hc1~ and this wonderful day, it became was able to do this by good fortune and now less unreal to the returned exile. While every the chief branch of our family is once more one else was still asleep, Zaidee, waking in the seated in its original place. early dawn, went out to wander about this He ended abruptly as he had began; and but lordly dwelling of her race, and with family that he kept her hand very closely upon his pride and interest admire its massive front and arm, Zaidec would have thought she was a great noble proportions. She stood within the wide, incumbrance to him, and that he wished her deep alcove of the porch, looking down upon away. that line of noble trees fluttering their yellow When I left the Grange first, I was continu- foliage in the morning sun, and throwing down ally dreaming of happy chances to bring me a shower of leaves with every breath of wind, home again, said Zaidee, but I wonder that I Their shadows lay across the path, dividing it never thought of this, the best way of all. I into long lines; and beyond lay the rich fore- imagined you a very great man often, and gave ground of turf, the grassy banks between which you every kind of rank and honor; but I never the road disappeared, passing out from this thought of Castle Vivian; I never thought of the retired and lofty privacy into the busy world, other family house, which we must always have The broad stone balcony from which Elizabeth even a greater pride in than even in our own and Margaret had caught their first glimpse of Grange. her, yesterday, descended by a flight of stairs You gave me rank and honor, did you? into the old rich flower-garden, still gay with said Philip, melting a little. Well, I thought patches of old-fashioned flowers; and the great of you often enough, Zaidee; many a day. house, so large, so lofty, with its air of wealth, When he said thbj they were at the door, and and place, and old magnificence, filled Zaidee Philip escaped hastily with the look of a culprit. with a great thrill or pleasure and of pride. As There was surely nothing wrong in thinking she made her way by the garden path to the of me, Zaidee said to herself as she threaded other side of the house, looking up at it with those lofty passages to her own room. When simple delight and admiration, and pausing to she arrived there, and by chance saw herself in see far off the hills of Wales, and a beautiful the mirror, with the faint color of her cheek glimpse of green fields and woodlands without freshened by the morning, and her eyes full of this domain, Zaidee could not repress her cx- light and pleasure, Zaidee was struck with a ultation. And this is Philips and Philip momentary consciousness. She went away from is the true head of the house and Castle the glass in great haste with a blush of shame; Vivian has come back to him, said Zaidee. at tI-tnt t~oment, of all moments, Sophys burst She spoke under her breath, but still she started of triumph a great beauty! flashed into Zai- to see Philip himself approaching her. A glow dees mind. If she was a great beauty, poor of pleasure was on Philips face, but still he Zaidee could not help it; but she arranged her drew back, and bowed, and was ceremonious. morning-dress very rapidly, and kept far away He offered her his arm with the respect of a from the mirror. Zaidee was sadly ashamed of courtier. He called her cousin; and Zaidee herself when this annoying consciousness came looked up at him timidly, afraid to say, as she to her mind. had intended to say, Philip, are you angry? May I come in? said Mary Cumberland, The two continued their walk together in silence. as she opened the door. I wonder what I am She suffered him to lead her quietly, and did not to call you how; it must be Lizzy still. And ask where he was going; but where he was how could you keep~uch a secret from me? You going was simply out of the flower-garden into a might have told me; indeed you might, you noble park, dotted with grand trees, and un- secret heiress you lady of mystery. I reiem- dulating into knolls and hollows, covered with her such quantities of things now, about how the richest greensward. ..He led her to one of you used to talk at 1Mm, and words I thought so these little eminences, and they looked back strange. Of course, if mamma had known, or together upon the beautiful pile of building Aunt Burtonshaw, your seeret would have been before them, on which the morning sun shone no secret; but you might have trusted me. ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE.PART XIII. I dared not trust any one, Mary, said Zaidee. And to think how slow Percy was, con- tinued Mary, w~ho had by no means exhausted her own self-congratulations, and how ready to believe that I myself, and only me, was anx- ious to see Philip on his way home. He said I had a right to my whim simple Percy ! and after all, the dog was a greater assistance to him than I was in finding you out; for he had found you out before you discovered yourself. Poor Sylvo, Lizzy, what will become of him? He will go away to the delights of savagery; he will shoot elephants, or be an Abyssinian dandy, and Sylvos place will go to waste, and all the while your cousin Philip and you will look at each other. What do I mean? I do not, mean any- thing, my princessbut there is Mrs. Burling- ton coming to rejoice over you, and I will go away. cii~r~rxx xxxiii. sopux. Mus. BURLINGTON! Yes, indeed, it is so, Zay, said Sophy, shaking her pretty head with mock melancholy as she came in; everybody must be Mrs. some- thing, you know, and we are all very happy. But Zay, Zay! I want you to tell me from the very beginning. And are you glad to be home? And you were nearly breaking your heart when mamma was ill, Miss Cumberland says? Do von think Philip is changed? did you not wonder ~o hear that Margaret was married to a Powis, after all? and do you know Elizabeths little girl, the dearest of all the children, is called Zaidee? Dear Zay, you are our own now, you are no one elses. Begin at the beginning, where you went as a governess Mrs. Disbrowes. What in the world did you teach the children, Zaidee? did you tell them stories? for you know you never would learn anything else yourself. I could not teach them at all, said Zaidee, and they would not have me. I thought they were very right at the time; but they were cruel children are very cruel sometimes and I wished for nothing hut to die. And then? cried Sophy. Sophy was very curious to hear the whole. And then I went .to Mrs. Lancasters, and met Aunt Burtonshaw; good Aunt Burtonshaw! I should have died, and never seen this day, if it had not been for her, said Zaidee; and I went to Ulm with her, to be a companion to Mary. To Ulm where is that? said Sophy. Mamma heard you had gone abroad, and they went everywhere seeking you, and every one of them saw you somewhere, Zaidee. It had never been you at all! for I am sure they did not go to Ulm. It is ~n the Danube. We were there a great many years, said Zaidee, and then when L grew up, Mrs. Cumberland said I should be called by their name, and be her adopted daughter. They have been very kind to me, Sophyas kind as they werd~ to Mary. But first I found that book an old woman had it an old Welsh servant, who was a servant at Powisland, and her father was with Grandfather Vivian. Did they put it back in the Grange library, Sophy? it had the same binding as all the other books. Did you see it, that strange legacy? I thought Grandfather Vivian wa~ leading me then; and when I found the book, I was very ill, and had a fever. I thought at first I would have tome home, but it was not enough for Philip, and I never knew he had gone to India: I thought he was at the Grange, and you were all happy at home. Happy at home, when we had lost you, Zay! cried Sophy; the Grange was never like its own self again. We will keep Philips birthday at home this year we will keep it at Briarford you shall ask every one of us to come to the Grange. But after your fever, Zaidee, what happened then? We travelled a great deal, and then we came back to England. I was afraid to some to Eng- land, said Zaidee; .nd so indeed we had not been very long settled, here when Mary met Percy. I went one evening in the carriage to bring her home, and then I saw him. I could not tell who he was, Sophy, and yet I knew him; and then I heard it was Mr. Vivian, the great author! and then became to Twickenham, and I read his books, and I was very proud, you may be sure. But to hear of you all as if I was a stranger, and to hear Elizabeths little girl called Zaidee, and to hear that Aunt Vivian was ill, and Philip coming home 0, Sophy, I had nearly broken my heart! But it is all over now, dear Zay, dear Zay! cried Sophy, with her arms round her recovered companion. And you were grieved to hear that Philip had gone to India; and you ventured to write and send the deed. Do you know, we began to be so eager every post-time afteryour first letter came. Mamma said you would be sure to write again, and at first she was quite confident of finding you. But never mind all that you are found now, Zaidee, and you will never be lost again. Come dowa stairs, where they are all waiting for us. Where did you get the grayhound, Zay ? was it only one of Sir Davids hounds? for poor Sermo is- not living now, to stalk after you. I think I should not have known you so soon but for the dog. Poos Se~no pined and died when you were gone. I have so much to tell you, and so much to ask you. Do you think Philip is changed? But come, they are waiting for us down stairs. Here is Sophy, with Miss Vivian; and here is the whole breakfast-table in alarm, lest our heroine should have disappeared again, said the stately Sir David Powis, as Zaidee followed her cousin into the well-filled breakfast-room. Miss Vivian! said Sophy; only think., mamma, what a devastation when Zaidee comes to be Miss Vivian? Eli~beth was Miss Vivian when Zaidee went away. Thea it was MargareVe turn and mine, and now there is only t~e youngest. There is no Miss Vivian in the world but Zay! Zaidee, come to me, said Margaret, with a little authority; man~ma had you all last night, and Sophy has had you this morning, and 55 58 Elizabeth will have ~ou at all times. What beautiful hair she has got, and how she has grown, and how much she is like Elizabeth! Dont you think so, mamma? There is a picture in the gallery that might have been done for Zaidee. It is quite the family face. My little Herbert has a little of it. Did you see my boy, Zaidee? And you saw all Elizabeths children? Why have you stayed so- long away from home, you foolish child? You dont know how we have wished for you, and searched for you. Sophy sobbed herself to sleep I cannot tell how many nights after you were lost, and we did nothing but dream of you night and day. I never hear the winter wind even at Powisland but I listen for footsteps; and you have been Miss Cumber- land all the while. How very strange that your adopted sister should be Percys betrothed! how very strange! When we heard of Miss Cumberland, and of Miss Cumberlands sister, who was like our Elizabeth, how little we dreamt that she was our own Zaidee! You must bring Zay to Powisland, mamma. And Zay, Sir David wants to know about the old woman who was a servant to his family. Everything is so wonderful about this child Grandfather Viv- ians book, and the person who served the Powises she must have been quite surrounded with things belonging to the family. You must have remembered us as well, Zaidee, as we re- membered you. When Lady Powis paused to take breath, Mrs. Burtonshaw eagerly took the opportunity. My dear child, said Mrs. Burtonshaw, I am sure I shall never be able to call you anything but Elizabeth, or to think you belong to another family. Indeed, I am sure I never shall; and to think we should have had her so long, and never kund this out. Maria Anna! and Mary to discover it all! But my dear Mary always was so sensible a child. We will all find it very dull going back to Twickenham, and leaving you behind, my dear love; and Sylvo will never believe it, I am sure. It will be very dreary for me, Elizabeth, and Maria Anna will feel it a great deal, and so will Mr. Cumberland. I think we will never be able to stay in that house when we lose both Mary and you. The house is necessarily imperfect, sister Burtonshaw, said Mr. Cumberland. Improve- ments are never so satisfactory as a place well planned from the beginning. I have a great mind to begin anew the Elizabethan style has its advantages; and I hear a great deal of the adaptability of glass. What do you think of glass and iron ~s materials for your cottages, Sir David? a beautiful material, brilliant and inexpensive, and capable of very rapid erection. By the way, I know of nothing better adapted to promote the artistic education of the people. Those light ir n shafts take the most beautiful forms; and as for color, nothing can excel glass. Suppose a row of cottages now, instead of the ordinary affairs, with low walls and thatched roof, springing up to the light with these glitter- ing arches. Depend upon Th, sir, a very great moral influence is in ihe nature of our houses. You could not do anything so sure to correct the ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE.PART XIII. faults of your peasantry as to build them palaces of glass. It certainly would be an effectual lesson against throwing stones, said Sir David Powis, with well-bred gravity. But, Mr. Cumberland, only think how cold! cried Sophy, whose apprehension was as practical and matter-of-fact as ever; they could never stand a gale at Briarford; nnd then why, it would quite be living in public; everybody would sce everything they did. So much the better for their transparency and purity of character, said Mr. Cumberland; so much the better, my dear madam and an immediate cure to the dangerous propensity of the poorer classes for throwin~ stones, ~s Sir David very justly says but perfectly capable of a high rate of temperature, as our conser- vatories show. I should not be at all surprised if the old proverb of those who live in glaas houses had a prophetic reference to this beau- tiful suggestion. We do our ancestors very poor justice, Sir David. I am convinced they per- ceived the capacity of a great many things that we, with all our boasts, are only beginning to put into use. I consider this an admirable op- portunity for a great moral reformation to a man who considers the welfare of his country a perfectly sufficient reason for acquiring land. And Mr. Cumberland turned immediately to the Times Supplement of yesterday, and began to turn over its advertisements with an inter- ested eye. Mr. Cumberland already felt a disin- terested necessity for becoming a landed propri- etor, and in imagination saw his glittering line of novel cottages, the inhabitants of which should be effectually convinced of the damage of throw- ing stones, shining under the sun, with a sheen of reflection against which the homely thatched roof had no chance. Sir David Powis, who was a satirist, and loved a character with his whole heart, drew near Mr. Cun~berland with the most benevolent eagerness to ascertain the particulars of his scheme; and Philip was being questioned at one end of the table, Zaidee at the other. The family party abounded in conversa- tion, every one h 1 SO much to ask, and so much to tell; and though Zaidee was the greater won- der of the two, and somewhat eclipsed Philip, Philip had~een absent equally long, and had a larger stock of adventures. The very servants moved about in quickened time in that buzz of happy commotion the wide family circle was so full of life. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE HEAD OF THE HOU5L To the much amazement of all the family, it appeared that Philip was anxious to go to Lon- don before proceeding~to the Grange, which was still home toall th~eVivians. Grandfather Vivians will had to be proved and established, and Zaidee formally invested with her property, and Philip had business of his own in town. Philip proposed a family migration thither; he was very sympathetic of the loss which Zaidees kind frie~ids must feel in losing her so suddenly. I do not care to part with you, mother, evem ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE.PART XIII. for a day, said Philip; and it is hard to sep- arate my cousin from her old life so hurriedly. But, Philip it is no worse, at the very worst, than if she had been married, said Sophy; when she married, of course, she must have left Mrs. Cumberland; Miss Cumberland her- self must leave home when she is married. It may be very hard, you know, but we all have to do it, and this is no worse than Zaidees mar- riage would be. But to the surprise of Sophy, Philip regarded with considerable haughtiness the prospect of Zaidees marriage. It did not seem at all an agreeable object of contemplation to the head of the house. He withdrew from the question with great gravity and stateliness, and with considerable embarrassment mingling in his usual deference, turned to Zaidee herself. If it is only a whim, will you humor it? said Philip, bending over Zaidees hand. I would rather have a little time elapse before we all go back to the Grange; our old home is very dear to us all, but I ask for a few weeks, a very few weeks, delay. Zaidee became embarrassed, too, in sight of Philips embarrassment; she withdrew from him a little, and her eyes fell under his glance with an uncomfortable consciousness. Wondering, as she did, what Philip could mean, Zaidee did not inquire into it; she consented to his wish readily, but with considerable confusion. If Zaidee will invite us, let us all keep Philips birthday at home in the Grange, cried Sophy; and to this there was a universal assent. But when Mary and Zaidee, with Percy for their squire, and Mrs. Burlington for their chaperone, set out on a days visit to the old family dwelling-place, Philip evaded all invitations to accompany them. He preferred not to see the Grange till his busi- neas was done, and all his plans concluded. No- body could understand Philip, and mysterious whispers of wonder stole through the family, and Sophy and Margaret held synods upon him. Could Philip be in love, that mysterious con- dition which these old married ladies were amused at, yet interested in? Elizabeth, for her part, only smiled when she was introduced to these discussions. Nobody was jealous of Elizabeth yet Lady Powis did grudge a little that the newly-returned and well-beloved brother should not give his confidence equally to all. But, as it happened, Philip had not given his confidence to any one, if he had a confidence to give. The family assembly dispersed from Cas- tle Vivian to gather again at the Grange; and Philip and Percy and Aunt Vivian accompanied the Cumberland family to London. Zaidee was still Elizabeth, their adopted daughter, to these kind people; she was still Aunt Burtonshaws dear child, though Aunt Burtonshaws hopes for Sylvo grew fainter and fainter; and the house at Twickenham was honored to receive Mrs. Vivian, who would not again lose sight of the long-lost child. To the kind but somewhat imperious mis- tress of the Grange, Mr. Cumberlands porch was an intolerable nuisance; she had piuch ado restraining herself from sweeping..forth its inap- propriate inmates, who, indeed, made themselves somewhat embarrassing neighbors even to Mrs. 57 Cumberland. Silver spoons were continually slid- ing out by the buttery-hateh, which was intend- ed for nothing less innocent than broken meats or bread; and the benevolent dolphin of the foun- tain was long since robbed of his enamelled cup. But, last and worst, the unkindest cut of all, those urchins, for whose benefit Mr. Cumberland besought his wealthy brethren to decorate with monograms the front of their houses, took into their independent British minds to pelt Mr. Cum- berlands own monogram with clay, and, find- ing it an admirable butt, persevered till the phi- lanthropist found only bits of the dragons tail and morsels of the gikling peering out, unfortu- nate memorials of the cannonade. If these little vagabonds had been bred in houses of crys- tal, it would have fared better with this ornamen- tation, for which they do not yet show themselves sufficiently educated, said Mr. Cumberland, undismayed. Sir David Powis is a very sen- sible man, sister Burtonshaw. The next gener- ation will be better taught. You shall see no missiles either of stone or clay in the hands of the boys of my cottages. We will refine these uncultivated natures, sister Burtonshaw never fear ! and Mr. Cumberland retired to perfect his plan for the construction of cottages of iron and glass. Sylvo is coming here for a week or two, Eliz- abeth, said Mrs. Burtonshaw. Poor Sylvo, I am sure you will be kind to him, my darlCng, and not send the poor boy away. He is a very different man from Mr. Vivian, my love. I do not deny that Mr. Vivian is handsome, Elizabeth, and a very fine young man; but I am afraid he always takes his own way. Now Sylvo, though he is so manly, is so easy and so good, that any one he loves can make him do anything, my dear child. Sylvo is very good and very kind. I know he is, Aunt Burtonshaw, said Zaidee. Yes, indeed, my love, though I am his mother, Sylvo is very good, Elizabeth. Now, I am sure there is something very grand about Mr. Vivian; but, for my part, I always feel I would rather do his way than make him do mine, and that makes a great difference in mar- ried life, my dear child. All the ladies wanted to go to the Grange, that place of yours, my dear; but Mr. Vivian wanted to come to Lou.. don, and th~refo~e we came; and all your trouble and your running away was because Mr. Vivian would not hear reason. I like him very well; he is a very handsome young man, and I do not wonder his family are proud of him; but I do not think I should like to marry Mr. Vivian, Elizabeth; he is a great deal different from my Sylvo. I am afraid he always takes his own way. Zaidee did not dispute the fact, for in her se- cret heart she was greatly di.turbed about Philip. What Philip was doing was not at present very well known to any of them. He lived in London with Percy, but came faithfully with Percy every night to visit the family at Twickenham. Pero~r had made the boldest dash into the business of his legitimate profession. Some one who knew the family, and admired the genius of it, lied 68 retained him to advocate his cause in a plea very shortly to be tried; and Percy laughed his gay, scornful laugh when remonstrances were made -actainst his daily visits to his betrothed, and when his time of preparation was spoken of. I am quite prepared, said Percy, and there was no farther room to say a word. But one even- ing, while they sat in expectation of the brothers, Mr. Steele came to pay one of his visits. Have you heard what happened to young Vivian? said Mr. Steele. The case came on before it was expected, and he got up immediately, and made the most brilliant speech that has been heard for years; but when the young gentleman sat down, what do you think he had done, Mrs. Burtonshaw? Instead of pleading his clients case, he had been pleading the opposition and gained his plea! It was but too true. Percy came out very rueful, very comical varying between great discomfiture and despondency, and fits of over- powering laughter. It was not my side, to be sure, but it was the right of the question, said Percy. They could never have gained it with their blundering fellow of a leading counsel, who could make nothing of it, right or wrong. I cant help it; and now I suppose I am done; they may call me Single-speech Vivian. Alas for the evanescent glory of fees! I will never get one again. It happened, fortunately, that Mr. Cumber- land was greatly tickled with this misadventure of his son-in-law elect. It struck the philoso- phers peculiar sense of humor; and nobody had a word of blame to say to the gay Percy, who was already casting about in his fertile brains for some other expedient, which might be more successful, to disembarrass him. Philip was standing by the window with his mother. The mirror gave a pretty reflection of these twe figures the little lady in her widows dress, with a rich India shawl which Philip had brought, replacing the Shetland wool one which has been worn out before now; but her rich, dim, black silk gown, and her widows cap the same as of old, her waist as slender, her foot in its high-heeled shoe, as rapid and as peremptory her whole person as completcly realizing the fairy godmother of Zaidees fancy as it had ever done; while Philip stood beside her in the easy, une- laborate dress of an English gentleman, with his close curls clustering about his manly head, his cheek bronzed, his hand laid playfully upon his mothers shoulder: he has been making a report to her, laughing at some objections she urges, and explaining rapidly and clearly some- thing which his mother only receives with diffi- culty, shaking her head. While they stand thus, Mrs. Vivian suddenly calls Zaidee to her; on the instant Philip Vivian relapses into a stately and deferential paladin the most chiv- alrous knight who ever worshipped his lady from afhr and withdraws a step back as his beautiful cousin comes forward to answer his mothers summons. Mrs. Vivian has put away Zaidees simple muslin gowns, and has dressed her richly as it suits her fair form to be dressed; ~ud the maker of these rustling silks has made ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE.PART XLII. them after an antique fashion, which, in Philips fancy, adds the last aggravation of which it is capable to Zaidees singular beauty. This lovely lady of romance is that same Zaidee who, with a childs-love and unthinking generosity, sacrificed all her world of comfort and security for the sake of Philip. This is the Zaidee who once made a~certain proposal to Philip, which roused his boyish manhood only to annoyance and em- barrassment; but the Philip of the present time has learned an infinite deal of humility from those eyes which once appealed to him as the highest judge. As he steps back, he makes a beseeching sign to his mother, of which Mrs. Vivian, who is not in the habit of hiding her sons candle under a measure, takes no notice as she proceeds. What do you think Philip has been doing, Zaidee? Your cousins portions were suddenly brought to nothing by that unfortunate will. The children were all penniless: Margaret had nothing when she married, and neither had Sophy, poor child, who had more need for it; and Percy has got embarrassed, you know. Well, here is Philip, who, after all, did not get Castle Vivian as an inheritance so much as a purchase what do you think he says he has been doing? He has been settling the portions of the younger children upon them more than they could have had, had we kept the Grange very considerable fortunes, indeed, Zaidee. He has made himself quite a poor man. Philip ought not to have done it; what do you say, child? I only remember what Philip said to me, Aunt Vivian, when I found the will, said Zaidee. And what was that? said Mrs. Vivian eagerly. Philip made a pretence of drawing still farther back, but, like a hypocrite, while he pretended to turn away, only came the nearer. He said it was the office of the head of the house to see that the children of the house had all their rights, said Zaidee; and she raised to Philip those glistening beautiful eyes which struck Philip with such profound humility. He turned away on the instant, afraid to trust him- self, but he could not help hearing the end of Zaidees sentence. This is Philips inheri- tance, Aunt Vivian. I understand it he is the h~ad6f the house! CHAPTER xxxv. CONCLUsION. My dear love, Sylvo is coming to-morrow, said Mrs. Burtonshaw. Mrs. Burtonshaw was nervous about Sylvos coming, and told every individual in the house, though every one al- ready knew. Sylvo came from London, and brought with him, instead of the peaceful port- manteau which mitt have been expected, the most marvellous stock of baggage traps, as Sylvo was pleased to entitle them. Among these were two fowling-pieces, a magnificently mounted ,dirk, and some murderous revolvers, with one or two extraordinary plaids or blan- kets, the use of all which to a quiet country gentleman in Essex, Mrs. Burtonshaw could not ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE.PART XIII. divine. Sylvo was much disposed to silence for the first day of his visit; and though the leaves were thin, and the grass no longer desirable as a eouch, Sylvo still frequented the gr~up of trces among which he had been wont to enjoy his cigar. On the second day, Sylvos mouth was opened; he had been discovered seated among the trees, polishing with his own hand the silver mounting of his favorite revolver. Mansfield is just about setting out; he s a famous fellow, said Sylvo. This oracular speech was enough to fill his mother with alarm and trembling. Mr. Mansfield is quite a savage, said Mrs. Burtonshaw, with dignity; I do not wonder he should be glad to go back again. He may be quite a fine gentleman among those poor crea- tures, Sylvo, but he is not very much at home. Sylvos ha, ha came with considerable embarrassment from behind his mustache. Fact is, I thought of taking a turn myself, to see the world, said Sylvo, A man cant be shut up in a house like a girl. Mansfield s the best company going better than a score of your grand men; never have such another chance. To see the world? said Mrs. Burtonshaw. What do you call seeing the world, you poor simple boy? And there is my dear darling child, Elizabeth, you will leave her pining, you unfeeling great fellow, and never say a word? Much she cares! said Sylvo, getting up very hfistily. If she is a beauty, what have I got to do with it, when she wont have me? Ill be off, mother; you can keep the place, and see things all right. Mansfield s a long way better than Elizabeth for me. My dear boy, she would have you. Do not go and leave us, Sylvo; she will break her heart, said simple Mrs. Burtonshaw. But Sylvo only whistled along, shrill whew! of undutiful scepticism. I know better, said Sylvo; and he went off to his cigar. And thus was the exit of Sylvester Burton- shaw. Sylvo may write a book when he comes nome, for anything that can be predicted to the contrary. Sylvo, at the present moment, lives a life which the vagrants in Mrs. Cumberlands porch would sink under in a week. Sylvo tramps barefoot over burning deserts, hews his way through unimaginable jungle, fights wild beasts, and has a very hard struggle for his savage ex- istence; all for no reason in the world, but because he happened to be born to wealth and leisure, and found it a very slow thing to be an English country gentleman. No wonder the savages whom Sylvo emulates open their heathen eyes in the utmost wonder; he does it for pleas- ure, this extraordinary Englishman, and roars his ha, ha, out of his forest of beard, over all his voluntary hardship. Savage life has no such phenomenon; and, for the good of society, when he comes home, Sylvo will write a book. Sylvo will be quite happy it will do him good, Aunt Burtonshaw, said Mary Cumber- land; and you have still two children you have Elizabeth and me. Whereupon Aunt Burtonshaw wipes her kind eyes, and is comforted. Mary will be a bride so soon, there is little time to think of anything else for Percy, with his younger brothers fortune, can be content with that other profession of literature, in which he cannot have the same brilliant misadveistures as in the learned mysteries of law and there is to be a marriage here at Twickenham. But all this while the great mirror over the wall, when it holds up its picture of Zaidees beautiful face, chronicles a constant shade of perplexity an anxious cloud upon this fair brow of hers, which is like the brow of a queen. There is no understanding Philip he is a perpetual mys- tery with his reserve and courtly politeness; and now his birthday is approaching very closely, and they all prepare to go home to the Grange. It is wild October weather on the hill of Briar ford~ Over that great waste of sky the clouds are hurrying in the wildest fli~ht, and this bol~ gale has pleasure in tossing them close upon each other in black, tumultuous masses, and scattering them abroad anon with a shout of triumph. There is no change upon the wet, green carpet of these Cheshire fields, and there are still the old gables and haystacks of Briar- ford, the square tower of the church among these little plumes of blue smoke, and the dwarf oaks in the hedge-rows shaking their knotted branches and remainder leaves in theface of the strong blast. Above here, on the lawn of the Grange, the winds are rushing together, as the strangers think, from every quarter under heaven; but even the strangers feel the wild exhilaration of the sweeping gale, which raises their voices into gay shouts of half-heard words and laughter, and keeps up a perpetual riot round this exposed and far-seeing dwelling- place. The sea is roaring with an angry curl upon yonder line of sand-banks far away a lingering line of red among yonder storm-clouds tells of the sunset, as it yields unwillingly to- night and all these solitary lines of road trace out the silent country, travelling towards the sky; but there is no Mariana now at the window of the Grange, looking for the wayfarer who never comes. The red and genial fire-light gleams between the heavy mullions of the great window; there is light in the library, light in the young ladies room the bright cross light of old. The modern windows at the other end of the drflwii~-room are draped once more to their feet with crimson curtains, but no veil shuts out that glimpse of wild sky, with its tu- mult of cloud and wind, across which these great mullions of stone print themselves like bars. There is Mrs. Vivians easy-chair and her high footstool; there is Percys writing-table, where Percy has been writing; there is the hereditary newspaper, at which Philip no longer pshaws, but sometimes laughs outright. But in all this familiar room~here is no living object familiar; there is only a group of beautiful children playing in the light of the fire. Lady Powis is making a grand toilette. Sophy is wasting her dressing-hour talking to Mary Cumberland, but there are still two beau- tiful faces reflected dimly in the little mirror over the bright fireplace of the young ladies 69 ZAIDEE: A ROMANCE. PART XIII. room. One of them, in its matronly fulness and sweet tranquillity, is Elizabeth Vivian; the other has a shadow on its beauty. Zaidee is in her own house, but Zaidee is riot at rest. Philip says perhaps perhaps he may still return to India, sayi Zaidee. Even Castle Vivian does not undo the harm I did, Elizabeth. I think Philip is changed. And I will tell you what I think, said Elizabeth, drawing close to her the beautiful cheek which was so like her own. I have always thought it through all our trouble, and I have always been right, Zaidee; we will wait quietly, and see what God is pleased to make of this, dear child. I fear no change. You said that long ago, before I left the Grange, said Zaidee. Did I say it of Bernard? I forget now that ~ernard is not myself, said Elizabeth with a smile, and in those sweet tones which came to every one like the voice of peace. I am a good prophet, then, for this came true. And Elizabeth left the young heiress alone with her thoughts. These were not desirable companions for Zaidee. She came into the drawing-room, paused a moment before the great window to look at the sky and the clouds, paused again to sneak to the children, and then, struck by a sudd~n fancy, went to the library to look fur Grandfather Vivians book, which had been restored to its place there. The library was half lighted, the curtains were not drawn, the open sky looked in once more, and Zaidee started to see Philip sitting in the partial light by the table, leaning his head upon his hands. She would have turned back again, but he rose and brought her to the table; she stood by him for a moment there, with the strangest unspeak- able embarrassment. In the darkness, Zaidees beautiful cheek burned with a blush of recollec- tion: she remembered the last time she stood by Philips side in this apartment she remem- bered her own childs heart troubled to its depths, and the young mans momentary harshness and boyish shame. It was the same scene, the same half light, the same uncurtained window; and there stood the elbow-chair, in which she fancied Grandfather Vivian might sit exulting in the success of kis evil purp6se. Zaidee stood quite still, neither moving nor speaking. Was Grand- father Vivian looking on now? Then Philip said, Zaidee. He never called her soyet Zaidee did not look up with pleasure she rather looked down all the more, and felt her blush burn warmer upon her cheek. Philip took. the only mode which remained to him of ascertaining what her eyes were dream- ing of. He stooped so low that his proud head touched those hands of Zaidees which unwil- lingly submitted to be held in Philips hand and then the head of the house spoke to the heiress of the Grange. Zaidee, what did you say to me when we were last here together? Do you remember? That pure childs heart of yours that feared no evil Zaidee, where is it now? Zaidee made no answer but she stood quite still, with her blush burning on her cheek, and the tears in her eyes. I am not so disinterested as you were. You kill me if you send me away, said Philip. I have no thought of generosity for my part, Zai dee. I confess it is myself and my own happi. ness I am thinking of. I cannot be content to share you with my mother, with Sophy and Mar- garet and Elizabeth. You drive me now to the humblest attitude, the meanest argument. You little Zaidee, who once would have married Philip, will you do it now? or will you send me to India again to throw my life away? How Philip pleaded further, there is no record, but Philip neither threw his life away nor went to India. Philip Vivian of Castle Vivian and of Briarford, the head of the house, has. the most beautiful wife in all Cheshire, not even excepting Mrs. Bernard Morton; and after all the grief and sacrifice and suffering it has occa- sioned, this will of Grandfather Vivian has become the most harmless piece of paper in the world, and it is not of the slightest importance to any creature which of these two claimants is the true heir of the Grange. TuRnxv ~.un ROME. In Dr. Watts Reliquia Juveniles, Miscellaneous Thoughts in Prose and Verse, 4-c., I find an article headed, Babylon Destroyed, or the 187th Psalm trans- lated, from which I extract the following pas- sage: This particular Psalm could not well be con- verted into Christianity, and therefore it appears here in its Jewish form. The vengeance de- nounced against Babylon, in the close of it, shall beexecuted (said agreatdivine) upon Anti-Chris- tian Rome; but he was persuaded the Turks must do it; for Protestant hearts, said he, have too much compassion in them to embrue their hands in such a bloody and terrible execution. What divine is here referred to, and where is the opinion given? In the same volume, I find the idea of a Crystal Palace. An article on The Temple of the Sun thus commences: If I were an idolater, and would build a Temple for the Sun, I should make the whole fabrick to consist of glass; the walls and roof of it should be all over transparent, and it should need no other windows. Thus I might every where behold the glor~of the God that I worship, and feel his heat, and rejoice in his light, and partake of the vital influences of that illustrious star in every part of his temple. H. MARTIN. HALIFAX. ,Abtes and Queries. 60 THE RISING SPIRIT OF SPECULATION. From The Examiner, 27 Oct. FILLIBUSTERING. are in danger of doing too much honor to the lawless portion of the great American community. Such it would be, to credit them with enough either of power in them- selves, or of social influence with their countrymen, to bring the two freest countries on the earth to the verge of quarrel. Remembering what the Americans are, let us at least not be eager to meet half way even the possibility of such a strife. Men of our own race, they have conquered on a distant continent not anly more liberty than their ancestors were able to possess in peace when won at home, but a little more than they themselves know quite how to enjoy, without the drawback of excesses which their form of government fails to check. But for the perfection of a republic it is indispensable that there should be a widely-diffused spirit of justice innate in the people; and however prominent every exception to this rule in America is by the nature of things made, the simple fact that the republic still exists, that it maintains one of the highest positions in the world, and has commanded hitherto the full respect of England, is quite sufficient proof of its establishment, generally, on a sound and firm foundation. We have no Fight to confound with the healthy opinion of America the cries of faction which in all republics find necessarily more uncontrolled utterance than elsewhere, or to condemn its government too hastily for those outbreaks of lawlessness which only the spread of sound opinion and feeling under a free constitution can hold in constant check. These are the rough trials of strength which young repub- lies have at all times to endure; and that America survives them proves not that they are, but that they arc not, of her essence. In spite of them the Government of the United States exists. We hold it therefore to be quite beside every wise purpose to show ourselves in any degree forward with anger at any weakness or excess in that government which it may be possible to meet by prudence and temper. All who desire to strengthen and extend the liberty of nations can wish only success to our countrymen in America. Let us rather be eager to forgive their occasional stumbling upon a difficult and surely noble path. In every way it behooves us to help them, even by some little sacrifice of mere pride, as a much-needed example to the nations which hold to old creeds of despotism. Any violent check to the upward progress of America inflicted by Great Britain, exceyt under such provocation as it is not easy to imagine pos- sible, would disgrace the annals of this country forever, and to a serious degree re- tard the progress of all true civilization. That her really influential men are dis- posed to sanction wild projects of piracy we will not believe. Fillibustering is no limb of the republican state, but.an excrescence requiring to be cut out of it. The art of surgery may be performed, we honestly believe, without giving just occasion of offence. A strong English fleet assembles at Ber- muda ready to act if need should arise for action. The apprehenson is that a descent may be made on Hayti as a step towards Cuba, but we are not pledged, or should not be pledged, to the protection of that miser- ably mismanaged Spanish possession, which sooner or later the United States must seized if they be so evilly minded, in despite of all Europe may do to the contrary. Some indeed hint at a design against Ireland; but the Government can scarcely share this impres- sion, or the fleet would not have been sent out of the Irish seas. If you expect a bur- glary in Piccadilly you do not draft off your police into Bermondsey. In any case let us by all means prevent lawless people of every sort from intruding upon our possessions; and for the rest show what forbearance we can. Against states affecting to hold within themselves all necessary powers of repression, much grave complaint and virtuous indig- nation may fairly be expressed for permitting what they knew how to prevent. But as to America we ought to know, and if we have read anything of history must know, what is the truth; and let us act upon it in a practical and manly temper. At a time when we are beating down the despotism of the East, we owe it to humanity to treat with forbearance, nay, with all due gener- osity and sympathy, whatever difficulties may beset the course of freedom in the West. Great indeed should be the cause of offence before we so much as think of those men as enemies who are allied to us not only by blood and~ rate, but by that common love of public liberty which sorely needs to be more widely spread among the nations of the world. From The Economist, 17 Nov. THE RISING SPIRIT OF SPECULATION. TuERE are very few now engaged in con- ducting the commerce of this country who have not been actively c~inected with it suf- ficiently long to remember the latter half of the year 1847. The great panic of that ycar, which began in the month of August and continued with increasing intensity all Sep- tember and a part of October, was preceded by a premonitory pressure in the moz~th of 61 4 THE RISING SPIRIT OF SPECULATION. April. That pressure, though short, was sharp and severe. It will perhaps be remem- bered that the greatest commercial authority of the day, the late Lord Ashburton, speak- ing then in the Senate, declared that in his opinion the commerce of the country had never at any former time been in a more healthy state, and that whatever inconven- ience might be caused by the mad railway speculations which for the three preceding years had so much occupied the attention of the public and absorbed the floating capital of the country, he could at least congratu- late the House of Lords that trade was sound. The Noble Lord went further, if our recol- lection is correct, and published a pamphlet in which he repeated similar statements. Under such a conviction, which was general in the country and dwelt upon by the press, the pressure of April passed away, andstrange as it may appear, speculation, in place of being checked and controlled by the warning, secmed to have been only promoted by it. During the three succeeding months great excitement prevailed, and the price of wheat was run up to an average of five guineas the quarter, enormous orders were sent to the United States and other countries for wheat and flour at corresponding prices ; other articles of foreign produceless or more shared the excitement; and operations on the spot, to arrive, and in the shape of orders transmitted abroad at extreme lim- its, to be executed when and how they could, were then entered upon. August arrived, and the sequel is too well known. Trade which was deemed by the highest au- thorities to be quite sound in April, turned out to be completely rotten in September. Yet we do not believe that, speaking for the country generally, the opinion expressed in April by Lord Ashburton was not well found- ed. No doubt there were some few very ex- tensive firms, which turned out to have been existing for some time in a state of insolvency, on credit and reputation formerly acquired. But most of the money that was lost in the autumn of 1847, and many of the bankrupt- cies which occurred, were the consequences of transactions begun between April and Sep- tember ; and might to a great extent have been avoided had caution and moderation followed the warning in April. In place of that, speculators led the way ; the legiti- mate and even prudent trader was dragged after them, in numerous cases, in spite of himself. At such times, the cautious mer- chant, sensible of the volcano on which he stands, is obliged either to suffer himself to be edged out of his connection and trade, or to sail with the stream ; ~ and when the re- tributive reaction arrives, which involves the speculator in ruin, he finds that he also, an unwilling victim of a mania, suffers enor- mousjosses, by a fall in price, not only upon his stock on hand, but also on the goods which for some time forward are yet to ar- rive. And these losses, taken in connection with a general discredit and a severe mone- tarial crisis, cause hundreds to succumb be- fore the storm, whose position but a few months before was not only quite sound, but even flourishing. Thus by the acts of a comparatively few, the trade of the country, which might in April fairly be said to have been unwontedly sound, might in September disclose a condition of weakn ~s leading to losses and ruin such as were experienced in 1847. Are we to learn by experience? We know that whenever a commercial mania arises, there are always those who can ingeniously show that the peculia:ities of the moment take it out of the category of former periods of speculation. This was so in 1825. In 1836 there were whole sheets of print ex- pended to show that the circumstances of the hour bore no resemblance to those of 1825, and that there were sufficient grounds for not anticipating a similar result. Again, in 1847 there was no lack of arguments to show that it bore no resemblance to 1836 or 1825. Nevertheless, reaction, panic, and loss, equal- ly followed all those periods of undue ex- citement. At present, circumstances are again said to be altogether different from those of any former time. We are at war, and war is always accompanied by high prices! Is this so? On the contrary, it is not true in point of fact; and in poinl of reasoning it is contrary to what logic teaches. All other things being the same, war is much more likely to lead to low prices than to high prices; because the additional taxes which we have to pay limit the power of consump- tion. No doubt if the war be of a character which interrupts our trade with producing countries, and prevents the arrival of sup- plies, it may lead to scarcity and high prices. Or i$~ during a ~var, the Government resorts to a suspension of cash payments, and the currency becomes depreciated, every article will command a nominal high price. But in the present war neither of these circum- stances exist, except in respect to a very lim- ited number of articles. And, therefore, generally speaking, so far as the war alone is concerned, it ought rather to considered as a cause likely to lead to low than to high prices. The commercial classes of the present day have very recently had a premonitory warn- ing. The pressure in April, 1847, was not more severe than that of the last six weeks. In its character it was very similar. The first alarm has passed over; and it is more 62 ROYAL MATRIMONIAL ALLIANCES. than probable that the precautions taken by the Bank will for some short time leave the country in comparative calm as regards monetary affairs. But the cause of the recent pressure is not re~noved. Notwith- standing this, there has already risen a spirit of speculation, beginning with a single article of colonial produce, for which, in the relation of supply and demand, there was no doubt ample reason for a considerable advance, hut also already apparently communicating it- self to other leading articles with regard to which no such reasons exist, and threatening a general extension to all commodities. It will he well, however, if those engaged in trade will bear in mind the many instances which have been witnessed, when from actual scarcity very high price has been attained, with regard to any particular article, that supplies in unexpected quantities and from quarters wholly unlooked-for have arrived, and have caused a reaction much sooi~er than had been thought possible, look- ing only to the ordinary sources of produc- tion. There is also another point which at such a moment as this is likely to lead to much deception. Stocks in first hands become rapidly reduced; importations as they arrive are rapidly taken off; the cry arises that consumption has overtaken supply, and that the demand is not affected even by the high price. All this may be very deceptive. The excitement which begins with importers is communicated to dealers, and from dealers to shopkeepers ; and the many thousands of wl~ich the latter class consists, each at the same time increasing his stock, from the im- pression that prices will rise still higher, produces the appearance of a great consump- tion, when, in point of fact, it is only an increase of retail stocks to remain on hand, in anticipation of future wants. When a mania of this kind once begins, it is difficult to say where it will end, but every one who justly appreciates the circumstances which are now and which for some time to come must continue to press upon our money market, will well understand how necessary it is to observe the strictest caution. We sincerely trust, that while in November we can safely say that the trade is sound, we may not in March be compelled to arrive at a different conclusion. From the Economist, 17 Nov. ROYAL MATRIMONIAL ALLIANCES. SOME weeks ago an article appeared in the columns of a powerful contemporary, de- nouncing in no measured tersps a matrimonial alliance which the writer assui~ed to be con- templated by our Royal Family. Some at- tention was excited; but we did not at that time feel ourselves called upon to enter into the subject. Arguments so preposterous, urged in a tone so unbecoming, could hardly fail to carry their own refutation in the judgment of all temperate and thinking men. Since, however, the subject has aroused con- siderable interest, and we think been very much misunderstood, it may not be amiss to say a few words upon its real character and hearing. In the first place, let it be remembeued what is the position of our Royal Family. Their matrimonial choice is more circum- scribed than that of any Royal House in Europe. Marriage with a subject is out of the question. Marriage with a Catholic Prince is inte~sdicted. And since almost all the Continental Courts are Catholic, the Princes and Princesses of England are com- pelled to select their partners among the Royal Families of Sweden, Denmark, Prussia, or the petty States of Germany. To the latter, hitherto, they have been almost. en- tirely restricted at the cost or the risk of consequences to which we need not more particularly allude. Yet no sooner is a sus- picion suggested of an intention to emanci- pate themselves from this mischievous restric- tion, than a journal which has generally shown better taste and sounder judgment raises its voice in clamorous denunciation, and a degree of alarm is excited in the country for which it would be difficult to assign any reasonable ground. We confess ourselves at a loss to under- stand what objection can be urged against the union supposed to be in contemplation. TIiat it is desirable to leave the matrimonial choice of the Royal Family as free as para- mount political considerations will permit, no one can deny. Why, then, is this alli- ance to be regarded with so much fear and dislike? That Prussia is at present unfriendly to us, is very true. As true is it, that this unfriendliness is the sentiment of the Court, and of the Court alone. It is not the senti- ment of th?e ~~ople; it is known nOt to be the sentiment of the heir-presumptive to the throne, the father of the presumed bridegroom elect of the Princess Royal. Why should he be considered as lying under a ban, because his brother, the reigning Monarch, is mis- chievously influenced by a matrimonial alli- ance with Russia? Suppose . that the war with Russiit had never broken out, and that the Governments of Engl~nd and Prussia had continued on terms of uninterrupted cor- diality, what more fitting consort could have been selected for an English Princess than the probable successor to the throne of the greatest Protestant and constitutional king- dom in Europe, next to her own? What choice could have been more popular, what 63 64 alliance less likely to involve us in German squabbles and continental difficulties? And why should the adverse disposition of the present King prevent us from welcoming the prospect of an intimate and cordial alliance with his successor? We conceive that the very ground taken by the objectors to the proposed union affords the strongest evidence of its advisability. The preseht King of Prussia is said to be hostile to England under th influence of his family connection with the house of Romanoff. Is not this the clearest possible proof how much England may hope to gain by exercising a corres- ponding influence during the succecding reign? Whatever the value we attach to the enmity of the present Monarch, the same must of necessity belong to the friendship of his successor .In Prussia, the personal in- fluence of the King may decide the policy of the country. That this influence, exercised by an unfriendly Monarch, has deprived us of a valuable ally, is surely the very worst possible reason for our doing all in our power to ensure that it shall continue, in a future reign, to be exercised in the same spirit of hostility to England. Who can fail to perceive that, in proportion as we suffer by the alienation or imbecility of King Fred- erick William, we should be anxious to secure the cordial friendship of the more liberal branch of the Royal Family of Prussia? Nor can there be any reason to apprehend that this alliance will exercise any injurious effect upon our own policy. Abroad, the influence of the English Court is the influ- ence of England. Insinuations to the con- trary come with a singularly bad grace from those who cannot but have seen how heartily ROYAL MATRIMONIAL ALLIANCES. our Court has seconded the policy of the nation. How greatly has the good feeling of France towards us been enhanced and confirmed by the womanly tact and princely courtesy of the Queen against whom these suspicions unworthy alike of the Sovereign and the nation are directed. But at home, foreign influence brought to bear upon the Court could have but little weight in the councils of a Sovereign, qui regne et ne gouverne pas . No Ministers would dare for an hour to attempt to guide the foreign policy of England in obedience to the per- sonal will of the Monarch. They are watched by an ambitious and often unscrupulous Opposition, ready to demand and scrutinize in no friendly spirit their reasons for every step. They are, in a word, under a control which may at any moment be strictly exer- cised which would call them to account the moment they ventured to sacrifice their political duty to Court influence or to a mis- taken idea of personal loyaltyif, indeed, English Ministers could be found weak or wicked enough to contemplate such a pro- ceeding. We depreeate, in the name of prudence, of decency, of justice, the idea that Royal marriages are to be made mere matters of State convenience. We regret the intem- perate and unseemly language in which the leading journal thought fit to lecture our gracious Sovereign on her domestic as well as her political duties. But we say confidently, that it would be difficult for the objectors to select, on grounds of policy, a fitter pnion for the Princess-Royal than that which they have assailed in terms so violent and in- decorous. TILE EQEIPAGE nr REGENT STREET. Look at these equipages and their appointments! Mark the exquisite balanceof that claret-bodied chariot upon its springs the fine sway of its sump- juous ~ammercloth, in which the unsmiling coachman sits buried to the middle the exact fit of the saddles, setting into the curvos of the horses backs so as not to break, to the most care- less eye, the fine lines which exhibit action and grace! See how they stand together alert, fiery, yet obedient to the weight of a silken thread; and as the coachman sees you studying his turn-out, observe the imperceptible feel of the reins and the just visible motion of his lips, conveying to the quick ears of his horses the premonitory, and, to us, inaudible sound, to which, without drawing a hairs-breadth upon the traces, they paw their fine hoofs and expand their nostrils impatiently! CQme nearer, and find a speck or a raised hair, if you can, on these glossy coats! Observe tfl~ nice fitness of the dead-black harness, the modest crest upon the panel, the delicate picking out of white in the wheels, and, if you would venture upon a free- dom in manners, look in through the window of rose-j~int~.l glass, and see the splendid cushions and the costly and splondid adaptation of the interior. The twin-mated footmen fly to the carriage-door, and the pomatumed clerk who has enjoyed a tite-is-t~te for which a prince-royal might sigh, and an ambassador might negotiate in vain, hands in his parcel. The small foot presses on the carpeted step, the airy vehicle yields lightly and recovers from the slight weight of the descending form, the coachman inclines his ear for the half-suppressed order from the footman, and off wl~Irls the admirable structure, compact, true, steady, but magically free and fast as if horses, footmen, and chariot were but theparts of somecomplicated centaur some swift-moving monster upon legs and wheels. Wilti8 Fo~mou8 Persons and Famous Places.

LITTEJ~L& LIVING AGE.No. 607.12 JANUARY, 1850. From Taits Magazine. WHO ARE THE KINGS OF THE EAST? And the Sixth Angel poured out his phial upon the great river Euphrates; and the water thereof was dried up, that the way of the Kings of the East might he prepared. Tsix way of the Kings of the East is to be prepared by the drying up of the waters of the Euphrates; according to the twelfth verse of the sixteenth chapter of Revela- tions. Like many other unfulfilled predic- tions, this announcement has occasioned various conjectures and criticisms. Some persons indeed hold that the prophecy has long been fulfilled, but their opinion is enter- tained by few commentators of weight in this department of criticism. Nearly all parties agree that the river Euphrates denotes, in this place, the resident population on its banks. No exception is now taken to that view, and it seems to be the only part of the prophecy which has hitherto received a clear interpretation. But some persons allege that the decadence of this population, or the drying up of the Euphrates, occurred at a distant period, when the tribes of northern Asia acquired supremacy, in the great central valley of the world, and began their migra- tions westward, to the East of Europe. In that case the prophecy cannot be applicable to the Saracens, who are Arabians in blood, and therefore, in reality, belong to the very people whose weakness is predicted. The only other supposition on this view points to the Turks as the Kings of the East, and the period of their appearance in the west of Asia, as the drying up of the Euphratean flood. This interpretation has no valid sup- port in facts, but is a fanciful delusion, which might very probably originate in the mind of a superficial reader. Events must invariably coincide with predictions, and all prophecy must relate to the future, and not to the past. Whenever we have statements that refer to past events, we have history or narrative, but not predictions. The falling of the Euphra- tean tide must relate to a period when the power of the people inhabiting the regions which the river intersects will become more contracted than at the date of The prophecy, or than at some period posterior to its date, ~cvii. LIWIEG AGE. VOL. LU. 5 but previous to its fulfilment. The rise of the Turkish power on the Euphrates may he properly placed towards the middle of the eleventh century, and the date of the proph- ecy was towards the close of the first cen- tury. A long interval elapsed between the residence of the apostle John at Patmo~, and the sovereignty of Togrhul Bey at Bagdad~. Desolating changes occurred in many quar- ters of the world during that millenniuni, and from the apostles banishment to the appearance of the celebrated Turkish ~ihief- tam; but during these eleven centuries, the power of the Euphratean population had not apparently decayed, or been obviously wasted away. The first century of the Christi~ti era is long posterior to the desolations of the Euphratean cities and empires. Subsequent to the decay of the Roman Empire the re- gions in question rather rose in importance. The tide flowed; the eastern empire was weakened at the heart, and became unable to hold its distant dominions in a firm grasp. The grand preparation for the way of the Kings of the East had not apparently com- menced. It is by no means evident that the Ttfrks ever were far removed from these countries. They seem to have been a Euphratean tribe from a very distant date; for the title very fairly embraces all the districts east of that river towards the Indus, and from its mouth upwards to its sources in the Armenian moun- tains. The opinion which we have thus noticed scarcely deserves attention;is defioie~it in every requisite, and is not held by mau~ persons, because it not only fails in important points of recognition, but is in chronological disorder with other events foretold in this wonderful book. The decadence of the states on the Euphra- tes, preparatory to the way of the Eastern Kings, is therefore an event not yet explained; but nearly all the commentators refer it to the decay of the Turkish Thapire. The boun- daries of that empire include the Euphr~tce, and its power has waned and wasted for many years. Its frontiers have been gradually coli- tracted on all sides. Africa has been almost entively wrested from the Turks; for the WHO ARE THE KINGS OF THE EAST? assistance now afforded to the Sultan by Egypt, and the smaller states of the African continent, resembles the voluntary aid of an ally more than the necessary support of a subject. The Russians have seized very large pro- vinces in the Turkish Empire towards the north during the century. Moldavia, Wal- lachia, Servia, and Montenegro, are indepen- dent, with the exception of small annual pay- ments. The kingdom of Greece, small in territory but valuable by its geographical position, has been formed out of European Turkey within a quarter of a century. No European power has so visibly declined as that of the Ottoman empire during the memory of men now engaged in public life. In this respect, the identification is complete. The Euphrates is dried up. Turkey is not the only empire to which the term may be applicable. Without stretching the geographical meaning of the title Euphratean, the Persian empire may be included within its limits. Events within Persia attract less inquiry in Europe than those in Turkey, but that state also has decreased in influence and power contem- poraneously with the recession of Turkey. Russia has gained Georgia and other provin- ces from Persia during the currency of this century, but the court of Teheran has lost more in moral than in territorial influence. A map will show that Persia and Turkey are essentially Euphratean powers, and while Arabia may be almost politically independent, from its position, yet its fanaticism unites the population closely with the empire of the Turks. The next, and the more important, because the more doubtful inquiry, respects the iden- tification of the Kings of the East, whose way is to be prepared by the drying up of the Persian and the Turkish monarchies. English theologians, almost without exception, assign to the Jews this oriental pre-eminence. The opinion proceeds more upon sentimental than sound criticism. The Jews have scarcely a vestige of title to the name of kings, or rulers, of the East. They have at present no earthly possession, and they probably never will have any territorial property out of Syria; which is not east but west from the Eu- phrates. The idea proceeds frO~n the hope that the decadence of Turkey will prepare the way for the restoration of the Jews to Palestine; but they will not enter Palestine from the east; for they are nearly all located to the west of that interesting land. At any time, for many years past, they might have fixed their homes in Palestine without any hin- drance or persecution from the Turks. They had to dread the enmity of the Greek Chris- tians; and they have been frequently com- pelled to seek shelter from individual Turks in Judea, when insulted, oppressed, and per- secuted by their nominally Christian neigh- bors. The substitution, therefore, of Greek or Russian rule for Turkish supremacy in Syria would be remarkably inconvenient and unacceptable to them. The expulsion of the small Jewish population now resident in their own land might follow in the ordinary course of persecuting policy; but the Greek Cross, while it symbolizes despotism, could never add to the natural attractions of the moun- tains round Jerusalem, in the opinion of their banished people. The term Kings~ implies power, rule, and strength. The employment of the plural infers the fair grammatical construction, either that more than one state is implied, or a single state governed on popular principlea. The Jews are the solution of professional theologians, who do not support their views by any argument whatever, but who concede the propriety of applying the phrase to a single nation. Judea is eastward of Patmos, and its inhabitants might be described as of the East, in reference to the locality of the vision, but not in respect to its grand subject and symbol, the Euphrates; for, as already stated, Juden is west of the Euphrates, and the Jews are scattered among nations to the west of Judea, with few exceptions. Even when contrasted with Patmos, the land of Palestine would not, in ordinary language, be styled the East by a writer dealing with the geography of the globe. We do not say in Britain that Belgium, France, or Holland is the East, although all these coun- tries are eastward from England. The phrase has always implied the distant east, and not a country on the oriental frontier of the state whei~e the language was em- ployed. We must also remember the date of the prediction. John was banished to Patmos after the Jews had been driven out of their own land; and the majority of the people 66 WHO ARE THE KINGS OF THE EAST? had been carried or had fled to the north or the west, both of Judea and of Patmos, into the lands where their posterity reside to the present day. The Jews, at no moment of their history, could with propriety be designated rulers of the East. Their dominions never extended beyond the Euphrates, and they never occupied even the right banks of that river over a large portion of country, or through any considerable period. But the commentators usually coerce the phrase Kings into Priests of the East. This violence to the text is entirely un- necessary, except to reconcile difficulties aris- ing from the original misconception. The Jews are not now, and are never likely to become, preachers or teachers to the East, until they have regained their land; and thatevent will not probably precede their conversion. This solution has so little support in the passage that very few considerations are requisite to show its inadequacy; and yet it is the favor- ite and almost the only meaning now attached to the term. Although in no sense consistent with the just and ordinary meaning of lan- guage do the Jews meet the requirements of the prophecy, yet they have been almost uni- versally pressed into this verse by those who, in latter times, have endeavored to solve its pur- port. We have still however to look for a con- federacy of kings, or a single nation, ruling in the East and likely to occapy the vacuum left by the subsidence of the Mahometan tide; for the full scope of the phraseology, waters of the Euphrates,~ infers rather the disciples of Mahomet than any single power among them, however pre-eminent. The Affghans, the Burmese, or the Chinese would meet the geographical requirements of the verse; but the Affghans, in the meaning suggested in the last sentence, are a Euphra- tean people, and in the meantime we have no reason to expect a migration westward of Burmese or Chinese emigrants. Both nations are the subjects of despotism, and cannot he regarded as kings or rulers. In that partic- ular, aud in all others, with the single geog- raphical exception, they fail to meet the case. We may remark that the progress westward of the Kings of the East seems to be a desir- able event. A way is to be prepared for them. Very probably they might come for- ward as instruments of judgment; but from the context we should rather regard them as messengers of mercy, and vindicators of right. The present position of any purely Oriental nation would not induce us to expect a fulfil- mcnt of the latter probabilities; and, never- theless, the waters of the Euphrates rapidly recede. Who thcn are the Kings of the East The phraseology employed is extremely re. markable and simple. It is not eastern rulers, but rulers of the East. They may be resi- dent in, but it does not follow that they must belong to, the East. If the question were put in plain language, without any Scriptural reference, to an intelligent merchant, to a European politician, or to any person ac- quainted with geography and history, Who are the rulers of the East the answer would be immediate. Neither difficulty, nor doubt, nor hesitation, would. be expressed in this case; and we do not see any good reason for setting aside the reply of reason or common sense in reference to a Scriptural subject. The Kings or rulers of the East, therefore, according to this view, are the British people, or their representatives who govern India, the Anglo-Indians; and we are to mention sum- marily a few of the arguments which support this opinion. The text does not imply the people of the East, but absolutely their rulers; and it is a singular fact than the Anglo-In- dians have never yet been colonists of the East. Hindostan has not been their home. They have riot settled on~its plains, and become in large numbers the cultivators of the soil. Various impediments, in addition to the ordi- nary obstacles of tropical climates, have inter- fered with British Colonization of India to the present date. The East India Company opposed conolization. They regarded British planters as dangerous subjects in India; and while the Saxon race have become acclimated in tropical America, and even in some parts of Africa, they are still only strangers in, but rulers of, the East. The expressive force of the term Kings of the East, applied to the Anglo-Indians, is peculiarly obvious; for they hold the position of rulers, and that position alone, more apparently than any other body of men do now, or ever did, at any period of history, or in any part of the world. If the phrase employed had been Eastern nations, cultivators of the East, or~~ inhabitants of the East, it would not have precisely identified them; but as they are rulers or kings of the East, and belong to the East in no other capa- city, the exact application of the prophecy is transparent. We do noV say that they are 67 WHO ARX THE KINGS OF TIlE EASI~? the persons intended, but we say that they alone at present meet the description given. The permanent settlement of the Saxon race in ilindostan is now only opposed by the cli- mate; and upon the highlands of the Punjaub they will gradually locate themselves, becom- ing thus settlers, and therefore subjects, citi- zens of the regions where now they are known only as rulers; but the drying up of the wa- ters of the Euphrates progresses rapidly; and the prediction will most probably be fulfilled before any ostensible change occurs in the position of the Anglo-Indians, within their dominions. The peculiar constitution of the East India Company, and its varying relations with the general government, support this explanation of a celebrated passage. The sovereign of Great Britain does not exercise the same authority in Hindostan as in the Mauritius, in Africa, or in America. The governing power is shared with the Company, by an anomalous and inconvenient arrangement, which is incon- sistent with sound principles of political econ- omy. An imperium in imperio has always been opposed and repudiated by great states- ~nen; and yet that is the system adopted, as if by accident, in Hindostan, and continued there since the birth of British power in that coun- try. The ruling influence in India is shared therefore by many persons. In addition to the control of the British people, the executive is administered by a numerous body of subor- dinate officials, not responsible hitherto to the Oompany, or to the Crown, or to Parliament and the people alone, but by an injudicious arrangement, to the joint operation of all these parties, as if to give force and strength to the term Kings of the East. ~o other nation ever administered in the east those functions now exercised by the Ifritish people. The Dutch, the French, and th~ Portuguese have owned large and valuable possessions at different dates, to the east of the great river Euphrates; but the French set~tlements were all seized by the English, and those of Holland and Portugal are reduced to a small compass. The British empire of the east is the most powerft~l state in Asia. It is the only empire that increases in magni- hide and power. All nations, with the ex- ception of the British and Russian empires, ft~d~ in Asia. Old powers become weak, and make space for these m.dorn states, the repre- sentatives of freedom and serfdom, between whom the great struggle for the possession of Asia, and the enfranchisement or the oppres- sion of its people, has commenced. British statesmen almost invariably assume the dutics and responsibilities of governing India with the determination not to increase the extent of their country, and they are as invariably compelled to pursue in practice that policy which they denounced in theory, and add kingdoms to their territory. The passage of the Sutlej by the Sikhs led to the absorp- tion of the Punjaub. Other circumstances, and the political necessity of squaring off the territory then held, induced the Anglo-Indian Government to annex Scinde. The Indus nearly now holds to British India on the west the relation of the Ganges in the east. The Kingdom .of Berar, with a population equal to that of Belgium, has fallen into the em- pire peaceably and by treaty. The province of Pegu forms the maritime frontier of the Burmese empire; but the Anglo-Indians hold it, and thus possess the mouth of the Irra- waddy. These accessions and conquests have increased the measurement of the Anglo-In- dian empire, within ten years, by territory equal in extent to that of France, and in pop- ulation by more than thirty milions. The Chinese empire is in the pangs of a great revolution which will probably separate its various provinces, and throw them under a crowd of different rulers. The population of China cannot be therefore reckoned as under one but several forms of government; and their power is wasted by internal struggles which have occurred at this Suncture to leave the meaning of the phraseology Kings of the East clear and distinct, for no other state new possesses even the population, as for half a century no Asiatic nation has possessed the moral tower, of the Anglo-Indian empire. Statesmen never attempt to fulfil prophecy. They always act from the supposed or real necessities of the position they occupy; but the statesmen of this country have gone into a great Oriental war, with the consent of all parties. This war is correctly considered in England essential to the existence of civil and religious freedom. The battle in the east of Europe will be, ~ our part, defensive of the rights of conscience, and of one nation against its neighboring and stronger oppressors. It is the grand war of opinion foreseen by Can- ning the war of civilization against savage strength foretold by Napoleon; and it will 68 WHO ARE THE KINGS OF THE EASIY? not conclude in final peace without a fright- ful and a long struggle, although we may have an armed truce. Statesmen not only avoid measures for the fulfilment of prophecy, which they probably seldom read, hut they are not prophets in the secular sense of the term. Engaged by press- ing topics of discussion, they do not maturely study the causes of one set of actions, or the result of another. Occupied in the heat and toil of the present battle of life, they can- not carefully read the future, or study the signs of the times. Actuated by the expedi- ency of the moment, they have not leisure to think for the next year, or a subsequent gen- eration. Exceptions exist to this worship of the hour, as in Cannings case; hut experi- ence proves that the majority of statesmen live for the day only, and thus we have occasion- ally evidences of gross inconsistency, dug from blue books, or the rewards of explorations in Hansard. If statesmen had looked forward, they must have prepared for the Russian war, on the grounds which have occurred, hecause it was clearly mirrored in the future, for many years past. Anglo-Indians foresaw and fore- told it, because they observed their own dan- ger, and the policy of their neighbors. Some Manchester politicans closed, and still close, their eyes to the jeopardy of their own cotton and mule twist; because theirgreatest thought is ten per cent. profit. Unfortunately our country has been less governed by the Anglo- Indian, and more by the manufl~cturing poli- cy, than was altogether convenient, and thus the Russian war was not made an object of preparation; for even after the Emperor Nich- olas endeavored to make the British Govern- ment a particeps criminis, by the proffered bribes of Candia and Egypt, the very men who refuscd the temptation affected to believe, or really believed, that the tempter was an honest man, who meant peace, and could be trusted on his word. Statesmen are not generally inventive, for the reason that they are not prophetic; and thus the employment of the armies of fin- dostan in this Russian war has been suggested by politicians, but not by statesmen. One gentleman, who enjoys considerable influence as a political writer, states in answer to the boast of the Czar that he will go into the war with one million, or if requisite, with two millions, and if pressed, with three mil- lions, of soldiers that Hindostan would fur- nish one million of combatants against his pretensions, who could reaoh Constantinople in little more time than is required to convey soldiers from London to the Turkish capital. He has not exaggerated; for the Kings of the East could bring a larger army into the fiel4 than Xerxes commanded, composed of me~ equal in bravery or discipline to those of any European state; while the Anglo-Indian Em.. pire is deeply and necessarily interested in the results of the war, for the success of Russia would close the overland route. A wedge of hostile territory would pene- trate between Britain and India. Napoleon foretold this consequence, which is now percep- tible to all men. Thus the Kings of the East are compelled to occupy the position assigned to them in prophetic announcement by a politi- cal necessity. Their way is prepared, and their march required. They can allow Egypt and Syria to remain in the hands of a friendly and weak power; but they could not permit them to be seized by Russia, or any great state. The energy of the British empire is engaged to op- pose that result. The strength of the nation is staked to resist the project. Not only is the way prepared, but the fu- ture combatants are obliged to move in the right road. They cannot draw back from the strife; they will not shrink from its crisis. Campaigns may be fought, and years may pass, before the Euphratean regions are abso- lutely occupied by British forces; but the march of the rulers of the East is begun, and the tread of their serried ranks will yet beat ~ pathway in the deserts and the wastes that intervene between the Euphrates and the Mediterranean. The Anglo-Indian empire is itself a miracle. Its existence is unaccountable upon any ordi- nary principles. India has been rather volun- tarily annexed than conquered. Its native population hold more the position of incor- porated peoples than subjects of the sword. Russia has taunted England with pursuing on the Indus, the Irrawaddy, and the Sutlej, the policy adopted by that barbarous power on the Danube. The taunt is a blunder. We coerce no mans opinions. We do not repress speech and thought and writing. W~ do not destroy, but improve. We have no military conscription in India. Russia ba~ by force taken from their homes twenty men out of every thousand of the population ia the Baltic provinces and PQland within twelve WHO ARE TIlE KINGS OF THE EAST? months. Ten men out of every thousand of the population of Hindostan would give an army of one and a half millions an army adequate to conquer half the world. But we have no conscription. The Anglo- Indian army is composed of volunteers. We do not require a great standing force to pre- serve our territories. They preserve them- selves; because the people are convinced that, while much remains to be done, many improvements have been effected under Brit- ish management Events will fulfil prophecy; and they must not be shaped by mortal policy into correspondence with its statements. In this case no measures were ever taken to realize this identification. The Eastern settlements were commenced for mercantile purposes. Their progress never could have been, and never was, foreseen. Clive and Hastings, Lake and Wellesley, never dreamed that they were agents in the confirmation of a Scrip-. tural statement. Nevertheless, the Eu- phrates is dried up; and the East has no kings but the British people, who are im- pelled at once by all high and all sordid con- siderations by generosity and selfishness, by manufacturing and mercantile interests, and by the love of civil freedom and relig- ious liberty by mammon and by moral considerations, to take the way prepared for the Kings of the East. The progress of the Anglo-Indian empire would be the romance of history; but the narrative is a sober, staid statement of facts. The possibility of forming a similar state, equally compact, populous, and powerful, by the combination of great military and political genius, under an unscrupulous des- potism, may be freely admitted, without reducing in any way the claim of this em- pire to be the wonder of the world. The Spanish career in Southern America was stained always and everywhere by blood. The remnants of the Indian races are now, indeed, re-appearing, and out of their ruins are re-aSsertIng their claim to supremacy in Southern America; but there is, happily, no parallel between British India and Span- ish America. The British crimes in India consist mainly in not improving the circum- stances of the people with sufficient rapidity. The Spanish crimes in South America con- sisted in destroying the people with a celer- ity that nothing could resist. The Span- iards invariably attempted to spread their religion by the sword. The British even endeavored for a time to prevent the teach- ing of their faith to the natives, in an over- scrupulous dread of ~offending their pre- judices. They have never, at any time, exercised political influence for its extension. The difference between the two great sections of nominal Christianity is curiously drawn by this circumstance. The Spaniard, by his faith belonging to the Romanist branch, was induced to make the sword the means of propagating his religion. The Briton, belonging to the Protestant communions, was equally bound not to employ his sword for the extension of his worship. The ma- terial position of the Indians was deterio- rated obviously by the arrival of the Span- iards. The personal comforts of the Ilindoos have been in no similar measure reduced by the presence of the British. The testimony of intelligent Hindoos and Mahommedans proves the benefit of the measures taken by successive British Councils and Governors for the improvement of the people. The mere existence of the empire is itself in evidence on the subject. These facts do not prove that the work of Britain in the East has been adequately done. The great public works now commenced, the means of educa- tion that have been tried, all only point to the courses of duty, without exhausting, or even attempting to exhaust, the subject. The Spaniards sailed west to conquer and convert: the British travelled to the east only to trade. The British Governors were successively ordered neither to make war nor to seize territory, and they were com- pelled to deviate from their instructions. The Spanish Governors went forth with orders to annex all the continent of America to the Crown of Madrid, and they discharged their instructions with eager zeal. The Spanish conquest of South America affords, therefore, no historical parallel to the forma- tion of the Anglo-Indian empire. The tactics pursued two thousand years since in the construction of the Roman empire, bear more resemblance to the his- tory of the British power in India, than any other similar event during historic periods; but Roman generals went forth to add king- doms to the republic or to the empire. The extension of their power was regularly plan- ned, and their legions marched to forward that project; but we know in Britain that the empire of India grew against all the intentions, orders, and plans of the govern- ing body, who were invariably disobeyed, without being able to attach any responsi- bility to their officers. The connection of Britain with India may be considered a recent event. In the worldk history, two c~turies and a half form n short period, and our power in India i~ embraced within a much smaller compass Two centuries, indeed, comprise our connec tion with Bengal. In~ 1624 a factory wa~ established at Armegum. The Mogul em peror sanctioned the erection of anothe~ shortly afterwards at a place called Pipley 70 WHO ARE THE KINGS OF THE EAST? A native chief, in 1640, allowed the erection of a fort at Madraspatam. This erection was named Fort St. George, and it has be- come the centre of our capital on the Cor.o- mandel coast. Mr. Broughton, an English medical gen- tleman, who was a resident of Surat in 1651, was enabled, on a visit to the court at Agra, to prescribe for the favorite daughter of the Emperor Shah Jehan, who acknow- ledged a deep debt of gratitude to the suc- cessful physician, and he, more patriotic than many commercial men, took payment in mercantile advantages to his country. Mr. Broughton travelled from Agra to the Court of the Nabob of Bengal, and was equally successful in his medical prescrip- tions. Forgetful of himself, but mindful of his country, he accepted payment again in novel privileges to his countrys trade. In 1656 the factory on the Iloogley was erected, and thus the capital of Bengal was founded. Surat was the first centre of British trade on the western coast of Bombay, but the merchants there were exposed to the capri- cious exactions of the Mogul and his court- iers, and were always desirous of a more secure position. In 1652, when Charles II. married Catherine of Spain, he obtained the island of Bombay, as the dowry of his Queen, and it offered the means of accom- plishing their object. The business of West- ern India was not, however, transferred to the new possession until 1687, when the ~overnment vested the sovereignty of the isle in the company of merchants. The company at home were pleased with the importance thus attained, and instructed their agents to buy territory when it could be advantageously obtained. The scheme of an Anglo-Indian empire is therefore now one hundred and sixty-five years of age. A few small estates, resembling plantations in size, wer~ then purchased around Bombay and Madras. A more splendid acquisition was ma(id in 1G~o, when Azim Ooshaun, the son of Aurengzebe, sold to the company the Zemindarships of the towns and districts of Calcutta, Chatanuttsf, and Govindpore. The company immediately began the erection of Fort William at Calcutta. It was com- pleted in 1707, and then Calcutta became the capital of the Bengal establishment, as it has since been made the metropolis of The Anglo-Indian empire is not, there- fore, more than one century and a half old. It commenced two thousand miles beyond the limit of Alexanders conquests. It now includes the eastern provinces of the Mace- donian empire. Its progress in population has averaged fully one hundred millions per century one million annually. It ah~ne stands in population as two and a half to one, when compared with the entire Rcssian empire. And the population are not over- crowded, for one-half of their country is not yet cultivated. The shadow of British dot. minion has protected them from the scorch- ing plagues of internal war. It has come between them and many cruel habits which had gathered all the strength of statute law. It has stopped human sacrifices and funeral pyres. It has arrested the practice of infant- icide. It is at last sending over the scorched plains the life-giving water from the Ganges, which rendered the river sacred in distant times. It will soon thus provide relief from the terrors of famine to a land in which the rainy season is life, and its absence death. We may, therefore, presume that the inhabitants increase in numbers without the regular stream of annexation which seems, like destiny, unavoidable. This em- pire is at present immeasurably stronger than any other Asiatic power. Its territory is compact and populous more populous than any other part of Asia, with the prob- able exception of China. It is defended partly from the north by the highest moun- tains of the world. Many European officers of the Anglo-Indian army believe that a Russian invasion of India is impracticable. They reckon much upon the desert barrier between the Caspian and Peshawur; but Alexander of Greece did not take that route, and we have yet to learn the existence of any obstacle that would arrest completely the march of armies across Persia, if Turkey were incorporated into ~Russia; but if that gigantic annexation were effected by the north, the mouth of the Euphrates, within a few days sail of the estuaries of the Indus, would form a part of the Russian em~. stretching from the Pole to the Indian We have no sympathy with those who can, and do, peremptorily fix times and seasons for the fuiflurhent of all or any prophecies. Their habit is dangerous, and evinces little literary or scientific knowledge, and proba- bly less reverence for the Bible. The parties who have fallen into the error explain what is not always intended to be so intelligible as they suppose, until the eve of the events or their absolute occurrence. They look upon prophecy as an absolute chart, anti they are partially coi~ect. It is always truth, but occasionally written in cyphers. Have they procured the key? We refer, therefore, only to probabilities. We do not allege that the explanation whk~h we have adopted of the phrase Kings of the East~ is correct. It has been advocated by a number of writers in recent year.. 71 WhO ARE THE KINGS OF THE EAST? The most important work on the subject was published some years ago in London, under the title Kings of the East.* Some of the pamphlets lately published in America and this country, in connection with the present war, are obviously founded, in part, on this volume, which, nevertheless, has not been much read at home. ~vents subsequent to its date have con- firmed the views taken by its author. The western provinces of this great empire have been consolidated. The Punjaub is a gain, and not a loss, to the revenue as many rersons expected it to become. Scinde prom- wee to be a fertile and useful province. The population already appreciate the advanta- ges of British rule. The peasantry have J~arned from the experience of a few years that it is possible for them to acquire prop- erty. Formerly they labored, and too fre- qeently other men entered into their labors. They also benefit by the introduction of cap- ital and science on lands where neither was employed, formerly, in the arts of peace. lIven their position in their wars with the beasts of the field and the snakes of the isad will be improved. Some means will be f~und to prevent the destruction of several hundred lives annually by the wolves of the Punjaub and the serpents of Scinde. Against the former, hostilities must soon bring com ~ success. The latter enemy, as at the ~nning, so in the worlds age, is the more tie foe. The political crisis which commenced in 1853 will draw the rulers of the East to the west. The government of Britain, although hetd driven for soldiers, have shown no anx- iety to bring the military power of India Into the contest. They have withdrawn two regiments of horse to serve in the Crimea; but they have brought from that country no other European soldiers; although the Company have a considerable British army seattered over the presidencies. The Earl of Aberdeens Government, at the close of 1854, pushed through, almost by violence, the Act for the enlistment of foreign auxiliaries. They seemed to regard it as indispensable for the honor and safety of the nation; and yet it was a most unfor- tunate proceeding. The friends of the meas- ure said that a long period was required to train recruits; but that the foreigners who would join the legion would have the advan- tage of previous training in the militia of the countries to which they might belong. Twelve months have passed since that date, ~ not a single soldier of the Foreign Legion fired a shot at the enemy; while numbers of our young men, who wd~re engaged at that * One irohne. 8eeleys. time in their ordinary pursuits, have borne an active part in the siege of Sebastopol; and many are buried in the trenches that surrounded its fortresses. This fact abun- dantly testifies to the ignorance of statesmen on military topics; for the Foreign Legion has been hitherto useless, while it embroiled us in a quarrel with the United States. The policy was unnecessary, for the north-west- era provinces of India, and the border-lands of the Affghans, could have supplied a very large army of men, competent to bear even the climate of the Crimea in winter. If the Arabs and the Egyptains in the Turkish ser- vice can sustain the climate on the shore of the Euxine, even the ordinary Sepoys of India should be able to weather the cold of its winters. They might be better sup- plied with warm clothing, food, and fuel than the Sultans subjects; but after the crimes of the last winter, it is necessary to wait for the experience of the present before reckoning on that contingency. We asso- ciate tropical seasons with our ideas of India; but it stretches now, for that matter, to the peaks of the Himalayas; and in the Pun- jaub, or in some portions of the Affghan bor- der-land, and towards Peshawur, the climate is colder than on any part of the Black Sea, even in the winter season. The Government make no effort to associate India with the war against Russia. It has been allowed to stand aside as a neutral state. Not even have soldiers been recruited there for our service. All this obvious folly corresponds with those steps, unsought, by which that empire has been formed. But the Anglo-Indian officers have been brought into connection with the Turkish military and people. The career of that body of officers in this war began well at the defence of Silistria, and it has been admirably con- tinued in the defence of Kars. Even at the battle of the Ingour we find English officers engaged with the soldiers of Omar Pasha. Theseincijlental connections with the pcople of the Euphrates are of less consequence than the adoption by Great Britain of a numer- ous contingent of Turks under British officers, and in BritLh pay. The advisers of the Sultan were not all favorable to this policy. Some of them ob- served the tendency of the system to attach the soldiers to their paymasters. The Turk- ish soldiers can estimate the distinction be- tween cash and crudit in the payment of wages. The plundering habits of the Bashi- Bazouks have been blamed in bitter language by well-paid correspondents of our press, who forget that the Bashi-Bazouk wanted clothes, food, money was a starving zealot to a cause which could not support him~ The assoeiation of the people of Turkey with 72 WHO ARE THE KINGS OF THE EAST? British officers, will imperceptibly ruin their bigotry. They will all feel that, as their soldiers are allowed to act under the orders of one set of infidels, a variety of species must exist in the genus. Very probably their teachers may have sufficient ingenuity to give that explanation of the matter to curious Moslems; but under any view of the subject it is one more preparation of the way of the Kings of the East. Several years since the friends of rapid communication with India explored the Euphrates in the hope of finding a nearer route than that through Egypt, and round the Arabian peninsula, by the Red Sea. The adventurers were perfectly satisfied that the Euphrates is navigable for steamers farther up that river than they require to proceed on the route from or to Britain. An accurate map will show that it is a more direct route to India than that through Egypt; but especially to Kurrachee and the mouths of the Indus; and the trade with the Punjaub and Scinde must annually increase in im- portance. Maps do not, however, show at- mospherical currents; and it is now ascer- tained that vessels on the voyage from Bombay, by making for the coast of Arabia although the route is more circuitous than the direct passage to Aden avoid the force of the monsoon, and save time. It follows that the monsoon would not be so formidable on the voyage to the Persian Gulf. And it is extremely probable that the Egyptian route to India will yet be superseded by the Euphratean. A change of this character, or even a partial charge, would form another and decided preparation of the way. The present war may not endure, perhaps, for a long period. Peace at an early date would not astonish any party in this country, and it would please many; but it will not be a peace to believe in, or to trust. The pride of the Russian government will not brook the check sustained in the complete destruc- tion of preparations that have cost its spare blood and treasure for a quarter of a century. The first opportunity will be greedily seized to recover the lost ground. The Bosphorus forts will be this time turned. Constantinople will be approached from the East. The Castle of Gumri will be the new Sebastopol. Its arsenals may be imitated at the foot of the Armenian mountains, where its docks would be useless. But the Dniester, Dnieper, Bug, and Don will join the Volga in pouring men and stores into their great land-locke harbor. The canal navigation of Russia extends, or can easily be extended, from the Baltic to the Caspian. This war he~ taught the Russians Western strength and Northern weakness. They perceive that we cannot so easily interrupt their operations in the interior of Asia as upon the coasts of the central seas. They will slowly accumulate armies and stores. They will agree with Persia ever willing to arrange with them. They will throw their utmost strength into a struggle with the Moslems in the direction of Kars, which stands on the Euphrates, or on one of its chief tributaries, and over~. whelm Turkey in its least defended sid~. Then, if not before, the Kings of the East ~ if this identification be correct will be compelled to take the way prepared for them. As to the date of the introduction of turtle. It appears by a paper in The World, No. 123, May 5, 1755, that this luxury, long known in the ~Vest Indies, had for some time past become frequent, though not yet common, in England. In Lytteltons Dialogue of the Dead, between Apicius and Darteneuf, the latter is made to la- ment that turtle was not known in his lifetime. Now, Darteneuf died in 1738, and we may there- fore conclude that turtle was introduced to our tables between 1740 and 1750. JVotes and Queries. Fnue. When was the use of fire first discov- ered, and by whom? Is the flaming sword of the cherubim, who guarded the entrance to the Garden of Eden, after the expulsion of Adam and Eve, the first mention made of it? A(otes and Queries. L. M. M. R. Posius FROM WEDDING-RINGS. The follow- ing references on this subject are taken from Shakspeare: For. A quarrel, ho, already! What s the matter? Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me: whose posy was For all the world like cutlers poetry Upon a knife: Love me, and leave me not.~ Merchant of Venice, Act V. Sc~ 1. Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 2. Jac. You are full of pretty answers; hav~e you not been acquainted ~ith goldsmiths wives3 and conned them out of rings? As Yot~ Like It, Act III. Sc. 2. ,.TVbtes and Queries. 73 THE DARK SIDE. AT THF LINN-SIDE. MY LOVE IS FULL OF HAPPY MIRTH. Mv love is full of happy mirth, Her laughter is a joy to see, And yet there s scarce a tliing on earth She wishes not to be A flower, in some green covert found, Half hidden from the view: Ah yes, I said, were I the ground On which thy bcauty grew. A bird, that sky-ward might repair, Or soar to heavenly things: Ah yes, were I the blessed air That bore thy glittering wings! Then she would like a river be, With green banks sweeping wide And I I d be some willuw tree Still whispering by her side. Can I be nothing without you? She poutingly replied. All thin~ s, to one another true, I said, must be allied! As well divorce the air from light, The color from the flower, As banish me from that dear sight In which I live each hour! Jf such a lot must me befal, Though bird, or flower, or star, I think, she smiled, that after all We re better as we are Literary Gazette. CHARLES SwMN. THE DARK SIDE. THou hast done well, perhaps, To lift the bright disguise, And lay the bitter truth Before our shrinking eyes; When evil crawls below What seems so pure and fair, Thine eyes are keen and true To find the serpent there: And yet I turn away, Thy task is not divine, The evil angels look On earth with eyes like thine. Thou hast done well, perhaps To show how closely wounA Dark threads of sin and self With our best deeds are found; How great and noble hearts, Striving for lofty aims, Have still some earthly cord A meaner spirit claims; And yet although thy task Is well and fairly done, Methinks for such as thee There is a holier one. Shadows there are, who dwell Among us, yet apart, Deaf to the claim of God, Or kindly human heart; Voices of earth and heaven Call, but they turn away, And Love, through such black night, Can see no hope of day; And yet our eyes are dim, And thine are keener far Theil gaze until thou seest The glimmer of some star. The black stream flows aloag Whose waters we despise, Show us reflected there Some fragment of the skies; Neath tangled thorns and briars (The task is fit for thee) Seek for the hidden flowers We are too blind to see; Then will I thy great gift A crown and blessing call; Angels look thus on men, And God sees good in all! Household Words. AT THE LINN-SIDE. O LIVING, living water, So busy and so bright, Up-flashing in the morning beam, And sounding through the night O golden-shining water, Would God that I might be A vocal message from His mouth Into the world, like thee! O happy, happy water, Which nothing eer aifrays, And, as it pours from crag to crag, Nothing eer stops or stays. But past cool heathery hollows Or gloomy deeps it flows, By rocks that fain would close it in, Leaps through and on it goes. o freshening, sparkling water, O voice that s never still, ~Th~sgh Winter her fair dc.~ T~white hand Lays over brae and hill, Though no leafs left to flitter In woods all mute and hoar, Yet thou, 0 river, night and day Thou runnest evermore. No foul thing can defile thee; Thou castest all aside, Like a good heart that midst the ill Of this world doth abide. O living, livhv~ water, Still fresh and bright and free, God lead us through this changing wdrld, Forever pure, like thee! Chambers Joursza& ~ 74 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. From the Athen,eum. The Song of Hiawatha. By H. W. Long- fellow. Bogue. AT length we have an American song by an American singer. For many years we have been preaching, on this side of the great wa- ters, the poetical doctrine of America for the Americans. While the poets of that country were running off to Marathon and the Seven Hills, to London and the Black Forest, in search of poetic ore, we pointed out to them the rich lodes of fancy lying untouched and virgin at their own feet. Buried cities, vanishing races, forests, lakes, mountains, and waterfalls, all the mythical and picto- rial elements on which imagination loves to work, are there, in their own great country, as we have said again and again, waiting the artists eye to see their beauty, and the sing- ers tongue to give them voice. In breadth, variety, and color, the features of the New World transcend those of the Old. What is Sallenche to Niagara The Rhine would run like a mere thread through the Mississippi. The mounds of the great American valley are probably older than the Pyramids and the Etruscan walls. Who has solved the mystery of the Aztecs? Who has touched the sad and tender chords of Indian story Who has seized the poetic features of the Red Man? Surely here are fine materials for the true poet! Neither is that tale of the White Man in America devoid of romantic interest. Nay, it is, in our opinion, one of the most romantic tales on record. How full of movement, how stern and dramatic, how infinitely vast, and rapid, and complex, is that story from Go- lumbus to Raleigh, from Pizarro to Penn, from Las Casas to Oglethorpe! How much of passion, of intellect, of fancy, weaves itself into that bright and clouded web! How in- tensely poetical, too, are all the episodes and changes of that story from the sailing of the three poor caravels from Pales down to the declaration of Independence! Neglect of such a theme by American poets, in favor of legends of European goblins, European cities, and European literary fashions, has always appeared to us a serious impeach- ment of the national genius. Mr. Longfellow,~ we repeat, has essayed to remove this literary reproach. He has taken for his theme an Indian legend, or something that has an appearance of being an Indian legend. The tale itself Ia beautiful, fanciful, and new, and he has worked it up into a poem of many parts. The measure is novel as well as the matter. It is a rhymeless verse, with something of forest music in its rise and fall. In it, we hear, as it wero, the swaying of trees, the whirr of wings, the pattering of leaves, the trickling of water. Hiawatha is a sort of Indian Cadmus, a personage known, we are told, in many of the native tribes as a legendary being of miraculous birth, who came to teach the Red Man how to clear the forest, to sow the fields with grain, to read and write. Mr. Longfellow has taken this ancient legend as the basis of his work; he has also woven into the texture of his poem a few other and more original traditions found among the Red race; and he has produced in an imaginary memoir of the hero, Hiawa1~ha, a picture of Indian life as it exists in the for- est and by the river, full of light and color, repose and action. Here is the account of his heros wooing: As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman, Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she follows, Useless each without the other! Thus the youthful Hiawatha Said within himself and pondered, Much perplexed by various feelings, Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, Dreaming still of Minnehaha, Of the lovely Laughing Water, In the land of the Dacotahs. Wed a maiden of your people, Warning said the old Nokomis; Go not eastward, go not westward, For a stranger, whom we know not. Like a fire upon the hearth-stone Is a neighbors homely daughter, Like the starlight or the moonlight Is the handsomest of strangers! Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, And my Hiawatha answered Only this: Dear old Nokomis, Very pleasant is the firelight, But I like the starlight better, Better do I like the moonlight! As the habit is, the old gentleman gives a great deal of advice; and as the habit also is, the young gentlernam~, follows the desires of his own heart. He sets out in search of his bride, passing through prairie and forest, which are pictured to the fancy by Mr. Long- fellow with a few delicate and powerftd touches of his brush; and on arriving in the land of the Jjaeotahs, finds and wins the lady THE SONG OF of his choice the Laughing Water. set the scene before our readers: We At the doorway of his wigwam Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs, Making arrow-heads of jasper, Arrow-heads of chalcedony. At his side, in all her beauty, Sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; Of the past the old mans thoughts were, And the maidens of the future. He was thinking, as he sat there, Of the days when with such arrows He had struck the deer and bison, On the Muskoday, the meadow; Shot the wild goose, flying southwaid, On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; Thinking of the great war-parties, How they came to buy his arrows, Could not fight without his arrows. Ah, no more such noble warriors Could be found on earth as they were! Now the men were all like women, Only used their tongues for weapons! She was thinking of a hunter, From another tribe and country, Young and tall and very handsome, Who one morning, in the spring-time, Came to buy her fathers arrows, Sat and rested in the wigwam, Lingered long about the doorway, Looking back as he departed. She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom; Would he come again for arrows To the Falls of Minnehaha? On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy. Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, Heard ~t rustling in the branches, And with glowing cheek and forehead, With the deer upon his shoulders, Suddenly from out the woodlands Hiawatha stood before them. Straight the ancient Arrow-maker Looked up gravely from his labor, Laid aside the unfinished arrow, Bade him enter at the doorway, Saying, as he rose to meet him, Hiawatha, you are welcome! At the feet of Laughing Water Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, You are welcome, Hiawatha! Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, HIAWATHA. With the Gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle-feathers As he entered at the doorway. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered. Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs. Thus continued hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dacotah women! And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And made answer very gravely: Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; Let yourPioart speak, Minnehaha! And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As 8he went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it, I will follow you, my husband! This was Hiawathas wooing! Thus it was he won. the daughter Of the ancient Arro~v-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs! The Song of Hiawatha moves throughont in this beautiful and simple measure. Except in good hands, an instrument ~o artless would most likely fail. The line would tire on the T~ft~ SO~(G OF ~TAWIAI~HA. ear. But Mr. Longfellow has contrived to give variety even to a measure evidently chosen for its sad and tonder monotone. The verse is constructed (sometimes with a sudden chock at the end of a line, like an organ stop or the blow of a hammer, sometimes with a drop- ping syllable, like water rushing over a ledge of rock, which throws the music over into the next line) so that despite its sameness of cadence it scarcely pails on the ear even at the five thousandth verse. Many sections of the poem tempt us to extract, and we scarcely know how to resist the poetic seductions of the Song of the Evening Star, a very pretty legend of the Blessing the Corn Fields, and of The White Mans Foot. We select the last, on account of its poetic beauty, and for the striking figures of the two bold imperson- ations Winter and Spring with which it opens. In his lodge beside a river, Close beside a frozen river, Sat an old man, sad and lonely. White his hair was as a snow-drift; Dull and low his fire was burning, And the old man shook and trembled, Folded in his Waubewyon, In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, Hearing nothing but the tempest As it roared along the forest, Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, As it whirled and hissed and drifted. All the coals were white with ashes, And the fire was slowly dying, As a young man, walking lightly, At the open doorway entered. Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, Bound his forehead was with grasses, Bound and plumed with scented grasses; On his lips a smile of beauty, Filling all the lodge with sunshine, In his hand a bunch of blossoms Filling all the lodge with sweetness. Ah, my son! exclaimed the old man, Happy are my eyes to see yoa. Sit here on the mat beside me, Sit here by the dying embers, Let us pass the night together. Tell me of your strange adventures, Of the lands where you have travelled; I will tell you of my prowess, Of my many deeds of wonder. From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, Very old and strangely fashioned; Made of red stone was the pipe-head, And the stem a reed with~feathers; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, Placed a burning coal upon it; 77 Gave it to his guest, the stranger, And began to speak in this wise: When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon tho landscape, Motionless are all the rivers, Hard as stone becomes the water! And the young man answered, smiling: When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Flowers spring up oer all the meadows, Singing, onward rush the rivers! When I shake my hoary tresses, Said the old man, darkly frowning, All the land with snow is covered; All the leaves from all the branches Fall and fade and die and wither, For I breathe, and lo! they are not. From the waters and the marshes Rise the wild goose and the heron, Fly away to distant regions, For I speak, and lo! they are not. And whereer my footsteps wander, All the wild beasts of the forests Hide themselves in holes and caverns, And the earth becomes as flintstone! When I shake my flowing ringlets, Said the young man, softly laughing, Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, Back unto their lakes and ixiarshes Come the wild goose and the heron, Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, Sing the blue-bird and the robin, And whereer my footsteps wander, All the meadows wave with blossoms, All the woodlands ring with music, All the trees are dark with foliage! While they spake, the night departed; From the distant realms of Wabun, From his shining lodge of silver, Like a warrior robed and ainted, Came the sun, and said, f3ehold me! Gheczis, the great sun, behold me! Then the old mans tongue was speech- less, And the air grew warm and pleasant, And up6~ the wigwam sweetly Sang the blue-bird and the robin, And the stream began to murmur, And a scent of growing grasses Through the lodge was gently wafted. And Se~wun, the youthful stranger, More distinctly in the daylight Saw the icy face before him; It wa~ Peboan, the Winter! From his eyes the~tears were flowing, As from melting lakes the streamlets, And his body shrunk and dwindled As the shouting sun ascended, Till into the air it faded, Till into the ground it vanished, And the young man saw before him, Oi~ the hearth-stone of the w~gwazn, Where the flte had smokedand smouldered, Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. Thus it was that in the Northland After that unheard-of coldness, That intolerable Winter, Came the Spring with all its splendor, All its birds and all its blossoms, All its flowers and leaves and grasses. Sailing on the wind to northward, Flying in great flocks, like arrows, Like huge arrows shot through heaven, Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, Speaking almost as a man speaks; And in long lines waving, bending, Like a bow-string snapped asunder, The white goose, the Waw-be-wawa; And in pairs, or singly flying, Mahug the loon, with clangorous pinions, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. In the tickets and the meadows Piped the blue-bird, the Owissa, On the summit of the lodges Sang the Opechee, the robiii, In the covert of l~ie pine-trees Cooed the Omemee, the pigeon; And the sorrowing lliawatha~ Speechless in his infinite sorrow, Heard their voices calling to him, Went forth from his gloomy doorway, Stood and gazed into the heaven, Gazed upon the earth and waters. From his wanderings far to eastward, Throm the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun, homeward now returned Jagoo, The great traveller, the great boaster, Full of new and strange adventure, Marvels many and many wonders. And the people of the village Listened to him as he told them Of his marvellous adventures, Laughing answered him in this wise: Ugh! it is indeed Jagoo! No one else beholds such wonders! He had seen, he said, a water Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, Broader than the Gitche Gumee, Bitter so that none could drink it! At each other looked the warriors, Looked the women at each other~ Smiled, and said, It cannot be so! Kaw! they said, it cannot be so ~ Oer it, said he, oer this water Came a great canoe with pinions, A canoe with wings came flying, Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, Taller than the tallest tree-tops! And the old men and th~ women Looked and tittered at each other; Kaw! they said, we dont believe it. From its mouth, he said, tb greet ~hhn, Came Waywassimo, the lightning, Came the thunder, Annemeekee! And the warriors and the women Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo; Kaw! they said, what tales you tell us! In it, said he, came a people, In the great canoe with pinions Came, he said, a hundred warriors; Painted white were all their faces, And with hair their chins were covered! And the warriors and the women Laughed and shouted in derision, Like the ravens on the tree-tops, Like the crows upon the hemlock. Kaw! they said, what lies you tell us! Do not think that we believe them! Only Hiawatha laughed not, But he gravely spake and answered To their jeering and their jesting: True is all Iagoo tells us; I have seen it in a vision, Seen the great canoe with pinions, Seen the people with white faces, Seen the coming of this bearded People of the wooden vessel From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun. Gitche Manito the Mighty, The Great Spirit, the Creator, Sends them hither on his errand, Sends them to us with his message Wheresoeer they move, before them Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; Wheresoeer they tread, beneath them Springs a flower unknown among us, Springs the White-mans Foot in blossom. Let us welcome, then, the strangers, Hail them as our friends and brothers, And the hearts right hand of friendship Give them when they come to see us. Gitche Manito, the Mighty, Said this to me in my vision. I beheld, too, in that vision All the secrets of the future, Of the distant days that shall be. I beheld the westward marches Of the unknown, crowded nations. All the land was full of people, Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, Speaking many ton~ues, ~et feeling But one heart-beat in their bosoms. In the woodlands rang their axes, Smoked their towns in all the valleys, Over all the lakes and rivers Rushed their greabeanoes of thunder. Then a darker, drearier vision Passed before me, vague and cloud-like; I beheld our nations scattered, All forgetful of my counsels, Weakened, warring with each other; Saw the remnants of our people THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 79 Sweeping westward, wild and woeful, tone and ring of its own; in a word, the Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, story of Hiawatha is the poets most original Like the withered leaves of autumn! production. We shall be glad to find Mr. It is beyond all doubt that this Song of Longfellow on a future day still working at Hiawatha will increase Mr. Longfellows repu- this poetic mine. America has found a Pac- tation as a singer. The verse, as we have tolus within her border why should not said and proved by extract, is sweet and sim- her poets endow her with a new Parnas- pie, is full of local and national color, has a sus SWIrTs Corvnioirrs. The great additional light which N. & Q. has been the means of throwing on the literary history of Pope, ren- ders it very desirable that similar attention should be paid to other eminent authors. Mr. Forster is now engaged on a new edition of Swift, and I would beg to suggest that our Editor should open his columns to a series of SwIFTIAHA. It has been assumed by Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Roscoe, and others, that Pope was concerned in the publication of Gulliver, and received for the copyright a sum of 300, of which Swift generously made him a present. I can find no authority for this statement, nor does it appear that Pope was connected with the mystification that accompanied the publication of Gulliver. Erasmus Lewis was the nego- tiator, and the sum demanded for the copyright was only 200. The Manuscript was sent to Benjamin Motte, Swifts publisher; with a re- quest that he should immediately, on undertak- ing the publication, deliver a bank bill of 200. Motte demurred to the immediate payment, but offered to publish the work within a month after he received the copy; and to pay the sum de- manded, if the success would allow it, in six months. His terms were apparently accepted, for Gulliver appeared in the latter end of Oc- tober or beginning of November, 1726. Ar- buthnot mentions it under the date of November 5, saying he believed the Travels would have as great a run as John Bunyan. At the expir- ation of the six months, Motte seems to have applied for a longer period of credit. Swifts answer is characteristic Mr. Motte, I send this enclosed by a friend, to be sent to you, to desire that you would go to the house of Eras- mus Lewis in Cork Street, behind Burlington House, and let him know that you are come from me; for to the said Mr. Lewis I have given full power to treat concerning my cousin Gullivers book, and whatever he and you shall settle I will consent to, & c. RICHARD SYMP5ON. This is in Swifts handwriting, very slightly disguised. The engagement was dosed in about a week afterwards, as appears from a memorandum on the same sheet: Lon- don, May 4th, 1727. I am fully satisfied. E~ LEwIs. These documents, with others, were first published in 1840 by Dr. W. C. Tay- lor, in au illustrated edition of Gulliver; and I have seen the originals in the possession of the Rev. C. Bathurst Woodman, grandson of Mr. Bathurst the publisher, who beban his career ~ partnership with Mr. Motte. Pope does not appear in the transaction. Motte also published the .Miscellanies, and by this work Swift re- ceived no pecuniary advantage. From unpub.. lished letters, in the possession of Mr. Wood- man (which it is to be hoped that gentleman will give to the world), it appears that the copy- right money was divided between Pope, Arbuth- not, Gay, and Swift; but that Swifts portion was directed to be sent to the widow Hyde, in Dame Street, Dublin. Mr. John Hyde was a respectable bookseller in Dublin, mentioned in Swifts printed correspondence. He died in 1729 in Mottes debt; and it was, no doubt, to relieve the widow, that Swift thus disposed of his share of the copyright of the .41iscellanies. At all events, there is .a positive declaration from Swift, addressed to Motte, December 9, 1782, that he had no advantage by any one of the four volumes of the Al iscellanies. In a letter addressed to Pulteney, dated in the printed cor- respondence, May 12, 173~, Swift says: I never got a farthing for anything I writ, except once, about eight years ago, and that by Mr. Popes prudent management for me. The vague expression, about eight years ago, would apply either to Gulliver or the JJIiscel- lanies; but I conceive the Dean alluded to the sum of 200 for the copyright of Gulliver. When corresponding with Motte in 1727, under the name of Richard Sympson, he was living with Pope atTwickenham; and most likely con- sulted with his friend as to the transaction with Motte, before giving Lewis instructions how to act. Pope was well skilled in the art of dealing with booksellers! I may add, that there is an interesting unpublished letter by Swift in the collection of Mr. Watson, bookseller, Princes Street, Edinburgh; who has perhaps the finest private collection of autographs and old his.. torical pictures in the kingdom. INvEnsass. - R. CARRUTHERS. .N~otes and Queries. THE FOR~UI~ES OF GLENOORE. CHAPTER XI. SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE. THERE is a trait in the lives of grent di- plomatists, of which it is just possible some one or other of my readers may not have heard, whieh is, that none of them have ever attained to any eminence without an attach- inent we can find no better word for it to some woman of superior understanding, who has united within herself great talents for society, with a high and soaring ambition. They who only recognize in the world of politics the dry details of ordinary parlia- mentary business, poor-law questions, sani- tary rules, railroad bills, and colonial grants, can form but a scanty notion of the excite- ment derived from the high interests of party, and the great game played by about twenty mighty gamblers, with the whole world for the table, and kingdoms for counters. In this grande rOle women perform no ig- noble part; nay, it were not too much to say that theirs is the very motive-power of the whole vast machinery. Had we any right to step beyond the limits of our story for illustration, it would not be difficult to quote names enough to show that we are speaking not at hazard, but from book; and that great events derive far less of their impulse from the lords than from the ladies of creation. Whatever be the part they take in these contests, their chief attention is ever directed, not to the smaller battle-field of home ques- tions, but to the greater and wider campaign of international politics. Men may wrangle, and hair-split, and divide about a harbor bill or a road session; but women occupy them- selves in devising how thrones may be shaken and dynasties disturbed how frontiers may be changed, and nationalities trafficked; for, strange as it may seem, the stupendous inci- dents which mould human destinies are more under the influence of passion and intrigue, than the commonest events of every-day life. Our readers may, and not very unreason- ably, begin to suspect that it was in some moment of abstraction we wrote Glencore at the head of these pages, and that these speculations are but the preface to some very abstruse reflections upon the political condi- tion of Europe. But no: they are simply intended as a prelude to the fact, that Sir Horace Upton was not exempt from the weakness of his order, and that he, too, re- posed his trust upon a womans judgment. The name of his illustrious guide was the Princess Sabloukoff, by birth a Pole, but married to a Russian of vast wealth and high family, from whom she separated early in life, to mingle in the Wbrld with all the prestige of position, riches, and greater 3 than either extreme beauty, and a manner of such fascination as made her name of European celebrity. When Sir Horace first met her, he was the junior member of our embassy at Naples, and she the distinguished leader of fashion in that city. We are not about to busy our- selves with the various narratives which pro- fessed to explain her influence at Court, or the secret means to which she owed her as cendancyover royal highuesses, and her sway over cardinals. Enough that she possessed such, and that the world knew it. The same success attended her at Vienna and at Paris. She was courted and sought after every- where; and if her arrival was not feted with the public demonstrations that await royalty, it was assuredly an event recognized with all that could flatter her vanity2 or minister to her self-esteem. Sir Horace was presented to her as an attach~, when she simply bowed and smiled. He renewed his acquaintance some ten years ,later as a secretary, when she vouchsafed to say she remembered him. A third time, after a lapse of years, he came before her as a charge daffaires, when she conversed with him; and lastly, when time had made him a minister, and with less generosity had laid its impress upon herself, she gave him her hand, and said My dear Horace, how charming to see an old friend, if you be good enough to let me call you so. And he was so; he accepted the friend- ship as frankly as it was proffered. He knew that time was, when he could have no pre- tension to this distinction; but the beautiful Princess was no longer young; the fascina- tions she had wielded were already a kind of Court tradition; archdukes and ambassa- dors were no more her slaves; nor was she the terror of jealous queens and Court favor- ites. Sir Horace knew all this; but he also knew that, she being such, his ambition had never dared to aspire to her friendship, and it was, on]~y in her days of declining fortune that he could hope for such distinction. All this may seem very strange and very odd, dear reader; but we live in very strange and very odd times, and more than one -half the world is only living on second-hands second-hand shawls and second-hand speeches, second-hand books, and court suits and opin- ions are all rife; and why not second-hand friendships? Now, the friends~iip between a by-gone beauty of forty and we will not say how many more years and a backnied, half- disgusted man of the world, of the same age, is a very curious contract. There is no love in it; as little is there any strong tie of esteem; but there is a wonderful bond of 80 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. self-interest and mutual convenience. Each seems to have at last found one that under- stands him; similarity of pursuit has en- gendered similarity of taste. They have each seen the world from exactly the same point of view, and they have come out of it equally heart-wearied and tired, stored with vast resources of social knowledge, and with a keen insight into every phase of that complex machinery by which one-half theworld cheats the other. Madame de Sabloukoff was still hand- some she had far more than what is ill- naturedly called the remains of good looks. She had a brilliant complexion, lustrous dark eyes, and a profusion of the most beautiful hair. She was, besides, a most splendid dresser. Her toilet was the very perfection of taste, and if a little inclining to over- magnificence, not the less becoming to one whose whole air and bearing assumed some- thing of queenly dignity. In the world of society there is a very great prestige attends those who have at some one time p ye a great part in life. The deposed king, the ex-minister, the banished general, and even the bygone beauty, re~ive a species of respectful homage, which the wider world without doors is not always ready to accord them. Good-breeding, in fact, concedes what mere justice might deny; and they who have to fall back upon souve- nirs for this greatness, always find their advantage in associating with the class whose prerogative is good manners. The Princess Sabloukoff was not, however, one of those who can live upon the interest of a bygone fame. She saw that, when the time of coquetting and its fascinations has passed, that still, with facilities like hers, there was yet a great game to be played. Hitherto she had only studied characters; now she began to reflect upon events. The transition was an easy one, to which her former knowledge contributed largely its assistance. There was scarcely a viceroy, scarcely a leading personage in Europe, she did not know personally and well. She had lived in intimacy with ministers, and states- men, and great politicians. She knew them in all that life of the sal6n, where men alternately expand into frankness, and prac- tise the wily devices of their crafty callings. She had seen them in all the weaknesses, too, of inferior minds, eager after small objects, tormented by insignifreant cares. They who habitually dealt with these mighty person- ages, only beheld them in their dignity of station, or surrounded by the imposing ac- cessories of office. What an advantage, then, to regard them closer and nearer to be aware of their short-comings, and acquainted with the secret springs of their ambitions! DCVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. xii. 6 81 The Princess and Sir Horace very soon saw that each needed the other. When Robert Macaire accidentally met an accomplished gamester, who tamed the king as often as he did, and could reciprocate every trick and artifice with him, he threw down the cards, saying, Embrassons nous, nous sommes freres! Now the illustration is a very ignoble one, but it conveys no very inexact idea of the bond which united these two distinguished individuals. Sir horace was one of those fine, acute intelligences, which may be gapped and blunted if applied to rough work, but are splendid instruments where you would cut cleanly, and cut deep. She saw this at once. He, too, recognized in her the wonderful knowledge of ~life, joined to vast powers of employing it with profit. No more was wanting to establish a friendship between them. Dispositions must be, to a certain degree, different between those who are to live together as friends, but tastes must be alike. Theirs were so. They had the same veneration for the same things, the same regard for the same celebrities, and the same contempt for the small successes which were engaging the minds of many around them. If the Princess had a real appreciation of the fine abilities of Sir Horace, he estimated, at their full value, all the resources of her wondrous tact and skill, and the fascinations which even yet surrounded her. Have we said enough to explain the terms of this alliance? or must we make one more confession, and own that her insidious praise a flattery too delicate and fine ever to be committed to absolute eulogy convinced Sir Horace that she alone of all the world was able to comprehend the vast stores of his knowledge, and the wide measure of his capacity as a statesman. In the great game of statecraft, diplo- matists are not above looking into each others hands; but this must always be ac- complished bymeans of a confederate. How terriblyalikeare all human rogueries, whether the scene be a conference at Vienna, or the tent of a thimblerig at Ascot! La Sabloukoff was unrivalled in the art. She knew how to push raillery and persiflage to the very frontiers of truth, and even peep over and see what lay beyond. Sir Horace traded on the material with which she supplied him, and thereby acquired the reputation of being all that was ~ifty and subtle in diplomacy. How did Upton know this? Whence came he by that? What mysterious source of information is he possessed of? Who could have revealed such a secret to him? were questions often asked in that dreary old drawing-room ofDowning-street. wheremens ~RE XOIITUNFiS QF ~Id~CO~E. destinies are shaped, and the fate of millions decided, from four oclock to six i. x. Often and often were the measures of the cabinet shaped by the tidings which arrived with all the speed of a foreign courier over and over again were the speeches in Parlia- ment based upon information received from him. It has even happened that the news from his hand has caused the telegraph of the Admiralty to signalize the Thunderer to put to sea with all haste. In a word, he was thetrusted agent of our Government, whether ruled by a Whig or a Tory, and his des- patches were ever regarded as a sure war- ranty for action. The English Minister at a foreign court labors under one great disadvantage, which is, that his policy, and all the consequences that are to follow it, are rarely, if ever, shaped with any reference to the state of matters then existing in his own country. Absorbed as he is in great Euiopean ques- tions, how can he follow, with sufficient attention, the course of events at home, or recognize, in the signs and tokens of the division list, the changeful fortunes of party? lIe may be advising energy when the cry is all for temporizing; counselling patience and submission, when the nation is eager for a raw; recommend religious concessions in the very week that Exeter Hall is denouncing t0leration; or actually suggesting aid to a Government that a popular orator has pro- claimed to be everything that is unjust and ignominious. It was Sir Horace Uptons fortune to have fallen into one of these embarrassments. He had advised the Home Government to take some measures, or, at least, look with favor on certain movements of the Poles in Russia, in order the better to obtain some concessions then required from the cabinet of the Czar. The Premier did not approve of the sugges- tion, nor was it like to meet acceptance at home. We were in a pro-Russian fever at the moment. Some mob disturbances at Norwich, a Chartist meeting at Stockport, and something else in Wales, had frightened the nation into a hot stage of conservatism; and never was there such an ill-chosen mo- merit to succor Poles, or awaken dormant nationalities. Uptons proposal was rejected. He was even visited with one of those disagi~eeable acknowledgments by which the Foreign Office reminds a speculative minister, that he is going ultra crepidam. When an envoy is snubbed, he always asks for leave of absence. If the castigation be severe, he invariably, on his return to England, goes to visit the leader of the Oppositioi~. This is the ritual. 8ir Horace, however, only observed it in 1~U~ He came home; bnt after his flint mornings attendance at the Foreign Office he disappeared; none saw or heard of him. He knew well all the value of mystery, and he accordingly disappeared from public view alt og ether. When, therefore, Harcourts letter reached him, proposing that he should visit Glencore, the. project came m?st opportunely; and that he only accepted it for a day, was in the spirit of his habitual diplomacy, since he then gave himself all the power of an im- mediate departure, or permitted the option of remaining gracefully, in defiance of all pre-engagements, and all plans to be else- where. We have been driven, for the sake of this small fact, to go a great way round in our history; but we promise our reader that Sir Horace was one of those people whose motives are never tracked without a considerable detour. The reader knows now why he was at Glencore. he always knew how. The terrible interview with Glencore brought back a second relapse of greater violence than the first, and it was nigh a fortnight ere he was pronounced out of danger. It was a strange life that Harcourt anj Upton led in that dreary interval. Guests of one whose life was in utmost peril, they met in that old gallery each day to talk, in half whispered sentences, over the sick mans case, and his chances of recovery. Harcourt frankly told Upton that the first relapse was the consequence of a scene be- tween Glencore and himself. Upton made no similar confession. He reflected deeply, however, over all that had passed, and came to the conclusion that, in Glencores present condition, opposition might prejudice his chance of recovery, but never avail to turn him from his project. He also set himself to study the boys character, and found it, in all respects, the very type of his fathers. Great bashfulness united to great boldness, timidity and distrust, were there side by side with a rash, impetuous nature, that would hesitate at nothing in pursuit of an object. Pride, ~qwever, was the great principle of his being ~-- the good and evil motive of all that was in him. He had pride on every subject. His name, his rank, his station, a consciousness of natural quickness, a sense of aptitude to learn whatever came before him all gave him the same feeling of pride. Theres a deal of good in that lad, said Harcourt to Upton, one evening, as the boy had left the roox~ I like his strong affec- tion for his father, and that unbounded faith he seems to have in Glencores being better than every one else in the world. It is an excellent religion, my dear Har- court, if it could only last! said the diplo- mate, smiling amiably. 82 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. And why shouldnt it last? asked the other, impatiently. Just because nothing lasts that has its origin in ignorance. The boy has seen nothing of life has had no opportunity for forming a judgment, or instituting a com- parison between any two objects. The first shot that breaches that same fortress of belief, down will come the whole edifice! You d give a lad to the Jesuits, then, to be trained up in every artifice and distrust? Far from it, Harcourt. I think their system a mistake all through. The science of life must be self-learned, and it is a slow acquisition. All that education can do is to prepare the mind to receive it. Now, to employ the first years of a boys life by storing him with prejudices, is jast to encum- ber a vessel with a rotten cargo, that she must throw overboard before she can load with a profitable freight. And is it in that category you d chiss his love for his father? asked the Colonel. Of course not; but any unnatural or exaggerated estimate of him is a great error, to lead to an equally unfair depreciation when the time of deception is past. To be plain, Harcourt, is that boy fitted to enter one of our great public schools, stand the hard rough usage of his own equals, and buffet it as you or I have done? Why not? or, at least, why shouldnt he become so after a month or two? Just because in that same month or two he d either die broken-hearted, or plunge his knife in the heart of some comrade who insulted him. Not a bit of it. You dont know him at all. Charley is a line give-and-take fellow; a little proud, perhaps, because he lives apart from all that are his equals. Let Glencore just take courage to send him to Harrow or Rugby, and my life on it, but he 11 b~ the manliest fellow in the school. I 11 undertake, without Harrow or Rugby, that the boy should become some- thing even greater than that, said Upton, smiling. 0, I know you sneer at my ideas of what a young fellow ought to be, said Har- court; but somehow you did not neglect these same pursuits yourself. You can sihoot as well as most men, and you ride better than any I know of. One likes to do a little of everything, ilarcourt, said Upton, not at all displeased at this flattery; and some way it never suits a fellow, who reall~y feels that he has fair abilities, to do anything badly; so that it comes to this, one does it well or not at all. Now you never heard me touch the piano? 83 Never. Just because I m only an inferior per former, and so I only play when perfectly alone. Egad, if I could only master a waltz, or one of the melodies, I d be at it whenever any one would listen to me. You re a good soul, and full of amiabil- ity, Harcourt, said Upton; but the words sounded very much as though he said, You re a dear, good, sensible creature, without an atom of self-respect or esteem. Indeed, so conscious was Harcourt that the expression meant no compliment, that he actually reddened and looked away. At last he took courage to renew the conversation, and said And what would you advise for the boy, then? I d scarcely lay down a system, but I II tell you what I would not do. I d not bore him with mathematics; I d not put his mind on the streteh in any direction; Id not st~ the development of any taste that may be struggling within him, but rather encourage and foster it, since it is precisely by such an indication you 11 get some clue to his nature. Do you understand me? I m not quite sure I do; but I;believ.e you d leave him to something like utter idleness.~~ What to you, my dear Harcourt, would be utter idleness, I ye no doubt, but not to him, perhaps. Again the Colonel looked mortified, but evidently knew not how to resent this new sneer. Well, said he, after a pause, the lad will not require to be a genius. So much the better for him, probably; at all events, so much the better for his friends, and all who are to associate witb him. Here he looked fixedly at Upton, who smiled a most courteous acquiescence in the opinion a politeness that made poor Hex- court perfo tly~ashamed of his own riidenem, and he continued hurriedly He 11 have abundance of money. This life of Glencores here will be like a long minority to him. A fine old name and title, and the deuce is in it if he cant rub through life pleasantly enough with such odds. I believe you are right, after all, Har- court, said Upton, sighing, and now speak- ing in a far more natural tone; it is rubbing through with the best of us, and flo more! If you mean that the process is a vs7 irksome one, I enter my dissent at once, broke in Harcourt. Im not ashamed to own that I like life prodigiously; and if I be spared to say so,Im sure Ill have the sazac 4 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. story to tell fifteen or twenty years hence, and yetlmnotagenius! No! said Upton, smiling a bland assent. Nor a philosopher either, said Harcourt, irritated at the acknowledgment. Certainly not, chimed in Upton, with another smile. Nor have I any wish to be one or the other, rejoined Hareourt, now really pro- voked. I know right well that if I were in trouble or difficulty to-morrow if I wanted a friend to help me with a loan of some thousand pounds it is not to a genius or a philosopher I d look for the assistance. It is ever a chance shot that explodes a magazine, and so is it that a random speech is sure to hit the mark that has escaped all the efforts of skilful direction. lYp ton winced and grew pale at these last words, and he fixed his penetrating gray eyes up on the speaker with a keenness all his own. ll7arcourt, however, bore the look without the slightest touch of uneasiness. The honest Colonel had spoken without any hidden meaning, nor had lie the slightest intention of a personal application in his words. Of this fact Upton appeared soon to be con- vinced, for his features gradually recovered their wonted calmness. How, perfectly right you are, my dear Harcourt, said he, mildly. The man who expects to be happier by the possession of genius, is like one who would like to warm himself through a burning-glass. Egad, that is a great consolation for us slow fellows, said Harcourt, laughing; and now what say you to a game at ecarlff, fbr I believe it is just the one solitary thing I am more than your match in? I accept inferiority in a great many others, said Upton, blandly; but I must decline the challenge, for I have a letter to write, and our post here starts at daybreak. Well, I d rather carry the whole bag than indite one of its contents, said the Colonel, rising, and, with a hearty shake of the hand, he left the room. A letter was fortunately not so great an infliction to Upton, who opened his desk at once, and with a rapid hand traced the fol- lowing lines: My DEAR PRINCESS, My last will have told you how and why I came here; I wish I but knew in what way to explain why I still remain! Imagine the dreariest desolation of Calabria in a climate of fog and sea-drift sunless skies, leafless trees, impassable roads the outdoor comforts; the joys with- in; depending on a gloomy old house, with a fe~ gloomier inmates, ~nd a host on a sick bed. Yet with all this I believe I am better; the doctor, a strange unsophisticated crea ture, a cross between Galen and Caliban, seems to have hit off what the great dons of science never could detect the true seat of my malady. He says and he really rea- sons out his case ingeniously that the brain has been working for the inferior nerves, not limiting itself to cerebral functions, but actually performing the humbler office of muscular direction, and so forth; in fact, a field-marshal doing duty for a common sol- dier! I almost fancy I can corroborate his view, from internal sensations; I have a kind of secret instinct that he is right. Poor brain, why it should do the work of another department, with abundance of occupation of its own, I cannot make out. But, to turn to something else. This is not a bad refuge just now. They cannot make out where 1 am, and all the inquiries at my club are an- swered by a vague impression that I have gone back to Germany, which the people at F. 0. are aware is not the case. I have al- ready told you that my suggestion has been negatived in the Cabinet; it was ill-timed, Allington says, but I ventured to remind his lordship that a policy requiring years to develop, and more years still to push to profit- able conclusion, is not to be reduced to the catagory of mere apropos measures. He was vexed, and replied weakly and angrily I rejoined, and left him. Next day he sent for me, but my reply was, I was leaving town and I left. I dont want the Bath, be- cause it would be ill-timed; so they must give me Vienna, or be satisfied to see me in the House and the Oppositionw! Your tidings of Brekenoff came exactly in the nick. Allington said pompously that they were sure of him; so I just said, Ask him if they would like our sending a Con- sular Agent to Cracow? It seems he was- so flurried by a fancied detection, that he made a full acknowledgment of all. But even at this Allington takes no alarm. The malady of the Treasury benches is deafness, with a touch of blindness. What a cumbrous piece of bung~ting machinery is this boasted repre- sentative government of ours! No prompti- tudeno secrecy! Everything debated, and discussed, and discouraged, before begun; every blot-hit for an antagonist to profit by! Even the characters of our public men ex- posed, and their weaknesses displayed to view, so that every state of Europe may see where to wound us, and through whom! There is no use 1~ the Countess remaining here any longer; the King never noticed her at the last ball; she is angry at it, and if she shows her irritation she 11 spoil all. I al- ways thought Josephine would fail in Eng- land. It is, indeed, a widely different thing to succeed in the small Courts of Germany and our great whirlpool of St. James. You 84 TILE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. could do it, my dear friend; but where is the other dare attempt it? Until I hear from you again I can come to no resolution. One thing is clear, theydo not, or they will not, see the danger I have pointed out to them. All the home policy of our country is drifting, day by day, to- wards a democracy how in the name of common sense then is our foreign policy to be maintained at the standard of the holy alliance? What an absurd juxtaposition is there between popular rights and an alliance with the Czar! This peril will overtake them one day or another, and then, to escape from national indignation, the minister, whoever he may be, will be driven to make war. But I cant wait for this; and yet were I to resign, my resignation would not embarrass them it would irritate and an- noy, but not disconcert. Brekenoff will sure- ly go home on leave. You ought to meet him; he is certain to be at Ems. It, is the refuge of disgraced diplomacy. Try if some- thing cannot be done with him, He used to say formerly yours were the only dinners now in Europe. He hates Allington. This feeling, and his love for white truffles, are I believe the only clues to the man. Be sure, however, that the truffles are Piedmontese; they have a slight flavor of garlic, rather agreeable than otherwise. Like Josephines lisp, it is a defect that serves for a distinction. The article in the Beaux Mondes was clever, prettily written, and even well worked out; but state affairs are never really well treated save by those who conduct them. One must have played the game himself to understand all the nice subtleties of the contest. These your mere reviewer or newspaper scribe never attains to; and then he has no reserves none of those mysterious concealments, that are to negotiations like the eloquent pauses of conversation the moment when dialogue ceases and real interchange of ideas begins. The fine touch, the keen apercu, be- longs alone to those who have had to exer- cisc these same qualities in the treatment of great questions; and hence it is, that though the public be often much struck, and even enlightened, by the powerful article or the able leader, the statesman is rarely taught anything by the journalist, save the force and direction of public opinion. I had a deal to say to you about poor Glencore, whom you tell me you remember; but how to say it. He is broken-hearted literally broken-hearted by her desertion of him. It was one of those ill-assorted leagues which cannot hold together. Why they did not see this, and make the best of it sensibly, dispassionately, even amicably it is difficult to~y. An Englishman, it would seem, must always hate his wife if she cannot love him; and after all, how invol- untary are all affections, and what a severe penalty is this for an unwitting offence. He ponders over this calamit~r, just as if it were the crushing stroke by which a mans whole career was to be finished forever. Tb.. stupidity of all stupidities is in these cases to fly from the world, and avoid society. By doing this a man rears a barrier he never can repass; he proclaims aloud his sentiment of the injury, quite forgetting all the offence he is giving to the hundred-and-fifty othere, who, in the same predicament as himeell, are by no means disposed to turn hermits on account of it. Men make revolutionary gov- ernments, smash dynasties, transgress laws, but they cannot oppose convenances! I need scarcely say that there is nothing to be gained by reasoning with him. He has worked himself up to a chronic fury, and talks of vengauce all day long like a Corsican. For company here I have an old brother-officer of my days of tinsel and pipe- clay an excellent creature whom I amuss myself by tormenting. There is also Glen- cores boy a strange, dreary kind of haughty fellow, an exaggeration of his father in disposition, but with good abilities. These are not the elements of much social agreea- bility, but you know, dear friend, how little I stand in need of what is called company. Your last letter, charming as it was, ha~ afforded me all the companionship I could desire. I have re-read it till I know it by heart. I could almost chide you for that de- lightful little party in my absence, but of course it was, as all you ever do is, perfect- ly right; and after all I am, perhaps, not sorry that you had those people when I was away, so that we shall be more chez soi when we meet. But when is that to be? Who can tell? My medico insists upon five full weeks for my cure. Allington is very likely in his present temper to order me back to my post. You seem to think that you must be in Berlin when Seckendorf arrives, so that ______ But I will not darken the future by gloomy forebodings. I could leave this, that is, if any urgency required it, at once, but if possible it is better I should remain, at least a little longer. My last meeting with Glencore was unpleasant. Poor feE- low, his temper is not what it used to be, and he is forgetful of what is due to one whose nerves are in the sad state of mine. You shall hear all my co~plainings when we meet, dear princess, and with this I kiss your hand, begging you to accept all mes hom- ages et mes regards. H. U. Your letter must be addressed Leenane, Ireland. Your last had only Glencore 85 TIlli FORTUNES OF OLIiINOORE. Sir Horace read over his letter carefully as though it had been a despatch, and when he had done, folded it up with an air of satis- fhction. He had said nothing that he wished unsaid; and he had mentioned a little about everything he desired to touch upon. lie then took his drops from a queer-looking little phial he carried about with him, and having looked at his face in a pocket-glass, he half closed his eyes in reverie Strange, confused visions were they that flitted through his brain. Thoughts of am- bition the most daring, fancies about health, speculations in politics, finance, religion, literature, the arts, society all came and went. Plans and projects jostled each other at every instant. Now his brow would darken, and his thin lips close tightly, as some painful impression crossed him; now again a smile, a slight laugh even, betrayed the passing of some amusing conception. It was easy to see how such a nature could suf- fice to itself, and how little he needed of that give-and-take which companionship supplies. He couldto steal a figure from our steam languagehe could bank his fires, and await any energy, and, while scarcely con- suming any fuel, prepare for the most trying demand upon his powers. A hasty move- ment of feet overhead, and the sound of voices talking loudly, aroused him from his reflections, while a servant entered abruptly to say, that Lord Glencore wished to see him immediately. Is his lordship worse? asked Upton. No, sir; but he was very angry with the y~ui~g lord this evening about something; and they say, that with the passion he opened the bandage on his head and set the vein a blecding again. Billy Traynor is there now trying to stop it. I 11 go up stairs, said Sir Horace, ris- hag, and beginning to fortify himself with caps, and capes, and comforters precau- tions that he never omitted when moving from one room to the other. on it, and not very legibly either, so that it cheeks. They moved hurriedly to and fro, made what I wished I could, the tour of scarcely remembering what they were m Scotland before reaching me. search of, and evidently deeming his state of the greatest peril. Traynor, the only one whose faculties were unshaken by the shock, sat quietly beside the bed, his fingers firmly compressed upon the orifice of the vessel. while, with the other hand, he motioned to them to keep silence. Glencore lay with closed eyes, breathing long and labored inspirations, and at times convulsed by a slight shivering. His face, and even his lips, were bloodless, and his eye- lids of a pale livid hue. So terribly like the approach of death was his whole appear- ance, that Upton whispered in the doctors ear Is it over? Is he dying?~ No, Upton, said Glencore, for, with the acute hearing of intense nervousness, he had caught the words It is not so easy to diet There now no more talkin no dis- coorsin azy and quiet is now the word. Bind it up and leave me leave me with him; and Glencore pointed to Upton. I darnt move out of this spot, said Billy, addressing Upton. You d have the blood coming out, per saltim, if I took away my finger. You must be patient, Glencore, said Upton, gently; you know I m alwaysready when you want me. And you 11 not leave this? you 11 not desert me? cried the other, eagerly. Certainly not; I have no thought of go- ing away. There, now, hould your p rate, both of ye, or, by my conscience, Ill nottake the responsibility upon me I will not! said Billy, angrily. T is just a disgrace and a shame that ye havnt more discretion. Glencores lips moved with a feeble at- tempt at a smile, and in his faint voice he said We must obey the doctor, Upton; but donileate me. Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word. Ye think an artery is like a canal, with ,a lock-gate to it, I believe, said Billy, in a CHAPTER Xii. low, grumbling voice to Upton, and you forget all its vermicular motion, as ould rab- ricius called it, and that is only by a coaga- lum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwa- ter. Be off out of4hat, ye spalpeens! be off every one of yez, a~d leave us tranquil and paceable! This summary command was directed to the various servants, who were still moving about the room in imaginary occupation. The room was at last cleared of all save Up~ ton and Billy, who sat by the bedside, his A NIGHT AT SEA. GLXNC0RE~S chamber presented a scene of confusion and dismay as Upton entered. The sick man had torn off the bandage from his temples, and so roughly as to re-open the half-closed artery, and renew the bleeding. Not alone the bed-clothes and the curtains, but the faces of the assistants around him, were staine~ with blood, which seemed the more ghastly f~om ceHtrsst with their pallid 86 THE FO1~TVNES OF GLENCOR~. band still resting on the sick mans forehead. Soothed by the stillness, and reduced by the loss of blood, Glencore sank into a quiet sleep, breathin~ softly and gently as a child. Look at him now, whispered Billy to Upton, and you 11 see what philosophy there is in ascribin to the heart the source of all our emotions. He lies there azy and comfortable, just because the great bellows is working smoothly and quietly. They talk about the brain, and the spinal nerves, and the soliar plexus, but give a man a wake, washy circulation, and what is he? He s just like a chap with the finest intentions in the world, but not a sixpence in his pocket to carry them out! A fine, well-regulated, steady-batin heart is like a credit on the bank you draw on it, and your draft is nt dishonored!~ What was it brought on this attack? asked Upton, in a whisper. A shindy he had with the boy. I was nt here. There was nobody by; but when I met Master Charles on the stairs, he flew past me like lightnin~, and I just saw by a glimpse that something was, wrong. He rushed out with his head bare, and his coat all open, and it sleetin terribly! Down he went towards the Lough, at full speed, and never minded all my callin after him. Has he returned? asked Upton. Not as I know, sir. We were too much taken up with the lord to ask after him. I 11 just step down and see, said Sir Horace, who arose, and left the room on tip- toe. To Uptons inquiry all made the same an- swer. None had seen the young lord none could give any clue as to whither he had gone. Sir Horace at once hastened to Har- courts room, and after some vigorous shakes, succeeded in awakening the Colonel, and by dint of various repetitions at last put him in possession of all that had occurred. We must look after the lad, cried Har- court, springing from his bed, and dressing with all haste. He is a rash, hot-headed fellow; but even if it were nothing else, he might get his death in such a night as this. he wind dashed wildly against the win- dow-panes as he spoke, and the old timbers of the frame rattled fearfully. Do you remain here, Upton. I 11 go in search of the boy. Take care Glencore hears nothing of his absence. And with a promptitude that bespoke the man of action, Harcourt descended the stairs and set out. The night was pitch dark; sweeping gusts of wind bore the rain along in torrents, and the thunder rolled incessantly, its clamor in- creased by the loud beating of the waves as they broke upon the rocks. Upton had re 81 peated to Harcourt that Billy saw the boy going toward~ the sea-shore, and in thiA di- rection he now followed. his frequent excUr sions had familiarized him with the place,A~ that even at night Harcourt found no diffi culty in detecting the path and keeping it. About half-an-hours brisk walking b rouglit him to the side of the Lough, and the nar- row flight of steps cut in the rock, which descended to the little boat-quay. Here he halted, and called out the boys name several times. The sea, however, was running moun- tains high, and an immense drift, sweeping over the rocks, fell in sheets of scattered foaxa beyond them; so that Harcourts voice wae drowned by the uproar. A small shealing under the shelter of the rock formed the h~nxe of a boatman; and at the crazy door of thl* humble cot Harcourt now knocl~ed violently. The man answered the summons at once, assuring him that he had not heard or seek any one since the night closed in; adding. at the same time, that in such a tempest i. boats crew might have landed without his knowing it. To be sure, continued he, after a pauSe, I heard a chain rattlin on the rock soon after I went to bed, and I 11 just step doiru and see if the yawl is all right. Scarcely had he left the spot, when his voice was heard calling out from below Shes gone! the yawl is gone! the lock is broke with a stone and she s away! How could this be? no boat could leave in such a sea, cried Harcourt eagerly. She could go out fast enough, sir. Th~ wind is north-east due; but how long she 11~ keep the sea is another matter. Then he 11 be lost! cried Harcourt, wildly. Who, sirwhois it? asked the mail. Your masters son! cried he, wringing his hands in anguish. 0, murther! murther! screamed the boatman, we 11 never see him again. Ti* out to say into the wild ocean he 11 be blown! Is there no shelter no spot he could make for? Barrin the islands, there s not a spot between this and America. But he could make the islands you a~ sure of that? If the boat was able to live through tb~ say. But sure I know him well; he 11 never take in a reef or sail; but sit there, with the helm hard up, just ne~er carin what cani of him! 0, musha! musha! what druv him out such a night as this? Come, it s no time for lamenting, my man; get the launch ready, and let us follow him. Are you afraid? Afraid! replied the man, with a tmieh THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. of scorn in his voice; faix, it s little fear troubles me; but may be you wont like to be in her yourself when she s once out. I ye none belongin to me father, mother, chick or child; but you may have many a one that s near to you. My ties are, perhaps, as light as your own, said Harcourt. Come, now, be alive. Ill put ten gold guineas in your hand if you can overtake him. I d rather see his face than have two hundred, said the man, as, springing into the boat, he began to haul out the tackle from under the low half-deck, and prepare for sea. Is your honor used to a boat, or ought I to get another man with me? asked the sailor. Trust me, my good fellow, I have had more sailing than yourself, and in more treacherous seas, too, said ilarcourt, who, throwing off his cloak, proceeded to help the other, with an address that bespoke a prac- tised hand. The wind blew strongly off the shore, so that scarcely was the foresail spread, than the boat began to move rapidly through the water, dashing the sea over her bows, and plunging wildly through the waves. Give me a hand now with the halyard, said the boatman; and when the main-sail is set, you 11 see how she 11 dance over the top of the waves, and never wet us. She s too light in the water, if any- thing, said Harcourt, as the boat bounded buoyantly, under the increased press of canvas. Your honors right; she 11 do better with half a ton of iron in her. Stand by, sir, al- ways, with the peak halyards; get the sail aloft in when I give you the word. Leave the latter t6 me, my man, said ilarcourt, taking it as he spoke. You 11 seen see that I m no new hand at the work. She s doing it well, said the man. Keep her up! keep her up! there s a spit of land runs out here; in a few minutes more well have say-room enough. The heavier roll of the waves, and the in- creased force of the wind, soon showed that they had gained the open sea; while the atmosphere, relieved of the dark shadows of the mountain, seemed lighter and thinner than inshore. We re to make for the islands, you say, sir? Yes. What distance are they off? About eighteen miles. Two hours, if the wind lasts, and we can bear it. And could the yawl stand this? said Harcourt, as a heavy sea struck the bow, and came in a cataract over them. Better than ourselves, if she was manned. Luff! luff!thats it! Andastheboat turned up to wind, sheets of spray and foam flew over her. Master Charles hasnt his equal for steerin, if he was nt alone. Keep her there ! now! steady, sir! Here s a squall coming, cried liar- court; I hear it hissing. Down went the peak, but scarcely in time, for the wind, catching the sail, laid the boat gunwale under. After a struggle, she right- ed, but with nearly one-third of her filled with water. Id take in a reef, or two reefs, said the man; but if she couldnt rise to the say, she 11 fill and go down. We must carry on, at all events. So say I. It s no time to shorten sail, with such a sea running. The boat now flew through the water, the sea itself impelling her, as with every sudden gust the waves struck the stern. She s a brave craft, said ilarcourt, as she rose lightly over the great waves, and plunged down again into the trough of the sea; but if we ever get to land again. I 11 have combings round her to keep ler dryer. here it comes ! here it comes, sir!~ Nor were the words well out, when, like a thunder-clap, the wind struck the sail, and bent the mast over like a whip. For an instant it seemed as if she were going dowii by the prow; but she righted again, and, shivering in every plank, held on her way. That s as much as she could do, said the sailor; and I would not like to ax her to do more. I agree with you, said Harcoutb, secretly stealing his feet back again into his shoes, which he had just kicked off. It s freshning it is every minute, saia the man; and I m not sure that we could make the Islands if it lasts. Wellwhat then? Theres nothing for it but to be blown out tosa~, said he, tragically, as, having filled his tobacco-pipe, he struck a light, and began to smoke. The very thing I was wishing for, said Harcourt, touching his cigar to the bright ashes. how she labors do you think she can stand this? She can, if it s no worse, sir. But it looks heavier weather outside. As well as I can see, it s only be- ginnin. Harcourt listened with a species of a~- miration to the calm and measured senti- ment of the sailor, who, fully conscious of all the danger, yet never, by a word or gesture, showed that he was flurried or excited. 88 THE FORTTYNES OF GLENCORE. You have been out on nights as bad as this, I suppose? said Harcourt. May be not quite, sir, for it s a great say is runnin; and, with the wind off shore, we could nt have this, if there was nt a storm blowing further out. From the westward, you mean? Yes, sira wind coming over the whole ocean, that will soon meet the land wind. And does that often happen? The words were but out, when, with a loud report like a cannon-shot, the wind reversed the sail, snapping the strong sprit in two, and bringing down the whole canvas clattering into the boat. With the aid of a hatchet, the sailor struck off the broken portion of the spar, and soon cleared the wreck; while the boat, now reduced to a mere foresail, labored heavily, sinking her prow in the sea at every bound. Her course, too, was now altered, and she flew along parallel to the shore, the great cliffs looming through the darkness, and seeming as if close to them. The boy! the boy! cried ilarcourt; what has become of him? He never could have lived through that squall. If the spar stood, there was an end of us, too, said the sailor; she d have gone down by the stern, as sure as my name is Peter. It is all over by this time, muttered Harcourt, sorrowfully. Pace to him now! said the sailor, as he erossed himself, and went over a prayer. The wind now raged fearfully; claps, like the report of cannon, struck the frail boat at intervals, and laid her nearly heel upper- most; while the mast bent like a whip, and every rope creaked and strained to its last endurance. The deafening noise, close at hand, told where the waves were beating on the rock-bound coast, or surging with the deep growl of thunder through many a cavern. They rarely spoke, save when some emergency called for a word. Each sat wrapped up in his own dark reveries, and unwilling to break them. hours passed thus long, dreary hours of darkness, that seemed like years of suffering, so often in this interval did life hang in the balance. As morning began to break with a gray- ish blue light to the westward, the wind slightly abated, blowing more steadily, too, and less in sudden gusts; while the sea rolled in large round waves, unbroken above, and showing no crest of foam. Do you know where we are? asked Hareourt. Yes, sir; we re off the Rooks Point, and if we hold on well, we ~l be soon in slacker water. 89 Could the boy have reached this, think you? The man shook his head mournfully, with- out speaking. - How far are we from Glencore? About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land. You can put me ashore, then, somewhere hereabouts? Yes, sir, in the next bay; there s a creek we can easily run into. You are quite sure he could nt have been blown out to sea? How could he, sir? There s only one way the wind could dhrive him. If he is nt in the Clough Bay, he s in glory. All the anxiety of that dreary night was nothing to wha~ Harcourt now suffered, in his eagerness to round the Rooks Point, and look into tbe bay beyond it. Control- ling it as he would, still would it break out in words of impatience, and even anger. Dont curse the boat, yer honor, said Peter, respectfully, but calmly; she s be- bayed well to us this night, or we d not be here now.~~ But are we to beat about here forever? asked the other, angrily. She s don well, and we ought to be thankful, said the man; and his tone, even more than his words, served to reprove the others impatience. I 11 try and set the mainsail on her with the remains of the sprit. Harcourt watched him, as he labored away to repair the damaged rigging; but though he looked at him, his thoughts were far away with poor Glencore upon his sick- bed, in sorrow and in suffering, and perhaps soon to hear that he was childless. From these he went on to other thoughts. What could have occurred to have driven the boy to such an act of desperation? Harcourt invented a hundred imaginary causes, to reject them as rapidly again. The affection the boy bore to his father seemed the strong- est principle of his nature. There appeared to be no event possible in which that feeling would not sway and control him. As he thus ruminated, he was aroused by the sud- den cry of the boatman. There s a boat, sir, dismasted, ahead~ of us, and drifting out to say. I see her! I see her! cried liar- court; out with the oars, and let s pull for her. Heavily as the sea w~*s rolling, they now began to pull through the immense waves, Harcourt turning his bead at every instant to watch the boat, which now was scarcely half a mile ahead of them. Shes empty! there sno one in her! T~?1~ ~ORTTIN~S OI~ GLE~CG1~E. said Peter, mournfully, as, steadying him- self by the mast, he cast a look seaward. Row onlet us get beside her, said Harcourt. Shes the yawl!I know her now, c~ried the man. And empty? Washed out of her with a say, belike, said Peter, resuming his oar, and tugging with all his strength. A quarter of an hours hard rowing brought them close to the dismasted boat, which, drifting broadside on the sea, seemed at every instant ready to capsize. Theres something in the bottom in the stern-sheets! screamed Peter. It s him- self! 0 blessed Virgin, it s himself! And, with a bound, he sprung from his own boat into the other. The next instant he had lifted the helpless body of the boy from the bottom of the boat, and, with a shout of joy, screamed out Hes alive! he swell! its only fa- tigue! Harcourt pressed his hands to his face, and sank upon his knees in prayer. THE MAHQUT5 OF LAN5DOWNE AND SYMPATHY WITH LITERARY TALENT. The Marquis of Lanedowne being struck with a short poem, So it come, by Frances Browne, which appeared in the Athenaum, applied for information respecting the author; and on learning that she had been long beset by difficulties, placed 100 at her disposal, which was ac- cepted in the spirit in which it was offered. The Guar- dian, Sept. 5. ON reading the above paragraph, I was re- minded of a circumstance not less deserving of honorable record, that occurred twenty-two years ago, oa an occasion when the noble mar- quis applied to me, then in the foreign house of Treuttel and Wiirtz, the publishers of the For- eign Quarterly Review, for the purpose of ascertaining the author of an article in the number just then published of that Review, an article with which his lordship informed me he had been so struck his own words that he was desirous of becoming acquainted with the writer of it. Being delighted by the occurrence of such an unexpected piece of good fortune to a young Irishman with whom I had recently become acquainted, and whom I had introduced to the editor of the Review (the late Mr. Cochrane, of the London Library) I in- formed his lordship that the article in question was written by a Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Cooke Taylor, a literary man who had recently come to London from Trinity College, Dublin; and who was then chiefly occupied in writing for the booksellers. His lordship added that he had some works in his library, which he thought would interest Mr. Taylor, whom he would be glad to see any morning at Lansdowne House. I lost no time in acquainting Mr. Taylor with this striking tribute to the merits of his com- munication from a nobleman of such distin- guished discernment of literary talent and of sympathy for its gifted possessors. The article which attracted Lord Lansdownes attention in so remarkable a manner, was (if my memory does not deceive, On Mohammed and Mohammedanism (F. Q. R. No. 23, 1833) a subject on which Dr. Taylor afterwards wrote a distinct work. The marquis continued Dr. Taylors friend and patron to the last; having appointed him, as I was informed, but a short time before his early and lamented death, to a lucrative post on the Irish Statistical Commis.. sion a post for which he had given many proofs of fitness, not the least of which was by an article in the Foreign Quarterly, on the Objects and Advantages of Statistical Sci- ence. (Vol. xvi. p. 205.) Dr. T.s first com- munication to that Review was on Niebuhrs new edition of the Byzantine Historians, a subject selected by himself as his coup dessai, and, in his treatment of it, affording evidence of such scholarship and ability, as convinced the editor that Dr. T. would prove a most valu- able contributor. JVotes and Queries. JoxF& MACHAI. Ir is well known that the albumen with which any books have been sized, in the course of time (especially if they have been visited by damp) becomes altered in composition; I therefore sag- gest that the plan of marking books with a pen- cil be adopted, and for these reasons: After the writing is finished, it can be fixed with milk, and will remain perfect many years in a dry place. It doe~ nqt disfigure the beok, and both lead and milk being on the surface, they can be erased at any time with a sharp knife, but the lead can never be destroyed by fire. I have some writing in pencil by me, as distinct as when written more than ten years ago. The milk should be dabbed on with a sponge, otherwise the lead will be rub- bed off, and this will make the writing less clear, and give the book a dirty appearance. The plan has alsothis advantage: notes written anywhere can be fixed anywhere where milk is to be had, a desideratum fd~ travellers. AVON Lua. .Tvbtes and Queries. 90 LEWES LIFE OF GOETHE. From The Spectator. LEWES LIFE OF GOETHE. * AMONG the literary men of the last hundred years, there is no more interesting figure than Johann Wolfgang Goethe. With the excep- tionof Napoleon Bonaparte, there is no one, be he writer or actor, who stands out from the mass of his contemporaries so promi- nently, and who is so sure of being more and more identified as time rolls on, ripening all things that are true, and destroying all things that are false and partial with the history of this period. Whatever else perishes and is forgotten, these two the king of thought and the king of deed will be among the everlasting heirlooms of European civiliza- tion; the ideas to which they gave articulate form with the pen and with the sword will be among the conscious influences destined to shape the ideas, the character, and the con- duct of our latest posterity. Writers fond of antithesis somewhat hastily pronounce, in comparing the influence of two such men, that the empire of the king of speech is of a more permanent character than that of the king of action; as if the first Napoleon ceased to sway the world when he ceased to lead the armies of France as if the changes he effected in Europe had been really obliterated by the treaty of Vienna! Calmer observers may re- member that the earth bears traces to this day of primieval deluges, Noachian or Ethnic; and, since Mr. Carlyle made the comparison between Goethe and Napoleon, a second em- pire has arisen, to prove that great action sews a seed which may be as prolific and as enduring in its progeny as great speech. Goethe interests us on his own account, and on account of the persons by whom he was surrounded. He is not only the greatest figure in German literature, but he is the centre of the greatest group. He is not only the Shakspere of Germany, but the Shakspere of the Elizabethan age of Germany; not only the author of the greatest works, but the source of the widest influence. Filling with his own activity the largest circle of thought, and cultivating to their highest power facul- ties originaliy of extraordinary fertility, he has combined, more than any other writer that we know, excellence, variety, and quan- The Life and Works of Goethe with Sketches of his Age and contemporaries, from Published and Unpuh- lished Sources. By U. H. Lewes, Author of The Bio- graphical History of Philosophy, & c. In two volumes. Published by Nutt. tity. Shaksj~ere was a greater dramatist cer- tainly, and we think with equal certainty a much greater poet. But Goethe wrote Wer- titer, and Wilhelm Meister, and the Wahiver- wandtschaft en, as well as Goetz, Egmont, and Faust. Milton could roll on in majestic word- thunder, and unfold to his grand music pic- tures as grand; but where are we to look in Milton for the figures to put beside Mignon, Philina, Cl~rchen, and greatest of all, the Faust-Gretchen l Bacon was minister of a greater sovereign than Karl August, and of a greater state than little Saxon Weimar, a wise moralist, a noble prose-writer, the man to whom more than to any one Europe owes her scientific method. The discovery of the maxillary bone in man, the idea of the verte- brate character of the skull, the elaborated theory of the metamorphosis of plants, though they indicate a marvellous advance on con- temporary notions of philosophic method, and are themselves important steps in the science of development, must yield to the Novum Organum and the De Augmentis. But the wonder is, that these discoveries should have been made by the author of Werther and Hermann and Dorothea. Walter Scott was even more prolific, and in literature quite as various; but, to say nothing of the important difference that Scotts variety is only specific, even enthusiastic Edinburgh would hesitate in placing the quality of Scotts best works on a level with that of Goethes best; and posterity will probably agree with Carlyle in classing the two men at very different ele- vations, and, while they regard Scott as the man who does best to amuse the leisure-hour, will assign to Goethe the nobler function of occupying the most serious studies of the highest intellects, of blending the ministry of Wisdom with ~he grace of Art, profound re- flection and wide culture with the force of in,. agination and the play of humor. Thus producing largely, in the most various fields, and with consummate excellence, Goe- the was as a matter of course a man of wi& acquaintance and of vast influence. What a group of names that is which spontaneously rises to the recollection-~ssociated with his! what a vast change in the literature of hi~ country is blended inseparably in the mind; as it was in fact, with the different mras of his life! The fact becomes most impressive when we remember what German literature means to a German or a cultivated Englishman now, 91 LEWES LIFE OF GOETHE. and what it meant before Goethes time. The only names of importance that precede his are Klopstock and Lessing; and how small now is the practical influence of the former! Round Goethes image we now see herder, Sculler, Wieland, the two Humboldts, the two Schiegels, Jacobi, Novalis, Jean Paul Richter, and a crowd of others whose works are on the shelves of every reading mans library. The Goethe literature has attained a bulk which would make its complete mas- tery a life study. Werther, Goetz, von Ber- lichingen, Faust, and Wilhelm Meister, were each in their turn the fruitful parents of a patriarchal family of imitations. The amount of activity excited by Goethes works in the way of comment, criticism, and imitation, is, it appears to us, quite without parallel, and must always be a prominent topic in any ade- quate literary history of the period. We be- lieve that the catalogue of books illustrative of Goethe already fills a moderate octavo vol- ume. He attained the questionable advantage of being made a classic when he was yet alive; and while eager visitors took pilgrimages to Weimar as to a shrine of mysterious sanctity~ and not seldom found the god silent and some- times terrible, ruthless commentators raised hideous discord of the critic orchestra round his unresisting books, and tried to unfiesh the clearest art in Europe into metaphysical dry bones, and to interpret, as they call it, mag- nificent music into formula of school or cate- chism of sect. A phenomenon of such magnitude, so wide and complex in its relations when viewed even in its literary aspect alone, was not likely to make itself clearly understood at first glance; and while in Germany Goethes rank as facile princeps has not seriously been disputed, though Schiller was, and may be for all we know still, the more popular poet the Eng- lish public has scarcely yet begun to give him place among its household favorites of the exotic species. His literary worlh is accepted rather on the testimony of acknowledged au- thorities than on experience. And this, natural enough among people who read his works only in translations, is also very largely true of English people who read German. So far as the excellence of his poems is un- translatable and this would include all his lyrics and the finest qualities of his dra- matic poetry there is no remedy for an absence of appreciation which all foreign poets share. Form and substance in poetry are inseparable without vital injury to the poem which undergoes transformation into another language. But we think Goethe labors under prejudices which, quite apart from ignorance of the German language and the inevitable loss of beauty and force which poetry under- goes in translation, impede his claim to be studied with affectionate attention, preju- dices which affect the English reader of Ger- man, as well as the reader of German literature translated into English. They are mainly three, and may be summed up in the charge of want of heart, laxity of morals, indifferent- ism in politics. Like all lies that obtain any currency~ there is a basis of facts, which, interpreted by a disposition to see everything from one particular point of view, and a resolution to believe a great man a little man if possible, lend color to these charges: and the general public, which knows nothing else of Goethe, is sure when his name is mentioned to recognize him as the man who went about in his youth breaking womens hearts, and in his old age made love to an innocent im- pulsive girl, to put her fresh feelings into poems for which his cold nature could not else find material; as the man who had ille- gitimate children by a low woman, whom he was afterwards fool enough to marry, and was served right; as the man who, when Germany rose a nation for the moment against Napoleon, had no sympathy with the movement, and who all his life preferred to be the servile courtier of a petty prince rather than the poet of a free people. Now, so far as these prejudices have really stood in the way of Englands recognition of Goethes true greatness, and have prevented many from reading his works, and distorted the jud~gments of many who have dipped into them, the publication of this Life by Mr. Lewes will be a signal service to truth and justice. All these charges are candidly met, the facts on which they are founded stated with honesty, and the inferences from them fairly and thoroughly discussed. Mr. Lewes is a great admirer of Goethe, as it is neces- sary that a~ biographer should be; but his admiration has not t~ade him shirk facts ap- parently to the discredit of his hero. It is of that deeper kind which has faith enough in its object to refuse to allow any shade of sus- picion to rest upon his character; all shall be clear at any rate, whether it tells for him or 92 LEWES LIFE OF GOETHE. against him. And the result is, that, while Goethe is shown to be a man, and as a man with the temperament as well as the faculties of the poet to have done much he ought not to have done and left undone much which he ought to have done, he is also shown to have possessed one of the noblest and sweetest na- tures ever given to erring man, and to have lived as ever in the eyes of the Great Task- master who had given him his talents, and was by that gift calling him to discharge great duties. Whatever other causes may here- after militate against Goethes popularity in England among persons whose judgment is worth anything on such a question, the old misconceptions of his character and conduct must henceforth go into Times waste-paper- basket. But Mr. Lewes has not written a polemical book, though our first thought of it has been connected with the vast amount of rubbish it is calculated to render finally obsolete among us. It is, on the contrary, an animated nar- rative, that never flags in interest, and leaves the reader at the end of the second volume longing for more; the work of a man writing on a subject of which he knows much more than he tells, and whose chief difficulty has been to compress his ample materials into the prescribed space. We have been so accus- tomed of late to lives of inferior men written in many volumes by men inferior to them, that at first it seems difficult to believe that an ade- quate life of Goethe, who lived eighty-three years, and whose actuating principle was ohne Hast, ohne Rast, can be compressed into two volumes. But a thorough study of his subject, a careful preparation extended through many years, a conscientious devotion to a task voluntarily undertaken, and trained skill in authorship, have enabled Mr. Lewes to convey a lively representation of the man Goethe as he lived, of the society of which he was the centre, of the general characteristics of the time, and to blend with all this picture of the man and his environment ample ana- lytical criticism on his principal writings, and intelligent discussion of the principles upon which poetry and prose fiction should be con- ducted. To say that more might be written on all these subjects, is to say simply that Mr. Lewes has written a work of art, and not thrown before the public a quarry of raw ma- terial or a bundle of separate treatises. With- in the space he baa chosen to fill and the 93 limit appears to us wisely chosen ho has selected judiciously and arranged skilfully; and we owe to him a very complete a~nd sat- isfactory account of the life and writings of the greatest literary man of modern Europe. Most persons who know of Goethe anything more than his name, know of his Strasburg passion; and those who know and honor him best have had hard thoughts of him for his treatment of Frederika. Why he did not marry her, has been often asked; and never very satisfactorily answered. Mr. Lewes dis- cusses the question with marked good sense and moderation, and this is his verdict: I believe, then, that the egoism of genius, which dreaded marriage as the frustration of a career, had much to do with Goethes re- nunciation of Frederika; not consciously, perhaps, but powerfully. Whether the alarm was justifiable, is another question, and is not to be disposed of with an easy phrase. it is mere assumption to say marriage would have crippled his genius. Had he loved her enough to share a life with her, his experi- ence of women might have been less exten- sive, but it would assuredly have gained an element it wanted. It would have been deepened. He had experienced, and he could paint (no one better), the exquisite devotion of woman to man; but he had scarcely ever felt the peculiar tenderness of man for woman, when that tenderness takes the form of vig i- lant protecting fondness. He knew little, and that not until late in life, of the subtile interweaving of habit with affection, which makes life saturated with love, and love it- self become dignified through the serious aims of life. He knew little of the exquisite companionship of two souls striving in emu- bus spirit of loving rivalry to become better, to become wiser, teaching each ether to soar. He knew little of this; and the kiss, Frede- rika! he feared to press upon thy loving lips the lWc Qf sympathy he refused to share with thee are wanting to the greatness of his works. But on the charge that Goethe sacrificed his genius to a Court life, Mr. Lewes can acquit his client with the consent of all men of sense. As we familiarize ourselves with the de- tails of this episode, there appears less and less plausibility in th~often iterated decla- mation against Goethe on the charge of his having sacrificed his genius to the Court. It becomes indeed a singularly foolish dis- play of rhetoric. Let us for a moment con- sider the charge. He had to choose a career. That of poet was then, even more than now, LJ~WES LIFE OF GOETHE. tive to Court etiquette. To say, as Niebuhr says, that the Court was a Dalilah to which he sacrificed his locks, is profoundly to misunderstand his genius, profoundly to misread his life. Had his gcnius been of that stormy class which produces great re- formers and great martyrs had it been his mission to agitate mankind by words which, reverberating to their inmost recesses, called them to lay down their lives in the service of an idea had it been his tendency to meditate upon the far-off destinies of man, and sway men by the coercion of grand rep- resentative abstractions, then, indeed, we might say his place was aloof from the mot- ley throng, and not in sailing down the swiftly-flowing stream to sounds of mirth and music on the banks. But he was not a re- former, not a martyr. He was a poet, whose religion was Beauty, whose worship was of Nature, whose aim was culture. his mis- sion was to paint life; and for that it was requisite he should see life, to know impossible; verse could create fame, but no I money: fama and fames were then, as ever, in terrible contiguity. As soon as the neces- sity for a career is admitted, much objection falls to the ground; for those who reproach him with having wasted his time on court festivities, and the duties of government, which others could have done as well, must ask whether he would have saved that time had he followed the career of jurisprudence and jostled the lawyers through the courts at Frankfort? or would they prefer seeing him reduced to the condition of poor Schiller, wasting so much of his precious life in liter- ary hack-work, translating French books for a miserable pittance? Time, in any case, would have been claimed; in return for that given to Karl August, he received, as he confesses in the poem addressed to the Duke, what the great seldom bestow affection, leisure., confidence, garden and house. No one have I had to thank but him; and much have I wanted, who, as a poet, ill- understood the arts of gain. If Europe p raised me, what has Europe done for me? Nothing. Even my works have been an ex- pense to me. In 1801, writing to his mother on the complaints uttered against him by those who judged so falsely of his condition, he says they only saw what he gave up, not what he gained they could not comprehend how he grew daily richer, though he daily gave up so much. He confesses that the narrow circle of a burgher life would have ill accorded with his ardent and wide-sweep- ing spirit. Had he remained at Frankfort, he would have been ignorant of the world. But here the panorama of life was unrolled before him, and his experience was every way enlarged. Did not Leonardo daVinci spend much of his time charming the Court of Mi- lan with his poetry and lute-playing? did he not also spend time in mechanical and hydro- statical labors for the state? No reproach is lifted against his august name; no one cries out against his being false to his genius; no one rebukes him for having painted so little at one period. The Last Supper speaks for him. Will not Tasso, Iphigenia, Hermann and Dorothea, Faust, Meister, and the long list of Goethes works, speak for him? I have dwelt mainly on the dissipation of He rose at seven, sometimes earlier, af- his time, because the notion that a court life ter a sound and prolonged sleep: for, like affected his genius by corrupting his mind Thorwaldsen, he had a talent for sleeping is preposterous. No reader of this biogra- only surpassed by his talent for continuous phy, it is to be hoped, will fail to see the work. Till eleven 5. worked without inter- true relations in which he stood to the ruption. A cup of chocolate was then Duke; how free they were from anything brought, and he resumed work till one. At like servility or suppression of genuine im- two he dined. This meal was the important pulse. Indeed, one of the complaints against meal of the day. His appetite was immense. him, according to the unexceptionable an- Even on the days when he complained of not thority of Riemer, was that made by the sub- being hungry, he ate much more than m~wt alterns, of his not being au.& ~iently atten- men~ Puddings, sweets, and cakes were al The haunt and the main region of his song. Happier circumstances might indeed have surrounded him and given him a greater sphere. It would have been very different, as he often felt, if there had been a nation to appeal to, instead of a heterogeneous mass of small peoples, willing enough to talk of Fatherland, but in nowise prepared to be- come a nation. There are many other ~fs in which much virtue could be found; but in- asmuch as he could not create circumstances, we must follow his example, and be content with what the gods provided. I do not, I confess, see what other sphere was open to him in which his genius could have been more sacred; but Ido see that he built out of circumstance a noble temple, in which the altar-flame burnt with a steady light. To hypothetical biographers he left the task of settling what Goethe might have been; enough for us to catch some glimpse bf what he was. As a specimen of the narrative portion of the book we subjoin the account of Goethes daily life at Weimar, about the beginning of this century, when he was fifty years old. 94 LEWES LIFE OF GOETHE. ways welcome. He sat a long while over his wine, chatting gaily to some friend or other, for he never dined alone; or to one of the actors, whom he often had with him, after dinner, to read over their parts, and to take his instructions. He was fond of wine, and drank daily his two or three bottles. Lest this statement should convey a false impression, I hasten to recall to the readers recollection the very different habits of our fathers in respect of drinking. It was no unusual thing to be a three-bottle man in those days in England, when the three bot- tles were of port or burgundy; and Goethe, a Rhinelander, accustomed from boyhood to wine, drank a wine which his English con- temporaries would have called water. The amount he drank never did more than ex hilarate him never made him unfit for work or for society. Over his wine, then, he sat some hours; no such thing as dessert was seen upon his table in those days not even the customary coffee after dinner. His mode of living was extremely simple; and even when persons of very moderate circumstances burned wax, two poor tidlow candles were all that could be seen in his rooms. In the evening he went often to the theatre, and there his cus~ tomaryg~ of punch was brought at six oclock. If not at the theatre, he received friends at home. Between eight and nine a frugal supper was laid; but he never took anything except a little salad or preserves. By ten oclock he was usually in bed. MEMOIR OP THE KIEG or SwxiEN. Oscar I., King of Sweden and Norway, born July 4, 1700, is the only issue of the marriage of Marshal Ber- nadotte with Desir6e Clary, daughter of a mer- chant of Marseilles, whose elder sister mar- ried Joseph Bonaparte. Oscar Bernadotte was placed, at the age of nine years, in the Imperial Lyceum, where his name may yet be seen on tb.e walls of the various qzuzrtiers of that establish- ment. Marshal Bernadotte was elected Crown Prince of Sweden, accepted the reversion of the crown, and borrowing 2,000,000 francs, that he might not appear in Stockholm with only his sword, proceeded at once to that capital with his son, after both had abjured Catholicism on the road, and embraced Lutheranism, the dominant religion of Sweden. Bernadotte had shortly the satisfaction of seeing his son soon forget his French in the course of a year, and acquire, under the teaching of tl~ poet Atterborn, per- fect mastery over the Swedish language. In 1818, when, after the death of Charles XLLL., Bernadotte ascended the throne, he transmitted to Oscar the title of Chancellor of the University of Upsal, of which next year he became a stu- dent. His military instruction kept pace with his literary instruction, and in 1818 he became Colonel of the Guards. He had scarcely quit- ted the Swedish soil during his reign. Once, however, under pretence of going to visit the banks of the Rhine he pushed as far as Eichstadt, in Bavaria, the residence of Eugene Beauharnias, Duke of Leuchtenberg, whose eldest daughter Josephine he married, July 1)th of that year. This marriage was much talked of in Europe, as seeming to prove that the plebeian origin of the new Swedish dynasty had not been forgotten by the courts of the continent. In 1834 he was named Viceroy of Norway; and in 1888, in con- sequence of the continued illness o~ his father, Regent of the kingdom. In 1844 he ascended the throne, and became heir to a personal for- tune of 80,000,000 francs, saved by the King from a civil list of but 3,000,000 francs per an- num. His Government has been marked by lib- erality and justice. He has four sons and two daughters, one of whom the old King of Den- mark wished to make his third wife, but re- ceived a positive refusal. Tiiius PROHIBITING MARRIAGE. I have a note to the effect that the following is entered in the register of the church of St. Mary, Beverly, with the date November 25, 1641, but I have no reference to the authority. When Advent comes do thou refraine, Till Hillary set ye free againe. Next Septuagessima saith the nay, But when Lowe Sunday comes thou may. Yet at Rogation thou must tarrie, Till Trinitie shall bid the marry. Sroitu NMWIHGTON. .TVotes and Queries. SIHIu OP A~WOMAN TO THE MooN. The ver- sion I have seen (and I believe in print) of the Latin epigram on this subject runs thus: Lun~cs est Fcamina. Luna, rubet, pallet, orescit, noetu, ambulat, errat, Haic quoque fcemineo propria sunt generi; Cornua Luna facit; facit haec quoque Foemina: Luna Mense semel mutat~kumina qu~que die. Aotes and Q~series. D. S. 95 BABIE BELL. ~-SONNET. BABIE BELL. THE POEM OF A LITTLE LIFE THAT WAS THREE APRILS LONG. BY T. B. ALDRICH. HAVE YOU not heard the poet tell How came the dainty Babie Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes She wandered out of Paradise! She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the depths of purple even Its bridges, running to and fro, Oer which the white-winged seraphs go, Bearing the holy dead to heaven! She touched a bridge of flowers those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels! They fell like dew upon the flowers, And all the air grew strangely sweets And thus came dainty Babie Bell Into this world of ours! BUT She came, and brought delicious May! The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunbeams in and out the leaves, The robins went, the livelong day: The lily swung its noiseless bell, And oer the porch the trembling vine Seemed bursting with its veins of wine. 0, earth was full of pleasant smelly When came the dainty Babie Bell Into this world of ours! O Babie, dainty Babie Bell How fair she grew from day to day5 What woman nature filled her eyes, What poetry within them lay! Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise! And we loved Babie more and more: O never in our hearts before Such holy love was born; We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen The land of deathless morn. And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth,, The mothers being ceased on earth When Babie came from Paradise! For love of him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, ~ Sweet Christ! our hearts bent down Like violets after rain! And now the orchards which were once All white and rosy in their bloom Filling the crystal heart of air With gentle pulses of perfume~~ Were thick with yellow, juicy fruit; The plums were globes of honey rare, And soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell; The grapes were purpling iu the grange; And time wrought just as rich a change In little Babie Bell! Her little form more perfect grew, And in hei~ features we could trace, In softened curves, her mothers face: Her angel naturo ripened too. We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now; Around her pale and lofty brow We saw a ring of slender flame! , * 5. * * It came upon us by degrees; We saw its shadow ere it fell, The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Babie Bell! We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our thoughts ran into tears And all our hopes were changed to fears The sunshine into dismal rain! Aloud we cried in our belief: 0, smite us gently, gently, God Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief! Ah, how we loved her, God can tell; Her little heart was cased in ours Theyre broken caskets Babie Bell! At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands: And what did dainty Babie Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair. We parted back her silken hair; We laid some buds upon her brow Deaths bride arrayed in flowers! And thus went dainty Babie Bell Out of this world of ours. Journal of Commerce. SONNET. BY MARIE J. EWEN. Ii fato, Credi; ~ tremendo, perche 1uomo ~ vile; Ed un codardo fu colni che primo Un Dio ne feci.V. Monti. WITH high-souled Monti, cowardly I d~e~r Him who first made a god of destiny; For mir life-statue, I believe, may be Shaped from the shadows of Youths earnest dream, So rainbow-wreathed with many a fafry gleam Until it rise bright as that fantasy, A thing of light, all beautiful and free, In front of earth and heaven. Thus it should seem That he who steadfast stands through good and ill, Who yokes blind Foi~tJ)nes coursers to his car, Who through strange failures works untiring still, Until all adverse powers are driven far, Shall conquer Fate through the resistless wfll, And rise crowned victor oer his evil star. Chambers Journal. 96 HOW I BECAME AN EGYPTIAN. From the Dublin University Magazine. HOW I BECAME AN EGYPTIAN. [The following fragments were left at home by an eccentric young man, who had given some promise in the literary way, but volunteered the other day, to the grief of his friends, and sailed for the East. We give them to our readers as they have come into our hands, leaving them to decide whither he has assigned adequate exciting causes for the strange suspicions which seem to have taken hold of his imagination. Men know but little of the psychology of this portion of our organization: anything, therefore, which tends to illustrate it, is interesting. En.] * * * * * * * I FLED through the streets, crowded as they were, forcing my way, with the determination of terror for I felt that I must make my escape, whatever came of it. The avenues of the city actually roared with life and blazed with light, from a thousand voices and foot- steps, a thousand wheels, and a thousand jets of vivid gas. Yet through all did I speed speed along I know not how, I scarcely know why, whither, or from what; but with some vague idea of reaching the river, as if its banks were the horns of the altar of Hope. * * * * * * * It was down an alley I was now pressing, narrow at first, and partially obscure, hut, as it opened upon a solitary gaslight, widening into a silent street, of which the termination seemed swallowed up in darkness. As we rushed why do I say we1 As I rushed out of the din of the raging city into this deserted avenue, and bounded along it, I began to hear, what I had only been intuitively con- scious of before, the footsteps of one running behind me. It may be supposed that the sound added wings to my flight, which was further urged by the knowledge that I was fast approaching the banks of the river. In fact, the sullen rush of its black waters began to make itself audible, traversing at right angles the double row of grim houses, which ranked at either side off into shadow, and terminating the perspective before me. Here the ground, or street-way, too, began to de- scend, as the bank of the river was approached; and by some fainter lights, sparingly scat- tered, there came into view the shapeless hulls of barges, moored in masses along the shelving slime of the waters edge. I suppose at any other period of my life I could not have contemplated casting myself into the gloomy and foul uncertainties of this DCVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XII. 7 97 dark region without horror and dismay. Now the one feeling was, escape. I looked for- ward into the blackness, as into the face of a friend. A wide wooden rail was about this time passed on my left, with oars leaning against it. Farther down, I brushed by a ring and rope. What was still lower, I could not see; and for an instant hesitated about trusting my foot down into the darkness, when one of the oars I had just left above me I heard fallit had been touched, I felt, by the Pursuer. My mind was made up. I trod boldly forward, and found footing to make a spring on to the gunwale of a barge. I reached it; and passed with three strides across it to another, moored alongside, and then to a third, in crossing which I could discern the reflec- tions of the dim lights of the opposite side of the river, struggling, as it were, to hold their places against the rush of the black stream towards the left. My terror mUst have been extreme, enhanced by the bounding up of the planks behind me under the pursuing step, for I never slackened my pace, nor felt an instants hesitation, but, fevered as I was by the hot speed of my course, sprung, as far as my wildest strength could carry me, out into the mid-stream. * * * * * * Panting, wet, giddy, exhausted, reeking with slime, which booted my legs up to the knees, I leaned against a damp wall to recov- er breath and consciousness after my transit. Involuntarily straining my eyes back into the tide I had just crossed, I experienced a feeling of relief, as I saw that there was nothing swimming across. So I have baffled the Pur- suer, I said to myself put the.river between it and me! Well done! The swim was a tough one, and the flounder out tougher still. I have been all but sucked down an ugly death. But here I am alone. The shadow of a smile stole across my features as I plashed slowly up the slope, and sought for some road or avenue that might conduct me within the lights, and towards the habitations of men. Nor was I long unsuccessful. The wall, which I had to feel along, turned ab- ruptly to the right afteNa few yards, and I judged, from the difibrence of the footing, that I was now on a beaten path, which must have its exit somewhere in a thoroughfare. Exhausted as I was shocked, drenched, bemired I could not help feeling proud of the feat I bad accomplished; and a glow of HOW I BECAME AN EGYPTIAN. exultation arising from this, joined with the which a canopy of red hung over something feeling of saf~ty, made me forget for an instant of deeper red, like a curtain over a corpse the sorry, sad plight I was in; and that as I murdered in bed. But a minute before, I approachcd the haunts and paths of men I had recoiled from exposure. Now, the idea should become an object of wonder, perhaps of there being crowds congregated, fire-en- of suspicion, perhaps of ridicule of all gines, police, a furious mob seeking for things the hardest to bear. Those who have plunder, was a relief. Among them might dreamt (not a very uncommon sequel of mdi- be safety must be bewilderment. I made gestion) that, by some strange, whimsical straight for the glare, the fatal footfall echoing misadventure, they must commit themselves my own all the way. to public exposure, either partially or wholly Fleet fleet was my footstep! The things undressed, and felt all the agonizing acuteness I passed by seemed to pass me by in a swift of an exaggerated moral and personal modesty procession; those nearest me flashing across penetrating their entranced nature, and quiv- me like projectiles. With my eye upon the ering in the vitals of their morbid over-con- ruddy sky before me, I sped for its centre, sciousness, may understand what my sensations observing such turns, where they occurred, must have been when I had time, as yet in as would conduce to that point. Ifor intricate safety and solitude, to reflect upon what was ways did now offer obstacles to a direct course, inevitably before me, even before I could dash and I was obliged to exercise a prompt but myself into a reluctant cab, and get, for an firm discretion at the several corners I en- immensely-augmented fare, driven home to countered. Here and there, too, a human my sofa, cigars, and astonished own people. figure might be seen passing, at one side or Even my cloak was gone. I could not assume the other; but not near enough either to an incognito. I had flung it away early in obstruct or assist me. Indeed, I could not my career. Besides, it was peculiar. I bring myself to wish a closer proximity to could not have hidden myself in it. There any of these single and unknown wayfarers. was something of the monk about it. It had Rather did I experience an undefined dread of a hood, and sleeves hanging outside. league and collusion, perhaps, with the Enemy Just then I found a path crossing mine at in pursuit, under which impression I gave right angles, which caused a break in the single figures a wide berth whenever I could. continuity of wall. This path led into the When I could not, my passage was so instan- one I was traversing, by a turn-stile. I taneous that I recognized nothing more than glanced for the instant I took in passing it a startled turn of the head, or a hasty with- through the opening to the right, behind drawal from my path, before the individual, which lights, many, though distant, gleamed. whoever it was, was gathered up with the An instant sense of suffocation seized me. great mass of things I had swept behind me. Some object remained photographed upon my On, on! Heavens! I hear it breathing! eye, fixed there during its momentary transit. Short ~and hurried respirations come from A figure was approaching the turn-stile, over my shoulders, at but a few yards dis- within three yards of it; and on this figure tance. was my cloak! We ~re now more in the country. Strips Once again! Forward, forward, forward! of hedges alternate with walls; the foot-path On, on! Into or out to anything, so that is edged with grass; there is a freshness of that Form, that Thing, be escaped from! A smell, and less of noise. The region lies hundredth part of the glimpse it got of me in black about me, save under the glow. 0! passing would have been enough for it. For for the heart of the city again! me, its identity would have been revealed by Walls again. The road, too, is narrower the lightnings flash. It needed not mine the light, growing fiercer, right ahead. inky cloak to recognize it. I saw how it Very fierce must that light be, to throw up was. The bodily Shadow was up with me by such a reflection. It cannot be far off, I the time I had reached the first verge of light, thought; yet I hear no sound, no roaring * * * * * * * multitude, no congregating crowds, no charg A great forge, a distillery a foundry ing engines, no stroke of the pumps. What 13a house on fire, perhaps! A light before can it be, after all~ Can it be is it is lo~ glowed high into the murky heavens, in lit? In short, I began to suspect that my HOW I DECAME AN EGYPTIAN. moth-like flight might in the end prove not only unavailing but disastrous. Suppose an actual furnace reached. I enter, face the fire, and am either recognized as a bedlamite, or devoured by the grim Feature at my heels. I was strongly inclined to take a new line, and make for another point; and with this idea made some observations on the bearings. It may be believed that by this time I was tolerably well breathed. I have said nothing of this; but I suppose human lungs and muscles were never more desperately and fear- fully tasked than were mine at that moment. One by one, every encumbrance was flung off; every garment went, until I was left with scarcely more than my shirt and drawers upon me, streaming with perspiration, my veins swelled to bursting, my face all of a glow, my hair hanging in tangled mats about my ears, or floating on the dew of my forehead, and gasping sobs issuing convulsively from my over-labored breast. It was as I turned to examine my chance of escape by some other avenue than that which led straight to the fire, that I percieved the Pursuer had insensibly gained upon me, and was now almost in contact with me! I felt his breath hot upon my shoulder, and upon the exposed part of the throat just behind the ear; and 0, horror! just at the same instant there came upon me the conviction that escape there was really none; that I was caught in a cul-de-sac; in short, that the way was not open before me! I was confirmed in the for- mer dread suspicion by distinctly perceiving that on my essaying once or twice to draw across to one side of the road or to the other, with a view to doubling, so as to return by the path I had travelled, the Thing seemed conscious of my intention, and swerved to the right or left, as the case might be, with the manifest object of cutting off my retreat. And as to the latter, I could now see that the road, already become a lane between high walls, was blocked up a short way before me by a barrier, I could not see what, behind which glowed the fierce illumination so long my guiding-point. So I am to be caught at last clutched, seized, overmastered by this hideous Form, whose mal