LITTEJJLS LIVING AGE..No. 684.4 JULY, 1857. From Frasers Magazine. IMPERIALISM. THERE has been for some time past a grow- ing desire for some kind of despotism. It is not settled whether it is to be the despotism of the Cmsars, of the Tudors, of the Bour- bons, of the Stuarts, of the Buonapartes, or of Jack Code. But this much is clear, that to some who owe all they are to English freedom, English freedom has become a wear- iness, an obstruction, and a nuisance. It is as well to look before we leap. Freedom comes to the unwilling, she does not return to the willing, slave. In the late war, people wereall for a vig- orous despotism. Under a despotism every- thing would have gone well with us, as it did with France and Russia. Under a des- potism, we should have gained in forty years of peace the experience and habits of war; youthful genius would have commanded our armies as well as those of Austria; the Prince would not have gone down; our camp would have been as free from suffering as the French; our operations would have been guided by the omniscience which controlled Crimean generals from St. Petersburg, and tried to control them from Paris. Under a despotism, there would have been no favorit- ism and no jobbing. The native element of favoritism and jobbing is public opinion: they perish before a czar. If you have for your despot a soldier like Frederic or Napoleon, or a lover of glory like Louis Quatorze, you will have vigorous war, and enough of it. You will see all the resources of your country wielded to your hearts content for one great object by one strong hand. You may live on gazettes and grass, and read in a desolate home the glori- ous tidings that you have made-homes deso- late from Moscow to Madrid. What were the horrors of the Revolution to the horrors of the Russian campaign? Such despotism is of course welcome to soldiers by trade, as you may see whenever a Napier speaks of the enlightened and civilizing brigandage of Napoleon. But that war is better waged or borne with more constancy by an ordinary despot than by a commonwealth, is a notion MDCLXXX1Y. LIVING AGE. VOL. xviii. 1 belied by all history, from Marathon ~ Sc- bastopol. Was the administration of the Aulic Council in the campaigns of Italy less trammelled by red ~pe than those of the English War-office in the Crimea? And as to favoritism, was it a peoples minister or a kings mistress that, after Rosbach, gave an- other army to poor Soubise I Was it a constitutional government or an enlightened despot that sent the dying St. Arnaud as the price of services in a conspiracy, to paralyze the march on Sebastopol, and entail on the two armies the murderous misadventure of the winter siege? The English minister was condemned; the French Emperor was lauded to the skies. But if the French army had been led by the great generals of France then in exile, instead of the accomplice of the Usurpation, the English ministers army would have wintered in Sebastopol. Compare the generals and war ministeFs whom Louis Quatorze inherited from Ilugu- enotisin and the Fronde, with those whom he made for himself by absolute monarchy be- fore the end of his reign. Or, if the Ro- man Empire is a type, compare the generala of the Senate with the generals of the Ena~. perors; compare the conduct of the Senate to Marius and Cmsar when in cominand~ against the public enemy, with the conduct of the Emperors to Germanicus, Agricola,. Belisarius. Politics is an experimental sci~ ence; and those who, in their treat[nent of it, wish to be specially scientific, are bound to have special regard to facts. Where are the facts that prove that, in their choice or treatment of generals or any other public servants, commonwealths are swayed by pri~ vate passion or interests, and despots by the public good? Vigorous administration is one source of victory in war; valor is another. Vi~lor lives by glory, and glory is the praise of a free people. What will they say of us in England? would lose its victorious magic, if England were a despot and a despots minister at war. Despots, however grateful and condescending, cannot decree that bub- ble reputation for whieb the soldier dies. The decorations which they bestow want tha~ IMPERIALISM. which alone makes decorations shine on the soldiers breast. Czars find it more useful in extremity to serve out spirits ; and if the crosses of the Buonapartes have a lustre, it is the light of liberty which lingers on them yet. These crosses will soon grow dull bits of metal, graciously conferred by an imperial masters hand. Cscsar and Napoleon learnt victory to win the hearts of commonwealths. Even Frederic played the hero, not so much to his brother monarchs or his courtiers, as to the philosophic republic of Voltaire. The legions of the Russian and German cam- paigns did not fulfil the ardent calculations of their chief like the famished and unshod- den crusaders of Arcola. The destined des- troyer of the Roman Commonwealth bridged the Rhine in face of the German hordes, be- cause he thought it due to the majesty of the Senate and the people. When was such flattery offered to a Ca3sar Besides, if we must have a despot for war, let us have him for war only. Let us take a lesson from the Romans, who met a military emer- gency as a military emergency,and boiled their pot with a faggot and not with their roof-tree. Let us have, not a despotism, but a dictator; auid let the dictator have full power to tax and conscribe, to defy public opinion, to magnify all our victories in indisputable bulletins, and conceal all our disasters and defeats. A easemate may be a good thing in a siege; but why should we live in a casemate! But a despot is desired for peace as well as war. People wish we had a good despot to drain London. In other words, they wish they had a man master of their lives, prop- erty, and religion, and whose children should be masters of their childrens lives, proper- ty, and religion, that he might by his fiat make a sewer. But in the first place, is it not as well to have a little patience with English liberty, which, having made London, may after all prove able to drain it! May it not be wise to give the science of Watt and Stevenson time to contrive a ladder be- fore you cut down the fruitful tree to reach that which is not the fairest of its fruits! And in the second place, does it appear that -despots are as much given to making sewers as they are to building palaces for an august being, and monuments to an august name? The most philosophic imperialists, how- ever, are those who want an enlightened des- pot to hasten the march of their own gocial theories, the complete ascendency of which may otherwise be delayed by the influence of sophists and the tardiness of the human mind, still lingering in the theological stage of social investigation. These fiends to hu- manity (they are sincere friends to humanity) are necessarians. And necessarians hasten- ing the march of events are, philosophically speaking, in rather a singular position. We might also say that they, like the despotic drainers, are cutting down the tree to reach one of the fruits: but they have distinctly ascertained from Destiny that their opinions are the last as well as the strangest birth of time, and that the tree of liberty having borne this golden fruit, may as well be cut down, for it will bear no more forever. The emperor of these philosophers is not to be a common emperor, ruling by his own lights and after his own way, but an embod- iment of national will and enlightened opin- ion. Figurative language is dangerous in politics. A poet, and still more a poetess, may be allowed, with an eye in a very fine frenzy rolling, to see all that is great and wise in France concentred on the brow of the Emperor; but in matter of fact Louis Napoleon is Louis Napoleon, and nothing more. A man can have no will and no wis- dom but his own: you cannot transfuse yours into him through a ballot-box. When you have made him and his heirs your lords forever, there will be nothing in his heart or brain which was not there before, except the fire of unbridled power. He will not be a bit more master of that vast range of social, political, and administrative knowledge, which would be as far beyond the grasp of a Charlemagne now as modern science would be beyond the grasp of an Aristotle, and which is contributed from countless minds to the laws and government of a free nation. You will have placed the will of one again above the reason of all, thereby reversing, like true philosophers, the greatest step ever made by man. But you will have done nothing more. The first despot may be of your party; and if so, he may carry out your views by force, and oppress your oppo- nents. But his successors! The Comtist imperialists promise us a sci- entific hierarchy and Pope as a check to their political despot. It is a great and unex- pected honor to the Papal system to ho copied by M. Comte. Butt the copy is like the CM- 2 IMPERIALISM. nese copy of a steamer, with a bundle of burning straw for the smoke. The Papal system of spiritual control was worked by the terrors of hell, for which we fear the terrors of philosophic reprobation would prove but a Chinese substitute. The medise- val chiefs of the Executive, when they took a fancy for your head or your money, cared little enough for being dammed; and the modern chiefs of the Executive, if disposed to depart from the true principles of social science, would, too probably, care less for being pronounced unscientific. Besides, we should fear another compromise between the two authorities, in virtue of which you would he cast out of the church of Science for suing out your Habeas Corpus, and burned for confuting M. Comte. It is fair to mention that the priests of social science are expected to have far more power over the lawless passions of men in general, and despots in particular, when morals shall have been re-constructed on physical principles. Justice and humanity will gain new force when we are once con- vinced that they are physiological, and not divine. What makes men fall into vice is their being still in the theological stage of social and ethical science, and fancying that virtue, instead of being the dictate of their cranium, is the will of God. But we may reasonably ask that the regeneration of philosophy should be actually accomplished before the destinies of man are staked on the result. Give the moonbeams of the Laputan sage time to ripen into cucumbers, before you place the ordinary vegetable beyond our reach. We say this in the most liberal sense, and merely from a desire, which we trust is not unphilosophical, of combining the existence with the progress of our species. One thing is surprising. The Comtists are most severe in exacting the highest sci- entific training for politics. You must go through all the sciences in the inverse order of their complexity, from mathematics (of which it would seem you must be a master in you teens) to biology, before you venture to open your lips upon political subjects. Not only soif we undem~stand rightly, you must traco the whole scienti~c progress of humanity, and begin with fetich mathe- matics to end in positive social science. Yet some of M. Comtes disciples want to make 3 a peasant emperor. Is it that ignorance is the next best thing in government to omni- sciencet Is it that the head of a peasant is less likely to be turned by the elevation? Nature seems to have intended the educated classes to contribute the work of thei~ leads to the common fund of society, as the peas- ant contributes the work of his hands. But highly educated men wish to reverse this ar- rangement. Let them remember that read- ing and writing were treason under Jack Cade, and that the republic of the Sanscu- lottes had no need of chemists. No doubt they say in their hearts that the right-minded among the educated classes will still be had in honor, and stand as ministers of wisdom beside the Sanseulottic throne; and perhaps they think that the rest may be mercifully allowed to remain in a depressed state as the purchasers and admirers of strong publications against themselves. But again we say, re- member Jack Cade! We could understand a French terrorist desiring the despotism af a Lyons operative, because such a despot would wreak the ven- geance of his class on the noble and the rich. French terrorists do the noble and the rich the honor, never done them by a ~faster of the Ceremonies or a Heralds Office, to be- lieve that their blood can regenerate mankind. But these cruel and cowardly bankerings have nQt yet found a place in English hearts. We have not yet been told how the first democratic emperor is to be appointed. By universal suffrage, we presume. But how to get to the ballot is the difficulty. In the case of Csesar, Cromwell, and both Bona- partes, the process was greatly simplified by a military pre-election. We should like a French Imperialist to tell us what would have happened if the people, in the free ex- ercise of the highest of all prerogatives, had voted No. Nor, again, is the mode of suc- cession in a democratic empire yet settled. Sometimes it seems as if an occasional break in the hereditary linesuch as that which raised to the throne the late Czar Nicholas and the psesent Emperor of Austriawould be enough to make the empire democratic. At other times it seems to be intended that the empire should be bequeathed by sage to sage or clown to clown, nobody being cape- ble of the bequest before the a~e of thirty or thirty-fivea rule which would always be kept in the spirit though it would often be IMPERIALISM. broken in the letter, since the wisdom of the sons of princes always outstrips their years. One thing only seems clearly determined, that is, that these despots are always to be wise and good. It is a sage provision for if the life of a nation is summed up in one man, and that man is a fool or a miscreant, what is the life of the nation It is strange that Comtists should go down to the uneducated classes for a despot; and it is equally strange that they should go back to the Roman Empire for the type of their government. Their key to history is the law of necessary progress. According to their philosophy (which we readily admit to be not without its merits in the way of en- larging our historical sympathies), every in- stitution, slavery and canabalism included, is good for its day, and for its day only. Reaction is with them the one political sin. Julian and Philip the Second stand doomed in their calendar to everlasting execration, not for having been supremely wicked (which Julian at least was not), but for having been supremely retrograde; a doom which, by the way, seems to us, on the necessarian the- ory, rather hard, inasmuch as the receding wave is as necessary, and therefore as little open to stricture, as the advancing tide. And yet, this being the theory of the world, we, the heirs of all the ages, the contemporaries of M. Comte, are to retrograde eighteen centu- ries, and, philosophically disregarding the most glaring difference of circumstance, borrow from a heathen empire of many sul~ject nations a constitution for a single Christian nation at the present day. This is of a piece with the proposal to put back our interna- tional relations to a time when there were no Northern Powers, no Austria, no Prussia, no Holland~ no British Colonies, no Turkey, no India, no United States, and when all the countries of the civilized world were prov- inces of Rome. So strange are the attempts which are made by generous hearts, and even by highly endowed minds, lo put off the burden and change the lot of man. What the Roman Empire was to Rome and to the world, and whether English and Christian liberty would be well exchanged for it, the historians of Rome and Constanti- nople an4 the writers of thh New Testament, must say. If they are not to be believed, there is no history of the Roman Empire at all. Fancy may revel in the void. The Roiian emperors added to the com- mand of the army the tribuneship of the people, not us a check, hut as a weapon of absolute power. They feared, like the Bour- bons, the mob of their capital. ~lhey gorged its cruel cowardice with provin4al slaughter, and its indolence with largesses of provincial corn, which extinguished forever the agricul- ture and the free peasantry of Italy. They gave it in public baths and theatres a tithe perhaps of what they lavisbed in golden houses, fabulous yachts, triumphal causeways over the sea, banquets of the gods, Tigellini and Narcissi. They gave it, too, the blood of the nobles but that blood failed to re- deem its degradation, or to lave its shame. Such was the democracy (which it seems has never before been noticed) of Imperial Rome. Milton had read the classics, and knew lib- erty and justice when he saw tb~m, and knew a great ruler when he saw him too but to Milton the Roman Emperors seemed common tyrants. It is true that Milton thought of mind and spirit; to him mere order was not all. The provinces accepted the Empire as a relief;, and their state under the Senate half redeemed the usurpation which, in a modern free state without, subject provinces, is an unmixed crime. They accepted it as a relief, but did they find it one? Much is said upon the subject although little is known. We know that the fairest lands of Italy became a waste; that in other coun- tries the canker of huge estates and slave labor spread till six grandecs owned a great province. We know the pregnant fact that a capitation tax, not taxes on property or luxuries, was the great fiscal expedient of this democratic, nay, Socialist, government. We know that the miserable serfage of Gaul ended in a peasant war as horrible as the Jacqueries. We know what was the condi- tion and what the fate of the only people which did not worship Ciesar, but God. The imperial brow of Tiberius is much in fashion; we have no bust of Pilate.* ~ The puny paradoxes of the present Tiberians are dwarfed by the Rev. John Rendles History of that inimitable Monarh Tiberius who, in the fourteenth pear of his reign, requested the ~Senate to permit the worship of Jesus Christ; and who, in the si~rteenth and three folhnving years, or befrre the conversion of Cornelius by Peter, suJYfJressed oil ~pposi(ion to it. According to this learned and in- genious writer (he seems both learned and ingen- ious) Tiberius retired to Capren for religious 4 IMPERIALISM. 5 When the barbariais attacked the clvi- graded Rome he could, by practice, emphat- lized world, did they find it defended by ically condemned. The imperial stoic was loyal citizens or by heartless slaves? called to the throne by a concurrence of In judging the Empire, we must keep it happy accidentsby the childlessness of clear of Christianity. We must see it by Hadrian, and by the death of the .gay itself, with the morals of Juvenal and Pc- nobleman who was destined to be Hadrians tronitxs, and with C~sar for God. It perse- suuccessor. He did what wisdom and virtue cuted the Church first, and made her a invested with absolute power can do, by tyranny afterwards. It could not help per- respiting misery and snatching an hour secuting her at first, because she taught the from decay. He could not bequeath to a worship of God instead of Ca~sar, and re- race of hopeless slaves political virtue, or buked unbridled lust. It could not help the public happiness which political virtue making her a tyranny afterwards, for civil alone secures. He did ~queath them Coin- tyranny and religious tyranny have ever modus. been one. Is the father of his people to be The founder of the Roman Empire is be- careless of their faith? Is the shepherd to coming the idol of literary men, who seem allow his sheep to stray out of the fold of to think that they put off the reproach of a life? gentle calling and invest themselves with In Diocletianyou had a peasant Emperor factitious manhood by identifying them- of Rome; in both respects your very ideal. selves with the strong oppressors of the And did Diocletian keep a peasant heart world; and who have found room for the upon the throne? Was he the tribune Qf Ct~sarian and Christian system of moials, the people? First of all the emperors, he as it were for the Ptolemaic and Copernican put off the last remnant of republican sim- systems of astronomy, in one comprehensive plicity, put on the full insignia of vulgar mind. C~esar was in one sense a great man, royalty, hedged himself with the divinity as the founder of an empire will in one of eunuch pomp, and utterly ceased to live sense always be. He had in perfection that a man among his fellow-men. He first es~ genius for organization which is only infe- tablished that regular court hierarchy of nor to the genius for giving life. His age oppression and extortion which makes one tempted and excused profligate ambition~ wail of the rest of Byzantine history. He He did not look on the moral agony of a sct himself up to be worshipped as a god, great nation struggling to be free and to and persecuted the religion of the poor. tree mankind, and see in that agony a And let those who seek peace in political vulgar.crown for his own selfish.pride. In suicide remember that his reignthe con- him appeared the lust of his successors, but summation and perfection, according to not yet mated with their cruelty; and his Imperialists, of the imperial system-was selfishness was the limit of his crimes. The followed by eighteen years of confusion and founder of the Empire was a great man, civil war. but the Empire which he founded was It has been the fate of Marcus Aurelius Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, to give lustre to a form of government Nero, civil war. which he by precept, and, so far as in de- A city of bandits and debauchees, an effete purposes and to avoid the malignity of the anti- nobility, a rabble of political lazzaroni, a christian Senate: he forbade instant executions to world of oppressed and plundered provinces, prevent another hasty crucifixion, and abolished the rightof assylum on account of the release of without a moral faith and without a God, Barabbas. Tiberius is styled the nursing father sank down beneath a sensualist despotism. of the Catholic Church, and the first defender Such we are bidden to believe was the natal of the faith. The book seems to have passed uunoticed. In 1813, when it was published. peo- hour, and such the origin, of the perfect pie were perhaps too mucW engrossed with the polity, the noblest work of man. And tremendous present to care much for paradoxes whit were the authors of that wor~k? about the past. There is one contemporary writer whose testimony respecting Tiherius should not be C~usarian writers paint the infamy of the overlooked: it seems decisive at once as to the Antonies, who were destined to set their creed and the lifeof that prince. Quid scribam vobis, P. C. ant quomoda scribam, aut quid om- feet on the necks of Cicero and Cato, and nino non scribam hoc tempore, Dii me Deseque applaud the irony of fate. Fate may be p~jus perdant, quam perire me quotidie sentlo, 5l ironical, but Providence is not. Providence sco. IMP~RIAUSM. does not inspire selfish ambition with great thoughts for the good of the world, or send moral blessings to mankind by the hand of swindlers and debauchees. The few Romans who still, with all their faults and all their grotesqueness, believed in God, in spirit and in duty, fell struggling for those which (as they saw no free Chris- tendom beyond) seemed to them the last liberties of mankindthose liberties which, if they were not as Christian liberties, had yet raised the head of humanity above Babylon and Persia, and brought the maj- esty of law into an anarchic world. It is equally foolish to hate and to imitate the character of the Roman Stoics; Nature has long broken the stern mould in which that character was cast, and given to virtue a gentler and a more gracious form. Their last struggles are summarily condemned in the name of Destiny. That is an easy rule of historical judgment which always damns the fallen; that is an easy philosophy of history which turns all events into laws with a must. But give Destiny her time. When the world had tried Csesar and Epi- curus to the full, Cato mounted the throne in the Antotilnes. The French Empire, again, was pro- claimed by liberal journalists, i~fter the fire- works at Paris, to be a new kind of despot- ism. With submission, it is not new, but young. At first, says Plato, of the democratic despots of his own and of all times at first he goes about greeting all he meets with smiles and caresses, repudia- ting the name of despot, and promises largely to individuals and the public, and relieves men of their debts, and gives lands to the commonalty and his friends, and wears an aspect of goodwill and gentleness towards all. This, while liberty still throbs, while the ashes of national honor still glow, while public opinion still retains something of its power, while the subjects are not yet born slaves. Then comes the secure and full-grown despot. There is a twilight between day and night. Has his- tory taught us even this simple lesson in vain? The literary courtiers of the French Em- pire themselves call it a restoration of the Roman Empire, whose history it officially protects. Its origin is kindred, and not more divine. It, too, sprang from the cor ruption, not from the perfection, of society: it, too, was at best not the choice of the nations wisdom, but the refuge of its ab- ject fear. Wild and dangerous chimeras threatening the first principle of society; vanity, iniscalled ambition, stifling patriot- ism in public men; the undermining by a host of profligate sophists of those founda- tions of personal and domestic morality on which political virtue rests; the eclipse ci religious faith; the want of~ respect for principles and the extravagant adoration of military glory which are the badges and curses of the Celt,these causes, turning a nation of men for the moment into the semblance of a herd of wild beasts, enabled, and to some eyes required, a military despot to become their keeper. We believe that the usurpation of both the first and the second Bonaparte was a crime. We believe that in both cases a Washington might have found virtue enough to appeal to, and have saved French liberty, though in the first case not without a Dictatorship. It needs a soul as well as a head to judge whether the hope of a nation is gone. Vhe question is not to be settled by the parasites of an usurper craving for a Versailles, or by political intriguers who know nothing of liberty but faction, or by the dry hearts of jaded debauchees. But be it that the French Empire was a necessity to torn and demoralized France: so is the plague a necessiby to a foul and drunken city. It is a necessity not to be adored or propagated. If France has forfeited her liberties, she has not forfeited ours. The founder of the French Empire was a Corsican mercenary, trained in the evil school, first of civil, then of foreign war. He had never seenhis colossal meanness was probably incapable of seeing the beauty and grandeur of ordered freedom, or the moral privileges which belong only to the free. With a mind of surpassing genius for war and statecraft, he had a heart most full of all selfishness, fraud, and falsehood, most void of all noble thoughts, humanity, and God. Religion he had none, but that worship of his star which is the delirium of vanity in the heart of an atheist. He gloated with a pitiless heart over battle-fields, writhing and putrescent with the victims ~f as vulgar a vanity as ever turned the brain of a Xerxes. He divorced the best of wives, 6 IMPEIUALI8M. the foundress of his fortunes, to marry a princess; and when his course of selfishness was run, and his last field of murder lost, he stood in shelter to see the Old Guard die. He was the greatest mountebank in history. Never for an hour did his soul rise above the most vulgar kingcraft: never did he show a spark of sympathy with that which is really great in men. At home, his dull, pedantic tyranny crushed thought and life, and turned a nation to a well-drilled camp; abroad, his brigand oppression made native tyrants dear to their people. His memory may be adored by a nation which deems the loss of its own honor and happiness compensated by the privilege of trampling on the honor and happiness of others. lie may stand in the place of God in the title page and in the soul of M. Thiers, whose lying page will ever be his proper shrine. But are moral beings to bow to such an idol, or to accept at his hand the law of moral natures and the rule of government for the world? The banner of his successor, and tbe restorer of what he called his dynasty, hangs among those of the chivalry of England in the Chapel of the Garter; and therefore we are required, as loyal subjects, to suppose that the Garter can bind honor on Louis Napoleons knee. It is weakness to say what this man and his associates are, since not the less they have their feet on the neck of that which was a free nation. Thus much only we would have remembered, that the Imperial friends of order twice, while France was at peace under a constitutional monarchy, set up in their own interest the standard of civil war. Twice they con- spired against the State and were the ridi- cule of the world: a third time they con- spired with all the forces of the State in l~heir hands, and were miracles of genius. Of how many Redpaths may not the ambi- tion have been excited to lofty aims by the triumphal progress of the heroes of the Coup dEtat through the shouting streets of a nation once jealous of morality and honor! In France, as at Rome, the Empire rests on that strange exponent of human reason, military force; and it is doing its utmost to attach the preetorians to the person of the sovereign, and to sever them from the people. In France, as at Rome, as at St. Petersburg, as at Vienna, it adds to military force, moral eorruption; and encourages dissipation as 7 an antidote to thought. Nay, it has im- proved on the bread and shows of Rome by the new anti-moral stimulant of gambling speculation. In France, as at Rome, it detests and is detested by active intellect, strict morality, rational religion: in Ff~nce, as at Rome, it receives the unanimous sup- port of the usurers, the priesthood, and the debauchees. In France, too, as at Rome, the Empire wears certain popular forms, which are not idle, since they dupe. It even affects a sort of socialism, and fancies that it acts the vicegerent, if not the equal, of Providence, in attempting to break the laws of economi- cal science. It fixes a maximum price of bread, while it clears away the dwellings of laborers to build splendid streets in the Em- perors honor. It professes to rule, not by common hereditary right, but by the grace of that God of all tyrants who blesses im- moral success; and by the will of the -jeo- ple, which wills, it seems, that the son of the present Emperor should be its absolute lord and master, even though he prove a Commodus. Its very freedom from all moral and constitutional restraint is not without a charm in the eyes of some who call them- selves democratic. To the terrorist every form of license is more welcome than any form of ordered liberty; and anarchy is dearer than tyranny, tyranny than law. But we must not carry the parallel to pedantay. After all, the French Empire is as the other despotisims of Europe. It loves, hates, fears, acts, conspires with its kind. It apes their state, and surrounds itself with all dhat is unmanly and debased in their parasitic trains; while Court preachers find the deepest depth of syco- phancy in affecting freedom. It vies with them in ignoble luxury, and in squandering on selfish magnificence and ostentation the public money, which, lavished in imperial grandeur, dwarfs, to the eyes of pleasure- hunters, the paltry hospitals of freedom. It would copy their r~ristocracies, if an aristoc- racy could be had for money. It holds their Italian god upon his throne. It has, like them, its State religion, for which, like them, it will persecute, and shows already that it will persecute, when it dares. Like them, it is the enemy, though as yet the cautious and stealthy enemy, not only of 8 seditious newspapers, but of literary free- dom. It tries at present to bribe and suborn intellect; it will soon learn and dare to sup- press it. The Jesuit, whose instinct is sure, knows it for his own: and as he sees it stand on the ruins of French thought and freedom, he says in his heart that theworld is his, after all, and that the cause of truth and liberty has had its hour. Surely the man whose moral judgment it can blind with its tinsel and condescension must be a more than Celt. Few perhaps of the English admirers of the French Empire have made up their minds that it is-to last forever. They say France has need of repose for a time. Perhaps France says so to herself. And so says to himself the exhausted traveller in the Alpine storm. He, too, needs repose for a time, after which he will rise refreshed, and push forward to his hospice. But how long a sleep does the traveller need? How long a disuse of the limbs does the patient require, in order to restore their powers? How long an abstinence from political action will con- Irm a nation in political virtue? How soon will despotism fit slaves for self-government? It is necessary to decide, that MM. Morny and Fould may know when the happy hour is come for restoring the liberties and the honor of their country. But the ancient world before Cmsar, and the modern before Napoleon, had seen a re- lapse to what is called the type of all good government, the government of the first hu- man herds. In the corruption of Greek libertythat liberty to which, with all its shortcomings, and all its crimes, we owe the jwicelcss heritage of intelleettial freedom, Aristotle proclaimed that the best of all govert~xnents was that of a good shepherd over his ~bcep. Aristotle saw Alexander, but not the sticceeding shepherds. Let us speak with discreet reverence of the Greek Sultans of Antioch and Alexandria, as of the eunuchs of Constantinople, as of the Dukes of Lombardy, as of all miscreants who have also been tyrants. On them too, in their turn, the sun of paradox will shine: and the courts of the Antiochi and the Ptolemies will prove to be the mature and perfect fruit, of which the crude imperfect germ is to be found in the Sparta of Leonidas asd the Athens of Pericles. From the trGubles of the Fronde rose Lcruis IMPERIALISM. Quatorze, triumphant, not over feudalism only, but over parliaments and charters, and the evil and restless spirit of Protestant reform. How splendid was that dawn, with a nation full of life and hope, w~th all that military administrative and litorary genius of Huguenots, Jansenists, old Frondeurs! How tragic was that evening, with a famished and decimated people, loaded with all the crimes, stripped of all the glory and gain of conquest, with courtier generals, weak and corrupt ministers, desperate finance, genius levelled and living faith exterminated by the jealous and persecuting pedantry of an omnipotent bigot; and France, the France of Colbert, Turenne, and Pascal, already launched irredeemably on the dark and steep descent that led through the Regency and Louis Quinze to the Revolution! Spain, too, saw her intractable Cortes prostrated under Charles V., and stands a monument of that Imperial providence which could bring to atheism, vileness, and famine, a re- ligious and chivalrous people, lord of the riches of two worlds. How strong and grand a thing is despotism, if one evil despot, and he but half evil, can in his single life-time kill a nation! Turbulent as freedom may be called, Eng- lish freedom has run smooth, except when, not the sedition of the people, but the usur- pation of the King, brought on the Rebellion and the Revolution. At the time of the Re- hellion, the philosopher of Malmesbury, looking on a world full of deep controversy and heroic strife, saw, with a vision unsur- passed in clearness, that deep controversy and heroic strife were disagreeable and even dangerous to William Hobbes. This great fact was the basis of his political system, which harmonized with and probably sug- gested his philosophy and his religion. To him man was pure selfishness, which some- times took the frank form of rapacity and crueltysometimes disguised itself as the self-devotion of a martyr, the charity of an apostle, or the love of a mother. God was omnipotence, and his worship, fear. A keeper was to be found for society, to save from each others fangs those fierce and cun- ning wild beasts called men. In this keeper (the mortal god of the political atheist and coward), not our will only, but our con- science, and (smallest of all sacrifices) our religion, was to be merged rind lost. It is IMPERIALISM. suggested indeed, as a comfort for the more scrupulous, that only the outward profession, not the inward belief, of established false- hood is required for the public security and peace. Let any man go down into the hor- rible crypt of that philosophy who would really know what it is to breathe the pure air and see the blessed light of liberty, charity, and truth. It has been said that Cromwell was ilobbes Leviathan. But Cromwell, whatever may have been his errors or his crimes, was not Napoleon. lie was a grEat man, he had fought for great principles, and he had a God. Arbitrary power was forced on him, partly perhaps by his own fault, principally by the faults of others; but he loved civil and religious freedom, and he loved it to the end. Hobbes was not the last of the Hobbists. There are other friends of a strong govern- ment. In France, at least, they have un- happily had too much justification. But what is meant by a strong government? In one sense, that government is strong which is unrestrained by law. In another sense, that government is not strong which needs the support of half a million of bayonets, which dreads the pen of the merest scribbler, which quakes at the whisper of a salon. On the other hand, that government, though re- sponsible and limited, is not without a strength of its own, which can sustain the utmost freedom of the press; which can bear the greatest agitations of opinion; which passed, without a rupture of the pub- lic peace, through Catholic Emancipation, the Reform Bill, and the Repeal of t~ie Corn Laws; and which, taunted with weakness by the despotic monarchies of Europe, has seen all the despotic monarchies of Europe in the dust. And again, that government is in one sense stable which, whatever the vices of the ruler, cannot be changed by the public will; but, in another sense, that government is not stable which depends on the life of a single man, or even on the continuance of a dynasty. And when the break comes, it is not a change of ministry, but a civil war; and a civil war not between principles, but between pretendersof all wars, at once the bloodiest and most vile. A civil war between principles, though sad, is not unredeemed. Falkland cursed his hour; but Falkland lived a life of heroic virtue, and died, early indeed, and by the sword, but yet by that 9 death which has no sting. He stands in history honored and beloved by all, and tri- umphant in the triumph of English liberty over the fierce extremes between which he fell. Could peace and length of days in Versailles or the Tuilerics, or even ~!n an English manor-house, have given him more? The ghost of ~olingbrokes patriot king, which was raised some years ago by Young England, seems to have slipped back into its grave. The theory was revived, in fact, not so numch from deliberate reflection, as from passing, though generous emotion; from in- dignation against the dark jealousy of that Venetian oligarchy which established the freedom of the press and carried the Reform Bill; and from contempt fbr the peddling tactics of Sir Robert Peel, who persisted in bringing in separate measures on different subjects, instead of solving the condition-of- England question in the gross. Much was to be hoped from calling the working classes peasants, and talking sentimental Chartism to duchesses after lunching on vension pasty and Malvoisie. The sentimental Chartisut of Young England has been transmuted by Fortunes wand into Buok inghamnshire squire- archy and advocacy of the Corn Laws; its hatred of Venetian oligorchy, into alliance with a Bentinck. Meantime, M. Guizot re- veals to us the heart of Sir Robert Peel, alwost~wrung with anxiety for the condition of working men. And no wonder. lie, too, was a working man, and not a political novelist or a political sonnetteer. Despotism has friends of another kind friends some of whom are too good for it in the hero-worshippers. It seems as if philosophy was doomed to advance like a drunken man, reeling from one side of the road to the other. Because Rousseau was too soft, we must be brutal. Because Jeremy Bentham overlooked the principle of loyalty in politics we must worship tyrants. Liter- ary and philosophic exquisitcs are becoming perfect Attilas out of the very wantonness of refinement and civilization. Tyranny, slavery, butcherly penal laws, are now the grim delight of sentimenttlists, who ssem to have indulged in a softer philosophy till they crave for a little of the stimulating sensation of cruelty, violence, and fraud. Persecutioneven the persecution of the rack and the stakeis flirted with by men who have themselves tried the principle of 10 toleration pretty hard. History is being rummaged for ferocious despots, as the earth was rummaged for deformities after the suc- cess of the Aztecs: and the crimes of these monsters are held up to our devout and un- reasoning worship with the same sort of hierophantic unction with which an Orato- nan neophyte holds up to your adoration the holy falsehood and injustice of his Church. That might is right, is a doctrine which men drunk with eloquence and humor may fancy they believe, but to which every sober conscience inexorably gives the lie: and con- science will win in the long run, lay on the rhetoric as you will. Applied to character, this doctrine compels you to reduce all gifts and virtuesthose of the sage, those of the poet, those of the apostleto various types of force, that they may be brought into the Pantheon of violence and fraud; and thus gives the narrowest view, perhaps, that ever philosophy gave of man. Applied to relig- ion and philosophy, it obliges you to make truth variable because heroes disagree. Ap- plied to history, it has the merit of being a simple and easy rule of judgment. The vir- tue and wisdom which are the daily salt of the world, are visible for the most part to the eye of God alone ; successful force is vis- ible to a fool. And yet that which the fool worships as success is not always success lb the long run. The storm passes, the calm remains; and the constitutional liberty of England, so much derided, has proved victo- ridus for centuries, though it was vanquished fbr isa hour. Besides, if hero-worship is our salvation, worship a hero. Columbus did not spend his life in preaching the discovery of the New World; he discovered it. The truth is, you can find no hero to worship. Seen cloeely, men are not gods, nor even demigods, but men. Seen closely, the amplest mind, the noblest life, is buta fragment to be pieced out by the minds and lives of others. The gifts you feign to be united in one, are spread over many by that Providence which binds men together by charity born of mutual need, and makes all partakers in the great fraternal work. You say Johnson and Hume would have made a hero between them. The hero-worshipper in their day, then, was like a sun worshipper with a split sun. But there is one sure way to find a herothe only one revealed in the hero-wor- shippers koranand that way is, a civil war. If we wish for redemption from this our vile estate of law and liberty, let us have a civil war, and the conqu~or in that war, if he does not behave like Washington, is our hero. Hero-worshippers and Comtists alike are grieved to the heart by the anarchy which they see all around them. If by an- archy they mean that nobody is above the law, this seems rather a begging of the question. If by anarchy they mean liberty of cx~science, it is to liberty of conscience that we are in- debted, among other blessings, for ther phil- osophy; and we still, despite all assurances, cleave to the hope that even this is not the last apocalypse of truth. If they mean that the First Lord of the Treasury does not suf- ficiently interfere with our domestic arrange- ments, the rate of our wages, the cut of our clothes, and the employment of our time, let them sit awhile at the feet of certain philos- ophers who have shown sympathy with that deeper mind of England which prefers to grow like the forest tree rather than like the clipped box, beautiful as the box may be when clipped by a paternal hand. They can see no true leading or guidance anywhere among men, because a duke is no longer a dux, and because nobody interferes with your private habits and opinions. But there ir leading and guidance, however different from that which they would give us, not only nor chiefly in parliaments or ministeries, but in every c~ntre of thought, action and affection in every book, in every court of justice, in every social circle, in every home. And there is order through the whole concordant frame of society, as order is in the eye of the Creator, ani laws in which knowledge adores the Crcators wisdom, but against which ig- norance pandering to ignorance sentimentally rebels. But all this is weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, because the political government of the country will not desert the duties which God has assigned it, and assuming du- ties which God has not assigned to it, crush the freelife of the spirit which it isset to guard. The world owes to hero-worship some great lessons and some noble writing, but hero- worship is in a fair way to wipe out the debt. The philosophic imperialists, indeed, and, we apprehend, imperialists in general, think very little of the free life of the spirit. IMPERIALISM. IMPERIALISM. With them organization is everything and life nothing. For some of them, indeed, M. Comte has done away with religion and mor- als, in the ordinary sense, altogether, and left nothing but the science of social man a subject eminently complex, but whose com- plexity observation on the positive method may at last unravel, and thus complete the circle of our physical knowledge with the chemistry and anatomy of duty and affection. The great Stagyrite, born when the moral life of Greece had almost fled, was a precur- sor of thi8 school; he, too, was, in ethics, a physiologist of the soul; and in politics, a constructor and conservator of systems, with- out the animating principle of political duty. To these theorists, conviction is a social force, to be regulated by their science with a view to the harmony and stability of the so- cial systemnot the need, the right, and the life of each individual man. A state of things in which an imperial beast or fiend made you worship him instead of God, is to them not revolting, though now it may be obsolete. Even the persecution of the early Christians for interfering with the world-wide harmony of sensualism, does not shock their reason, though it may be alien to the kind- ness of their hearts. They look with rap- ture on the vast tyrannic unity of the Roman Empire, and take no heed of the trifling con- sideration, that under the vast tyrannic unity the soul of man might be as the soul of a sheep. Here it is in great measure that they and Tacitus so much misunderstand each other. The republican Stoic was not content to see humanity rot in peace. The Jesuit will always love despotism. For him despotism quenched half the Re- formation, holds half Europe in darkness, and robs the other half of the aid of mutual light. Jesuitism and despotism have need of each other, and each knows it well. Free thought shakes alike fklse shrines and arbi- tary thrones. It was sound advice that was given to the Epicurean despot of Rome, to encourage the priest and augurs, and punish novelties in religion, for the same tended to sedition : and it was sound policy in a Nero and a Diocletian to persecute the truth that makes us free. It was deep wisdom in Na- poleon I. to restore, as the stay of his dy- nasty, that degrading falsehood which the noblest blood of France had been shed to put uway; and it is deep wisdom in the priests of that falsehood to glorify the memory of a savior and protector who was a Mahometan to the Mahometans. a German freethinker to German freethinkers, and in his heart per- haps the purest practical atheist tlgLt has ever played a part in history. While~ liberty was strong, the French priesthood blessed the tree of liberty with their lips, but it was with curses in their hearts: their adoration of the Messiah of Order is blasphemous but sincere. The voluptuary, too, will love a form of government which promotes dissipation in or- der to drug thought, and which not only brings a calm feelingly sweets after the storms of moral and intellectual life, but graces that calm with imperial architecture and imperial shows. What does it signify to a gourmand and a melomane that the gov- ernment does not allow Luthers? What harm will it do to him if the next genera- tion is deprived of truth and public morali- ty, and perhaps even of the thirty pieces of silver for which truth and public morality are sold? An atheist in heart, if not in profession, what does he, the human animal of to-day, care for the fate of the human an- imals of to-morrow? The bright scene may change. The Savior of Society may become a Nero; the true nobility of the nation may become prsetorians; the Jesuit may be- come an inquisitor, though now, occupied in struggling with more deadly forms of spirit- ual evil, he smiles on the voluptuarys unob- trusive creed. But by that time Apicius will have rendered back his grossness to the dust. Only men who believe in God and Spirit can live in the future of their kind. The stockjobber, again, adores a power which, for the moment at least, protects his shares; which does nqt oilhnd his morality or his public spirit; and which dazzles what- ever is left in him of imagination with the splendid image of success. The stockjobber, we say, not the merchant. Liberty is the only foster-mother~ of commerce ; and corn- merce wafts liberty with all her sails. For the poor, and the advocates of the poor, if they desire a despotism, surely signs have been given in history as glaring as a sign in heaven. There is the long cry of misery which strikes on the historians ear from Diocletian to the fall of Constantinople. There is the population of Spain, famished and decimated, as well as degraded, by 11 12 Charlese V. and his successors. There are the laille and corvee, the grass-eating serfs and the dragonnades of Bourbon France. There are the bloody vagrancy laws of the Tudors. As to game preserving, it was under a very civilized despotism and in face of a strong clergy, that the Prince de Charolais used to divert himself with shoot- ing, not pheasants, but workmen on the roofs of houses, whose death-throes, as they fell, beguiled the sameness of a princely life. His pardon was easily obtained. The most Christian king, who had make incest the fashion, could not be hard on murder. had the Prince de Charolais, however, been an ordinary person of quality, and not of the blood royal, he would probably have been exiled to his country seat. Had he been a peasant suspected of worshipping God in a way not patronized by Louis XV. and the Prince de Charolais, he would have been sent to die by slow torture in the galleys; and if he had resisted, he would have been broken on the wheel. Sociology (if that is to be its classical name) must be a science of experience: and what experience shows that the rich and noble will act more conscien- tiously towards their dependents whcn they have made over their consciences to a czar; or that a czar amidst his courtiers will think more of those who are farthest from, than of those who are nearest to, his throne ? The French freeholds, be they good things or bad, were the gift of a republic, and not of an emperor. We know that some despots have learned the trick of appealing to the passions of the masses against intellect, at the same time that they appeal to wealth against the passions of the masses. But what has been done for the masses, except giving them back, in ostentatious largesses, a little of the mon~y which is ultimately drawn from them in unobtrusive taxation, and sweeping off a kood many of them to Cayenne? The population of France, it seems, has hitherto diminished undcr the tranquility of the Empire; though diplomatic journalism rationally hopes for a cessation of this sad effect from the continu- ance of its beneficent cause. On the other hand, whatever may be the shortcomings of English society, we may say without boast- ing, and we hold it mere reckless cynicism to deny, that great and real efforts are being made by the upper classes to improve the condition and the education of the poor; and the source of these efforts is the sense of individual responsibility, with a sincere relig- ion and a free press. individual responsi- bility is what a despotism isdesir~I to super- sede a sincere religion is what is despotism never yet had: a free press is what a despot- ism never has endured and never can endure. The disappointment of wild political hopes, again, has driven some projectors to political suicide, and they offer to society the halter of their own despair. Society may thank them for their oft~r, and recommend them the gentle tonic of political duty. If writers on politics would speak not only of political systems, but of the self-command, the charity, the patriotism, the various and perpetual moral effort by which all conceiv- able systems must be sustained, there would be less hope and less despair in politics; since, if Abbd Siey~s is not conscious of the limits of his intellect, we are all mere or less conscious of the infirmity of our will. If the Abbe, by a happy thought in his arm- chair, could have superseded political virtue, he would have done a great thing for ,human- ity, and he would have done a greater thing if he could have superseded moral virtue by the same means. But it seems doubtful whether virtue of any kind is intended to be superseded here. If it is not, our hearts must not be desolate because the alembic of the political regenerator has produced a worthless mixture insteadofgold; we must rest contented with the reformers instead of the alchemists, reward. Let those who have tried to jump into the thirtieth century recoil to the despotism of the first; and because their bubble has burst, abdicate at the feet of a despot the dignity and the hopes of man. As to the courtier by nature and calling, he is only to be congratulated on having dis- covered a philosophic theory of venality and sycophancy; and on being enabled to lick the feet, not of a king, but of a crowned democracy,, and an existence necessary to God. A gentler and more amiable friend to des- potism is the minor poet. Minor poets, like Celts, care much for persons and little for principles: it is in them a romantic weak- ness, but it would be weakness without romance in us to let their weakness guide the world. Great poets are also great men. IMPERIALISM. IMPERIALISM. Like other great men, they love principles; and though they are full of loyalty, it is only for that which is divine. They spring, like other intellectual and moral greatness, from freedom; and even when they have suffered from its infirmities and its excesses, they have been conscious of the element from which they spring. Despots patronise poetry. They desire that it should decorate their reign, and help to preserve the intellect of the pation from dangerous speculation. They foster it with judicious munificence, and even encourage the trembling Muse to soar to the most exalted of all themes. A Boileau, and even a Virgil (though Virgil with great diffidence) answers to the august call; but not an ZEschylus or a Milton. Despotism had its day in the history of the world. It was necessary to bind together into nations, by force and blind loyalty, the first hordes of men. It was necessary, per- haps, to rid Europe of feudalism, though 13 heavily did the nations pay in civil tyranny, and, what is worse, in spiritual tyranny for unity ofgovernment and law. Its recurrence is the natural and just penalty of nations among whom the power of self-contr~ and self-government has been wrecked ~y de- moralization and indulgence in political chimeras, and the passions of the animal have gotten the victory over the reason of the man. But in an England, such as Eng- land, with all her faults, still is, it would be an anachronism, a monster, and a crime. And so every sensible, virtuous, and religious Englishman instinctively feels, if he does not theoretically know. He feels, if he does not know, that in casting off political duty, and renouncing his heritage of freedom, he would be casting off and renouncing, not his own personal pride and independence, but that which to every nation which has become worthy to enjoy it, is the law as well as the gift of God. G. S. CARDINAL WISEMAN AND Nzcsi.The cardinal, in a very ingenious lecture, delivered by him at the Marylebone Institution, remarks oa the vague and indiscriminate use of the word Nice, and the necessary result, vague and indiscriminate thoughts. But the cardi- nal is himself in great error in insisting that the word in the English language properly des- ignat~s accuracy, precision, discrimination, and seeks to confirm his assertion by a reference to any old dictionary. Such old dictionaries as Ainsworth and Johnson are in his favor; but our older dictionaries (which the cardinal cannot have consulted) all agree that nice primarily means soft, whence, continues Mr. Smart, who with his usual good sense adopts their interpretation, delicate, tender, dainty, & c. It is agreed by our etymologists that nesh and nice, are the same word differently written. Nesh, I have in my younger days frequently heard used in the Midland counties as Junius explains ittener frigoris. In Richardson~s Supplement are two (to modern ears) rather curious usages of this word from Wiclif: God hath maad neisehe myn hert (mollivit), A nessh answere (mollis) brek- eth wrathe. The explanation and etymology (from Skinner) correspond. Yet something may be said in favor of nice, as used in some of the cardinals instances. Things that are nice are also pleasing, agreea ble; a nice day, a nice ~nan, or a pleasant day, a pleasant man. We have many very loose expressions, as a good dinner, a good whipping which latter good thing was about the other day not very nicely, to be bestowed on the wrong member of the family. The cardinal makes some strong and just re- marks on the force of our word murther, and of the more powerful import of child-mur- ther than infanticide, and of seif-murt her than suicide; and he might have taxed his ingenuity to account for the absence from the lan~uage of our ancestors of such words as would correspond to the Latinisms, parricide, rnatricide,fratri cide; complex terms, which, as Locke would strangely contend, gave to the Romans so many more complex ideas than the circumlocutions killing of a father, killing of a mother, & c., could denote.JVotes and Queries. PRETENDER TIcKET.I have a ticket on paper printed with blue ink, from an engraved plate, in the form of a full-blown rose; it contains the names of forty sufferers in the cause of the ex- iled family of the Stuarts. The tradition is that this was a ticket of admission to the pri-. vate meetings of the partisans of the Stuarts, after the defeat at Culloden. The ticket may, or may not, be rare, but I should be glad to know which it is, and what may be its value. .Notes and Queries. THE WIFE OF TUE PALATINATE. From Chambers Journal. THE WIFE OF THE PALATINATE. MANY will remember a very affecting in- stance of conjugal devotion which was detailed in the newspapers of 1855. The heroine was the wife of a poor man, who, having been dismissed from the Newcastle Infirmary in cureless agony from chronic rheumatism, longed eagerly to get back to his native village. The only means of con- veyance, however, be could affordthe com- mon carriers cartwas not to be thought of: it would have tortured him to death; and the devoted wife took her husband on her back, and carried him, over rugged country roads, full fifty miles. This goes quite beyond the spasmodic strainings of romance; yet it is far out- stripped by another instance of the heroism of conjugal love, equally well authenticated, although it occurred two centuries ago. Tn the year 1621, at the commencement of the Thirty Years War, the rich province of the Rhinepfaltz, or Palatinate, was overrun by Spanish troops, who with lawless license plundered and destroyed wherever they came. The princely abbacy of Hurt, about two miles from Germersheim, on the Rhine, was one of the most desirable spots in the whole province, and its wide-spreading do- main afforded occupation to a numerous staff of stewards, bailiffs, herds, ploughmen, and foresters. Twice a year the Pfaltzgraf, or Count Palatine, held court at flirt, whither he repaired with his princess. Elizabeth, daughter of James I. of England pto enjoy deer-stalking in summer, and to hunt wild boars in winter. On St. Peters day each year, his head-stewart or baliff, a gentleman named Christopher JI~heim, rendered to the pfaltzgraf a statement of his accounts, which shewed a yearly return of many thousand rix-dollars. Herr Theim was married to an amiable lady, named Catharina Herpin, and was a man of con- siderable wealth and property, possessing several estates at Neustadt, Wachenheim, Rockenhausen, and Haehdorff, besides houses and money. All the estates belonging to herr Theim had embraced the Protestant faith, and consequently they, as well as the secularized abbacy of flirt, did not fail to attract the rapacious eyes of the Spaniards, who ruthlessly claimed and seized whatever seemed desirable. They broke open cabinets and coffers, feasted on luxurious dainties and rich wines, and, within a very few days, had rifled the whole place. To these outrages the steward opposed what resistance he could, endeavoring, as in duty bound, to protect to the utmost of hispower the property under his care. This interference being regarded by the lawless soldiery as a presumptuous infringement of their rights, they seized the bailiff, and forced him to swallow a liquid from a silver cup, which immediately paralyzed his whole body. His muscular and robust frame became power- less; his sinews contracted so that he could not move a limb; he could x~ot even stand without assistance, and his digestive organs became impaired. Catharina Herpin, his wife, viewed his helpless state with dismay; but, apprehen- sive that something worse might befall, she determined to fly from the scene of danger. Secrecy was necessary to insure safety; the use of a carriage could not be obtained; and to add to her difficulty, she had two young daughters whom it was expedient to take with her. In these trying circum- stances, Catharina resolved to depend solely on herself. She fastened her husbands powerless arms round her neck, and, with a little girl at each side, she hastened onwards towards the Rhine. A sympathizing fisher- man ferried her across the river, and on the opposite bank she entered the recesses of a forest, where she remained three days. At the end of that period, hunger compelled her to proceed, and with increased burdens and diminished strength, she slowly ad- vanced by stages along the road. First carrying her helpless husband, in the same manner as beCore, some distance in advance, she set him down in an easy postureon a grassy bank by the wayside, and returned to bring her children. With one of these in her arms, and dragging the other wearily by her side, she traversed the same ground for the third time, till she reached the spot where she had left her husband; then changing her load, she advanced in the same painful manner another stage, and so con- tinued till in a few days she arrived with her triple charge at the town of Rl~sinzaberu, to the astonishment of the admiring popu- lace. The sufferings and privations of the journey proved too much for the young girls: their piteous cries for food while on 14 THE WIFE OF THE PALATINATE. the road had been incessant, and had pierced their mothers heart with anguish; but a sharper thrust was in reserve for this cour- ageous woman. Though received with kind- ness by the inhabitants, and provided with shelter and food, the children survived only two days, and then died in the arms of their mother. Public admiration having been excited, an allowance wee granted to the family, which proved a valuable assistance; but the paralysis of Herr Theims whole frame continued unalleviated. Every effort made to subdue it proved fruitless; and the only method by which nourishment could be administered to him, wee to introduce it in- to his stomach through a quill. The only effect that increasing trouble had on Catharina was to elevate her courage and intensify her devotion to her husband. Though unaccustomed to bear the gaze of curiosity or the drudgery of burden, she overcame her natural repugnance to these, and determined to pursue her journey to Strasbourg, in the hope of enjoying better medical advice. She accordingly set out, with her helpless husband fastened on her back, and made her waya distance of ten German, or forty-five English milesto Strasbourg. On her arrival in that city, her case met with the same kind considera- tion and help as formerly; and her husband enjoyed the gratuitous advice of an eminent physician, who enjoyed a salary from the town. This doctor, after careful examina- tion, pronounced the recovery of the invalid to be hopeless, unless he could be conveyed to the Swiss baths at Badea on the Aar. Nothing daunted by the length and difficulty of the route, this indefatigable woman at once determined to undertake the journey, and having again saddled herself, with her precious burden, she started o~n her weari- some pilgrimage. At each town through which she passed, she seems to have sought out some medical man, from whose advice she hoped to gain some useful or consolatory hint; and even in the face of bitter dis- couragement from some of these, she per- severed. At ~Neuburg, thirty miles from Strasbourg, she consulted Dr. John Mels- cher; and at Ensigheim, eighteen miles further on, she consulted the town doctor, both of whom affirmed that her husbands life would not last a week; but her hope was proof against despair; and with in- domitable perseverance, she pressed on hes~ way. The old chronicle from which these par- ticulars are drawn, enters minutely into the details of her progress. At Russach, ten miles further than Ensigheim, the hoi$~hold physician of the archbishop of Strasbourg again held out hopes of ultimate recovery, and confirmed the advice on which she had resolved to act, by pointing to the Swiss baths as the most likely means of improve- ment. At Gebsweiter, ten miles further along the Rhine, an old physician was con- sulted, who also spoke favorably of the baths, but gave it as his opinion that, if they & failed to effect a cure, sudden and speedy death would probably result. The next stage of Catharinas progress was across the river forty miles, to Freiburg, where she consulted the famous Dr. Fed- derer, and placed her husband under his treatment for eight weeks, but without any perceptible improvement. For eighteen weeks now, Herr Theim had been unable to receive any nourishment, except a little wine or soup introduced into his stomach through a quill, and nothing had been found which could afford him any relief. Before leaving Freiburg, however, a slight improvement was effected by means of a desperate kill-or- cure remedy, suggested by a brother-in-law of Dr. Fedderer. But it was too slight to alter Catharinas resolution to carry her husband to the Swiss baths. Still forty miles further on, at Rheinfelden, she con- sulted two eminent practitioners, and wee gratified to find, even on the borders of Switzerland, that the baths of that country were thought likely to be beneficial. With elated hopes she persevered, and soon bore her beloved burden into Baden. Here she immediately began to apply the remedy she had come so far to seek; and for eleven weeks she carried her husband daily from their lodging down to the baths, and back again. The spectacle of a wom5~I thus de- votedly nursing her husband, and the re- port that she had in this manner carried him from the Palatinate, surrounded her with a halo of interest in the eyes of the inhabitants, many of whom paid her visits; and a few of the richer or more generous sent her presents, which she faithfully ap.. plied to help her husbands recovery. By slow degrees, he began to amend. In the 15 16 ~curse of a few weeks, be was so far im- proved that he could be fed with pap and other spoon-nourishmentthe necessary diet being ..kindly supplied by the Princess of Furstenburg and another sympathizing lady, both of whom frequented the baths at the time. The next step in his improvement was the, acquisition of sufficient strength to stand without support; but every attempt to walk without assistance, even with the aid of crutches, proved futile, as the want of muscular power in his hands prevented him closing them so as to hold any thing. His body, however, continued to appear little more than a skeleton ; and when in the bath, he floated on the water, as the old chronicler relates, like a piece of cork. The expenses of their long journey, mcdi- cal fees, medicines, and their living at the baths, soon exhausted what little money Catharina had scraped together from the bounty of friends or saved from the plunder of their property, and she was at length compelled to leave Baden. Allured by the fame of a Jewish doctor at Stanz, a town seventy miles distant, she bent her steps thither. On reaching the town, this physi- cian, having his attention drawn to her, be- came interested in her case, and. promised her relief for her husband. The prescription he gave her, and the manner-in which it was acted upon, afford a striking illustra- tion of the progress of the medical art in the seventeenth century, and the supersti- tion which attached to it among the people. The doctor directed her to take a calf, and, having cut its throat, to preserve the middle blood. This, mixed with vinegar and salt to a consistency, she was to use as a liniment, and rub her husbands limbs with it daily for four weeks. Lie also gave her a small bag, containing a slip of paper inscribed with Hebrew characters, which the patient was to wear for a time round his neck. The good woman, fearing that the use of the first of these remedies might prove hurt- ful in some way to her faith as a Christian, resolved not to try it; but she carefully sus- pended the amulet from her hcabands neck and kept it there. Though, as the old record says, she in her simplicity rejected the most natural remedy to take the im- probable one, yet, probably, from the in- fluence of former means, her husband in TIlE WIFE OF TUE PALATINATE. fourteen days had made some progress in his recovery. From Stanz, Catharina continued her journey onwards to Rupperschwyll. In order to reach this town, she h~d to climb two high mountains, named respectively the Sattel and Etzel mountains; and while passing the latter of these, an accident of an extremely dangerous character befell her. It wasa longdaysjourney; and in order te reach Rupperschwyll before nightfall, she started with her burden at five & clock in the morning, and travelled almost the whole day without rest or refreshment. As she was descending the opposite side, she was seized with a fainting-fit at one of the steepest parts of the road, and falling, she rolled a considerable distance down the slope, with her husband sometimes uppermost and sometimes below 11cr. She contrived at length to steady herself by grasping some bushes; and in this position she remained, till a good Smaritan, who was passing, came to her assistance, after having invoked the Holy Mother and Saint Anna. He first re- lieved Catharina from the danger of chok- ing, by cutting the bands jhat fastened her husbands arms round her neck, and he then removed the patient to a more secure spot at a little distance, where he laid him in an easy posture to wait till his wife should be able to resume the journey. After a l~rief rest, she again took up her burden, and late at night arrived at the long narrow bridge, which all tourists must know who have visited the charming scenery of the neighborhood; and reeling as she was from fatigue and exhaustion, she passed along its whole lengthfull two miles without accident, though undefended by parapet or rail. From Rupperschwyll, the journey was continued through Ilcrisau, the capital of Appcnzell, to Constance, where medical ad- vice and a curiously compounded bath effected no further improvement in Herr Theims heath. From~i Constance, the banded pair bent their steps towards Bavaria, through Ravensburg and Meningena route which, even at the present day, with all the appliances of modern travel, is wild and dreary enough. The object of their visit to Bavaria seems to have been to claim pay- meat of a bond for 700 gulden (about L. 60), which a former duke of that country had granted Ia happier days to Theim~s father. They found the representative of the debtorDuke Mazimilian, of Pfalt: Neuburgat his residence Neuburg, on the Danube; and on presenting their ~emand, they were coolly told that the Duke had not at that time sufficient money at his com- mand, as he wa engaged in building a con- vent for a company of Jesuits; but when that was finished, if he had enough left, he would then lidiquate the bond. It is to be hoped for the credit of humanity, that the princely debtor, when he gave this reply, knew nothing of the devotion of the woman whQm he spurned; but the contrary secuis probable, for the inhabitants of the ducal manor, on hearing that the pilgrim pair were sufferers for their Protestant faith, re- fused them even th~ common rites of hospi- tality. At Augsburg, a Protestant town, sixty miles from Neuburg, a medical man of great celebrity again advised the baths at Baden, from which the first decided beneflt had been derived, as likely to facilitate complete recovery; and, accordingly, the indefatiga- ble Catharina turned to retrace her long painful journey through Suabia and Swit- zerland. On her way, after traversing about 140 miles, she consulted the bes.dsman or executioner of St. Galla functionary both trusted and dreaded for his sympathetic cures probably in the expectation of receiving some amulet or charm. He, how- ever, prescribed bleeding; but as she regarded this as too severe a process in her husbands weak state, she declined to permit it. After a rest of three weeks, she pursued her toilsome way, over similar mountains to those which had formerly cost horse much trouble, to Zurich. At schaffhau~en, about thirty miles further, where there was a Pro- testant community, every house was gladly opened to reesieve and shelter a martyr to the faith. Cheered, and perhaps materially assisted, they pursued their way to Berne, and thence to the healing springs of Baden. Here at length, after a renewed course of bathing, the long-tried Theim foond relief Mi~CLxxxiy. LIVING AGE. VOL. xviii. 2 ~HB W~IFE 01 THU PALATINATR. 17 from his sufferings, and his affectionate wife enjoyed the reward df her toil in seeing her husband so far recovered that, with the support of a staff, he couldwalk alone. Having recovered so far, he seems to)~ave been unwilling to remain longer a burden on the charity of his Protestant friends, and therefore determined to seek out the p(altz- graf, his master, in whose service he had suffered so much. The prince was living at this time at the Hague, in a state of depen- dence on the States-general of Holland; and accordingly the route of the affectionate couple lay through the entire breadth of Germany along the Rhine to Cologne, the whole of which distance they travelled on foot. Fzbm Cologne, they took a boat to Utrecht, whence the distance to the Hague was short. The result of their application to the pfaltzgraf is not stated: probably his allowance was barely enough l~r~ his own wants. At all events, we find our unfortu- nate pair shortly afterwards again travelling southwards. They had got as far as the fortress of Wesel, when, from some defect in their passports, they were turned back, and retired to Amsterdam. Here, under the bes& medical treatment, a complete cure was. effected; and here, accordingly, the chrosh. cler concludes his narrative. Some idea may be formed of the devotion and ebdur- ance of this courageous woman when i~ is stated, that she carried her husband en her back 172 German, or about 800 English miles, over hill and dale, across zivors, and through manifold dangers, and that their pilgrimages occupied a term of about three years, animated by the oDe hope that his health might be~restored. We do not know whether there is another instance of self. sacrifice and patient, uAtiring devotion on rccord that can compare with this; and we may add, that the history of their wander- ings is said to be vouched by trustworthy evidence, and that the fact of their resi- dence in Amsterdam in 1624 is clearly as- certained. At the peace of 1648, the pfaltz- graf was reinstated in his dominion., but we know not whether his faithful steward, with his tried spouse, everreturned to receiva again his post and. his property. TO A GINNY-POUL.---THE NEWEST WHIG GUIDE. 18 MORNING. (From an old Englisl Magazine, where it appeared anonymously.] WnEN daylight breaks, and sheds his rays abroad, Turn from the splendor of his sunny glow; Let thy soul leave the earth and soar to God, As the sweet flower turns to the sun below, And drinks the blessed rays from which his brightness flow. 0! let not natures praises soar on high, Ere thy lips open with its morning prayer: Let not the larks shrill music fill the sky, Era thy~heart lifts its aspirations there; Butlet the dawn of morn thy orisons declare. Morn is the time to see thy prayers begun; For morning hymned the young creations birth; And the grave opened with the morni~g sun, When mans redemption was complete on earth; And morn shall see our God in judgment coming forth. Serve God at morn, that solemn, hallowed hour, When nature wakes as from the sleep of death, When the glad song from mountain, grove, and bower, Is heard through heaven, and on the earth be- neath, Serve God, let him receive thy mornings early breath. Happy the dn~r whose first beam beavs thy song On his bright wing -up to the gate of heaven, Where thy faint praises mingle with that throng, Who rest not from their hallelujahs morn or even, To whom the glorious palm of victory is given. :Ha~py the day, whose hours are thus begun; A day from storms, and every tempest, free, ThoRgh clouds may rise, the splendor of the sun Will make the darkness and the shadows flee, As mist from mountain tops when they the morning see. - Happy the day,the;es promise in its close; A brighter promise than the morning gave; For when its sunset oer creation throws A lustre, and then sparkles on the wave, Its parting beam shall rest all glorious on thy grave. Transcript. TO A GINNY-FOUL, - That comes and squawks under his winder periodikly and makes him mad exceedingly. You missuble, speckled critter, you! Whatn thunder re squawking about? Does any thing hurt you bad? Or do you squawk That way inGinny, where you come from. And so squawks now from educational preg- udice? Whatn mischief do you pull your homely head Outn from under your wing and squawk for? Whats under your wing to make you squawk, You speckled swine of a berd? - . - - Somethink offensive, I recken, elsewise Youd keep it there, for it looks be4ter hid. What do,~you get on the fenc~ and.squawk for? Do you see anythinkalarmink, you white-gilled, Speckled-feathered, squawking fool! How do you spose a feller can read or rite, Or sleep, or live, you discordant, old, busted, Brass, French horn, with all keys open And the mouth-piece cracked! I wish I could pizen you, you everlastin, per- petual squawking machine ! - - Whatre you thinking about ?home I You rascally epitome of a Ginny war-gong, A Congotum-tuI~1 and conch shell, And a down-east village brass band! Dry up! y~u speckled parody of a machine shop! Do you think thats music, you outrageous vocal atrocity! You boiler makers exacerbated echo! You squawking abstract of Pandemonium, Do you think a feller can afford to furnish boot- jacks And so forth to chunk you with daily, dog you! May-be you think its funny, you speckled pagan of African extraction Is your squawking sass? or are you feard of me, say You brazen-throated, sheet..iron-lunged culmi- nation Of foul creation? Heres my blackin brush at you K. N. PEPPER. Traveller. THE NEWEST WHIG GUIDE. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, & c. Tow Moosw. Believe me, when all those ridiculous airs, Which you practise so pretty to-day, & c. LORD PALMERSTO~. BELTEYFI me, when all that mere vapor of fame, Which makes you notorious to-day, Shall have vanisned, twill leave you exactly the same The political Vicar of Bray. You will still be a rat as a rat you have been, Though Premier of England no more; And the jokes that delighted the world in 16 Are in 57 only a bore. It is not while Downing-street still is your~own, And the vessel of England you steer, That your true popularity well can be known Who loves Pamand who loves the Premier. 0! the fool who is truly so never forgets, But still fools it on to the close; And the nonchalent Viscount will be, when he sets Just the witling he was when he rose Press TilE I?#ThRPRETE1~: I~ is high n?on, and not a sound, save the occasional snort of an impatient steed, is to be he~td throughout the lines. Pick- eted in rows,the gallant little char~ers of the Terkish cavalry are dozing away the hours between morning and evening feed. The troopers themselves are smokipg and sleeping in their tents; here and there may be seen a devout Mussulman prostrate on his prayer-carpet, his face turned towards Mecca, and his thoughts wholly abstracted from all worldly considerations. Ill fed and worse paid, they are nevertheless a brawny, powerful race, their broad rounded shoul- ders, bulluecks, and bowed legs denoting stren~th rather than activity; whilst their high features and marked swarthy counte- nances betray at once their origin, sprung from generations of warriors who once threatened to overwhelm the whole Western world in a tide that hss now been long since at the ebb. Patient are they of hardship, and devoted to the Sultan and their duty, made for soldiers and nothing else, with their fierce, dogged resolution, and their childish obedience and simplicity. Hand in hand, two bf them are strolling leisurely through the lines to release a restive little horse who has got inexplicably entangled in his ewn and his neighbors picket-ropes, and is fighting his way out of his difficulty with teeth and hoofs. They do not hurry them- selves, but converse peacefully as they pace along. Is it true, Mustapha, that Giaours are still coming to join our Bey? The Padisha~ is indeed gracious to these eons of perdi- tion.~ It is true, Jhaz!um ;f may Allah con- found them! replies Mustaph~ spitting in parenthesis between his teeth: but they have brave hearts, these Giaours, and cun- ning heads, moreover, for their own devices. What good Moslem would have thought of sending his commands by wire, f~ster than they could be borne by the horses of the Prophet? Magic! argues the other trooper; black, unholy magic! There is but one Allah! What filth are you eating? answers Mustapha, who is of a practical turn of ~ The Sultan. t 0 my soul! a colloquial term equivalent to the French Mon cher. 19 CHAPTER XVII.OMAR PASHA. mind. Have not I myself seen the wir~ and the post, and do I not know that Padisha sends his commands to the Ferik- Pasha by the letters he writes with hisewn hand? But you have never seen the letter, urges his comrade, though you have ri4~. den a hundred times under the lines. 0, mule-head and son of a jackass! retorts Mustapha, do you not know that the letter flies so fast along the wire, thali the, eye of~ man cannot perceive it? They are dogs and accursed, these Giaours; but, by my head, they are very foxes in wit. I will defile their graves, observes his comrade and forthwith they proceed to re lease the entangled charger, who has by this time nearly eaten his ill-starred neighbor; and I overhear thia philosophical disquisi- tion, as I proceed for orders to the Greer~ Tent of Iskender Bey, commandment of the ~mall force of cavalry attached to Omar Pashas army ifl Bulgaria. As I enter the tent I perceive two men seated in grave discussion, whilst a thitd~ stands upright in a respectful attitude. A chaoosh, or serjeant, is walking a ma~aifi- cently-eaparisoned bay Arab up and down just beyond the tent-pegs; while an escort of lancers, with two or three more led- horses and a brace of English pointers, are standing a few paces off. The upright figure, though dressed in a Turkish uniform, with a red fez or skull-cap, I have nodi~- culty in recognizing as Victor de Rohan. He grasps my hand as I pass, and whispers a few words in French while I salute Isken- der Bey and await his orders. My chief is more than three jarts drunk. He has already finished the bee of a bottle of brandy, and is all for fighting, right or wrong, as, to do him justice, is his invariable inclination. To and fro he waves his half-grizzled head, and sawing the air with his right hand, mutilated of half its fingers by the blow of a Russian sabre, he repeats in German But the attack! Excellency; the attack! when will you let me loose with my cavalry? The attack !~ Excellency; the attack! The person he addresses looks at him with a half-amused, half-provoked air, and then glancing at Victor breaks into a covert smile, which he conceals by bending over a ma~ that is stretched before him. I have ample THR INTERPRETE. time to study his appearance, and to wonder why I should have a sort of vague impression that I have seen that countenance before. lie is ,a spare, sinewy man, above the mid- die height, with his figure developed and toughened by constant exercise. An excel- lent hqmeman, a practised shot, an adept at all field-sports, he looks as if no labor would tire him, no hardships affect his vigor or his health. His small head is set on hisahoulders in the peculiar manner that always denotes physical atrength; and his well-cut features would be handsome, were it not ier a severe a~id somewhat caustic expression which mare the beauty of his countenance. His deep~set eye is very bright and keen; its glance seems accustomed to command, and also to detect falsehood under a threefold mask. He has not dealt half a life-time with Asiatics to ~il in acquiring that useful knack. He wears his beard and moustache short and close; they are grizzled here and there, j3ut more with toil than age, and add to his soldierlike exterior. His dress is simple enough; it consists of a close-fitting, dark-green frock, adorned o~ily with the order of the Medjidjie, high-riding boots, and a crimson feL A carved Turkish sabre hangs from his belt, and a double-ban-ailed gnn of English workmanship is thrown across his knees. As he looks up from his map, his eye rests on me, and he asks Victor in Qerman, Who is that? An Eng~shman who has joined yoi~r Exeellenoys force a an Interpreter, an- swers my friend, and who is now attached to Iskender Boy. I believe the Bey can give a good account of his gallantry on mor@ than one occasion. The Bey~ thus appealed to, musters up a drunken smile, and observes, A good swordsman, your excellency, and a man of ms,ny languages. Sober too, he adds, shak- ing his head, sober as a Mussulman, the ir*t quality in a soldier. His Excellency smiles again at Victor, who presents me in due form, not forgetting to mention my name. The great man almost starts. He fixes on me that glittering eye which seems to look tbrossgh tue. Where did you acquire your k~owlsdge of languages? he asks. My aid~de-*rap nfotm~ me you speak Hunga. riaw-eren better than, you do Turkish. I travelled much in Hungary as a boy, Excellency, was my reply. Victor de Rohan is my earliest friend; I was a child scarcely out of the nursery w~men I first made his acquaintance at Edeldprf. A gleam of satisfaction passed over his Excellencys face. Strange, strange, he muttered, how the wheel turns; and then pulling out a small steel purse, but slenderly garnished, he selected from a few other coins an old silver piece, worn quite smooth and bent double. Do you remem- ber that? said he placing it in my hand. The gipsy-troop and the deserter flashed across the at once. I was so confused at my own stupi~ity in not having recognized him sooner, that I could only stammer out, Pardon, your Excelleacy,so long agoa mere child. He grasped my hand warmly. Eger- ton, said he, boy as you were, there was heart and honor in your deed. Subordinate as I then was, I swore never to forget it. I never have forgotten it. You have made a friend for life in Omar Pasha. I could only bow my thanks, and the %Jen- eral added, Come to me at head-quarters this afternoon. I will ew what can be don@ for you. But, Excellency, I cannot spare him, interposed Iskender Bey. I have here an English officer, the bravest of the brave, but so stupid I cannot~ understand a word he says. I had rather be without sword or lance than lose my Interpreter. And then, Excellency, the attack to-morrowthe at- tack! Omar Pasha rose to depart. I will send him back this evening with despatehes, said he, saluting his host in the Turkish fashion, touchingtlirst the heart) then the mouth, then the foreheada courtesy which the old fire-eater returned with a ludicrous attempt at solemnity. Do Rohan, he added, stay here t~ carry out the orders I have given yon. As soon as your friend can be spared front the - Bey, bring him over with you, to remain at head-quarters. Salaamn! And the Gen- eral was on his horse and away long before the Turkish guard could get under arms to pay him the proper compliments, leaving iskender Boy to return t~ his brandy~bottle, and my old friend Victor to make himself comfortable in my tent, and smoke a quiet TITE tNTh~PflEThL chibouque with me whilst we related all that had passed sincQ we met. Victor was Yrank and merry as usual, spoke unreservedly of his liaison with Prin- cess Vocqsal, and the reasons which had de- cided him on seeing a campaign with the Turkish army against his natural enemies, the Russians. 1 like it, mon cher, said he puffing at his chibouque, and talking in the mixture of French and English which seemed his natural language, and in which he always affirmed he thought. There is. liberty, there is ex- citement, there is the chance of distinction; and above all, there are no women. It suits my temperament, mon cher: voyez-vous, je suis plulosophe. I like to change my bivouac day by day, to attach myself to my horses, to have no tie but that which binds me to my sabre, no anxieties but for what I shall get to eat. The General does all the think- ingparblezs! he does it ~t merveille; and I why, I. laugh and I ride away. Fill my chibouque again, and hand me that flask; I think there is a drop~ left in it. Your health, Vere, mon enfant, and vine la guerre! Vine la guerre! I repeated; but the words stuck in my throat, for I had already seen something of the miseries brought by war into a peaceful country, and,~,I could not l6~ upon the struggle in which we were engaged with quite as much indifference as my volatile friend. And you, Vere, he resumed, after draining the flask, I heard you were with us weeks ago; but I have been absent from my chief on a reconnaissance, so I never could get an opportunity of beating up your quarters. What on earth brought you out here, my quiet, studious friend? I could not have told him the truth ~to save my life. Any one but him, for I always ft~ncied she looked on him with favoring eyes, so I gave two or three false reasons instead of the real one. Oh, I replied, . everything was so changed after my p~or fathers death, and Alton was so dull, and I had no profession, no object in life, so I thought I might see a little soldiering. When they found I could speak Turkish, or rather when I told them so, they gave me every facility at the War- office; so I got a pair of jack-boots and a revolver, and here I am. But Omar will makeyou something better than an interpreter, n~rged Victor. We must get you Qver t~ head-quarters, Vere. Men rise rapidly, in these days; next cam- paign you might have a brigade, and the following one a division. This war wiIilast for years; you are fit for something better than a Tergyman. * I think so too, -I replied; though, truth to tell, when I came out here I wa quite satisfied with my present position, and only thirsted for the excitement of action But this soldiering grows u.pon one, Vict9r, does it not? Yet I am loth toleave Iskender too; the old Lion stretched me his paw when I had no friends in Tur1~ey, and I believe I am useful to him. At least I must stay with him noW, for we shall be engaged beforO long, I can tell you that. Tapt miei~.r, retorted Victor with flash- ing eyes; old Brandy-face will ram his cav- alry into it if he gets a chance. Dont lst. him ride too far forward himself, V-crc, if you can help it, as he did when he cut his own way through that troop of hussars, and gave theta ~nother example of the stuff the Poles are made of. The Muscov nearly h~d hin~ that time, though. It was then he lost the use of half his fingers, and got that crack over the head which has been an excuse for drunkenness ever since. Drunk or sober, I replied, be ie the best cavalry officer we have; but make your- selt comlhrtible, Victor, as well as you can. I recommend you to sleep on my divan for an hour or two; something tells me we shall advance to-night. To-morrow, old friend, you and I may sleep on a harder bed. T/ivq (a guerre! replied Victor, gaily as before; but era I had buckled on my sabre to leave the tent, the chibouque had fallen from his lips, and he was fast asleep. My gray Arab, Injour, f was saddled and fastened to a lance; my faithful Bold, who had accompanied me through all my wanderings, and who had taken an extraordi- nary liking for his equine companion, was ready to be my escort; a revolver was in my holster-pipe, a hunch of black bread in my wallet, and with my sabre by my side,abd a pretty accurate idea of my route, ~[ experi- enced a feeling of light-heartedness and in- dependence to which I h~(d long been a stranger. Poor Bold, enjoyed his masters - ~ An Interpreter. t The PearL 4 21 THR INT~PUETRR. society all the re that, in deference to Moslem prejudices, I had now banished him from my tent and consigned him to the com- pany of my horses. He gambolled about me, whilst my snorting horse, shaking his deljeate head, struck playfully at him with his forefeet as the dog bounded in front of him. Bad horseman as I always was, yet m a deep, demi-pique, Turkish s~ddle, with broad shovel stirrups and a severe Turkish bit, I felt thoroughly master of the~nimal I bestrode, and I keenly enjoyed the sensation. Injour was indeed a pearl of his race. J3~autiful as a star, wiry and graceful as a 4eer, he. looked all over the priceless child of the desert, whqse blood had come down to him from the very horses of the Prophet, unstained through a hundred generations. Mettle, courage, and endurance were appar- ent in. the smooth, satin skin, the flat, sin- ewy legs, the full, muscular neck, broad fore- head, shapely muzzle, wide, red nostril, quivering ears, and game wild . eye. He could gallop on mile after mile, hour after hour, with a stride unvarying and appar- ently untiring as clockwork; nor though he had a heavy man on his back did his pulses seem to beat higher, or his breath come ~uioker, when he arrived at the head-quarters of the Turkish army, than when he had left my own tent an hour and a half earlier, the intervening time, much to poor l3olds dis- tress, Ifaving been spent at a gallop. There was evidently a stir in the Omar Pashas quarters. Turkish officers were going and coming with an eagerness and alacrity by no means naturali to those functionaries. An English horse looking very thin and uncom- fortable, was being led away from the tent, smoking from the speed at which he had heen ridden. The sentry alone was totally unmoved and apathetic: a devout Mussul- man, to hun destiny was destiny, and there an end. Had the enemy appeared forty thousand strong, sweeping over his very camp, he would have fired his musket lei- surely ; in all probability it would not have gone off the fir~t time, and awaited his fate, ca~lmly observing. Kismet! * there is but one Allah ~ More energetic spirits are fortunately within those green canvas walls; for there ~ ,Ornar Pasha surrrounded by the gal- lai~xt1 little band of for~igners, chiefly English ~ Destiny. men who never wavered or hesitated for an instant, however desperate the task to be undertaken, and whom, it Au but justice to say, the Turks were always ready to follow to the death., Very diftkrent is the expres- sion on each conatenance, fo~a council, of war is sitting, and to-day will decide the fate of many a gray-coated Muscov and many a turbaned servant of the Prophet. A RLIs- sian prisoner has moreover just been brought in, and my arrival is sufficiently opportune to interpret, with the few words of Russian I have already picked up, between the un- fortunate man and his captors. If he prove to be a spy, as is more than, suspected, may Heaven have mercy on him, for the Turk will not. Omar Pashas brow is contracted. and stern. He vouchsafes me no look or sign of recognition as he bids me ask the prisoner certain pertinent questions on which life and death depend. What is the strength of the corps to which you belong! The; man answers doggedly and with his eyes fixed on the ground, Twenty thousand bayonets. Omar Pasha compares his answer with a paper he holds in his hand. I fancy he sets his teeth a little tighter, but otherwise he moves n~t a muscle of his countenance. * At what distance from the Danube did you leave your Generals head-quarters! The prisoner pretends not to understand. My limited knowledge of his language obliges me.to put the question in an involved form, and he seems to take time to consider his answer. There is nothing about the man to distinguish him from the common Russian soldiera mere military serf. He is dressed in the long, shabby, gray coat, the greasy boots, and has a low, overhanging brow, a thoroughly Calmuck cast; of features, and an intensely stupid expression of counte- nance; but I r rk that his hands which are nervously pres ~d~together, are white and slender, and his feet are much too small for their huge, shapeless coverings. His eye glitters as he steals a look at the General, whilst he answ~rs, Not more than an hour and a half. Again Omar consults his paper, and a gleam passes over his face like that of a chess-player who has checkmated his adver sary. g 22 * TER IZ~TEUPRET~U~ One mote question, he observes courte- ously, and I will trouble you no longer. What force of artillery is attached to your Generals corps darm6e? Eight batteries of field-cannon and four troops of horse artillery, replies the pris- oner, this time without a moments hesita- tion; hut the sweat breaks out on his fore- head, for he is watching Omar. Pashas countenance, and he reads death on that impassable surface. It is sufficient, gentlemen, observes the General to the officers who surround hijn. Let him be taken to the rear of the en- campment and shot forthwith. The prisoners lip quivers nervously, but he shows extraordinary pluck, and bolds himself upright as if on parade. Poor devil! says a hearty voice in English; and turning round, I see a g6od- looking, broad-shouldered Englishman, in the uniform of a brigadier, who is watching the prisoner with an air of pity and curiosity approaching the ludicrous. Excellence, says he, in somewhat broken German, will you not send him to me! I will undertake that he spreads no false reports about the camp. I will answer for his safety in my hands; he must not be permitted to commu- nicate with any one, even by signs~ but it is a pity to shoot him, is it not? I would do much to oblige you, Briga- dier, replied Ornar, with frank courtesy; hut you know the custom of war. I can- not in this instance depart from itno not even to oblige a friend ; he smiled, as he spoke, and added in Turkish to an officer who stood beside him, March him owt, and see it done immediately. And now, gentle- men, he proceeded, we will arrange the plan of attack. Mr. Egerton, your des- patches are ready; let them reach Iskender Bey without delay. There will be work for, us all to-morrow. At these words a buzz of satisfaction filled the tent; not an officer there but was deter- mined to win his way to distinction, coute qui coute. I felt I had received my dismis- sal, and bowed myself out. - As I left the tent, I encountered the unfortunate Russian prisoner marching doggedly under escort to the place of his doom. When he caught sight of me, he made a mechanical motion with his fettered hand, as though to raise it to his cap, and ad~ 23 dressed me in Frenc~i, of which language he had hitherto affected the most profound ignorance. Comrade, said he, order these me~ to give me five minutes. We are both eel- diers; you shall do me a favor. I spoke to the mulazim * who com- manded theguard. He pointed out an Open space on which we were entering, and ob- served, The Moscov has reached his rest- ing-place at last. Five minutes arc soon gone. What am I, that I should disobey the Tergyman? Be it on my head, Effendi. The Russian became perfectly composed. At my desire his arms wire libera1& 4, and the first use he made of his freedom was t~, shake me cordially by the hand. Ceknrade, said he, in excellent French and with the ~refined tone of an educated man, we are enex~iies, but we a~r~ soldiers. We are civilized men among barbarians; above all, we are Christians among Infi- dels. Swear to me by the faith we both worship that you will fulfil my last re- quest. His coolness at this trying moment brought the tears into my eyes. I prom. ised to comply with his demand, so far as my honor as a soldier would permit me. He had stood unmoved surrounded by ene- mies, he had heard his death-warrant with- out shrinking for an instant; but my sym- pathy unmanned him, and it was with ~ breken voice and moistened eyes that he pro~ oeeded~ I am not what I seem. I hold a com- mission in the Russian army. Disguised as a private soldier, I crossed the river of my own free will. I have sacrificed myself will- ingly for my country and my Czar. lie will know it, and my brother will be promoted. The favor I ask you is no triflitig one. He took a small amulet from his neck as he spoke; it was the image of his patron saint, curiously wrought in gold. Forward this to my mother, she is the one I love,beat on earth. Mother, he repeated, in a low, heart-breaking voice, could you but see me now! I had fortunately a memorandum-book in my pocket. I tore out a leaf and handed him a pencil. lie thanked me with such a * Lieutenant. T#~ INThIPREThI. look of gratitude as I never saw before on mortal face, wrote a few lines, wrapped the amulet in the paper, and inscribed on it the direction, with a hand far steadier than my own. As he gave it me, The mulazim coolly observed, Eflbndi! the time has expired, and ordered his men to fall in. The Russian squeezed my hand, and drew himself up proudly to his full height, whilst his eye kindled and the color came once more into his cheek. As I mounted my horse, he saluted me with the grave courteous air with which a man salutes an antagonist in a duel. I could not bear to see him die. I went off at a gallop, bi~ I bad not gone two hun- dred paces before I heard the rattle of some half-dozen mttskets. I pulled up short and turned around. Some inexplicable fascina- tion forced me to look. The white smoke was floating away. I heard the ring of the mens ramrod. as they reloaded; and where the Russian had stood erect and chivairosa while he bid inc his last farewell, there was nothing now but a wisp of gray cloth upon the ground. Sick at heart, I rode on at a walk, with the bridle on my horses neck. But a sol- diers feelingsmust not intcrfere.with duty. My despatches had to be delivered immedi- ately, and soon I was once more speeding away as fast as I had come. An hours ~lop braced my nerves and warmed the blood about my heart. As I gave Injour a moments breathing time, I summoned forti- tude to read the Russians letter. My scholarship was more than sufficient to mas- ter its brief contents. It was addressed to the Countess D, and consisted but of these few words: Console thyself, my mother; I die in the true faith. He was a gallant man and a good. If this is the stuff our enemies ars made of, thought I, as I urged Injour once more to his speed, there is, indeedas Omar Pasha told us to-daythere is, indeed, work cut out for us alt ,~ CHAPTER XVIII. SKENDER BEY. Tim old lion is sober enough now. What a bea4ache he ought to have after all that brandy yesterday: but the prospect of light- ing always puts Iskender Boy to righta, and to-day he will have a bellyful or we are much mistaken. At the head, in the rear, en the flanks of his small force the fiery Pole seems to have eyes and ears for every trooper under his command.. The morning is deit and cloudy; a small drizzling rain is falling, and effectually assists our manoeuvres. We hav# erossed the Danube in a few flat-boats before daybreak, fortunately with no further casualty than the drowning of one horse, whose burial service has been celebrated in the strongost oaths of the Turkish language. We have landed without opposition; and should we not be surprised by any outpost of the enemy, we are in a highly favorable position for taking our share in the combined ; attack. Victor de Rohan has been attached for the occasion to our Commanders staff. He is accompanied by a swarthy, powerful man, mounted on a game-looking bay mare, the only charger of that sex present on the field. This worthy goes by the name of Ali Mes- rour, and is by birth a Beloochee: fighting has been his trade for more than twenty years, and he has literally fought his way all over the liast, till he found himself a sort of henebman to Omar Nsha on the banks of the Danube. He has accoznpaaied Dc Roham~ here from head-quarters, and sits on his mare by the Hungarians side, grim and unmoved, as beeomes a veteran warrior. There is charlatanism iz~ alt trades. It is the affectation of the young soldier to be exeited, keen, volatile, and jocose, while the older hand thinks it right to assume an air of knowing calmness, just dashed with a touch of sardonic humor. We are situated in a hollow,where we arc completely hidden from the surrounding district: the river guards our rear and. one of our flanks; a strong picket is under arms in our front, and beyond it a few vedettes, themselves un- seen, are peeping over the eminence before them. Our main body are dismounted, but the men arc prepared to stand to their horses at a moments notice, and all noise is strictly forbidden in the ranks. If we arc surprised by a sufficiently strong force we shall be cut to pieces, for we have no retreat; if we can remain undiscovered for another hour or so, the game will be in our own hands. Iskender Boy is in Paradise. This is what he lives for; and to-day, he thinke, will see him a pasha or a corpse. 24 A Tergyman, be whispers to me, whilst his sides shake and his eyes kindle with mirth, how little theythink wiw is their neighbor. And the landing, Tergyman! the landing! the only place for miles where we could have accomplished it, and they had not even a sentry there. 0, it is the best joke! And Iskender dismounts from his horse, to enjoy his laugh in comfort, while his swollen veins and bloodshot eyes betoken the severity of the internal convulsion, all the more powerful that he must not have it out in louder tones. Another hour of This, at least, observes Victor, as he lights a large cigar, and hands another to the commandant, and a third to myself, one more hour, Egerton, and then comes our chance. You have got a picked body of men to-day, Effendi! he observes to the Bey; and not the worst of the horses. They are my own children to-day, Count, answers Iskender, with sparkling eyes. There are nQt too many of the brood left; but the chickens are game to the backbone. What say you, Au? These fel- lows are better stuff than your Arabs that you make such a talk about. The Beloochee smiles grimly, and pats his mare on the neck. When the sun iA low, he answers, I shall say what I think; meanwhile work, and not talk, is before us. The Arab is no bad warner, Effendi, on the fourth day, when the barley is exhausted, and there is no water in the skins. Iskender laughs and points to the Danube. There is water enough there, he says, for the whole cavalry of the Padisha, Egyptian guards, and all. Pah! dont talk of water, I hate the very name of it. Brandy is the liquor for a soMierbrandy and blood. Count de Rohan, your Hunga- rians dont fight upon water, Ill answer for It., You know our proverb, Effendi, re- plies Victor, The hussars horse drinks wine. But the rain is coming on heavier, he adds, looking up at the clouds; we shall have water enough to satisfy even a true Mussulman like Au, presently. 116w slow the time passes. May I not go forward and reconnoitre? f he permission is willingly granted; and as my office is to-day a sinecure, I creep for: 25 ward with Victor beyond our advanced posts, to a small knoll, from which, with- out being seen, we can obtain a commanding view of the surrounding country. There is a flat extent in front of ~s, ad- mirably adapted for the operations of cav- airy; and a slight eminence covered with brushwood, which will conceal our move- ments for nearly half a mile farther. The fools! whispers Victor; if they had lined that copse with rifle-men, they might have bothered us sadly as we ad- vanced. How do you know ,they have not? I whisper in reply; not a man could we see from here; and their grays coats are ex- actly the color of the soil in this unhappy country. Victor points to a flock of bustards feed- ing in seeurity on the plain. Not one of those birds would remain 4 second, says he, if there were a single man in the copse. Do you not see that they have got the wind of all that brushwood? and the bastard, either by scent or hearing, can de- tect the presence of a human being as un- erringly as a deer. But see; the mist is clearing from the Danube. It cannot but begin soon. Sure enough the mist was rolling heavily away from the broad, yellow surface of the river; already we could descry the towers and walls of Roustchouk, looming large, like some enchanted keep, above the waters. The rain, too, was clearing off, and a bit of blue sky was visible above our heads. In a few minutes the sun shone forth cheeringly, andiu lark rose into the sky from our very feet, with his gladsome heairenwatd song, as the boom of a cannon smote heavily on our ears; and we knew that, for to-day, the work of death had at last begun. The mist rose like a curtain; and the whole attack was now visible from our post. A few flats were putting off from the Bulga- rian side of the river, crowded with infantry, whose muskets and accoutrements glittered in the fitful sunlight, loaded to the waters edge. It was frightful to think of the effect a round-shot might have on one of those crazy shallops, with its living freight. The Russian batteries, well~and promptly served, were playing furiously on the river; but their range was too high, and the iron shower whizzed harmlessly over the heads of 20 TRE UqT~RPRETER. the Attacking Moslem. A Turkish steamer, coolly and skillfully handled, was plying to and fro in support of her comrades, and throwing her shells beautifully into the Rus- sion redoubts, where those unwelcome visit- ors created much annoyance and confusion. Victors eye lightened as he puffed at his cigar with an assumed sang froid which it was easy to see he did not feel. The old lion wont stay here long, he whispered tome; look back at him now, Vere. I told ydu so: there they go boots and saddles. We too shall be at it in ten minutes. Vive la guerre! As he spoke, the~ trumpet rung out the order to mount. Concealment was no longer necessary, and we xushed back to our horses, and placed ourselves on either side of our commander, ready to execute what- ever orders he might choose to give. Iskender Bey was now cool as if on parade; nay, considerably cooler: for the rehearsal was more apt to excite his feelings than the play itself. lie moved us forward at a trot. Once more he halted amongst the brushwoo.d, from which the scared bustards were by this time flying in all directions and whilst every chargers frame quivered with excitement, and even the proud Turk- ish hearts throbbed quicker under the Sul- tans uniform, he alone appeared wholly unmoved by the stake he had to play in the great game. It was but the calm before the hurricane. From our new position we could see the boats of our con des rapidly nearing the shore. Iskender, his bridle hanging over his mutilated arm, and his glass pressed to his eye, watched them with eager gaze. It was indeed a glorious sight. With a thrill- ing cheer, the Turkish infantry sprang ashore, and fixing bayonets as they ru& hed on, stormed the Russian redoubts at a run, undismayed and totally unchecked by the well-sustained fire of musketry, and the grape and canister liberally showered ~n them by the enemy. An English officer in the uniform of a brigadier, whom through my glass I recognized as the good-humored intercessor for the prisoner in Omar Pasbas tent, led them on, waving his sword, several paces in front of his men, and encouraging them with a gallantry and daring that I was proud to feel were truly British. But the Russian rcdoubts were well manned, and a strong body of infantry were drawn up in support.a few hundred paces in their rear; the guns too had been depressed, and the cannonade was terrible. Dow~a went the red fez and the shaven head; Turkish sabre and French musket lay mas- terless on the sand, and many a haughty child of Osman gasped out his welling life- blood to slake the dry Wallachian soil. Wave your green scarfs, dark-eyed maids of Paradise! for your. lovers are thronging to your gates. But the crimson flag is waving in the van, and the Russian eagle even now spreads her wings to fly away. A strong effort is made by the massive gray colunia which constitutes the enemys reserve, b~~t the English brig~dier has placed himself at the head of a freshly-landed regimentAk. banians are they, wild and lawless robbers of the hillsand he sweeps every thing be- fore him. The redoubts are carried with a cheer, the gunners bayoneted, the heavy field-pieces turned on their former masters, and the Russian column shakes, wavers, and gives way. The glass trembles in Iskenders band; his eye glares, and the veins of his forehead begin to swell: for him too~ the moment has come. : Count deRoban, says he, while he shuts up his glass like a man who now sees his.way clearly before him, bring up the rearguard. Tergyman! I have got them here in my hand! and he clasp5 th~ muti- lated fingers as he speaks~ Now I can crush them. The column will advance at a trot March ! Rapidly we clear the space that intervenes between our former position and the retreat- ing columns of the enemynow to sweep down with our handful of cavalry on their flank, and complete the victory that has been so gallantly begun! For the first time the enemy appears aware of our proximity. A large body of cavalry moves up at a gal- lop to intercept us. We can see their con~- mander waving his sword and giving his orders to his men; their number is far greater than our own, and Iskender is now indeed in his glory. Form line! he shouts in a voice of th4mnder, as he draws his glittering sabre and shakes it above his head. Advance at a gallop !charge!! Victor de Rohan is on one side of him, the Beloochee and myself on the other; the T~Z~ INTK~ETRL 27 wildest blood and the best horses in Turkey who are vainly endeavoring to form with at our backs: and down we, go like the some regularity. The retreat becomes ~a whirlwind, with the shout of Allah! rout, and our Turkish troopers fly like hell- Allah! surging in our ears, lances couched hounds to the pursuit. and pennons fluttering, the maddened How might a reserve have turned t~ae chargers thundering at their speed, and the tables then! What a bitter lesser might life-blood mounting to the brain in the fierce have been taught us by a few squadrons of ecstacy of that delirious moment. veteran cavalry, kept in han4 by a cool and I am a man of peace, God knows! resolute officer. In vain Iskender, rides and What have I to do with the folly of ambition curses and, gesticulates; he is himself more the tinsel and the glare and the false en- than half inclined to fQllow the example of thusiasm of war? And yet, with steel in his men. In vain the Beloochee entreats his hand and a good horse between his and argues, and even strikes the refractory knees, a man may well be excused for deem- with the flat of his sabre: our men have ing such a moment as this worth many a tasted blood, and are no lenger under eon- year of peaceful life and homely duties. trol. One regiment of Russian infantry, Alas! alas! is it all vanity? is cui bono the supported by a few hussars and a field-piece, sum and the end of every thing? Who are still endeavoring to cover the retreat. knows? And yet it was glorious while it De RQh~n, exclaims Iskender, while lasted! the foam gathers on his lip and his features Long ere we reach them, the Russian work with excitement, I. must have that cavalry wavers and .hesitates. Their com- gun! Forward~ and follow me! mander gallops nobly to tl~e front. I can We place ourselves at the head of two see him now, with his high chivalrous fea- squadrons of the flower of our cavalry: tures, and long, fair moustache waving in veterans are they, well ~easoned in all the the breeze. He gesticulates wildly to his artifices of war, and own d4ldre,Cje men, and a squadron or two seem inclined he delights to call themto their chief. to follow the example of their gallant leader. The Beloochee~ has also succeeded in rallying In vain: we are upon them even now in a few stragglers; and once more we rush to their confusion, and we roll them over, man the attack. and horse~ with the . very impetus of., our The Russian regiment, however~ i~ .wefl charge. Lance-thrust and sabre-cut, stab commanded, and does its duty admirably. and blow and ringing pistol-shot, make The light field~piece opens on us as we short work of the enemy. Allah! Allah! advance, and a well-directed volley, delivered shout our maddened troopers, and they give when we are within a few paces, l~egkp. ~s and take no quarter. The fair-haired at the instant we are upon them. I can Colonel still fights gallantly on. Hopeless hear the Russian officer encouraging his as it is, he strives to rally his mena gentle- meu. man and a soldier to the last. My comrade, Well done, my children, say. be,~witb the Beloochee, has his eye on him. They the utmost sang froid once more like meet in the. m~lee. The Colonel deals a that will be enough. furious blow at his enemy with his long Several of our saddles are emptied, and sabre, but the supple Asiatic crouches on Iskender begins t~ curse. his mares neck, and wheels the well-trained Dogs! he shouts, grinding his teeth, animal at the same instant with his heel. and spurring furiously forward dogs! I His curved blade glitters for a moment in will be amongst you yet. kollow me, aol- the sun. It seems to pass without resist- diers! follow me! ance through the air; then the fair mous- Meantime, the Russian hussars have been tache is dabbled all in blood, and the (3olo- reinforced, and are now capable of showing nds horse gallops masterless from the field, a front. They threaten our flank, and we Victor de Rohan fights like a very Paladin, are forced to turn our attention to this new and even I feel the accursed spirit rising in foe. The infantry hold their ground man- my heart. The Russian cavalry are scattcred fully, and Iskender, wheeling his men, like chaff before the wind. Their disorgan- rushes furiously upon the comparatively ized masses ride in upon their own infantry1 fresh regiment of hussars with his tired horses. The Beloochee and myself are still abreast. Despite of a galling fire poured in by the iaikntry upon our flank, the men advance readily to the attack. We are within six horses lengths of the hossars. I am setting my teeth and nerving my muscles fbr the encounter, which must be fought out hand to hand, whencrash !.-Injour bounds into the air, falls upon his head, recovers himself, goes down once more, rolls over me, and lies prostrate, shot through the heart. I disentangle myself from the saddle, and rise, looking wildly about me. One leg refusds to support my weight, but I do not know that my ankle-bone is broken by a musket-ball, and that I eannot walk three yards to save my life. A loose charger gallops over me and knocks me down once more. I eannet rise again. The short look I ha,e just had has shown me our own cavalry retiring, probably to obtain rein- forcements. The Russian4 hussars are be- tween me and them, while the desultory flringen my right tells me that the pursuit is still rolling away far into Wallachia. But all this is dim and indistinct. Again the old feeling comes on that it is not Vere Igeston, but some one else, who is lying there to die. A cold sweat covers my face; a deadly sickness oppresses me; the ground rises and heaves around me, and I grasp tbe tufts of trodden grass in my hands. The so(znd of church bells is in my ears. Surely it is the old bell at Alton; but it strikes painfully on my brain. A vision, too, fleets before me, of Constance, with her soft, dark eyesthe white dress makes me giddya flash as of fire seems to blind me, and I ldaow and feel no more. a a a * * a I was brought to my senses, by the simple process of a Cossack dropping his lance into the fleshy part of my armnQ pleasant re- storative, but in my case a most effectual one. The first sight that greeted my eyes was his little horses girths and belly, and his own rough, savage countenance, looking grimly down upon me, as he raised his arm to repeat the thrust. I muttered the few words of Russian I knew, to beg for mercy, and he looked at his comrades, as though to eonsult them on the propriety of acceding to so unheard-of a request as that of a wounded man for his life. A few paces off I saw the Beloochee, evidently taken prisoner, dis armed, and his head running with blood, but his whole bearing as dignified and un- moved as usual. In this awkward predicament I happily bethought me of the Russian. prisoners epistle. Quarter, comrade! quarter! I shouted as loudly as my failing voice would suffer me. I have a letter from your officer. Here it is. Osmanli ? inquired the Cossack, once more raising his arm to strike. I shuddered to think how quickly that steel lance-head might be buried in my body. No, Inglis! I replied, and the man lowered his weapon once more and assisted me to rise. Fortunately at this juncture an officer rode up, and to him I appealed for mercy and proper treatment as a prisoner of war. I misdoubted considerably the humanity of my first acquaintance, whose eyes I could see wandering over my person, as though he were selecting such accoutrements and articles of clothing as he thought would suit his own taste. The officer, who seemed of high rank, and was accompanied by an escort, fortunately spoke German, and I appealed eloquently to him in that language. He started at the superscription of the deserters letter, and demanded of me sternly how I obtained it. In a few words I told him the history of the unfortunate spy, and he passed his gloved hand over his face as though to conceal his emotion. You are English? he observed rapidly, and looking uncasily over his shQulder at the same time. We do not kill our Eng- lish prisoners, barbarians as you choose to think us: but to the Turk we give no quarter. Put him on a horse, he.~dded to my original captor, who kept unpleasantly near: do not ill-treat him, but bring him safely along with you. If he tries to escape, blow his brains out. As for that rascal, pointing to the Beloochee, put a lance through him~forthwith. A happy thought struck me. Ideter- mined to make an effort for Ali. Excel- lence, I pleaded, spare him, he is my servant. The Russian officer paused. Is he nota Turk? he asked sternly. No, I swear he is not, I replied. He is my servant, and an Englishman. TUE INThBPBETBL 29 if ever a 11, was justifiable, it was on the his band of heroes thundering on his track. present occasion: I trust this so/site one may I was placed on an active little Cossack not be laid to my charge. pony. The Beloochees wrist was tied to Bring them both on, said the Russian, mine, and he was forced to walk or rather still glancing anxiously to his rear. Lieu- run by my side; whenever he Oagged,a poke tenant Dolwitz, look to the party. Keep from the butt end of a lance admonished him your men together, and move rapidly. This to mend his pace, and a Russian curse fell is the Devils own business, and our people harmlessly on his ear. Still he preserved his are in full retreat; All this, though spoken dignity through it all; and so We j~ourneyed in Russian, I Was able to understand; nor onwards into Wallachia, and meditated on did the hurried manner in which the great the chances of war and the changes that a man gnllo~~ed off shake my impression that day may bring tbrth. he still dreaded a vision of Iskender Bey and CHAPTRJL XILTU~ J%ELOOCHER. Tux pursuit was fast and furious. After abandon themselves to their fate. The TurkS crossing such a river as the Danube, in the ride in and make short work of them, thO teeth of a far superior force a~sd under a Moseov dying with a stolid, grim apathy pe~ heavy fire..after carrying the Russian re- cullar to himself and his natural foe. The doubts with the bayonet~, and driving their woman alone shows energy and quickness in main body back upon its reserve, the Turkish her efforts to preserve her child. She covets troops, flushed and wild with victory, were the baby over with the straw at the bottom not to be stopped by any soldiers on earth. of the cart; wounded as she is in the confa- Iskenders charge had completely seat- sion, and with an arm broken, she seeks to tered the devoted body that had so gallantly divert the attention of her ruthless captoRs. interposed to cover the retreat of their cota- Satisfied with their Uhtohery~ they are about rades, and a total rout of the Russian forces to ride on in search of fresh vletlms, and the was the result. The plains of Wallachia mothers heart leaps to think that she hue were literally utrewed with dismounted guns, saved her darling. But the baby cries in its broken ambulance waggons, tumbrila, ammu- oomfortless nest; quick as thought a Turkish nition carts, dead and dying, whilst ~tiIl the trooper buries his lance amongst the straw, fierce Moslem urged hjs hot pursuit. St?rag- and withdraws the steclhead and gaudy pen- gler after straggler, reeking with haste and non~, ~eeking with innocent blood. The all agape with fear, reached the astonished mothers shriek flies straight to Heaven. town of Bureharest, and the reports in that Shall the curse she invokes on that ruthless pleasure-seeking capital, were~ as may well brute fall back unheardt Ride on man of be imagined, of the most bewildering and bloodride on, to burn and ravage and slay, contradictory description. and when the charge hath s~rept over thee, Many a frightful scene was witnessed by and the field Is lost, and thou art guspingout the terrified Wallachian peasant, as fugitive thy lire-blood on the plain, think of that after fugitive was overtaken, struck down murdered ehild, and die like a dog in thy and butchered by the dread purstiers. Nay, despair! women and children were not spared io the By a route nearly parallel wit,lI~ th. line of general slaughter; and the hideous practice flight, but wandering through an unfre- of refusing quarter, which has so long quented district with which the Cossacks existed between the Turkish and Russian ar- seem well acquainted, the Beboochee and my- mies, now bore ghastly fruit, self proceed towards our captivity. We A horse falls exhausted in a cart which have ample leisure to examine our guards, contains some R~issian wounded, and a wo- those far-famed Cossacks of whom warsiors man belonging to their regiment. Its coin- hear so much and see so littlethe best rade vainly struggles to draw them through scouts and thragers known, hardy, rapid, and the slon~h in which they are fitst. Half-a- enduring, the very cyca and ears of an army, dozen Turkish troopers are on their track, and for every purpose e~pt fighting, curl- urging those tame little horses to their speed, veiled by any light oavalry In the world. and escape is hopeless. My orI~izial captor who still clings to me Helpless and mutilated, the poor fellows with a most unwelcome fondness, is no bed 30 specimen of his class. He is mounted on a shaggy pony,. that at first; sight seems com- pletely buried even under the middle-sized man it carries, but with a lean,-good head, and wiry limbs that denote speed and endur- ance, when put to the test. In a snaffle bri- dle, and with its head up, the little animal goes with a jerking, springing motion, not the least impaired by its days work, and the fact that it has now been without food for nea4y twenty-four h,ours. Its master, the same who keeps his small bright eye so con- stantly fastened upon his prisoners, is a man of middle height, spare, strong, and sinewy, with a bushy red beardand huge moustache. His dress consists of enormunsly loose trou- sers, a tight-fitting jacket, and high leathern shako; and he sits with his knees up to his chin. His arms are a short sabre, very blunt, and useless, and a long lance, with which he delights to do effective serviceagainst a fallen foe. He has placed the Belooche between himself sad m& ~ it seems that he somewhat mistrusts my companion, but considers my- self a wounded man on one of their own horses, safe from any ~ttempt at escape. The Beloochee, notwithstanding that every word calls down a thwack upon his pate (wounded as it is by the sabre-cut which stunned him) from the shaft of a lance, haz- ards an observation every now and then, in Turkish. It is satisfisotory to find that our guardians are totally ignorant of that lan- guage. I remark, too, that Au listens anx- iously at every halt, and apparently satisfied with what he hears, though I for my part can discern nothing, walks on in a cheerful framed mind, rhich I attribute entirely to his Moslem stoicism. His conversation to- wards dusk consists entirely of curses upon his captors; and these worthies, judging of its tenor bX the sound, and sympathizing doubtless wfth the relief, thus afforded, cease to helabor him fQr his remarks. At nightfall the rain came on again as in the morning; and at length it grew pitch dark, just as we entered a defile, on one side of which was a steep bank covered with short brushwood, and on the other a wood of young oaks nearly impenetrable. I felt the Beloochees wrist press mine with an energy that must mean something. Ar. you in pain ! he whispered in Turkish, adding a loud and voluble curse upon the Giaour, much out of unison with~ TR~ UiTEB~PIETER. his British charactet, but which was doubt- less. mistaken for a round English oath. Not much, I replied in the same lan- guage, but sick and faint at times. Can you roll off your horse, ~ad down the bank on your left? he added,~hurriedly. If you can, I can save you.~ Stive yourself, I replied: how can I move a step with a ball in my ancle.bone? Silence! interposed the Cossack with a bang over the Beloochees shoulders. Both or none, whispered the latter alT- t9r a few seconds interval; do e2avtly as I tell you. Agreed, I replied, and waited anxious- ly for the result. Our Cossack was getting wet thrGugh. To his hardy frame such a soaking could scarcely be called an inconvenience; never- theless, it created a longing for a pipe, and the $obaccobag he had taken from Ali was fortunately not half emptied. As he stopped to fill and -light his. short silver-mounted rniersckaum, the spoil of some fallen foe; the troopers in our rear passed on. We were left some ten paces behind the rest, and the night was as dark as pitch. Au handed me a small knife: he had con- cealed that and one other tiny weapon in the folds of his sash, when they searched him on the field of battle. I knew what he meant, and cut the cord that bound our wrists to- gether; his other hand meanwhile, to lull suspicion, caressed the Cossack* horse. That incautious individual blew upon his match, which refused to strike a good light. In a twinkling Alis shawl was unwound from his body and thrown apparently over the Cossacks saddle-bow. The smothered report of a pocket-pistol smote on my ear, but the sound could not penetrate through those close Cashmere folds to the party in front, and they rode unconsciously forward. The Beloochees hand, too, was on his ad- versarys throat; and one or two gasps, as they rolled together to the ground, made me doubtful whether he had been slain by the ball from that little though effective weapon, or choked in the nervous grip of the Asiatic. I had fortunately presence of mind to re- strain my own horse, and catch the Cossacks by the bridle; the party in front still rode on. Ali rose from the ground. The knife, he whispered hoarsely;~ the knife! 9 TftE INTERP1~ETE1~. Once, twice, bo passed it through that prostrate body. Throw yourself off, he exclaimed; let the horses go. Roll down that bank, and we are saved! I obeyed him with the energy of a man who knows he has but one chance. I scarcely felt the pain as I rolled down amongst the bruthwood. I landed in a water-course full of pebbles, but the under- wood had served to break my fall; and though sorely bruised and with a broken ancle, I was still alive. Tbe Beloochee, agile as a cat, was by my side. Listen, said he; they are riding back to look for us. No horse on earth but one can creep down that precipice; lie still. If the moon does not come out, we are saved. Moments of dreadful suspense followed. We could hear the Gossacks shouting to each other above, and their sav~ge yell when they discovered their slain comrade smote wildly on our ears. Again I urged the Beloochee to fiy~why should he wait to die with me? I could scarcely crawl, and a cold sickness came. on at intervals that unnerved me totally. To all my entreaties he made but one reply, Bakaloum (We shall see), it is our destiny. There is but one Allah! The Cossacks shouts became fainter and fainter. They seem to have divided in search of their late prey. The moon, too, struggled out fitfully. It was a wild scene. The Belooche whistleda low, peculiar whistle, like the cry of a night-hawk. He listened attentively; again he repeated that prolonged, wailing note. A faint neigh an- swered it from the darkness, and we heard the tread of a horses hoofs approaching at a trot. It is Zuleika; he observed, quietly; there is but one Allah! A loose home, with ..saddle and bridle, trotted up to my companion, and laid its head against his bosom. Stern as he was, he caressed it as a mother fondles a child. It was his famous bay mare, the treasure of his heart, the corner of his liver, for by such endearing epithets he addressed her,and now he felt indeed that he was saved. Mount, said he, in the name of the Prophet. I know exactly where we are. Zuleika has the wings of the wind; she laughs to scorn the heavy steeds of the Ginour; they swallow the dust thrown up by her hoofs, and Zuleika bounds from them like the gazelle. 0, jhanum !O, my soul! Once more he caressed her, and the mare seemed well worthy of his affection; she returned it by rubbing her head (gainat him with a low neigh. I was soon in the saddle, with the 33~loo- chee walking by my side. His iron frame seemed to acknowledge no fatigue. Once I suggested that the mare 8hould carry double, and hazarded an opinion that by reducing the pace we might fairly increase the burden. The remark well-nigh cost me the loss of my preservers friendship. Zuleika, he exclaimed, with cold dig; nity, Zuleika requires no such considera- tion. She is not like the gross horse of the Frank, who sinks and snorts, and struggles and fails, under his heavy burden. She would step lightly as a deer under three such men as we are. No, light of my eyes, he added, smoothing down the thin, silky mane of his favorite, I will walk by thee and caress thee, and feast my eyes on thy star4ike beauty. Shvuld the ~iaour be on our track, I will mount thee with the Tergy- man, and we will show him the mettle of a real daughter of the desertmy rose, my precious one! She was, indeed, a high-bred looking ani- mal, although from her great strength in small compass she appeared less speedy than she really was. Her color was a rich, dark bay, without a single white hair, Her crest was high and firm as that of a horse & and her lean, long head and expressive counte- nance showed the ancestry by which her dot- ing master set such store. Though the skin that covered those iron muscles so loosely was soft and supple as satin, she carried no fiesh,and her deep ribs might almost be counted by the eye. Long in her quarters, with legs of iron, and immense power in her back and loins, she walked with an elastic, springy gait, such as even my own Injour could not have emulated. She was of the highest breed in the desert, and as superior to other horses as the deer is to the donkey. I won- dered how my friend had obtained possession I of her; and as we plodded on, the Beloo~hce, who had recovered his good humor walking by my side, condescended to inform me of the process by which the invaluable Zuleika -had become his own. 81 0 THU. INTURPHETEL Tergyman! said h6, I have jour- neyed through many lands, and, with the exception of your countrythe Wand of storms and snowsI have seen the whole world.* ~n my own land the mountains are high and rugged, the winters cold and boisterous; it rears men brave and powerful as Ruetam, but we must look elsewhere for horSeS. Zuleika, you perceive, is from the desert: The nearer the sun, the nobler the steed. She was bred in the tent of a scheik, and as a foal she carried on her back only such children as had a chiefs blood in their veins. From my youth up I have been a man of war, Effendi, and the word of command has been more familair to my lips than the blessed maxims of tbe Prophet; but the time will come when I too shall be obliged to cross the narrow bridge that spans the abyss of hell. And if my naked feet have no better protection from its red-hot surfiice tha.n deeds of arms and blood-siained victo- ries, woe to me forever! I shall assuredly fall headlong into the depths of fire. Therefore I bethought me of a pilgrim- age to Mecca, for he is indeed a true believer who has seen with his own eyes the shrine of the Blessed Prophet. Many and long were the days I passed under the burning sun of the desert, wearisome and slow was the march of the caravan. My jaded camel was without water. I said in my soul, It is my destiny to die. Far behind the long ar~ ray, almost out of hearing of their bells, my beast dragged his weaay steps. I quitted his back and led him till he fell. No sooner was he down than the vultures gathered screaming around him, though not a speck had I seen for hours in the burning sky. Then I beheld a small cloud far off on the horizon; it was but of the size of one of these herdemen s cottages, but black as the raven, and it advanced more rapidly than a body of horsemen. Ewe I looked again it seemed to reach the heavens, the skies be- came dark as night, columns of sand whirled around me, and I knew the simoozn was upon us and it was time to die. How long I lay there I know not. When I recovered ny consciousness, the car- avan had disappeared, my camel was already ~ This is a common idea amongst Ori~ntsIs when they have done Mecca ansi seen a greater part of Asia Minor. stripped to the bones by the birds of prey, my mouth and notrils were full of sand. Nearly suffocated, faint and helpless, it was some time ere I was aware of an Arab horse. man standing over rue, and looking on my pitiable condition with an air of ~indnessand protection. My brother, he said, Allah has de- livered thee into ruy hand. Mount, and go with me. He gave me water from a skin, he put me on his own horse till we were joined by his tribe; I went with him to his tents, and I became to him as a, brother, for he had saved me at my need. He was a Seheik of the wild Bedonins, a better warrior never drew a sword. Rich was he too, and powerful; but of all his wives and childrn, camels~ horses, and riches, he had two treasures that he valued higher than the pearl of Solomonhis bay mare and his de~nghter Zuleika. ~he Ileboochees voic trembled, and he paused. For a few seconds he listened as if to satisfy himself that the eaemy were not on our track, and then nerving himself like a. man about to suffer pain, and looking far into the darkness, he proceeded I saw her day after. day in her fathers tent. Soon I longed for het light step and gentle voice as we long for the evening bresse after the glare and heat of the day. At last I watched her dark eyes as we watch the guiding star by night iti the desert. To the Scheik I was as a brother. I was free to come and go in hi~ tent, and all his gooda were mine. Effendi! I am but a man, and I loved the girl. In less than a year I had become a warrior of their tribe; many a foray had I ridden with them, and many a herd of camels and drove of horses had I helped them to obtain. Once I saved the Scheiks life with the very sword I lost to- day. Could they not have given me the girl? Oh! it was bitter to see her every hour, and to know she was promised to another! A few days more atid she was to ba espoused to Aebmet. He was the Scheiks kinsman, and she had been betrothed to him from a child. I coulsi bear it no longer. The maiden looked at me with her dark eyes full of, tears. I had eaten the Scheiks salt he had saved me from a lingering death. he was my host, my friend, say benefactor; and I robbed him *f his *w~liter. Woiled THE INTERPRETER. in the night. I owned a horse that could outstrip every steed in the tribe save one. I took a leathern skin uf water, a few hand- fuls of barley, and my arms. I placed Zu- leika on the saddle in front of me, an~1 at daybreak we were alone in the desert, she and I, and we were happy. When the sun had been up an hour, there was a speck in the horizon behind us. I told Zuleika we were pursued; but she bid me take courage, for my steed was the best in the tribe, said she, except her fathers bay mare, and he suffered no one to mount that treasure but himself. She had loosed the bay mare the night before from her picket-ropes; it would be morning before they could find her, and there was nothing to fear. I took comfort, and pressed my bride to my heart. In the desert, Effendi, it is not as with us. The Arabs life depends upon his horse, and he proves him as you would prove a blade. At two years old he rides him till his back bends,* and be never forgets the ~ An Arab maxim, from which they are studious not to depart; their idea being that a horses worst merits of the colt. Each horses speed is as well known in the tribe as is each officers rank in the army of the Padishah. Nothing could overtake my charger save the Scheiks bay mare; and, thanks to Zuleika, t1i~ bay mare must be hours behind us. We galloped steadily on, and once more I looked over my shoulders. The speck had become larger and darker now, and I caught the gleam of a lance in the morning sun. Our pursuer must be nearing us; my horse too began to flag, for I had ridden fiercely, and he carried myself and my bride. Never- theless we galloped steadily on. Once more I looked back. The object was distinct enough now; it was a horseman, going at speed. Allah be praised! there was but one. Zuleika turned pale and trem- bledmy lily seemed to fade on my bosom. Effendi, I had resolved what to do. year is from three to four; during which period they let him run perfectly idle, but feeding him at the same time as if in full work; for, say they, a horses goodness goes in at his mouth. At five he is considered mature. Nor noar, ~ur GONE EErORE. 1 Thess. iv. 14. (Anon.): Say, why should friendship grieve for those, Who safe arrive on Canaans shore? Released from all their hurtful foes, They are not lostbut gone before. How many painful days on earth, Their fainting spirits numberd oer! Now they enjoy a heavnly birth, They are not lostbut gone before. Dear is the spot where Christians sleep, And sweet the strain which angels pour; 0, why should we in anguish weep? They are not lostbut gone before. Secure from every mortal care, By sin and sorrowvexed no more, Eternal happiness they share, Who are not lostbut gone before. To Zions peaceful courts above, In faith triumphant may we soar, Embracing in the arms of love The friends not lostbut gone before. On Jordans bank wheneer we come, And hear the swelling waters roar, Jesus, convey us safely home, To friends not lost-but gone before. I find these lines in R. A. Smiths Edinburgh Har?nony, 1829, where they are stated to be anonymous. The author probably did not orig- nate the expression, but adopted it as a burden to a few charming stanzas. S. U. U. MDcLxxxIY. LIVING AGE. VOL. xviii. 3 I know not whether it will satisfy Minimus to be directed to a hemistich almost identical, and to the same purport, as that about which he in qnires; but I copied, some years since, a quaint epitaph in Westminster Cloisters, of date 1621, as follows: With diligence, and trust, most exemplary Did Gabriel Laurence serve a Prebendary. And for his paines (now passed beforenot lost) Gained this remembrance at his masters cost. 0, read these lines againe, you seldom find A Servant faithful, and a master Kind. Short-hand he wrotehis flowr in prime did fade, And hasty Death, short-hand of him hath made, Well couth he numbers, and well measured land. Thus doth he now that groud whereon you stand, Where in he lies so geometrical, Art maketh somebut this will Nature all. Ob. Dec. 20, 1621, Aitat 29. Whether the latter part of the third line was a quotation from some older composition, I know not, but until any thing older is found, it may serve for an original. A. B. R. In answer to the query of Minimus, I beg to inform him the words he quotes are a transla- tion of Seneca: Non amittuntur, Sed proemittuntur. .JVotes and Queries. 3,3 34 From The Spectator. FRANCE AND HER FOOD. THE Eginburgh Review has astonished the world by ventilating the discussions in Paris, from which French intellect will not be debarred,. upon the decline of the popu- lation in France. The survey is really somewhat appalling, although our quondam Whig oracle has but half unveiled the causes and the consequences. The broad statistical facts have been rendered already familiar to most of our readers by the quo- tations and comments of the press. During the last three periods of five years each, the increase of the population of France has been progressively declining, from 1,200,000 in the first period, to 380,000 in the second period, 256,000in the third; whileinEngland and Wales, it is computed that in the five years and a half subsequent to 1851, the population, which is only about half as numerous as that of France, has gained an increase of 1,157,000. In other words, the increase of the population in England and Wales is about nine times greater than that of France. But the increase in the depart- ment of the Seine, within the last five years, has been 300,000 souls; which is more than the increase in the whole of the country. The population in the whole of France, therefore, omitting the capital, has abso- lutely decreased. There has been no depop- ulation by disease, by exhausting war, or by any of the ordinary causes of mortality. The writer in the Edinburgh Review ascribes the striking decrease very greatly to the re- moval of the population from the rural dis- tricts t6 the towns, where it falls under a variety of influences adverse to increase. The enormous expenditure which the State, and the municipal bodies the tools of the State, has laid out in the improvement of towns, has drawn to them a large increase. It has been calculated that by the encour- agement of speculation in the Paris Bourse, about 40,000,000 has been added to the nominal value of the marketable stocks. The 40,000,000 is practically distributed among a comparatively small number of in- dividuals; hence great positive increase to individual wealth, immense increase to lux- urious consumption, and hence again two conditions apparently incompatiblean in- creased power of consumption in the towns ~with a diminished power of production in FRANCE AND HER FOOD. the country. The truth is, says the Re.. viewer, that the vast apparent wealth of France under Louis Napoleon means that she has expended her money with extraordi- nary profusion, not that she ha~increased her savings or improved her capital. The efforts of the Government to remedy the distress thus occasionedthe police restric- tions on the price of bread and on the price of butchers meat in the townshave at once stimulated consumption and checked production. It no longer pays the butcher to kill the finest animals; his profit under the fixed price must be made by sub- stituting an inferior articlecow beef or lean mutton. The crowding of the towns has raised rents, while France is feeling the want of hands to man her forces in every direction. The deficient crops of 1855-6 were badly got in, for want of hands. The country cannot sustain the annual levy of 80,000 men to recruit the army, which had been going on for forty years of the peace without interruption. The war was ab- ruptly terminated because the army was im- patient to return home. The naval con- scription, intolerably severe, renders the service dangerously unpopular. And France is checked in her military vehemence by this deficiency of recruits. The Reviewer leaves the economical and home consequences, as well as the causes, under an obscurity which the reader must penetrate for himself. There are many points in this survey which are true enough, though we doubt whether they, are not taken too absolutely. For example, the displacement of the popu- lation by the system of Louis Napoleon cannot have produced the present state of things. The greatest decline of the increase occurred in the five years ending 1841, be- fore the Napoleonic period ; and the same process had then been going on for a consid- erable time. The displacement, and the other causes at which the Reviewer glances, may have assisted the general effect, but they are neither its original nor its largest causes. The Times adds the comminution of land under the modern French law of gavelkind; and in convicting the Times of exaggeration a convenient form of continuing the discussion,M. Le Play, the eminent economist, practically admits the tendency of the system to restrict enterprise and production. Still this is ndt the begin- fling. The chief cause in fact had long been notorious. It was held up as an example in this country, many years back, by a certain sect of the disciples of Mr. Malthus; and it is admitted in the Edinburgh Review that the practical results of the virtue inculcated by those economists is attained in France. While the marriageable population of that gayly-disposed country does jiot hold itself in any degree bound to abstain from matri- mony, it has been accepted as an absolute moral law, respected alike by prudential and irnprudential, that the progeny of a marriage shall be limited to a number abso- lutely small, and such as the parents have pretirranged the means of supporting in a given condition of life. The economists who recommended that rule of practical morals were wont to enforce it by the asser- ance that it would tend to place eao?i mar- ried couple in a position of gres~er mate- rial comfort; and such appesrs to be the case in France. No doubt, these zfgns of increasing wealth are not alkgether fictitious. A people as active, industrious, and ingenious as the French, blessed with great natural advantages, and stimulated by the rapid progress ~f civilization, cannot fail to aug- ment its resources. * * * * The gen- eral aspect and condition of the French rural population shows a marked improve- ment in the last twenty years. Every new house is better built and better arranged than the old cottages; the blue linen blouse is not the only garment of the peasant winter and summer, but it is worn over good woollen clotbing; the bread of the common people is whiter and purer, and the consumption of meat increases. The last remark, like so many others, must be taken with some qualification; also the assertion that the sixty-six millions sterling invested in railways and other large outlay of the French Government are merely so much profuse expenditure. Money is not the only form of capital; and railways, which the writer confesses to be coliperating to produce this steady improvement in the condition of the people, are as much a capital as money in hand is a capital. The writer has not dug deep enough into the cause, nor has he looked forward into the consequences. Such a calculation might lead us far: we might trace the adoption of the cause to a feeling of intense selfishness, or still more to an intense faith in pure 85 materialist considerations; and we might couple with the recognition of such materi- alistic morals the natural reaction which has made the French people take up withy the most fanciful of clerical superstitt~ions and place the blindest reliance upofi the power of one man. Letus stick as closely as possible to the immediate points in issue. Louis Napoleon found the French in possession of manners and customs that brought about this decrease of the population; he invented means of employing the pcpulation; he did not turn his attention to the means of recruiting it. His first object was to concentrate power in his owil hands. He appealed to the de- mocracy, to the army, to the trading classes; and he has converted all of them, in a certain degree, to be his tools. He has given the democracy a mechanically limited power; he has provided employment for the working classes; he has succeeded in de- veloping a certain degree of commercial spirit and activity in a country strikingly boutiquU~re but in no degree merchant- like. In all these directions he has attained some success, but to no extent has he rendered his system self-supporting. With the excep- tion of the hoarding principle, he has not set himself to counteract any of the grand prejudices of the French people, neither the superstitiotis of the peasantry, nor the super- stitions of the landed proprietors, nor of the manufacturers, nor of society in clinging to the mystic moral law which is now destroy- ing the population of the empire. He has made trade active; but he faltered when he approached the grand task of rendering it free, because there he encountered an in- digenous French prejudice. He is building towns and draining the country of its labor; he is regulating the price of bread and meat, and prices are still rising, while the popula- tion look to himto our good Emperor for fresh supplies of cheap food; and if he fails in fulfilling their expectation, he confesses that he has not the power which he professed to take and which they believed him to possess. In some respects the pres- sure is far greater than the Edinburgh Re- view has proved it to be. The consumption of butchers meat has increased, but it is in the towns. The consumption of one species of meat, of pork for example, has increased per head of the population, but not at all in FRANCE AND HER FOOD. 36 proportion to the exertions made for increas- ing the facilities,the domestic supply ex- panding neither in proportion to market- accommodation nor to the demand, as shown in a long steadily rising price. The con- sumption of another article in universal demandcheesehas been nearly stationary in Paris for a very long series of years. It has only increased in exact proportion to the population. But we know that the con- suming power of certain towns, and still more of certain classes, has immensely in- creased; so that other classes must suffer. Take another fact; the wine which a few years ago would have cost four shillings for a given quantity now costs eleven or twelve shillings; and the class of persons who used to consume it content themselves with a worse wine, with corn brandy from England, or with Hollands. If you ascribe this to the failure of the wine crops, take potatoes, in which there is exactly the same rate of increase. He has no choice but to go on. The pres- sure to which we have adverted applies to every part of France; to the Western sea- boardto the Eastern and Northeastern land frontierto the departments of the Northto the departments of the South to towns of the interior, like Cambray or Toulouseto towns of the seaboard, like Boulogne or Toulon. But in all these places, concurrently with the outspoken suffering created by the pressure, there is the most absolute and distinct reliance upon our good Emperor. The prosperity which is his work is attested by every traveller; the pressure, which it would be uncourteous to ascribe to him, is equally manifest; the provision for the future is equally looked for at his hand, and he must give it. The first step, then, is to begin the hard work of breaking through one indigen- ous prejudice of the French people, and to provision the class which is rendered mercan- tile without developing its country produc- tion, by means of an increased foreign ex- change. M. Michel Chevalier is urging him to the reform; England, within sight of his own shores, offers him the example; and the sources from which we draw our gigantic commissariat are equally open to himself. Beyond we cannot loo1~. Who can pro- nounce the limits of the possible? Louis NATURE AND ART Il~ TUE CURE OF DISEASE. Napoleon is using every exertion to turn the energy of France into mercantile channels, and, by a medium of intelligent patronage, to guide his country in the establishment of a self-supporting system. ,~hould he fail? rrom The Examiner. Of Nature and Art in the Cure of JiJisease. By Sir John.Forbes, M. D., D. C. L. (Oxon), F. II. S., & c., & c. Churchill. IN the latter days of a long and distin- guished career Sir John Forbes, a practieal physician who has exercised no little influence uponthe literature of his profession, writ~s this book to warn young practitioners against excessive faith in drugs. The natural end of the majority of disorders is recovery; we combine habitually drugging with disease, attaibute the recovery of health to the drugs, and never get the opportunity of learning (except when as homocopathists we do noth- ing) in howssany cases nature gets rid of disease without tl~e help of doctor or drug- gist. That such cases are numerous we know by what is called the success of homceopathio treatment, and we have ether reasons for coming to the same conclusion. In the early life of most nations, religion and physic have gone together, both being equally practised by the priests or cunning men or conjurers, the spiritual guides of the vulgar. This was the case with the ancient Egyptians, with the Britons, and the North American Indians; and was, indeed, the case with the Christian nations of Europe in the early ages. Next to the spiritual doctors in practice come the old women, who even now, in civil- ized countries, have no slight occupation in this way among the humbler classes of all countries. Among some savages, as the natives of the Tonga Islands, according to Mariner, no internal remedies are used, but merely exter- nal and chiefly surgical means, their whole medical treatment consisting of invocations and sacrifices to their deities. Here, at least, we may safely take the results as Natures, whatever they may be; and we are assured that if often unfavorable, they were also not seldom the contrary. Among the sacrifices intended to procure relief from disease, some were curiously im- personal: in the case of a middling great man, a finger or two would be amputated from one of their dependants; but for a chieftain nothing less would suffice than the strangling of a child. in many parts of Africa, witchcraft is NATURE AND ART IN THE CURE OF DISEAS~. believed to play the most extensive part, both in causing and in curing diseases; and it is at least certain, that under its minis- tration they come and they go, as elsewhere; the posi-hoc-ergo mode of reasoning being as much in vogue here as in the medicine of civilized countries. We are told by Tavernier of a mode of expelling diseases practised by the wise women of Circassia, almost, as vicarious as the Tonga practice, and it is allowed to be equally effective. Elles t~tent dabord le corps du malade, et principalement la partie qui lui fait mal, elles la manient et la foulent plusicurs fois, pendant quoi elles laissent aller des rots de leur bouche, et plus la douleur du malade est grande, plus ces femmes-la font de gros rots. The patients and public, of course, believes that the efficacy of the reme- dy (rots) is in proportion to its force. The Saphias or charms used by the Afri- cans are equally efficacious. One popular form of these, mentioned and prescribed by Mungo Park, consists in writing the charm on a board, and drinking the matter of the words when it has been carefully washed off; a mode of practice very analogous to and, we doubt not, as efficacious as that of the Ilomceopathists, who, in point of fact, if they adhere rigidly to the original Habne- mannian dose, do literally prescribe words and not things. A peculiar mode of curing the ague, we are told by Hasselquist, existed in the Morca in his time, which, though very comfortable to the patient, must be very obnoxious to the horticulturists of the country where it is much practised: the patient has merely to lean against a peach-tree during the fit; the ague is cured, but the tree is killed! This the author reports on the authorify of an eye-witness! But besides these supernatural inter- ferences of savage nations with the workings of Nature, the great majority of them em- ploy more formal remedies, consisting prin- cipally of their own indigenous plants in the form of powder, infusion, or decoction. Some of these have, no doubt, a certain de- gree of power to act on the functions of the healthy body, and may, therefore, be capable of modyfying them when disordered; but the great majority of them have no such power, and consequently cannot possess any special virtue in mitigating or curing diseases. This might be reasonably inferred from the simple fact of the remedies almost invariably consisting of the indigenous plants of the particular locality. For, if we admitted the validity of such a source of remedies generally, we might at once include in the category of drugs almost all the vegetable productions on the surface of the globe. Dr. ]3owdich names no fewer than thirty-seven native plants used as drugs by the people of Ashantee alonenearly the whole of them being destitute of medicinal properties. The argument founded upon such oensid- erations is not against the scientifi~, but against the traditional or superstitious use of medicine. Dr. Forbes looks forward to a time when physicians may be more prized by the public for their power of showing how to prevent sickne~s than for skill in its cure. But for its cure they have power in some cases to stop the quick and fatal march of terrible diseases, and in all cases a power of intelligent watchfulness and rational ex- pectation, which enables them to look on quietly while nature works, and interfere only when there is manifest departure from the tendency towards recovery. There is nothing new in this system of rational expectation. In some form or another it is enforced more or less, not by Dr. Forbes only, but by most of the eminent men in the profession. It willbe seen that the system of treat- ment which I here advocate, more especially in acute diseases, and which my own obser- vation and experience have long led me to prefer, is exactly that followed and recom- mended by the celebrated Stahl, a century and a half ago, in his admirable work enti- tled Ars sanandi cum Expectatione opposita Arti curandi nud& Expectatione. This work was written to correct the errors fallen into by our countryman, Gideon Harvey, in his treatise on the same subject and with nearly the same title; and points out, in an admirable manner, the nearly equal but op- posite evils derived from the system of doing nothing, and from the system of doing toe much. Between these extremes he seeks to interpose the truly philosophical and rational system which is here advocated, and which he variously terms Expectatio art ifi ciosa, Dx- pectaijo circumspecta, ars cum recta ratione Expectandi, in opposition to the pure or naked, do-nothing expectationism then pre- valent, and satirised by Harvey. True medical or artistic Expectation (says Stahl) is that which, while carefully observing and watching the salutary operations of nature, is content to do so without offering assistance where it is not needed, or limiting this assist- ance to the giving of prudent counsel, such as recommending to the sick temperance and patience; yet, in the proper place, recogniz- ing not merely the propriety but the necessity of artificial interference, and yielding it ac- eordingly; still, however, in every case, having due regard to the proceedings and 87 FURTHER PROGRESS OF THE POST OFFICE. co-operation of nature, according to reason and approved experience. As to the met hodus medendi or indication of treatment to be followed (he says, in another place), it is clear that it must have reference to the disease itself, and not to drugs or other remedies. The first considera- tion isis it necessary to prescribe a remedy at all? If so, we have then to consider not so much what remedy is best, as what effect is desired? and this is to be sought for not on pharmaceutical but pathological grounds. We are to judge, according to the peculiar character of the disease, when and in what order the operation indicated is to be insti- tuted; and then, and not till then, it is time to look about for the instrument with which weare to work. We believe that if this book were read widely by the public it might tend to a great diminution in the use of drugs, and so be of material aid in the amendment of the public bealth. FURTHER PROGRESS OF THE POST- OFFICE. THE latest annual report of the Post- master-General continues, like its predeces- sors, to be exceptional, showing to us an immense amount of work done by a public department, not in tardy compliance with public demands, but in anticipation of them. There is a constant succession of improve- ments, too numerous to particularize. The sorting of the country letters before they leave town; the great acceleration of de- liveries; the facilities afforded to the public in the posting of their letters, in the stamp.. ing of them, the direction, & c.; in the dis- patch of books and parcels; the immense development of the Money Order Office; the penetration of the system to secluded dis- tricts,these are only some of the items which show the constantly increasing service performed by the Post-office for the commun- ity. The revenue has increased largely; but it would be an excessive miscalculation to reckon the profit to the country exclu- sively by the amonnt of revenuethat would be a totally inadequate standard. While the state is drawing an actual revenue from the money received for the transmission of letters, journals, books, parcels, the com- munity enjoys the performance of an impor- tant service at an excessively low cost, with a certainty unparalleled in any other part of the world, and with consequences social and commercial that cannot be measured by millions of pounds sterling. Lord Palmerston was justified when he persisted in retaining the head of so impor- tant a department among the C~binet Minis- ters; although we may remauk, that this striking development of the department, this remarkable instance of public efficiency, is due to a proper choice of men for the working places in the establishment, more than to the official head. A man has been placed in the department whose whole heart was thrown into the labor of making the Post-office do what a post-office was capable of accomplishing. The department * has become the most perfect example of practical government in this country, or in any other.. It unites the greatest amount of efficiency, such as is assured by a highly centralized system of administration, with the honest and genuine service of the people. it is the servant of the commonwealth, the type of a public office. It not only fulfils the service, but it has a tangible influence in training the public to use its machinery. ~Thus, the community is gradually educated to employ the system of initials, which allows the district-distribution of letters in the metropo- lis to be greatly expedited~ The pains-tak- ing in the issue of explanatory notices has taught the public to use the other facilities, of early deliveries, parcels-distribution, & c.; with a right appreciation of the convenience obtained. Painstaking explanations em- bodied on the very text of the money-order have assisted the public in avoiding mis- takes, saving to the individual great incon- venience, to the state much discredit. If the department is balked in any one of these im- provements, it is by a want of the same pains- taking and efficiency in other departments. For instance, a host of mistakes arise from the identity of names for the different streets in London; a defect which could be cured with comparative facility if the Board of Public Works were really efficient, or if the Minis- ter of Public Works were endowed with sufficient authority. But at present the Post-office remains almost alone as a type of truly complete government. This is done without any sacrifice of in- terests for those who are engaged in the ~ [This is not the Post-Office Department of the United States, which is an example in the opposite direction.Living Age.] 38 MARATIME WAR. department. It would appear that the con- dition of all the servants is very generally improved. It is conspicuously so in two instances. Facilities have been afforded to the servants in the Post-office for insuring their lives; and an address to the Post- master-General, published in this report, shows that they appreciate an economical mode of providing for their families. The centralization of a large department renders it extremely easy to obtain the highest medi- cal assistance; and accordingly, a public officer gives medical advice and aid at the chief office, or when necessary at the home of the Post-office servant. The principle of efficient government therefore regulates the wellbeing of the department as a family. The public obtains a direct return in a sin- gularly high degree of zeal among the officers; and in acknowledging that spirit, the Postmaster-General gives an example of it which may stand among the stories of beroic deeds. When the Violet steamer was wrecked, and all hands on board were lost, Mr. Mortleman, the officer in charge of the mail-bags, seeing that the steamer could not be saved, so placed the bags that when the vessel went down they might float; a pro- ceeding which ultimately led to the recovery of all the bags except one containing dis- patches, of which, from their nature, it was possible to obtain copies. Care for a service, for the good of others, at a time when life is hopeless and the zeal can only be requited by its motive, is the very essence of heroism.Speclator, 25 April. MARITIME WAR POSSIBLE ACCEPT ANCE OF THE AMERICAN PROPOSI TION. MR. MARCY prepared a noose, and we have no guarantee that the British Lion is not going to thrust his tame head into it. The fact was brought out in the Income-tax debate of Tuesday night. We need only refer our readers to our own columns for the state of the case. When the resolution of the Paris Conference, that the goods of a belligerent should be safe in neutral vessels and the goods of a neutral safe wheresoever, was communicated to the United States, Mr. Secretary Marcy responded by a counter proposal going beyond the resolution of Con- ference, for he suggested that all merchant property afloat should be free from capture 39 even in war-time. When the American pro- posal first came over, we pointed out its exceeding inexpediency. We showed that it would render war a duel between govern- ments, while it would exempt natio~s from those liabilities which constitute the true check upon governments. Let us see how that would be in the case of the United States. The citizens arenot the most peaceful people in the world. They would make war upon every empire, kingdom, county, city, or even person, who did not succumb to the suprem- acy of the star-spangled banner. But there has been one consideration which has some- what restrained them. They are, in a mari- time sense, persons who live in a great glass house: they have enormous property afloat, rivalling our own in extent; while, not- withstanding the capacity which they have for war both by land and sea, their armed marine is very limited in extent. While they observe neutrality, abstaining in the main from the conflicts of the world, they need only such a marine as would be purely defensive at points of attack; and from the nature of their empire-republic they are not very likely to be attacked. If England were to attack them, they could retaliate on British possessions. The only field on which they could really meet them is that of the ocean, where we possess at once the greatest means of offence and the largest responsibili- ties. At present, therefore, we are in the position to make the attack most effective, while, from our institutions and our liabili- ties, we are the most likely to exercise a pru- dential reserve. Exempt their mercantile marine, and the whole reason for their reserve ceases. Every war-ship will carry its own commission to do what it chooses; the responsibilities falling nowhere else. Even if we were to retaliate for aggression by attacking the Union, the Union, as Lord John Russell said on Monday, could retaliate in return by marching an army across the frontier to Canada, or in other ways dis- - turbing our tenure. Mr. Secretary Marcy proposes a bargain all on one side. Now this is a proposal which should be settled in a conference of ten or a dozen gentlemen representing ten or a dozen bureaux under the Government in each of the European capitals. Whichever way we determine, we, who have the greatest inter- MARATIME WAL eats at stake, should be allowed ample dis- cussion of the pros and cons. We, a com- mercial people, know well that one hold of the people upon the government is the dis- like of the people to pay taxes; and one mode of rendering the American Government not actually hostile to the British Govern- ment is secured by the dislike of the Ameri- cans to lose their property or to pay for the consequences of quarrel~ Let us cohsider well the effect of relinquishing that great moral hold. Alarmed by hints of sympathy from Lord Palmerston for the Peace doctrines of Mr. Cobden in this respect, Lord John Russell asked for information. He got it, though not in the most satisfactory shape. Sir George Cornewall Lewis stated that to this proposition, from Mr. Marcy, no answer has been made. It is under the serious consideration of the Governmen~$, who are fully aware of its importance; as~d they will not come to any conclusion on the matter without a full consideration of all the intez- ests involved in it. Consideration isan awful word in official lips; and in this case it does not guarantee to us any other than an Yfiicial consideration. Now what we demand, before any concession be made, is a deliberate and pu6lic consideration.Spectei- br, 14 Marck. gressive literature were nil. Their light went out with the captivity.Sjpectctor. SAYINGs ABOUT THE WEATHER.The Wor- cestershire, Norfolk, and Dorset saw, about a Saturdays moon and its evil portents, is quite current here, with a slight variation from the forms already recorded: it is as follows Saturdays mune an $undays prime, Ance is aneugh in seven years time. Of course, a Saturdays mune means change of moon on that day, and this homely distich shows how dreaded sack an event was, and in fact is, by our rural wiseacres and weather prophets, as it was thought to have come often enough if once in seven ~,ears. I do not know if it is common all over Scotland; but the extent to which, even (what are commonly called) educated people believe in the moons siz~- fluence on the weathers changes hereabouts would not be believed by str~ngers. I have often tried to get some of our weatherwise rus- tics to explain to me how the same moon can cause such various weather as the telegraph in- forms us it does at one and the same time over England, and Scotb~nd, and even in neighbor- ing Scotch counties,~but I could see that the mere hint of disbelief, on so serious and well ascertained a subject was to put myself down as a sheer atheist in their idea.Notes gnd Queries. JEwIsH LITERATURE: an Historical Essay from the German of M. Steinsehneider. Re- vised throughout by the author.This survey of Jewish literature, from the cessation of the in- spired writers to the last century, was origi- nally written for a German encyclop~dia. The limited space allotted to the writer, (which, however he considerably exceeded,) and the rich materials the Bodleian Library opened to him, have induced a revision and extension of the original essay. It combines the catalogue raisonn6 with the artiele. The book is classed into three divisions :1. from the time of Ezra till the Arabian philosophy began to be felt, and the Jewish mind to be connected with medheval Europe; 2. till the expulsioh of the Jews from Spain and the invention of printing; 8. to the time of Mendelssohn and the com- mencement of German philosophy. The djffer- ent classes of literature that appeared durh.g the time of each division are presented under it A general criticism, often running into vague- ness, and dealing rather with Jewish character- istics and objects than with the merits of the works in reference to the progress of universal literature or literary merits, opens each branch of the survey, and is followed by an enumera- tion of books and authors. The most impor- tant question connected with the subject is, in what degree the Jewish writers have contributed to the advance of the human mind by original knowledge, discoveries in science, or the pro- duction of a new class of literature. A satis- JEWISH VERsIONs or THE HEBREw SCRIP- factory reply to these points will not be ob- TUREs.There is a Jewish School and Family tamed from this book; partly perhaps from the Bible, lately translated by Dr. A. Benisch, extent and difficulty of the subject, and partly under the supervision of the Reverend the from the fact that the authors purpose was not Chief Rabbi, and published by Darling, 81 to solve this problem. Except in travels dur- Great Queen Street, Lincolns Inn Fields. It is ing the dark and middle ages, we believe the published in parts; the first part consisting of contributions of the Jews to original and p10.. I the Pentateuch.Aotes and Queries. 40 A VISION OF A STUDIOUS MAN. From Household Words. A VISION OF A STUDIOUS MAN. LONG agohow many years since I do not like to think of, but it was when I was a young man and just beginning the worldI took delight in being a book-fancier; not a bibliomaniac, as the profane have it, but an ardent, eager bibliophilist, gathering together volumes from the ends of the earth.. The famous collection at Donninghurst attests pretty well the extent of my labors in this vineyard. Arrayed in snowy vellum raiment, or in old tooled calf, or, better still, in ancient French morocco, they line these shelves of mine in the oak room, and are still the admirationperhaps the envyof the curious. Now that the fit has passed from me,I look on them as so many memo- rials of an old folly, and find myself gazing at them curiously, as a lover might do at the faded writings of an unworthy mistress. How I came to forswear this seductive pursuit and flee for ever from the temples of Christie, and Sotheby, and such famous brethren of the hammer, I will now try and set forth, as some entertainment for this passing hour. When I fivst went down to Donninghurst, which was just after leaving Oxford, this book-fever as it may be called, was very strong upon me, and I took exceeding delight in arranging and cataloguing the contents of certain great chests which had come down to me from London. And now, before going further, I may say a word concerning Don- ninghurst itself. It was nothing more than a small villagea quiet, retired, innocent little village of the Auburn kind, lying in a sheltered valley far from the busy hum of men. To look down from the brow of the hill upon the ancient church disguised in ivy, green and brown; upon the little bridge over the brook which divided the village; upon the noisy water-mill, the tiers of snowy cottages sloping down to the waters edge; this was pleasant and fit recreation for any contemplative man, and was as fair a pros- pect as could be seen upon a long summers day. Naturally enough, I had a great liking for Donninghurst, and were it not for the utter dearth of all congenial societythat is, of bibliophilist brethrenI should have pitched my tent there for good and all. True, there was the parson, who is traditionally supposed to be ardent in such matters, but who in our instance happened unfortunately to be a placid easy man, full of soft words, and with little scholarship beyond his Bible;. in short, a smooth shaven respectability, as Mr. Car- lyle would phrase it. I did not, thei~fore, grieve very much when I heard, en my second visit, that this reverend person had passed away to a brighter sphereto a wealthier parish, that isand that Doctor Erasmus Ashmole, F.R.S., F.S.A., Corres. Mem., & c., & c., had been appointed in his place. This was joyful news for me. In those mystic characters I saw wondrous visions shadowed forth: long Attic nights, earnest disputations, eager criticism, unique and matchless exemplars. Soon my card found its way to the vicarage, and within a very brief span I found myself in the full en- joyment of his friendship. I found him a fierce rude scholar of the true Bentley school a man that called you Sir in loud tones, after the Johnsonian mannerwith a way of beating the table savagely in the warmth of argument. All the golden visions I had read in the cabalistic letters were realized to the full. He had brought down a matchless collectionwhole regiments of Editiones Principes; camel-loads of Fathers, clean and unsullied with virgin pages; Bellandists, Variorums, Aldines, all in superb condition and original bindings. Elzevirs, too, were there, not to speak of Plantins, Jansens, Baskervilles, Tonsons and other famous Im- printers. There were also strange black-let- ter volumescreatures in ponderous oak covers, with rude metal fittings. And, last of all, he had brought down with him an exquisite copy from Natures own press, printed in the fairest characters, one unique and beyond all price; in short no other than his own fair daughter, sweet Miss Lizzie Ashmole. She was a bright little creature, with a beaming face and dark brilliant eyes, with arched pencilled eyebrows and soft wavy hair worn ~ la Grecque, which I was told fell nearly to her feet. Indeed, the other day, when I went to see a famous Little Lady at one of our great theatres, I was perfectly startled at the likeness. No wonder, then, that Doctor Erasmus loved her, if any thing, better than his books. From long habit, too, she had caught up some, odds and ends of bibliographical doctrine, upon which she used to discourse very gracefully; 41 42 and it was very pleasant to see her striving hard to feel due reverence for the dusty in- habitants of the doctors study. She bad, besides, a tinge of romanticism, very refresh- ing in these flinty days of ours, and was filled with a kind of buoyant earnest faith, which she was not long in communicating to othersdelighting, moreover, in rehearsing ghostly narrative, and spectral appearances. This she did so prettily, and so mysteriously, that I, before a scoffer and unbeliever, came at last to feel uneasy of nights, and rather shrank from the idea of going up stairs in the dark. In short, to this complexion it came at last, as indeed was only to be expectedthat the Attic nights with the doctor grew to be insufferably dull, and the doctor himself, and the Johnsonian manner something of a bore. I soon began to see a deal of truth in that passage of the ingenious Mr. Little, where he informs us that his only books were womans looks. What if he had seen the precious little volume always open before me, and which I took such wondrous delight in pe- rusing! I felt the Poisoned Arrow with the Golden Shaft smarting more keenly every day. In brief, I found myself one morning asking the Reverend Erasmus for a few moments private conversation, at the con- clusion of which I received a paternal accolade and numberless benedictions. Then was sweet Lizzie sent for, who came in blushing most bewitchingly, as though she had a faint suspicion of what was going on. After a months interval, during which time I conceived an utter disgust for all things of leaves and parchment, the usual ceremony took place, and the happy pair departed for London en route to foreign parts, as was only proper. During the happy days that followed, I never once thought of Elzevir or Aldine never felt the least yearning towards my old objects of affection, untilyes, until we came to the ancient city of ]3ruges. No human virtue could have withstood that seductive town. We had been admiring its halls, churches, paintings, carvings, bits of Gothic, all day long, and were returning pretty well tired to our hostelry, when we suddenly found ourselves before one of those picturesque little alleys wherein this city abounds. 0! said sweet Lizzie, how like a Turkish bazaar! We must walk A VISION OP A STUDIOUS MAN. downjust once. With a gentle remon- strance, as though I had a presentiment of what was impending, I suffered myself to be led into the fatal street, and was utterly ravished, as the French say, with all I saw. Dark monstrosities carved ~ut of oak, ancient china, arquebuses, vestiments of rich stuffs, silver statues, bits of stained glass, and Heaven knows what besides, were gath- ered there, tempting sweet Lizzie to the very verge of distraction. While Imy hour had come at lastwas irresistibly drawn to some quaint shelves crowded with old tomes in the livery that was so familiar to me. With the first glance I saw they were of a superior order, doubtless noble exiles from some rich library in the Faubourg, bearing on their backs the insignia of their haughty masters. I took one in my hand, and, as I did so, felt a queer sensation coming over me. They were bound in that famous old red morocco; and there was, besides, a second series arrayed in rich mottled calfaltogether a very choice and tempting lot. I was back under the old dominion in a moment. Look here, sweet Lizzie, I said, did you ever see such a treasure? Yes, said Lizzie, smiting very nice indeed she was at that moment studying an old Spanish rosary, thinking what a rare armlet it would make. Look, continued I, in a perfect transport such a superb piece of mottled calf; veined and freckled like a bit of jasper! It is very pretty, said poor Lizzie, trying hard to admire it; wont you buy it? Buy it! I hesitatednot for the price, which was scarcely a hundred francs or so, but because I knew how much depended on that moment. A look at the old red morocco decided me, and I was back again under the thraldom of the Book Demon. The next day was spent in dilligent inves~~ tigation of my new-found prizes, and all their beauties were dwelt on pitilessly for the behoof of poor Lizzie. The day after, we were to have commenced our journey home, but it occurred to me that there were some famous libraries at Ghent, scarce an hours travel from Bruges. It would be a positive sin to leave these unexplored; such an opportunity might never occur again~. At Ohent, as everybody knows, are tempta A VISION OF A STUDIOUS MAN. tions enough for the book-gatherer; and from that city I returned very late at night, with a small sack filled with marvels of type and binding. Poor Lizzie, who had been sitting up for hours expecting me, looked ruefully at these trophies as I tumbled them out on the carpet before her. She was very tired, she said, and had passed a very weary day. What could have kept me? There is type! Theres margin! I said, opening one wide. I tell you what, sweet Lizzie; I have a rare scheme in my headI planned it as I came along. Suppose we go back to Brussels; I hear there are things to be had there literally for a song. We might staylet me seea fortnight, whilst I rum- mage the great libraries. What say you, Lizzie? This was too much. I saw her bright little face suffused suddenly with a deeper crimson. How could I be so cruel to her! Especially when I knew she was dying to get home to her poor father. Bat she had been warned of this long, long ago. She ought to have taken advice. She knew, that, in my heart, I preferred those horrid books to her and every thing else in the world. Good Heavens! here was a burst! I was astonished and indignant. But the fact was, women were so unreasonable, so very unrea- sonable. I must make allowance for that. Still, I did not like this trait in sweet Lizzies character; 1 would speak to her seriously when we got home. And so, with a pitying smile, I said it was no matter; I would make any sacrifice for peace and quiet. The next day I suffered myself to be led away, out of Belgium, home again to London. There, in sight of all my favorite haunts, the old fever came upon me with tenfold vigor. I was welcomed once more at Chris- ties and Sothebys, and passed hours and days in their famous temples; while sweet Lizzie pined and languished at home utterly neglected. And such was the strange blind- ness over me, I could see none of this, but wondered, and sulked, and fell back on my old complaint of women being so unreason- able. Not a little of our money, too, was going in this wild fashion, in spite of im- ploring looks and gentle remonstrances from Lizzie. But I only held this for more of womans folly; and, wrapped up in this selfish doctrine, I saw her cheeks fade and her light spirits sink whhout setting it down to any cause but whim and caprice. Ah! a cloud settles down upon me as I think over those days and my own stupid blindnesssacrificing living affections truth, and love, on the altars of these cold paper gods! So it went on for some ten months, when news came that the Reverend Erasmus had been suddenly called away to his last account when sitting in his study chair. This was a sore trial to Lizzie, who loved her father dearly. She grieved very much, and said, what should she do now that her only friend in the world was gone. At this epoch I felt a twinge of remorse, and for the next few days was so devoted and attentive, that I saw the roses coming back to her cheeks, and the old bright look into her eyes once more. But my enemies were still in wait for mc. Had not Doctor Erasmus left me the rare and valuable library at Donninghurst, as one who would take care of it and keep it together for his sake? I was burning to get down and explore its treasures; and, after many faint struggles, fell back under the old yoke. It was just coming on to the winter of that same year, a very raw unpromising season I well recollect, when I received one morning, with Messrs. Sothebys respects, a catalogue of the extensive library of a distinguished person, lately deceased, which was about to be submitted to public competition. Glanc- ing down its long files of names, my eye lit upon a work I had long sought and yearned for, and which, in utter despair, I had set down as inirouvable. This coveted lot was no other than the famed Nuremberg Chroni- cle, printed in black-letter, and adorned with curious and primitive cuts. At differ- ent times, some stray copies had been offered to me, but these were decayed, maimed, cut- down specimens, very different from the one now before me, which, in the glowing lan- guage of the catalogue, was a Choice, clean copy, in admirable condition.An- tiquerichly embossed binding, and metal clasps.A unique and matchless impres- sion. So it was undoubtedly. For the next few days I had no other thought but that one. I discoursed Nuremberg Chroni- cle; I ate, drank, and inhaled nothing but Nuremberg Chronicle, I dropped in at 43 44 stray hours to. look after its safety, and glared savagely at other parties who were turning over its leaves. Poor little Lizzie complained of being unwell, and lay all day upon the sofa; but what were such trifles compared with the well-being of the Chroni- cle? So I implored her to be careful of her- self, and hurried away to watch over the precious treasure. What a change was here! And yet, not so long since, to save her a moments pain I would gladly have made a huge pyre of all the black-letter rarities ever printed. But that was in the sunny days, when we lived at Donninghurst; she was very different then! So said I, shaking my head wisely, and hugging myself in my own folly. The sale was to take place in about a weeks time; and this particular lot was ex- pected to come on about two oclock, or there- abouts. All that morning I was very ner- vous and fidgety, and thought the hour would never draw near. I had thirty pounds in clean crisp notes laid providently by for such an emergency. Such a sum, I calculated, would be more than sufficient to secure the prize, though I was aware that at the Fonthill and other great sales copies had fetched considerably more. My coffers at this period were at a very low ebb; I had been indulging this wild taste to an extravagant degree, giving fancy prices whenever required; and there were to be seen in: our hall significant groups of dissatisfied claimants, who were only to be got away with lame excuses and abun- dant promises. Still, I had contrived to gather together these thirty pounds, which had lain perdus in my drawer until such an occasion as the present. It had now got on to one oclock, and I was thinking it was full time to be setting out, when my agent from the country was announced. Was ever any thing more unfortunate? Still he had business, business not to be deferred; and besides, had to leave town that evening; so I had to sit patiently and hear him out. When he had departed, and I was just get- ing my hat and gloves, down came an ex- press from Lizzie, begging to see me before I went out, just for one moment. It was out of the question, I said; utterly out of the question. I would be too late as it was; she must wait till I come back. Here the Abigail, who bore the message, putting oh a mysterious manner, began to hint darkly concerning her mistress healththat she had been ailing these few days back, and must be treated gently. Muttering certain ejaculations, I bounded up the~stairs, and rushed violently into the drflwing-room, where Lizzie was still lying upon her sofa. Well, what is it? said I, impatiently; lam in a hurry. 0, said Lizzie, in her gentle way, do come and sit down beside me; I want ~o speak to you very muchthat is, to ask a great favor. Is the child mad? I said, very roughly I fear. I tell you I havent a moment to to spare; cant you say it out at once? Poor Lizzie sighed. Well, then, she said, youll promise me not to be angry? No, no, said I, stamping, do be quick. Well, said she, taking out a little bit of paper from behind the cushion, here is Madame Dupont been writing me a most im- pertinent letter, and What have I to do with Madame Du- pont? I interrupted; who is she? Dont you know?the milliner, said Lizzie; and now I want you, like a good dear, to give me the money for heronly twenty pounds; only to pay her and have done with her. She said this so prettily, with that little earnest manner of hers, that my heart smote me; and, for a moment she and the famous Chronicle were balancing each other in the scales. It was only for a moment. Ah, the choice copy! the rich embossed binding and clasps! It was not to be thought of! No, Lizzie, I have no money to spare at present; we must try and put off Madame Dupont. Well, ten pounds; only ten! Impossible. What, said Lizzie, with a little sigh, couldnt you spare me that much out of all I saw in your desk yesterday? I blushed scarlet, not from shame, but from rage at being detected. A spy! I exclaimed, in a perfect fury; a spy upon my actions! I hate such mean tricks. But, I added, turning sharp upon her with a feel- ing that I must put a stop to this work, I wont tolerate this interference; Im not to be brought to an account for the little money I lay out on myself. Such low, mean prying! A VISION OF A STUDIOUS MAN. A VISION OF A STUDIOUS MAN. But money must be had for all your finery of course, of course, and more to the same effect, which it chills my very heart to dwell on now. My only hope and consolation is that I was beside myself all that time. Poor Lizzie listened to me, perfectly overwhelmed, and trembling like an aspen leaf. She never answered me, but sank down upon the sofa without a word. I left her, thinking I had given a wholesome lesson, and walked out of the house in a proper state of indignation. But the Chroniclethe famous Chronicle. I had utterly forgotten it. I felt a cold thrill all over me as I took out my watch. Just two oclock. I hew into a cab, and set off at a headlong pace for Sothebys. But my fatal presentiment was to be verified. It was over; I was too late. The great Chron- icle, the choice, the beautiful, the unique, had passed from me foreyer, and beyond recall; and, as I afterwards learned, for the ridiculous sum of nineteen pounds odd shil- lings. And who was I to thank for thisthis cruel prostration of all my hopes? Here was the prize torn from me, lost by a min- utes delay, and all for a womans absurd whim and caprice. By Heaven, it was enough to drive me distracted. But no matter; when I got home I would give her a piece of my mind. I would be master in my own house. Lashing myself thus into a rage, I strode moodily into the house, and made my way straight to the drawing-room. There I burst into a catalogue of all my griefs, mingled with a torrent of reproaches. She had ruined mesuch an opportunity would never come again; I never would forget it to her. But let her bake warning in time. I would put up with this kind of interference no longer. Poor Lizzie listened first with astonishment, but, as she began to under- stand me, I saw her bright eyes flashing in a way I had never seen before. And so, she said, her voice trembling with excitement, this was why you refused me the little sum I asked. For shame! I could not have be- lieved you so cruelyes, so selfish. But I ought to have known this before; kind friends told me that this would come to pass that you would sacrificeme to this wretched passion. Again my heart smote me, and I felt a longing to sink down before her and beg for- giveness; but at the same instant I heard something whispering secretly in my ear that she it was who had lost me my precious treasure. On this I froze again in a moment. What right had she to hold this tone to me? I asked. I was sickened and repe~ed, I said, with her coldness and want of interest in all that concerned me. Then Lizzie, raising hers4f up from her sofa, and her eyes flashing more than ever, said she would speak now, for my sake as well as her own: that as to my unkindness and neglect, that was not so much mattershe would try and bear itshe would get aecustomed to it, she supposed; but that I was fastruining my- self, making myself a laughing~stockyes, a laughing-stockto every one. It was a pity we had ever come together. Yes, I said,~bitterly, it was a pity,a great pity, I did not meet one more suited to my tastesone that might have made some allowance, at least, for any old habits and associations. But it was no use talking about it now; it was too late. With that I hastily turned away; and, feeling that I had been aggrieved, retreated to mystudy, full of bitterness and disappointment. Was there ever anything so unreasonable? And, instead of showing some sorrow for causing me such a disappointment, to turn round and beard me in this manner. A laughing-stock! Those words grated unpleasantly on my ear, as I thought them over. I felt an envenomed sensation aoainst poor Lizzie, which I cannot describe. And how long was this to go on? (I put this question to myself, sitting among the dark gloomy shadows of ray study.) Were all my studies to be broken in upon with cold looks and harsh words? Was I to have my chief hope and comfort in life embittered? An idea struck me. In a day or so I should have to go down to Donninghurst on business. Suppose I went that very evening instead? I would be there in an hour or so, and could return to-morrow if it suited me. Here was a ready means of release offered me. I could withdraw myself for a little from London, which I had begun to hate, and from home, which was growing distasteful to me. It would be a pleasant change of scene; and I felt, besides, a craving for solitude and the companionship of my books. I longed for a quiet evening in my little study, many miles 45 A VISION OF A STUDIOUS MAN. removed from unkindness and domestic bick- cringe. So all these things then appeared to my distorted vision. It seemed a rare scheme; and so I lost no time in executing it. I packed up a few things, and telling Lizzie, coldly enough, that I would most likely return early in the morning departed by that nights train. About seven oclock that evening we came rolling into Donninghurst. It was a raw, bleak night, with a harsh, black frost abroad; not your true, genial, inspiring weather, covering the ground with crisp snow, and making the cheeks tingle,but a dark, low- ering atmosphere, very dispiriting and op- pressive. Therefore it was that I felt very uncomfortable and out of sorts as I stood in the cold, comfortless study, watching the slow process of kindling a fire. No one had expected me on such a nightnaturally enoughso I found everything cold and desolate. There was an ancient retainer always left in charge of the house, whom I took a dismal pleasure in likening to Caleb Balderstone, in the novel. His queer ways and curious make-shifts in providing for the emergency, were so many occasions of iden- tifying myself with the unhappy Master of Ravenswood and his follower. At last a fire was lighted, and I settled myself down for the night. What should I have down, I said, looking round affectionately on the shelves. Old Fuller ?None betterOld Fuller, by all means. I got him down reverently and cleared the dust from him gently. I was going to have a night of enjoyment. When he was properly bestowed upon the oaken reading-desk, and the lamp had been turned up to the full, and one last poke given to the fire, I felt that I had all the elements of a studious night to hand, and that I ought to be exceedingly pleasant and comfortable. Yet someway Good Old Fuller seemed to me not quite so racy that night. I felt inexpressibly lonely, and every now and again I heard the wind, which had begun to rise, coming round the corner with a low moan, which gave me a very dismal feeling. Do as I would, I could not shut out Caleb Balderstone. Then, too, I found my eyes were perpetually wandering from Good Old Fuller to the coals, where I would discover all manner of distracting visions. It certainly was a noble editionthat Chronicle, said I, reverting to the events of the daya noble one truly. 0 how could she have let me miss it! And yet who knows? I might fall in with another copy some of these days! But then he had no need to speak to me in that way-~.to ridicule meto reproach me. No matter about that nowto businessWith that, I came back again to old Fullerfor about a page and a half of himas it might be. It was very singular. I could not lay myself down to work. I grew anoyedvexed. Impatiently I pushed the Ancient Worthy far from me, and leaning back in my chair fell to study- ing the fire once morewatching the wreaths of smoke curling upwardsevery now and then taking the shape of a bright, gentle little face that seemed to look at me reproachfully. Alone, here, in this desolate spotalone with Old Fuller and his brethren. And these false slaves to whom I had bound my- self, and sacrificed all, were now deserting me when I most needed their assistance. I likened them, bitterly, to the Familiars in the old Magic Legends who treacherously abandoned their masters in their greatest straits. And Lizzie (sweet Lizzie she was once!) all alone in the great London world, keeping her lonely vigil! Just then there came up before me, as it were, floating from the past, a vision of another timenot so long passed awaycoming to me, as it were, in a flood of golden light, wherein Old Fuller appeared to shrivel up, and shrink away into a dry, sapless Ancient, as he was. It was on a clear moonlight nightI well recollectedwith the ground all covered with snow, and I was coining out beneath the vicarage-porch, going home for that nightwhen she, sweet Lizzie, came out into the moolight, and we lingered there for a few moments, looking round and admiring the scene. Such a soft tranquil night, with a bright glare shining forth from the midst of the dark mass rising behind us, showing where the Doctor was hard at work in his room. I often thought of that night after, and of the picture of Lizzie, as she stood there with her face upturned to the moon. Conjuring up this vision from the fire, and recalling her mournful, subdued face, as she lay upon the sofa, when I so abruptly quitted her, I felt a bitter pang of self-re- A VISION OF A STUDIOUS MAN. proach, and found my repugnance for the cold, senseless creatures around me, increas- ing every instant. After that there came a feeling over me that I had been sitting there for hoursfor long weary hours, and that morning would never come. Suddenly it seemed to me that I heard the sounds of wheels outside on the gravel, with strange confusion as of many tongues, and that some one came rushing in hurriedlyseeking meand telling me I must loose no timenot an instant. I knew by a kind of instinct what it was all about, and why it was I was thus brought away. There was a heavy load upon my heart, as of some evil impending, some dreadful blow about to fall. Then came the long, hurried journey through the dark nightthe rattle over the pavement, and the flittering of lights past the window, as we drew near the noisy city. Then was I led up-stairs softly in a darkened roomthe drawing-room, where were many people crowded together, and whispering. And there on the sofa, just as I had left her, I caught a dim vision of sweet Lizzie-very pale and sadwith the same gentle look of reproach. I heard the old soft voice, full of affectionate wel- come and forgiveness, and then it seemed as though the Shadows were beginning to fall, and shut me out from her forever! With a wild cry I stretched forth my arms to the fading visionand there was I back again in my old study at Donninghurst, with the fire sunk down in ashes and the lamp flicker- ing uneasily on the verge of extinction, and great gaunt shadows starting up and down all round me on the wall. The scales had fallen from my eyes. The delusion had passed from me forever. Just then the vii- 47 lage clock began chiming out the hour three quarters past eleven. I recollected there was a train to London at midnight, and in another instant J had fled from the house, and was rushing up the deserted street. There were scarcely any passeigers so late was the hourand there was a lone deserted look over the vast station, very chilling and dispiriting to one in my mood after what seemed a weary, never-ending journey, we reached London, and in ten minutes I was in my own house at the drawing-room door. She ha.d not gone to bed; and, as I opened it softly, I saw her stretched upon where she had cried herself to sleepjust as I had seen her in my dream! What a meeting followed on that waking, may be well imagined and need not be set down here. I never fell back into theold slavery. All my famous treasures were ruthlessly sent away into banishment down to Donninghurst, where they may now be seen. And, not very long after, I heard of another copy of the great Chronicle being in the market; but I heard it with the utmost placidity. Thenceforth our lives ran on smoothly as a bright summers day; and, as they tell of the good people in the story books, we lived happily together for ever after. Forever after! It were better not to cast a shadow upon this vision of a poor lonely man, by dwelling on what befel me within a brief interval after that. 1 have not courage to say it now. So let those cheerful words stand, by way of an endearing fiction, to receive, as my only hope and comfort, their full enduring truth in the long here- after of another world. SoNGs or SuDnixa. By Richard Henry Stod- dard. An importation from America. The poems are scarcely to be called songs; for some are tales, and others are rhapsodies on political or (as the writer may think) philosophical sub- jects. The bulk of the pieces are occasional; short enough for songs, though few are songs proper in the usual acceptation of the word. There is nothing very lofty in Mr. Stoddards muse, nor does he make any pretension to lofti- ness. There is freshness of treatment and style in the smaller pieces, not original, but im- itating the last novelties of Tennyson, and a few American poets of no great mark but whose manner has not yet become trite. A conven- tional prettiness is what Mr. Stoddard generally attains, with occa~ionally something more than prettiness in stanza. These, from a song, that recalls a poem of Holmes, are about the best in the volume. I would recall my early dreams, But they are dead to me; As well with last years withered buds Reclothe a this years tree: It is not what I might have been, But what I yet may be. That thought alone avails me now, And all regrets are vain: They seem to bring a dreamy bliss, But bring a certain pain: To him who works, and only him, The Past returns again. ---Spectator. 48 From the Literary Gazette, 28 March. THE REV. DR. SCORESBY, F. IL. S. A rxw weeks since we had to record the loss of one of the y~pungest and most e~iter- prising of Arctic explorers, Dr. Kane, who, though an American, by his general codpera- tion in the search for Sir John Franklin, and as the last gold medallist of our Royal Geo- graphical Society, will bear an honorable place in the records of English naval history. It is now our sad duty to report the death of one of the oldest veterans of Arctic enter- prise, the Rev. Dr., formerly Captain, .Scores- by, who died at Torquay, on the 21st instant, after a lingering illness. Few men of our time have been more respected, combining as he did scientific eminence with high moral worth, unaffected piety, and active benevo- lance. William Scoresby was born at Whitby, in Yorkshire. He was trained for naval adven- ture in a good school. His father was one of the most daring and successful seamen in the northern whale fishery, when that ser- vice was among the chief sources of the corn- inercial wealth of the nation, and one of the best nurseries for the British navy. Young Scoresby early accompanied his father in his voyages, and from his youth was inured to the hardships and perils of the Arctic seas. It was when he was chief mate of his fathers ship, the Resolution, of Whitby, in 1806, that he sailed to the highest latitude then reached by navigators. On three occasions, in the month of May of that year, the Res- olution was in 80~ 60 2Sf, 810 jf 53ff, and 810 12 ~ and once the ship was as far north as 81~ 30, the nearest approach to the pole at that period authenticated. None of the earlier navigators had professed to have reached beyond 810 north latitude. Sir Ed- ward Parry in his celebrated boat expedition, during his fourth voyage, in 1827, arrived at 82~ 45, the furthest point yet reached. Dr. Kane stands second in the record of adven- turous efforts to reach the pole, but the Scoresbys have still the honor of having, with their ship in ordinary sailing, navigated the highest northern latitudes. Young Scoresby remained in the whaling service af- ter his fathers death, and he had performed voyages in twelve successive seasons when he published his account of The Arctic Re- gions, one of the most interesting records of maritime adventure that has ever been REV. DR. SOGRESBY. written. The work appeared in 1820, the year after Sir Edward, then Lieutenant, Par- ry, proceeded on his first Arctic voyage with the Ilecla and Griper. Parry returned to this country in October, 1820, ~ter winter- ing at Melville Island. His secend voyage, with the Fury and Redo, commenced in the summer of 1821. By this time Captain Scoresbys book. had attracted new attention to the scene of Arctic enterprise. His nar- rative of early Arctic voyages, and of the progress of discovery, is one of the best pop- ular accounts that have appeared on the sub- ject; and the scientific details of the work, as well as the story of personal adventure, attest his admirable fitness for the service in which he had so long been engaged. The chapter on the Hydrogaphy of the Greenland Seas was an important contribution to scien- tific and geographical knowledge; and the notices of the Meteorology and Natural His- tory of the Arctic Regions have formed the basis of most of the subsequent researches in these departments. His definitions of the terms used by the whalers in describing the various forms of ice have been universally adopted in scientific treatises on the subject.. He was the first also to ~n~ttempt scientific observations on the electricity of the atmos- phere in high northern latitudes, and the re- sults of his experiments, made with an insu- lated conductor, eight feet above the main top-gallant mast head, connected by a cop- per wire with a copper ball attached by a silk cord to the deck, are still regarded with interest from the novelty and ingenuity of the observations. Incidentally Captain Scores- by remarks that he had personally assisted at the capture of 320 whales of the species Bakena mysticetus. Not one of them, he be- lieves, exceeded sixty feet in length; and the largest he ever actually measured was fifty- eight feet from one extremity to the other. The accounts of longer specimens he thinks are exaggerations, but the less valuable Ba- icena plrysalis of Linninus, the razor-back of the whalers, often exceeds a hundred feet in length. In his whaling voyages Captain Scoresby was often in circumstances of ex- treme peril. One instance which he records, we mention, as exhibiting the personal ener- gy of the man. It was in May, 1814, in the ship Esk, of Whitby, when a spacious opening of the ice, in latitude 780 10, lon- gitude 40 east, tempted him to push in, from REV. DR. SCORESBY. the appearance of a great number of whales. The ship was soon fixed immovably in the ice. After great labor and frequent danger, many days being spent in sawing through the fixed floe, or forcing a passage through masses of ice, from which the vessel often received alarming shocks, open sea was de- scried, but with a barrier consisting of an immense pack right across the path. There was no alternative but forcing through it; we therefore pushed forward into the least connected part. By availing ourselves of every advantage of sailing, where sailing was practicable, and boring or drift- ing where the pieces of ice lay close together, we at length reached the leeward part of a narrow channel, in which we hacP to ply a considerable distance against the wind. When performing this, the wind, which had hitherto blown a brisk breeze from the north, increased to a strong gale. The ship was placed in such a critical situation that we could not, for above an hour, accomplish any reduction of the sails; and while I was per- sonally engaged performing the duty of a pilot on the topmast-head, the bending of the mast was so uncommon that I was seriously alarmed for its stability. After some days of further peril, the ship was safely brought to the open sea. To those who have rend Captain Scorebys book, or who knew him personally, we need scarcely add that on this and on all such oc- casions he was open in his devout gratitude to the Divine providence, which the most daring and skilful navigators have always been the most ready to acknowledge and ex- press. After his retirment from active service at sea, Captain Scoresby resolved to enter the church; and after holding appointments in less congenial localities, he found in the mar- itime town of Hull a sphere which afforded full scope for his benevolent efforts for the social and spiritual welfare of sailors. In his personal exertions and professional duties he was active and unwearied ; and his pub- lished Discourses to Seamen exhibit the earnestness and kindness with which he la- bored in his new vocation for the good of the service in which he had passed his earlier years. In the progress of Arctic exploration Dr. Scoresby continued to take the deepest inter- est. Although he had from the first thought kDcLxxxIV. LIVING AGE. VOL. xviii. 4 that the attempts to find a north-west pas- sage to the Chinese seas were unprofitable for any political or commercial object, he considered that the scientific i~esults justified all the risk and expense of the expeditions; while, even in r~gard to financial returns to the nation, the establishment of the Davis Strait Whale fishery, and of the trade of the Hudsons Bay Company, had compensated for the expenditure of national noney in the early voyages of discovery. We may re- mark here that Captain Scoresbys visit to the island of Jan Mayen afforded one of the most remarkable proofs of the existence of a communication between the Northern Sea and the Pacific Ocean. Lie found on the shores of that singular island, on which he landed, and which he partly explored, pieces of drift wood bored by a ptinus or pliolas. Neither of these animals ever pierce wood in Arc- tic countries, and hence he concluded that the ~vorm-eaten drift had been borne by cur- rents from a transpolar region. The notion of a constantly open polar sea Captain Scoresby always believed to be chimerical, and at that time none of the observations had been made which have since led to the rene~val of a belief in its existence. In speaking of the island of Jan Mayen, he mentions, as a striking proof of the clearness of the atmosphere in these climates, that he saw the peak of Beerenberg, the height of which is 6780 feet above the level of the sea, at a distance, by observation, of between ninety-five and a hundred miles. He also noticed, when on the island, on a summit of a mountain 1500 feet in height, a magnifi- cent crater, forming a basin of 500 to 600 feet in depth, and 600 to 700 yards in diam- eter, while jets of smoke, discharged at in- tervals of every three or four minutes, re- vealed the existence of unextinguished vol- canic action. The scientific career of Dr. Scoresby in the latter years of his life is well known to most of our readers. The Edinburgh Phil- osophical Journal, and various scientific pe- riodicals, were enriched by occasional contri- butions from his pen on a variety of & bjects of natural history and meteorology. To the observation of magnetical phenomena he had long devoted his closest attention, and his Magnetical Investigations, published at intervals from 1839 to 1843, and the conclud- ing volume in 1848, contain a vast amoun1~ 49 REV. DR. SCORESBY. of valuable materials for philosophical in- duction. His reports to the British Associ- ation, and his numerous observations on the influence of th~ iron of vessels on the com- pass, were connected with inquiries of the ut- most practical importance to navigation. It was in prosecuting these researches, and with a view to determine various questions of mag- netic science, that Dr. Scoresby undertook a voyage to Australia, from which he returned last year, with his constitution much enfee bled from the arduous labors to which he had subjected himself. His name will be ever remember with honor among those who, by their character and their services, have sus- tained the reputation and extended the influ- ence of the British name by the peaceful tri- umphs of science and humanity. Dr. Seoresby was~ a Fellow of the Royal Societies of London and Edinburgh, and a Corresponding Member of the Institute of France. CALICO-PRINTING versus Opzuu. As affect- ing ourselves, we mean British interests at large, inclusive of those of our empire in the East, the consequences of a relinquishment of the trade in opium with China, would he, in the first instance, an earnest endeavor to de- velope in a fuller degree the several elements of national wealth throughout the peninsula, from the Punjab to Pegu, and from the temperate flanks of the Hymalaya to Cape Comorin. In five years, or less time, the Indian revenue would have recovered itself, and far more than recovered the momentary defalcation. But the second of these results of such a course would be a gradual and indefinite enlargement of the British commerce with China and the Eastern Islands. China, even if it continued to consume opium, would obtain it at a fraction of the pres- ent cost; and its twenty millions of silver would be annually available for the purchase of commodities, which, instead of paralyzing the national industry, stimulate and feed it, and open before it new fields of gainful enterprise. Instances many and various in illustration of this assumption might be adduced: take one. Any one who may chance to have seen those samples of Chinese dyed woven fabrics which at different times have .been exhibited in Man- chester, will have gathered from these speci- mens two inferences; first, that from whatever causes, whether of climate, or of chemical in- telligence, or of manipulative skill, the Chinese dyer is likely to beat us, perhaps always, in bringing out brilliant and deep-toned colors, the blues, the purples, the crimsons. But then the woven tis~ue to which these rich dyes are imparted are far outdone in evenness of thread and beauty of texture by the looms of Lan- cashire; our machinery does its office, both as spinner and as weaver, in a manner which defies rivalry. And although we do not reach the splendors of Chinese colors, (not in woven fabrics any more than in decorated potteries,) we are able, and on terms of the extremest cheap- ness, to print what we weave: the printed goods of Lancashire will please the people of China, if only we first send to China for the pattern, and then faithfully copy it. On this ground, then,it is one among many instances,there is a division of labor instituted between nations on the opposite sides of the planet; it is adis- tribution of tasks whch is founded upon the nature of things within the two countries re- spectively; and it is therefore likely to be per- manent; nor is it out of reason to imagine that cotton groWn on the fiats of the Miassisippi and spun and woven in England, should be sent to China to be dyed, in whole colors, and then re- turned to the shops of London and Paris, tak- ing a ~place and commanding a price as goods not to be matched, and as evidences of what may be done when Europe, America, and Asia join hands and work upon a systema system which Nature has chalked out for them. Only take the poppy out of this world-wide field, and we shall all fare the betterChina, India, Eng- land, and America.North British Review. TYPE or A BURMESE VILLAGE.Select an easy, rolling slope, with knolls and tangled thickets, gently declining from a range of heavily timbered hills. Flank it on either side with interminable jungle, affording secure cover for the various forest-life. In front of all, train a wide, rapid, darkly, discolored stream., abundantly stocked with alligators, water-oxen, and other such fishy game; and fill up your background with teak-forests and remote moun- tains, with here and there some paddy-fields be.- tween, which shall pasture your wild elephants. Cover your ground with creepers, cactuses, canes, and various tropical vegetation in a wil- derness of profusion. In among these, plant your native bamboo huts as thickly as you can, and with picturesque freedom of arrangement. The Golden Dagon. GOTTIIOLDS EMBLEMS; or Invisible Things Understood by Things that are JJlade. By Christian Sinder, Minister of Magdeburg in 1671. Translated by the Reverend Robert Menzies, lloddam.~A. series of religious reflec- tions on incidents, natural phenomena, and any thing that turns up capable of being what is called improved. The book resembles some modern works having a similar object; each reflection being devoted to a day in the year, the present volume coming down to June 30. ruring the life of the author, and for some time after his death, the Emblems were very popular. They dropped out of sight dur- ing the cold and artificial days of the eighteenth century, to have their German popularity re- stored in the present age.Spectator. 50 GERMAN LOVE. From Frasers Magazine. GERMAN LOVE.* EVERY human face, say the learned in these matters, carries written upon it the story of its owner. The prevailing thoughts have shaped the organs; the prevailing pas- sions have furrowed the lines. No emotion, whether of joy or sorrow, passes off without leaving behind it the pencilled traces of its presence. It may he so. We need not quarrel with a theory which for the present is no more than a speculation. The gener- ality of mankind are happily but indifferent phrenologist, and, for our time at least, are likely to be spared a knowledge, which if it ever comes, will make the world intolerable. We have no anxiety to find a window opened into our consciences, to take the public behind the scenes, where we can be seen, stripped of our stage dresses, in naked sim- plicity ; and still less have we a desire to pry curiously into the secrets of others. The living torrents which, for eighteen out of each four-and-twenty hours, stream along our streets, are made up of units, each of whom has a history that would infallibly interest us if we knew it. Every one of them is struggling, suffering, loving, hating, failing, succeeding, doing everything of which the most delightful novel is but a feeble counterfeit; and our feelings, if we were admitted to all these confidences, would speedily be worn threadbare by perpetual friction. Here, too, as in most other things, we have cause to think the world well made; that it is well for us all that we are allowed the exclusive custody of our own secrets. Further, as we are able to keep our story to ourselves, so it seems as if, for the most part, we were intended to keep it to our- selves; as if human beings should be known to one another only as they come in contact in action and life, while the rest lies between each particular man and his Maker, or should be made known only where reserve is melted down by affection. The interest which the world might feel in any given story is no suf- ficient reason for communicating it. All an- cient literature would not be too high a price to pay for a knowledge of those first thirty years in which the carpenters Son was sub- ject to His parents in Galilee. But our cii ~ Deutsche Liebe. Ans den Papieren cines Fremdlings. Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus. London: Williams and Norgate. 1857. riosity is altogether ungratified; we are told as much as there is any occasion for us to know. Yet although concealment be the rule, it is at times suspended by peculiar ircum- stances. More than one remarkable man, in the last and the present century especially, has chosen to make mankind his confessor; and has either shadowed out in fiction, or related in actual narrative, his experiences outward and inward. Goethe and Words- worth considered it their duty to expose the structure and growth of minds which had exercised so vast an influence over their con- temporaries. Rousseau, from some unex- plained impulse, laid bare in his own person the diseases of which the world was sick. It is idle to examine the motives of such things. Men of genius are sometimes driven to what they do by a force which they can neither resist nor understand; and in these rare instances, where a real mind is really revealing itself, the result is its own excuse. Of a similar kind, and similarly also to be explained, is the little book which is the subject of the present article. German Love,from the Papers of an Alien, may not be strictly an autobiography, but it bears about it the unmistakeable impress of reality. It is the work of an uncommon man, who has sought relief for some inward sorrow by throwing it into a narrative; and although the beauty of the story forbids us to wish that it had not been written, yet it is difficult wisely to speak of it. The writer, whoever he may be, is highly gifted, both in intellect and feeling. The passionate outpourings of such a person are not to be coldly criticized, and we should have pre- ferred perhaps to pass by the book in silence, were it not, first for its most rare merit, and secondly, for the close and intimate ac- quaintance which the author shows with England and the most modern English liter- ature. He calls himself an alien. He is perhaps one of the many waifs and strays which these late years have cast upon our shore, and his book is the explanation of his exile. The subject of it is the common one love and disappointment. But the love and the disappointment are peculiar. The nature of them will be best seen by extracts, if a translation can convey tolerably the meaning of language which has been chosen 51 GERMAN LOVE. with elaborate care. The following is from the opening page: Childhood has its mysteries and its won- ders, but who can describe themwho can interpret them? We have all passed through this enchanted forest. There has been a time with each of us when we have looked around in perplexity of happiness, and our spirits have steeped themselves in the fair reality of life. Then we knew not where we were, or what we were. Then the whole world was ours, and we were the worlds. That was an eternal life, without beginning and without end; without inter- ruption or pain. Our hearts were bright as the sky in spring, fresh as the fragrance of the violet, calm and holy a~ a Sunday morn- ing. And what disturbs this peacc of God in the child? How is this innocent, uncon- scious existencc brought to an end? How are we driven forth from this Eden of union and communion, and left desolate and alone on the outer earth. Say not, thou with the solemn brow, say not that it is sin. Has the child lea~rit to sin? Say rather that we do not know, and that we must be resigned. And yet it is so sweet to look back into the spring-time of lifeagain to gaze into its sanctuaryto remember. Yes, in the sultry summer heats, in the sad autumn and the cold winter, there comes here and there a spring day; and the heart says, I, too, feel as though it were spring : such a day it is to-day, and here J lie in the balmy forest, and stretch my weary limbs; I gaze upward through the green leaves, and think how it was with me in childhood. All seems a blank. The first pages of memory are like an old family Bible, the opening leaves faded, soiled, or crumpled. Only when we turn on, and come to the chapters which tell how Adam and Eve were driven out of Paradise, it begins to be clear and legible. We have next an exquisite picture of a German home, as it appears idealized in its simplicity: the loving mother ; the great church, with its gilt cross; the palace opposite the gate, with the eagles on its pinnacles, and the great banner floating from its central turret. The family are intimate with the Prince, and the boy grows up the playfellow of the royal children. Among the latter is one, the Princess Maria, the eldest daughter, who had lost all use of her limbs, and with a heart complaint in addition, has looked every day for death. She is older than the rest, a sort of guar dian angel, as they loved to consider her. On.e day, when her illness was at its worst, She took five rings which she wore on her hand, drew them off one after another, and looked so sad and yet so get~le, that I shut my eyes to prevent myself ~romn weep- ing. The first she gave to her eldest brother, kissin~ him as she placed it on his finger; the second and third she gave to her two sisters, and the fourth to the youngest prince; kissing each of them also. I was standing by; I looked fixedly at her, and I saw that she had one ring yet remaining; but she leaned back and seemed exhausted. Presently she caught amy expression; and as a childs eyes speak aloud, she saw easily what was passing in me. I did not wish for her ring; but I felt that I was a stranger, that I did not belong to her, that she did not love me as she loved her brothers and sisters; and this gave me a shooting pain, as if I had burst a vein or bruised a nerve. She raised herself up, laid her hand on my forehead, and looked at me so searchingly, that I felt she was reading my every thought. Then she drew the ring slowly off and gave it to me, and said, I had intended to have taken this one with me when I went from you, but it is better that you should have it, to remind you of me when I am gone. Read the words which are written on the edge, As God will. You have a passionate heart and a soft one ; may it be tamed by life, and not hardened. She then kissed me as she had done her brothers. I can hardly describe my feelings. I was a bo~y then, and the gentle beauty of the suf~ fering angel had not been without its charm for my young heart. I loved her as a boy can loveand boys love with a devotion, a truth, a purity, which few preserve in youth and manhood; but I thought she was a stranger whom, if I loved, I must not say that I loved. I scarcely heard her words; I only felt that our souls were as near as two human souls can be. The bitterness was gone. I was no more alone; I was not an alien, divided from her by a chasm. I was beside her, with her, and in her. I would not take the ring. If you would give it me, I said, you must keep it, for what is yours is mine. She looked at me for a moment, surprised and thoughtful. Then she replaced it on her finger, and again - kissing my forehead, answered softly, You knownot what you say. Learn to under- stand yourself, and you will be happy and make others happy also. Time passes. The Princess lingers on in life; the boy goes out into the world, and at length returns as a young man, when he is again thrown with her. A feeling rises 52 GERMAN LOVE. between them which is not love in the ordi- nary sense of the word, but intellectual sympathy. Their minds are touched deeply with the mystic philosophy of the fifteenth century. They discuss the Deutsche Theo- logic, and from thence, and in the mystic spirit, our own most modern English writers; Carlyle, Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Matthew Arnold. They spend their days ia a Swiss cottage attached to the palace. The misfortune of the lady throws her off her guard. She sees no reason why the playfellow of her childhood should not be the companion of her age. At length prudent people are alarmed. The delightful meetings are brought to an end. He is recommended to travel, and wanders with an aching heart into the Tyrol. Thither, however, his fate follows him. The Princess on the death of her mother has inherited an estate among the Tyrolese mountains, and there he agaia meets her. She has been warned ia the interval. A marriage, even if her health had allowed it, was inadmi%si- ble between the high-born lady and the unknown student, and a philosophic friend- ship was properly considered dangerous. She tells him that they must see one another no more. I have caught hold upon your life (she says), forgetting how slight a touch will rob the flower of its petals. In my ignorance of the world, I never thought that a poor suf- ferer such as I could inspire any feeling stronger than compassion. I welcomed you warmly and frankly because I had known you so long, because your presence was a delight to me, because (why should I not confess it?) because I loved you. But the world does not understand this love, and does not tolerate it. The whole town is talking of us; my brother the Regent has written to the I~rince, and requires me to end our intimacy. I am very sorry to have caused you so much suffering: say only that you forgive me, and let us part friends. Such words can produce but one effect. She is speaking at a disadvantage; a summer twilight amidst mountains and lakes and yellow moonlight are poor supporters to prudence. The old struggle begins again between man and the world; the individual soul fluttering against the bars of its prison, and crying out against social despot- ism. When I recal the stories of my friends, he passionately pleads, I could tell you volumes of tragedies. One loved a maiden, and was loved in return; but he was poorshe was rich. Parents and rela- tions despised him, and two hearts were broken. Why? Because it is th~ght a misfortune that a ladys dress s~~uld be made from the wool of a plant in America, rather than from the fibres of a worm in China. Another loved a maiden, and was loved in return ; but he was a Protestant she was a Catholic. Mothers and priests disagreed, and two hearts were broken. Why? Because, three centuries before, Charles the Fifth, Frances the First, and henry the Eighth played a political game at chess. A third loved a maiden, and was loved in return; but he was nobleshe was plebian. The sisters were jealous and two hearts were broken. Why? Because, a hundred years ago, a soldier slew another who was threatening a kings life in battle. He was rewarded with titles and honor, and his great grandson atones with a blighted life for the blood which was then shed by him. Each hour, say the collectors of statistics, some heart is broken; and I believe it. But why? Because in all but all cases the ~orld will not permit us to love each other un1 ess we are connected by some peculiar tie. If two girls love the same man, one must be sacrificed. If two men love the same woman, one or both must be sacrificed. Why? Can one not love with- out wishing to appropriate?~ Since, however, there is no alternative, he asks her whether, rather than submit to separation, she will brave the worlds dis- pleasure. They love each other with all their hearts. Let them marry. She is silent for a time. At length she says: I am yours. God will have it so. Take me as I am. While I live, I live for you. May God join us again hereafter in a fairer world, and reward you for your love! The Princess consents; but the Destinies are unrelenting. Another solution awaits the difficulty. She had been warned against excitement, and the struggle had been too much for her. In the night which follows this scene, her heart stops suddenly, and cannot recover itself. Her lover wakes in the morning to receive her last mesaage, the ring with the inscription on it, Wie Gott will~ And days and weeks and moons and years are gone (he says). My home has become strange to me, and a strange land is 53 GERMAN LOVE. my home; but her love remains for me; and as a tear falls into the ocean, so has my love for her dissolved in the living ocean of humanity, and interpenetrates and envel- opes millionsmillions of those strangers whom from my childhood I have so loved. Only oa still summer days, when I am lying afone in the green forest of nature, and know not whether beyond its circle there breathe any other men, or whether I am solitary upon the earth, then the past stirs again in the churchyard of memory. Dead remembrances rise up out of their graves. The omnipotence of passion flows back into my heart, and streams out towards that fair being who again is gazing on me with her deep, unfathomable eyes; and then my affection for the millionsis lost in my affection for the one, and my thoughts sink baffled before the inscrutable mystery of the finite and infinite love. With these words the book ends. Were it a fiction, the story would have been made more complicated, or would have been told ST. PAULS JOURNEY TO D~uAscus.Allow me to ask what ancient authority exists, either in sculpture or painting, for representing St. Paul as having been on horseback when travel- ling on his memorable journey towards Damas- cus? In our translation of the Bible~ the expres- sions used are as he journeyed (Acts ix. 3., iropci9caOat); and the Apostle himself says, as I made my journey (Acts xxii. 6., rropcv ~ The same words, we see, are employed both in the Greek and English in the two pas- sages. Lord Lyttelton in his Observations on St. Pauls Conversion, uses the phrase: Those in company with Saul fell down from their horses, together with him. Doddridge expresses himself much in the same manner: He fell to the ground, being struck from the be~st on which he rode, as all that travelled with him likewise were. In the recent valua- ble work. (by Conybeare and Howson), The Life and Epistles of St. Paul, the writers say: We know not how he travelled : there is no proof that he was on horseback, although it is very probable, (vol. i. p. 91.). In Reubens noble picture, now at Leigh Court, which Waagan terms a masterpiece, St. Paul is represented as having been thrown over the head of his spirited long-maned horse; and the horses of three of the attendants rearing and running away. The same also would appear to be the tradi with less intensity of passion. Only real life can provide materials at once so simple and so beautiful. Whether, however, it is well for nAto dwell in this way over suffer- ings which in some degree fall ~rus all, whether the wise man does not rather let the dead bury their dead, and livenot in a past which is beyond his control, but in a present and future which are in some degree his ownis a furthur question. The heart knows its own bitterness; it is rare that we can wisely advise others, far less undertake to judge them. If the author has found any true comfort in writing this book, it is well. German literature has received a fresh orna- ment; and a noble nature has shaken off some portion of its distress. But sorrow, if a good medicine, is a dangerous food. There is a luxury of grief, which, like opium, seems to soothe, yet is stealing into the veins like poison, and the victim sinks at last in despair. tional view of the Greek Church, from a wood- cut of the conversion Qf St. Paul, which has been described to me by a friend, who saw it in an old Russian Primer taken from a corpse on the field of Alma. In various pictures of modern date, and also on the pediment of our metropolitan cathedral: That stupendous frame, Known by the Gentiles great Apostles name, he is represented by the sculptor Bird, as fal ling from his horse. This piece of sculpture contains eight large figures, five of which, be side that of St. Paul, are on horseback. Walpole, when speaking of this work, is not very complimentary: Any statuary (he says) was good enough for an ornament at that height, and a good statuary had been too good. St. Paul, it will be recollected, carried letters from the high priest to the synagogues in Damascus. The political state of that city, where his name was known, was at the time somewhat critical; his journey was, therefore, invested with some importance. The length of the journey may be computed at 136 mil~s, which is travelled by caravans in about six days. St. Pauls position, therefore, - and the distance to be traversed, are material facts in forming an opinion on this question, and lead us to infer that the journey would not be performed on foot..JVbtes and Queries 54 MEMOIRS OF MARSHAL MARMONT. From The Atheunum. Memoirs of Marshal Marmont, Duke of Ragusa,from 1792 to 1841[Memoirs du Mare~chal Marmont, 4~c.] From the On- ,qinal Manuscript of the Author. Vol. v. Paris, (Perrotin.) IT was originally announced that these Memoirs, ocupying ten volumes, would extend over the period from 1792 to 1832,we are now informed that Marrnont brought his narrative down to the year 1841; and the publishers promise to complete the work in eight large volumes. The Mar- shal of the Empire, therefore, may he expected to become the critic of the Citizen-King. But why was it intended at first to. suppress these later chapters ?and why has that de- termination been revoked? The Marshal himself desired that his chronicle should be produced to the public literally as it was written. It is to be hoped that the editors have not ventured to be discreet,for any exercise of discretion on their part might materially impair the value of the Me- moirs as a new quarry to supply the his- torical architect. Hitherto we have detected no traces of reserve or mutilation. The nar- rative itself is an unchecked commentary on characters and events,while the illustra- tive correspondence throws a thousand lights and shadows on the civil and military policy of the Emperor Napoleon. Some of his most characteristic letters are here preserved. We see him here as he was seen by his mar- shals,we follow his plans as they were originally traced on paper,we understand, even more clearly than before, that it was the mortal disease of vanity which reduced him, until he became, at St. Helena, the attenuated shadow of his former self. In 1813, after the wreck of the Grand Army in Russia, the repulse ip Spain, the eruption of discontent in France,he still boasted of his power to arbitrate betweeti empires and to determine the destinies of Europe. The glory of Lutzen gave a new stimulus to this infatuation. Moscow was remembered as an accidentSalamanca as an insignificant variation from a course of victory ;success was present, and Napoleon, with new hosts in the field, prophesied for himself a new Austerlitz and a new Marengo. Neither Marmont, nor any other general admitted to the military council, ever seems to have hazarded a doubt of the Imperial policy; a humble suggestion, in a strategic sense, was all that the mighty Dukes or Marshals ven- tured to interpose between the will of the Emperor and the obedience of the vast human organization at his command. The Duke of Ragusa remained f~r some time in Paris before entering upon the cam- paigns of 1813. Two months and a fortnight of the courtly indolence of the capital formed, he says, an epoch in his life. The brilliance of the Empire was new to him. For nine years he had sojourned in camps, while Na- poleon, in servile imitation of the past, had been ordering uniforms for the grand officers of the state, compiling tables of pre- cedence and codes of etiquette, and busying himself with a theatrical restoration of ancient ceremonies. Marmont was not un- conscious of the humiliation imposed on a soldier by compelling him to wear a Maca- ronic costume, and to contrast his scars with the silken softness of a ladys page. A Marshal of the Empire was no more than a private in Napoleons camp, and a livened servant at Napoleons court. Meanwhile, what were the reflections then passing through every serious mind? That the Em- peror was a political suicidethat the Grand Army no longer existedthat thousands of Frenchmen in Prussia and at Dantzig still suffered miserably from the consequences of his insane ambition, that enemies were mul- tiplying and friends becoming fewer :yet France, affirms Marmont, was not unwilling to give Napoleon one more opportunity of re- gaining his position in Europe. It was hoped that he had been corrected, and that France might at length enjoy the consciousness of power in the bosom of re- pose. Levies were made without difficulty, ~nd even with enthusiasm. An immense & mand for horses was responded to without murmurs and without delay. All went for- ward so rapidly that it seemed as if armies were starting out of the earth. Marmont, high in command, restored to the Imperial confidence, still full of ambitious illusions, then entered upon the German campaign of 1813. He describes particularly the entire series of incidents leading up to the Battle of Lutzendetails which must have a special interest for the military reader. After the first great conflict, he lay down to rest on the ground: Suddenly, I heard the a of cavalry the Prussians were coming down upon us. MEMOIRS OF MARSHAL MARMONT. The state of my wounds rendered it impera- tive that I should take some precautions for my own safety, and having no time to mount, I threw myself into the centre of the square formed by the 37th regiment of light infantry. This regiment at that time ill-organized, though since become very effective, aban- doned itself to panic and fled. At the same time my staff and escort got away from the point at which the enemys charge was tak- ing place. The unhappy regiment in retreat mistook them for the Prussians, and fired upon them. hurried along by the movement, my very soul was grieved by the error which I saw had been committed; our poor officers were being slain by our own hands; yet I fancied that the Prussians must be mixed up with them. Accordingly,not being so hot-beaded as Nelson at TrafalgarMarmont took himself out of the way, with his hat, under his arm, that the enemy might not recognize the white plumes of a Marshal. The next attack was vigorously repulsed, and Lutzen was a de- cided victory. I am once more the master of Europe! said Napoleon to Duroc in the evening. The road to Dresden was open. Marmont advanced along it. The Russian Emperor and the Prussian King, who, within forty-eight hours had established their head- quarters there, retired with precipitation, and the French made a triumphant entry. During the period preceding this event, which seemed to revive the lustre of the Imperial arms, Marmont had been in con- stant communication with Napoleon. The Emperors instructions were, as usual, minute and decisive, lie left little discre- tionary power in the hands of his confiden- tial military agentfor such, in effect, was the Marshal. Every thing was initiated by him, every thing was directly subject to his control. The Seventeenth Book of the Memoirs~ contains the history of the campaign, from the passage of the Elbe at Priesnitz, to the Battle of Dresden, and the minor engage- inents of Possendorf, Falkenheim and Zurn- wald. Duroc and Moreau disappear from the scene. The armistice of Pleiswig and the Congress of Prague were followed by a fresh impulse given to the war by the ego- tistic confidence of the Emperor and the re- sentful contumacy of the Allied Powers. The Prussians, says Marmont, fought with real hatred against the french. After the day at Ileisenbach, Duroc was killed by a stray ball. Though a Duke of the Empire, a Grand Marshal and a favorite, he had fallen into a melancholy and jealous mood, and said to Marmont My friend, the Emperor is insatiable in his love of conflict: but we shall rest hereit is our destiny. On the same day he received his mortal wound, dying on the morrow in atrocious torment. Napoleon when he had lost Duroc was surrounded only by his fiat- terers, and theirs was the only counsel he cared to receive. The victory of Bautzen came after that of Lutzen, to enhance the deception that possessed his mind; yet both battles were without result. Europe was rising against its conqueror; but his armies, magnified by immense additional levies, inspired him with unlimited courage, and when, during the armistice, Metter- nich pointed to the prodigious combination against him, he answered Ah, well, the more numerous you are, the more certainly and the more easily I shall beat you? Prince Metternich quitted him after a con- versation which lasted ten hours, having lost all hope of entering into any negotiations which could possibly end in peace. On his part, Napoleon abandoned himself to the idea that Austria would remain neutralfor his last words were, as Metternich went out at the door, Well, then, you will not make war upon me? As a last resource, the Congress of Prague was convened, but vainly. The IFrench Plenipotentiaries declared themselves to be without instructions. At midnight, on the 12th of August, 1813, the last day of the armistice, the Allies declared that hostilities would commence on the 16th. On the 12th the Plenipotentirries received their powers, but too late. This proceeding, Marmont declares, was highly ~haracteristic of the Emperor: Napoleon, during the latter years of his reign, preferred losing all to ceding any thing. In this respect his character had undernone a great modification. lie was no longer the young hero of Italy, who had known how to renounce the immediate hope of taking Mantua, and who had even re- signed himself to the abandonment of a hundred and fifty siege guns, then in the trenches, that he might march, give battle to the enemy in the field, and return to re- surne the execution of his project. If, in 1813, Napoleon had made peace (which he 56 MEMOIRS OF MARSHAL MARMONT. 57 might have done with honor after his victo- found him an excellent, unpretending corn- ries at Lutzen and Bautzen), he might have panion. He lavished much friendliness upo~i received considerahle advantages to himself, me. I repaid this good will hy the patience while he satisfied the puhlic opinion of with which, day after day, 1 listened to his France. lIe would have recompensed his stories about his kingdom. He often spoke country for the efforts it had made to sus- to me of the affection entertained 4y his tam him. * * lIe might, in two or three subjects towards him. There was a~ort of years, have recommenced the struggle with laughable candor in his language, betraying forces more complete and more iniposiug a profound conviction that he was necessary than ever ;but his passion dragged him to the happiness of the Neapolitans. Among on. his superior intellect undoubtedly sug- other things, he told me that, when he was gested to him the value of a temporizing about to quit Naples (his idea of departure policy; but a fire burned in his heart, a being a secret), he took a walk with the blind instinct led him on. * * This queen, and, hearing the popular aeclama- instinct, more powerful than reason, domi- tions around him, said to her, Ah, poor neered over his understanding. people they are ignorant of the misfortune Moreover, he had an insidious counsel- they are about to suffer. They know not br, says Marmont. This was the Duke of that I am going away! I listened smiling; but he, while he related the incident, seemed Bassano, who repeated continually these still touched by a sense of the public sorrows words Europe is waiting, and impatient he had caused. to know whether the Emperor will sacrifice The golden-coated horseman flattered him- Dantzig. Thus caressino~ the pride and self with the idea that he was a father to encouraging the pretensions of his master, the Duke of Bassano urged him forward in his people. Napoleon, the patron of the cause which led to the fall of Napo- these little kings, sometimes assumed the destruction of the Empire. airs of a moral philosopher, especially when leon and the he conversed in private with Marmont. Marmont, not daring to oppose his policy, He drew a distinction between a man of contented himself with discussing and blam- honor and a conscientious man, giving his ing his military plans. preference to the former, because, he said, The dissatisfied soldiers in the army before we know what to expect from a man who is Dresden mutilated their hands that they bound simply and purely by his words and might be incapable of further service. This his engagements, while in the other case we practice, according to the Major-General of depend on his opinions and feelings, which the Emperors staff, had become almost an may vary. He does that which lie thinks epidemic. In order to counteract it, Napo- he ought to do, or which he supposes is best Thus he added, my father-in- leon directcd that two men out of each di- law; the Emperor of Austria, has done that vision, upon being convicted of the offence, which he believes conducive to the interest should be ~hot in the presence of their corn- of his people. lie is an honest man, a con- rades, and issued a secret order that every cientious man, but not a man of honor. act should, in future, be punishable with You, for example, if the enemy had invaded death. This is a remarkable illustration of France arid stood upon the heights of Mont- the discipline which it was found necessary martre, you bclieve, perhaps with reason, to enforce in the ranks of the Grand Army. that the welfare of your country commands you to desert me, and you do it; you may From the date oC the.occupation of Dresden be a good Frenchman, a brave man, a con- all went wrong in the Council Chamber of scientious man, but you are not a m~n of the Emperor :he suffered many repulses in honor. the field,and, as usual, blamed his lieu- Then, a man of honor is not an honorable tenants. To Marmont he said, when the man. Allies seemed ready to displace him in the It may be imagined Jladds Marmont] theatre of war, The game is getting con- what an impression these words made upon fused; it is only I that can restore it to mean impression that has never been order. Upon~which the commentator re- effaced from my memory. marks, Alas ! It was he who had lost 1he terrible two days at Leipsic partially himself in this labyrinth. restored Napoleon to a sense of his position. Marmont describes King Murat as no less Marmont, his arm still crippled by his absurdly egotistical than King Joseph: Spanish wounds, received a shot through his I met Murat daily and familiarly. I band and a contusion on his left arm. One MEMOIRS OP MARSHAL MARMONT. ball had struck his hat, another had lodged In his clothes, and four horses were killed, or disabled, under him. His staff fell thickly around him as he rode. From Liepsic to the Elster, to Weissenfels, to Hanau, to Mayence, the French army fought its way. Our return to the soil of the Empire seemed to put an end to our sufferings; but, in reality, only suspended them for a mo- ment. We were destined, still later, to be overtaken by many a stroke of disaster and many a stroke of misery. So ends the Eighteenth Book of the Mar- mont Memoirs. The correspondence ap- pended to it proves that the Marshals plans of the campaign differed in some material points from those of Napoleon. As he had declined to become the Emperors brother-in- law, so he now refused to become, without a protest, his associate in insane expedi- tions; but Napoleon was desperate. Vigor- ous, unwearied, perpetually hopeful, he hurled his armies from place to place, as if convinced that success was his, by a right more indefeasible than that of any hereditary king of men. Issue this order to every column, he wrote, They must never pause to rest upon the spot where they have seen the sun go down. Night and day were devoted to the war. No degree of celerity could satisfy his impatience; no precision could appease his hunger for news from the several divisions. You send me officers who are mere children, who know nothing, and who can communicate verbally no information whatever. Send me men. Before the closing battle of the campaign, Napoleon issued the most exact instructions to his generals. To Marmont he wrote: Arrange your troops in two lines instead of three. A third rank adds scarcely any thing to your fire, and slill less to your bayonet charge. * * You will perceive the advantage of this. The eiemy, accus- tomed to count upon three ranks, will esti- mate our strength at one-third more than it is. Sometimes his impatience broke out in petulant complaints. After the brilliant defence of Schoenfeld, he omitted all notice of Marmont from his bulletin to the army. Marmont appeals bitterly against this invidi- ous reserve. I was ten hours under the fire of the enemy. * * Never at any period of my life, did I serve you more devotedly than on this occasion. There is not a soldier in the sixteenth corps who will not attest it; yet your Majesty does not deign to mention me in your recital of the events of this glorious day. Sire, next to the humiliation, and the still greater danger, of being under the com- mand of such a person as the Prince of Moskowa, I can imagine nothing worse than to see myself completely passed over amidst circumstances like these. Elba is in sight. There are not many stages to be traversed between Leipsic and Fontainebleau. Marmont already feels the Empire drifting from beneath the feet of a triumphant soldiery. The Emperor, he thinks, was unjust to him; he is now rigor- ously just to the Emperor. And it is with- out hesitation that he imputes to the defi- cient strategy and mental aberrations of Napoleon the calamities of 1813. No doubt, when Waterloo closes the cloudy and fiery scene, Marmont will throw a last asper- sion on the fame of his mighty commander. Few Frenchmen seem to have realized so un- mistakeably as he the sense of disgust and fatigue excited by the restless and devouring pride of the self-electe4 Ctesar. NAPOLEONS SrAR. One day, at Fontaine- bleau, Fesek was disputing harshly, as was his usual custom, indeed. The Emperor grew angry, and told him that he, a libertine, an in- fidel, had good grounds for a~suming such an hypocritical manner, & c. It is possible, said Feseb, but that does not prevent you from committing injustice; you are devoid of reason, justice, and pretexts; you are the most unjust of men. At the end, the Emperor took him by the hand, opened the window, and led him on to the balcony. Look up there, he said, do you see any thing? No, replied Feseb, I see nothing. Well, then, learn to hold your tongue, the Emperor went on; I can see my star; it is that which guides me. No longer dare to comp~re your weak and imperfect faculties to my superior organiza- tion. .Marmonts .Mernoirs. b8 LITTLE BAREFOOT. From The Literary Gazzette. Little Barefoot. By Ber~old Auerbach. [Barfuessele.] Stuttgart: Cotta. ONE of the most noteworthy characteris- tics of the present age is its tendency to self- examination. It is self-conscious, introspec- tive, continually feeling its own pulse. Its anxiety to know all about itself has created a new branch of sciencestatistics; and a new hranch of literaturethe social novel. The press, the pulpit, the platform, are con- tinually engaged in telling it what it ought to think about itself. The very historian of the past is expected to connect his subject with the present, by means of that ingenious invention, the historical parallel. Every writer of eminence must deliver his witness touching the tendencies of the times; well and good if he can felicitate the march of intellect and enlarge upon the demerits of the dark ages; if not the world is just as well pleased to lament over the decay of faith and feeling with all the gusto of a malade imaginaire. It is indeed a common weakness of mankind to make the most of trifling ail- ments and the least possible of serious disor- ders; hence, perhaps, the eagerness with which a generation in the enjoyment of un- exampled material prosperity, turns to pic- tures of poverty it has slightly felt, and of mental struggles it has hardly experienced. One great reason of the popularity of Herr Auerbach, which seems gradually extending to this country, is his mastery over each of these subjects of description, and his ability to combine both in the same book. He draws the life of the poor with marvellous fidelity, but the living objects of his delinea- tions are far from belonging to the class that is said to whistle for want of thought. Little Barefoot is always thinking of some- thing, or, if she ever ceases, Herr Auerbach himself comes forward and occupies us with two or three pages of cogitation, until his active little heroine is rested, and ready to trudge forward once again on her serious and shoeless journey. Little Barefoot is in fact a book of minute details of the outer life on the o~ie hand, and of the evolution of character on the & her, and it is difficult to determine which object occupies the first place in the authors design. Little Barefoot herself, as will easily be supposed, is an orphan girl, who, from small beginnings, and amid un 59 favorable belongings, grows up into the perfect woman, nobly planned. It is obvious that the sustained exhibition and gradual development of a character require powers far more unusual than those ~ieeded for the successful representation ofits ap- pearance at a particular period of life; and the reader of the story may see cause to be thankful that the vivid painter of rural manners and customs is at the same time the metaphysician who has written a life of Spinoza. Whether indebted to his philoso- phical training or not, Herr Auerbach is never for an instant oblivious of his key- note, which is struck in this wise in the initiatory chapter: Down a path between gardens, early on a misty autumn morning, two children, a boy and girl from six to seven years old, are going hand in hand towards the village. The girl, evidently the older of the two, carries a slate, books and copy-books under her arm; the boy has the same in a bag of gray linen, hanging open over his shoulders. The girl has a cap of white drill, reaching almost to the forehead, and bringing out the prominent arch of the brow; the boy has nothing on his head. Only one step is to he heard, for the boy wears stout shoes, but the girl is barefoot. Wherever the path allows, the children walk together, but where the hedges are too close, the girl always walks first. A white vapor lies upon the sallow foli- age of the bushes, and the haws and spindle- berries, but more especially the hips, bristling on their bare stalks, have all a silvery ap- pearance. As the children come along, the sparrows in the bushes set up a chirp and fly away in restless little troops and settle again at a short distance, once more to take flight and fix upon an apple tree in a garden, where their alighting brings down many a rustling leaf. A magpie darts from the path into a field, to the great wild pear tree where the ravens are cowering in tilence; she must have told them something, for they rise on the wing and circle round the tree, one old one alighting on the giddy topmost twig, while the lower boughs afford the others good places for a view. Doubtless it con- cerns them to know why the children with the school-books have taken the cross way, and are going out to the village, nay, one of them flies forward like a scout, and perches on a pollard willow by the pool. The chil- dren, however, go quietly forward till they have reached the high-road by the alders about the pond; they cross it, and go to a humble-looking house on the other side. 60 The house is shut up, the children stand at the door and knock gently. The girl cries courageously, Father ! Mother and Father! Mother! are - repeated by the boy in a more timid tone. The girl grasps the frosted latch and presses it gently ; the boards creak, she listens, but nothing ensues; and now she ventures to move the latch quickly up and down; the sound dies away in the dreary space within, and no human voice answers the boy, Who, with his mouth at a cranny, is again crying Father! Mother! He gazes inquiringly at his sister; while he has been looking down his breath has frozen on the door. The tone of the book never varies from that of this introduction ; the latched door remains fast, the hazy pallor of the autum- nal morning broods over these pages to their conclusion, though this is intended to be a happy one; the feet of the sister and the head of the brother remain their weakest parts respectively throughout, and, whenever the orphan pair are in a strait, the girl always goes first. Both characters are drawn with infinite skill, and it is difficult to say whether the delineation of the active self-reliance of the one, or of the feeble shiftlessness of the other, evinces the pro- founder knowledge of the human heart. The chief interest is, of course, concentrated apon Little Barefoots resolute battle with the external hardships of her lot, and the slow development of her mental powers slow, at least, till an apparently hopeless attachment comes to transfigure her whole existence. There are, however, many other characters drawn with force and truth. At one period of her life, for example, Little Barefoot lives with Black Maranne, a single woman of very independent and peculiar character. The great fact in her life is the absence of her son John, who has been away more than thirty years, whose return she continually awaits with feverish expect- ancy, but whom Little Barefoot, in common with the whole village, knows to be dead. No one, however, dare say a word, and Little Barefoot is compelled to listen in silence to the mothers hopes and fears for the dead: Amrei [i. e., Anna Maria, Little Bare- foofs Christian name] was herself often afraid in the long silent winter nights when she sat and heard notI~ing but the drowsy clucking of the fowls and the dreamy bleat- ing of the kid, and it really was like witch- LITTLE BAREFOOT. craft to see how fast Maranne spun. She herself once said, I think my John helps me to spin, and yet she complained that she could not think of him that winter so much as had been her wont. She reproached her- self on that account with b~ng a bad mother, and complained of feeli~o as if her sons features were gradually be~oining in- distinct, as if she were forgetting all that he had done, his laughing, singing, and crying, his climbing trees and jumping over ditches. It were terrible, she would say, if all this were to die away and nobody know any more of it, and she would then, with visible constraint, tell Amrei everything to the least particular, and Amrei felt fearfully uncom- fortable to hear all this said over and over again of a dead man, as if he were still alive. And again Maranne complained, It is really a sin that I should be able to weep no more for my John. I have heard once, that you can weep for a lost one as long as he lives and till he is decayed in the grave. When he has become dust, the tears are all dried up. No, that cannot be; my John cannot, must not, shall not be dead. * * * o joy! come, John, sit down here. Tell me nothing, I will know nothing, thou art here, and that is good. What matter where thou hast been? The long, long years have only been a minute. Where thou hast been I have not, and now thou art here and I have thy hand, and will not let it go till it is cold. Well, Amrei, John must wait till you are grown up; I say no more. Why dont you speak? Amrei felt as if a hand were upon her throat, the spectral dead seemed everlast- ingly before her; the secret rested on her lips, she might utter it, and then the roof would fall in, and there would be an end of evcry thing. After this we think herr Auerbaeh may safely entrust his claims to the arbitration of a jury of mothers. There is one English writer of whom his works remind us some- what forciblyMiss Martinean. There is the same shrewd, solid, somewhat hard com- mon sense; the same active and genuine benevolence; the same insight into character and the springs of action ; the same fidelity of description and power of producing ~ pie- - ture from the combination of minute details. It is due to him, however, to say that his stories, so far as we are acquainted with them, offer no traces of the dogmatictone that occasionally renders the English ladys books what the Latins euphemistically termed less agreeable. MENTAL CALCULATION. From The Athena3um. On Mental Calculation. By G. P. Bidder. From the Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers. Ma. GEORGE BIDDER 15 one of those won- ders of mental calculation of whom one appears from time to time. More than forty years ago he was exhibited by his father; and his extraordinary power raised him from the positioa of a common laborer, in which, as he says, he was born, to an honorable place in a scientific profession. And we will venture to guess that he had a sensible father,a very necessary appendage to a juvenile prodigy. All who have read the history of Zerah Colburn know how his prospects were blighted by his fathers want of judgment. Once, when young Bidder was exhibiting before a large school, and giving an idea what a nice thing it must be never to be kept in for arithmetic, the boys were invited to propose questions out of their Walkingame. One of the younger ones seeing a question with Newton in it, thought it must be some- thing very deep, and proposed it. It was Newton was born 1642 and died in 1727, how old was he when he died? On which the schoolmaster remarked Why, you stupid fellow, I could almost do that my- self. It is not Mr. Bidder who tells this story: we vouch for it ourselves. Newton used to say that he did not owe his discoveries to any particular sagacity, but to patience and attention. At this assertion of Newtons we laugh ; and Mr. Bidder will therefore not be offended at us when we laugh at his opinion that his peculiar power is attainable by any one who will devote time and attention enou~,h. In a sense this is true; any one can jump over the moon who will only jump high enough: and if any one who originally possessed an enormous jump- ing power had actually practised and prac- tised till he could go clear over the moon, that person would probably tell the rest of his species that as much practice would enable them to do the same. The truth is this: all men of extraordinary power of any kind, from Newton to the Wizard of the North, know that long attention and per- severance have been essentials of their suc- cess, and could not have been dispensed with. They know also that so far as their own will was concerned, attention and perseverance 61 were all they contributed ; and they forget what their own nature supplied, because they themselves were only concerned with drawing it out, and not with putting it there. If Smeaton had said that anj man could build a lighthouse among thn.waves who would observe and study enough, and had forgotten to stipulate for such a rock as the Eddystone,or, better still, had affirmed that every harbor has just such a rock, if people would only look for it,he would take his place in a company which contains Newton and many others, Mr. Bidder in- cluded. The fact is, that the exercise of talent is a game at which those who look on see more than the players. Mr. Bidder lays a very proper stress upon the cultivation of memory, as a means of arriving at excellence in mental arithmetic. But he seems to contend that any one who will practice will create memory of an order resembling his own. I admit [says he] that my mind has re- ceived a degree of cultivation in dealing with figures, in a particular manner, which has induced in it a particular power; I repeat, however, that this power is, I believe, capa- ble of being attained by any one disposed to devote to it the necessary time and attention. In other respects than numbers, I have not an extraordinary memory; indeed, I have great difficulty in learning any thing by rote. I may learn a page of literature or poetry, but it is no sooner learned than it is for- gotten. We shall make this pas.5age the text for a few remarks: the Lecture itself contains de- tails which amply justify the assertion that Mr. Bidder excels other arithmeticians as to natural gift, simply in memory for numbers. First, Mr. Bidder explains that he has no remarkable memory for other things. It would be strange if he had: the law ob- served is, that an excessive andnot to say morbidabnormal memory of one kind is generally accompanied by deficiency of other kinds. Those great desiderata, talent, judg- ment, and memory, which used each to be considered one and indivisible, are now well known to be of as many different kinds as there are different brain-works. To speak of memory only, one person will be able to remember isolated words, repeated by the hundred, but will never know a face until he has seen it many times; another will never forget a person whom he has seen once, and MENTAL CALCULATION. will never remember three words put to- gether. Mr. Bidder had a natural gift of memoryof potential memoryfor num- bers, requiring much practice to develope its full power; but still such as another person could not develope by practice, because not possessing the natural capacity. Again, Mr. Bidder says his mind has re- ceived a degree of cultivation in figures. From whom? From himself only. And why? Because the power sprouted, and the success of his first efforts gave that pleasure which those possessing extraordinary power feel in its growth. Minds in general cannot recieve that amount of cultivation, either from within or from without. Mr. Bidder says he has induced in himself a peculiar power. Not so; he has developed a power which his mental constitution contained. The activity of his mind in the process of developing that power is only one case of that universal provision by which the excite- ment to action is seldom less than propor- tional to the quantity of success attainable. Mr. Bidder states that he never had any great aptitude for mathematics. This fre- quently happens in cases of extraordinary numerical power. It does not always happen that mathematical and numerical power go together. Wallis and Euler were extraordi- nary mental computers; Newton had a re- spectable love of computation, but nothing excessive, and mentally nothing at all re- markable; Laplace was, if any thing, defi- cient; Lagrange was exceedingly deficient. The four spontaneous calculators whom we recall to mind are all proofs that memorg of numbers is the distinctive basis of their power. Jedediah Buxton was a peasant who never had any opportunity of trying himself in other things. Zerah Colburn was not extin- guished by his arithmetic,he was able to try the stage, and he ultimately became a clergyman in the United States. Mr. Bidder is a good engineer, and a sufficient mathe- matician. But the fourth instance is one in which the peculiar power is greater than in either; and greater to an extent which ex- tinguishes all other power whatsoever. A few years ago, Zachariah Dase was ex- hibited in London. Twelve figures being written downas 1 7 6 0 2 8 3 1 4 9 6 1 he would just dip his eye upon them, not resting on them more than half a second. He would then repeat them baokward6or forwards, and name any one at command, as the ninth or the fourth ; he would multiply by either one or two figures instantaneously, and would name the sum of several results. lie would then proceed to other $rials; and after spending half-an-hour on ~fresh ques- tions, if asked to repeat the figures he began with, and what he had done with them, he would go over the whole correctly. his power of calculation in higher questions was what might be supposed from the above. Now, Mr. Dase could do nothing but figure. He could not be made to have the least idea of a proposition in Euclid. Of any language but German he could never master a word. In literature, history, & c. he took not the smallest interest. He would read an ele- mentary book of arithmetic, working the questions as he went on, and, if not fur- nished with other work to do, would repeat it until he knew it by heart. He was, and probably is, a mere arithmetical machine, incapable of any thing out of calculation. The point to which we have paid most attention in this notice is the disposition of those who have a peculiar power, of the progressive development of which they are conscious, to suppose that the rest of the human race could do as much, if they paid as much attention. We once met a singular instance out of arithmetic. A professional musician, of immense power of execution, not only never practised on the instrument, but never had practised much. He played for his auditors and for his pupils, but never by himself. The fact was, that he was always practising mentally; and his fingers were in slight unconscious motion accord- ingly. The action of his thoughts was per- petually habituating his fingers to one diffi- cult passage or another. Now, this gentle- man used to maintain that anybody could learn any instrument in the same way. The great masters of whom we have been speaking, whether in arithmetic or any thi~g else, give this lesson to all mankind. The methods by which they develope their abun- dance are good, pro ratd, for those who have a less fertile soil to cultivate. If MTr. Bidder, by nature marked 10, can come to 100 by cultivation, then those on whom nuture has set the mark 1, may hope to arrive at 10 by the same methods. Mental calculation, and mental practise 6n the pianoforte, may do something for all; and this may be enforced 62 MENTAL CALCULATION. 63 by observing how much they have done for mantle, we do not believe he will lead them some. As the Scotch say, pluck at a gown to his measure of success. ,But we dare to of gold, and you will get a sleeve of it; if say that he will not send them on a sleeveless Mr. Bidder should induce any one to attempt errand. his methods, in the hope of getting his :4 BRITIsH MusEUM.Such of our readers a~ are interested in the matter will be glad to hear, not only that the new library and reading-room at the British Museum are approaching comple- tion, but that they will form one of the most splendid edifices of the kind in the world. Having had an opportunity of inspecting the progress of the works, we feel that this is not too muck to say, and we heartily declare our sincere conviction that the entire undertaking reflects the highest. credit upon all concerned, designers, promoters, architect, and construc- tors. We shall not weary and confuse our readers by a detailed acco~int of the building, its height, breadth, thickness, span of arch, cubic contents, tons of iron used, & c., & c. such particulars can only serve the purpose of a technical journal, and can give no definite idea to the general reader. It will be sufficient for us to say that the building appears to fill almost the whole of the large quadrangle around which the buildings which form the British Museum are built. The reading-room is one vast apart- ment, circular in form, and covered with an immense dome. The lighting comes from the dome and the walls; and when we say that it is as perfect in this respect as the Crystal Palace, it will be understood that there is nothing to be desired. The loftiness of the building, com- bined with an excellent system of ventilation, ensure an immunity from that atmospherical stuffiness which is one of the principal charac- teristics of the present reading-rooms; whilst the substitution of iron and stone for the build- ing materials formerly in use will probably render the propagation of the Museum flea entirely dependent upon the visitors themselves. The tables radiate from the walls towards the centre, leaving an open space for circulation around the circular tribune which stands in the middle of the apartment, where the tickets are to be taken and the books delivered. Two iron galleries run round the appartment, and in both of these, and upon the ground floor, the spaces between the windows are filled with shelves for books of reference intended for the free and un- controlled use of the readers. In the present Teading-rooms there is accommodation for about 14,000 of such volumes; but in the new room, great as is the space of wall surface allotted to lighting and ventilation, there wilJ be room for about 20,000 vohimes. These are all the facts which it seems necessary to relate of the read- ing-room; except, indeed, that it is constructed with a lightness combined with strength, an elegance combined with solidity, which rivet the attention and charm the eye directly you enter the door. So far everything is satisfactory; but on carrying your researches further fresh won- ders dawn upon you. Outside the reading-room is a gallery, three stories high, completely lined with double shelves for the accommodation of books; and all round that again, between the gallery and the outer walls of the building, is an ingenious and beautiful arrangement of galleries and corridors, a perfect maze of web- like iron-work, filling up al~ the boundaries and corners of the quadrangle, and calculated to contain one million of volumes. Stop a mo- ment, reader. Have you any idea of what is meant by a million of volumes, and what is required to accommodate that number? As- suming the breadth of each volume to be one inch (and that is not much when we consider the ponderous tomes with which great libraries a~bound), a million of volumes will fill fifteen miles and three-quarters of shelves! Assum- ing each volume to weigh one pound (and, con- sidering the heaviness of some authors, that is not much), the weight of such a library is about four hundred and forty-six tons and a half! Thanks to the peculiar form of the building, all these miles of shelves are rendered easy of access; and a system of heating by means of hot water pipes, and the almost utter absence of wood in the construction of the building, renders the risk of accident by fire almost inappreciable. The shelves for the books are all to be lined with leather, so as to lessen as much as possible the wear and tear by friction. The basement story is occupied by the hot air pipes, and by a gallery intended for the large collection of jour- nals possessed by the Museum. Altogether, we are at a loss which to admire mostthe taste and judgment with which the building has been designed, or the skill and energy with which the design has been executed. It is expected to be in a state of readiness for the public some time in the course of the autumn. Critic. ANTIQUITY OF BLAcK PUDDING.Even black- puddings were not only tolerated, but were fash- ionable; and when the throat of the ox was, as usual, cut nearly from ear to ear, the blood was caught to make a dish which was thought worthy of figuring in the kitchen of King Remeses. The mode of cutting the throat is still required, by Moslem law, in Egypt; but to eat the blood is unlawful. It was this custom of the country they had just left that made the Hebrew legislator so often warn the Israelites against eating the blood of animals; for while some of the Mosaic laws were in accordance with the patriarchal habits of their forefathers, many were directly introduced in order to cor- rect abuses they had adopted during their so- journ in Egypt. Wilkinsons Egyptians ii& - the Time of the Pharaohs. THE COLD WEDDING. SONNET.GONE. THE COLD WEDDING. BUT three gays gone, her hand was won By suitor finely skilld to woo: And now come we In pomp to see The Churchs ceremonials due. The Bride in white Is clad aright, Within her carriage closely hid; No blush to veil For too too pale The cheek beneath each downcast lid. White favors rest On every breast, And yet methinks we seem not gay. The church is cold, The priest is old, But who will give the Bride away? Nov, delver, stand, With spade in hand, All mutely to discharge thy trust. Priests words sound forth; Theyre Earth to earth, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust The Groom is Death; lie has no breath; (The wedding peals Wow slow they swing!) With icy grip He soon will clip Her finger with a wormy ring. A match most fair, This silent pair, Now to each othei given forever, Were lovers long, Were plighted strong, In oaths and bonds that could not sever. Ere she was born, That vow was sworn; And we must lose into the ground her face we knew: As thither you, And I, and all, are. swiftly bound. This law of laws That still withdraws Each mortal from all mortal ken, If twere not here, Or we saw clear, Instead of dim, as nowwhat then? This were not earth, and we not men. .~Illinghaias Poems. SONNET. BY CAnnER cAMPBEaL. THE loved are never lonely : round them still The air is rife with spiritual essences, Whose hauntingsas about sweet flowers the bees Pay musical obeisance, and fulfil Fond tasks and welcome, though invisible. Nor are the loving lonely: like far seas Where man is not, yet living things the breeze And pregnant wave inhabit, they have shed Deep in their hearts, howeer remote from life, Images of the absent and the dead, And therefore know not lpneliness ! Ala~ For him who loves not, is not lovedthe strife Of aimless action only his ! To pass Oer Earth, like frivolous words for~otten soon as said! Chambers .Tournal. GONE. Lssv to the midnight lone! The churchclock spoaketh with zolcriln to:;c Doth it no more than tell the time? hark, from that belfry gray, In each deep-booming chime which, slow and clear, Beats like a measured knell upon my ear, A stern voice seems to say: Gonegone; The hour is gonethe day is gene: Pray. The air is hushed again, But the mute darkness woos to sleep in vain. 0 soul! we have slept too long, Yea, dreamed the morn away, In visions false and feverish unrest; Wasting the work-time God hath given and blest. Conscience grows pale to see How, like a haunting face, My youth stares at me out of gloom profound, With rayless eyes blank as the darkness round, And wailing lips which say: Gonegone; The morn is gonethe morn is gone Pray. Wo for the wasted years Born bright with smiles, but buried with sad tears I Their tombs have been prepared By Time, that graveman gray. Soul, we may weep to count each mournful stone, And read the epitaph engraved thereon By that stern carvers hand. Yet weep not long, for Hope, Steadfast and calm, beside each headstone stands, Gazing on Time, with upward-pointing hands. Take we this happy sign, Up! let us workand pray. Thou, in whose sight the hoary ages fly Swift as a summers noon, yet whose stern eye iDoth note each moment lost, So let me live that not one hour misspent May rise in judgment on me, penitent, But, till the sunset, Lord, So in Thy vineyard toil, That every hour a priceless gem may be To crown the blind brows of Eternity. Chambers Journal. M. A. iD. 64

LITTELLS LIVING AGE..No. 686.-11 JULY, 1867. From The Examiner. a The Testimony of the Rocks: or, Geology in its Bearings on the Two Theologies, Natu- ral and Revealed. By Hugh Miller, Au- thor of The Old Red Sandstone, & c. Edinburgh: Shepherd and Elliot. To this volume there is attached an adven- titious interest, arising from the manner of its authors death within but a few hours after the last proofs were corrected. Its several chapters, except two which are en- tirely new, have been read as papers or lec- tures at sundry times and in sundry places, but they are so arranged as to pursue in a coherent way one subject of discussion, namely, the bearings of geology on our in- terpretation of the Scriptures. Mr. Miller, as it is well known, had raised himself from a very humble position in society to a high place in the esteem of educated people through out Europe, not only by his love of science, but at the same time by the genius very often displayed in his writing. He could put life into his old fossils when he brought them to the light of day and make us friends with them. He was a religious man, whose tendency it would have been, had not his mind been very diligently culti- vated, to animate for himself extinct forms of theology. his closing years were indeed much occupied with the editing of a Scotch newspaper with strict religious views. In his early writing Mr. Miller was content with the six days of twenty-four hours each for the work of creation which satisfied the minds of Chalmers and of Buckland. Upon this he says, in a preface to the present volume My labors at the time as a practical geologist had been very much restricted to the Palmozoic and Secondary rocks, more especially to the Old Red and Carboniferous Systems of the one division, and the Oolitic System of the other; and the long extinct organisms which I found in them certainly did not conflict with the view of Chalmers. All I found necessary at the time to the work of reconciliation was some scheme that would permit me to assign to the earth a high antiquity, and to regard it as the scene of many succeeding creations. During the last nine years, however, I have spent a few MDcLxxxv. LIVING AGE. YOL. xviii. 5 weeks every autumn in exploring the later formations, and acquainting myself with their peculiar organisms. I have traced them upwards from the raised beaches and old coast lines of the human period, to the brick clays, Clyde beds, and drift and boul- der deposits of the Pleistocene era, and again from these, with the help of museums and collections, up through the mammaliferous crag of England, to its Red and its Coral crags. And the conclusion at which I have been compelled to arrive is, in exact accordance with that of our most philosophical geologists. That is, indeed, the interesting fact connected with this final work of Mr. Millers. A writer whom the most strait-laced theologian cannot accuse of irreverence, who has been pious even as Glasgow would interpret piety, and who never has for an instant thought of setting reason above revelation, sums up his experi- ence by rebuke of the bigotry that finds antagonism between science and religion, declares that we must accept the Mosaic days as periods, must expect no scientific revela- tions in the Bible, must receive without fear the proved facts of geology, must admit, for instance, the belief that the whole earth has not at any time since man was made been covered with an universal deluge. The pur- pose of the book is to show that geology tends no more than astronomy has tended to the overthrow of a just faith in natural and revealed religion. The volume contains twelve lectures. Of these the first explains in a popular way the Palmontology of Plants. The vegetation of the earliest period was composed of plants. which contribute little, if at all, to the sup- port of animal life. The ferns which now represent them are untouched by grazing. animals, seldom eaten even by the insects. that infest herbaria; our club-mosses are deleterious, and the horse-tails, though. harmless, contain so much stone that they~ are rarely cropped by cattle. The singularly profuse vegetation of the~ Coal Measures was, with all its wild luxu- - riance, of a resembling cast. So far as ap-- pears, neither flock nor herd could have lived on its greenest and richest plains; nor does~ even the flora of the Oolite seem to have beeu~ THE TESTIMONY OF THE ROCKS. in the least suited for the purposes of the shepherd or herdsman. Not until we enter on the Tertiary pei~iods do we find floras amid which man might have profitably la- bored as a dresser of gardens, a tiller of fields, or a keeper of flocks and herds. Nay, there are whole orders and families of plants of the very first importance to man which do not appear until late in even the Tertiary ages. Some degree of doubt must always attach to merely negative evidence; but Agassiz, a geologist whose statements must be received with respect by every student of the science, finds reason to conclude that the order of the Rosacem,an order more im- portant to the gardener than almost any other, and to which the apple, the pear, the quince, the cherry, the plum, the peach, the apricot, the victorine, the almond, the rasp- berry, the strawberry, and the various brain- bleberries belong, together with all the roses and the potentillas,was introduced only a short time previous to the appearance of man. And the true grasses,a still more important order, which, as the corn-bearing plants of the agriculturist, feed at the present time at least two-thirds of the human species, and in their humbler varieties form the staple food of the grazing animals,.scarce appear in the fossil state at all. They are peculiarly plants of the human period. There is some pleasant comment in this lecture on the first appearance, with the flowers by which mans eye was to be re- freshed, of bees, in the amber of the Eocene. The second lecture describes briefly the Palmeontology of Animals. Here we pass over a not very philosophical discovery of a god of punishment in the creation of animals of prey ;it is hard to imagine in what way means of life and happiness could have been economized so perfectly and so mercifully as in making the death of one creature, sudden and free from torment of disease, the means of life and strength to others; we pass over this tribute to the rigorous old school of theology, and over a kindred homily on the degraded state of serpents, to quote a sug- gestive passage. It is a circumstance quite extraordinary and unexpected, says Agassiz, in his pro- foundly interesting work on Lake Superior, that the fossil plants of the Tertiary beds of Oeningen resemble more closely the trees and shrubs which grow at present in the eastern parts of North America, than those of any other parts of the world; thus al- lowing us to express correctly the difference between the opposite coasts of Europe tmd - America, by saying that the present eastern American flora, and, T may add, the fauna also, have a more ancient character than those of Europe. The plants, especially the trees and shrubs, growing in our days in the United States, are, as it were, old-~shioned; and the characteristic genera Lagomys, Chelydra, and the large Salamanders with permanent gills, that remind us of the fossils of Oeningen, are at least equally so ;they bear the marks of former ages. how strange a fact! Not only are we accustomed to speak of the eastern continents as the Old World, in contradistinction to the great con- tinent of the west, but to speak also of the world before the Flood as the Old World, in contradistinction to that post-diluvian world which succeeded it. And yet equally, if we receive the term in either of its acceptations, is America an older world still,an older world than that of the eastern continents , an older world, in the fashion and type of its productions, than the world before the Flood. And when the immigrant settler takes axe amid the deep backwoods, to lay open for the first time what he deems a new country, the great trees that fall before him, the brushwood which he lops away with a sweep of his tool,the unfamiliar herbs which he tramples under foot,the lazy fish- like reptile that, scarce stirs out of his path as he descends to the neighboring creek to drink,the fierce alligator-like tortoiss, with the large limbs and small carpace, that he sees watching among the reeds for fish and frogs, just as he reaches the water,and the little hare-like rodent, without a tail, that he startles by the way,all attest, by the antiqueness of the mould in which they are cast, how old a country the seemingly new one really is,a country vastly older, in type at least, than that of the antediluvians and the patriarchs, and only to be compared with that which flourished on the eastern side of the Atlantic long ere the appearance of man, and the remains of whose perished produc- tions we find locked up in the bess of the Rhine, or amid the lignites of Nassau. America is emphatically the Old World. The third lecture sets out with the asser- tion made fifty years since by Dr. Chalmers that the writings of Moses do not fix the antiquity of the globe. Reason is shown for the belief that the days of the Mosaic account of the creation were great periods, and in the next lecturethe fourththe opinion is adopted, and very ably advocated, that the cosmogony of Moses was described from Visions, each showing a typical part of a great period, and the seer being, with regard to each, an observer having his place on the earth itself for a point of view. There is a 60 THE TEbTIMONY OF THE ROCIKS. picturesque and characteristic passage in which Mr. Miller has reconstructed visions as they might have heen true both to science and to the letter of the text of Scripture. By the adoption of thi8 theory, since Moses described only what he saw, and was told nothing, every difficulty on the score of sci- entific error is got rid of. In a subsequent lecture Mr. Miller wisely says that God re- vealed nothing to man which he was able to discover for himself, and points out the great difference between false systems of theology, like the Hjndoo, which commit believers in them to distinct theories of nature, and the true system which, as in the Bible, never puts forward any cosmical theory at all, but speaks of natural things as they are seen naturally, and reveals to us only spiritual truth. In the fifth and sixth lectures Mr. Miller specially discusses Geology in its bearings on the two Theologies, the natural and the revealed. All the contents of these chapters are ingenious, and some are truly wise. The vindication of the dignity of man as de- clared equally by geology and theology, against Popes theory of a God who sees with equal eye a hero perish or a sparrow fall, is ably written. Ye are of more value than many sparrows, says Religion. Science says, in the words of Professor Owen, Man is the end towards which all the animal cre- ation has tended, from the first appearance of the first Pakeozoic fishes. This is Mr. Millers doctrine. We need hardly say that, ably and truly as this whole subject is rea- soned, the author becomes inevitably less philosophical when the doctrines of original sin and redemption come to be read dimly in the stones, and in the condition of existing tribes of men. In the second of these chap- ters there is a passage much too long for ci- tation, in which the author elaborates the substance of what, if sung by a great bard, might be one of the poems of the world. The subject of it is Satan watching the geo- logical formation of the worldthe course of the Divine worker. The next two chapters are uncompromising ones on the Noachian Deluge. It is not de- nied that all the race of men may have been swallowed up, except those in- the ark, but it is argued that they must have been assem- bled on a very limited part of the earths surface probably the depressed country round 67 the Caspian. It is denied that all the animals of earth were destroyed except those in the ark, or that the language of Scripture makes it necessary to believe in this instanq~ what science has disproved. The point is one respecting which, as certainly as respecting the creation of the world itself, or of the worlds inhabitants, there could have existed no human witness- bearing: contemporary man, left to the un- assisted evidence of his senses, must of neces- sity have been ignorant of the extent of the Deluge. True, what man could never have known of himself, God could have told him, and in many cases has told him; but then, Gods revelations have in most instances been made to effect exclusively moral purposes; and we know that those who have perilously held that, along with the moral facts, definite physical facts, geographic, geologic, or as- tronomical, had also been imparted, have almost invariably found themselves involved in monstrous error.~~ As to the passage of animals to and from the ark, Mr. Miller says A continuous tract of land would have stretched,when all the oceans were conti- nents, and all the continents oceans,between the South American and the Asiatic coasts. And it is just possible that, during the hun- dred and twenty years in which the ark was in building, a pair of slotI~is might have crept by inches across this continuous tract, from where the skeletons of the great megatheria are buried, to where the great vessel stood. But after the flood had subsided, and the change in sea and land had taken place, there would remain for them no longer a roadway; and so, though their journey out- wards might, in all save the impulse which led to it, have been altogether a natural one, their voyage homewards could not be other than miraculous. Nor would the exertion of miracle have had to be restricted to the transport of the remoter travellers. How, we may well ask, had the Flood been univer- sal, could even such islands as Great Britain and Ireland have ever been replenished with many of their original inhabitants? Even supposing it possible that animals such as the red deer and the native ox might have swam across the Straits of Dover or the Irish Channel, to graze anew over deposits in which the bones and horns of their remote ancestors had been entombed long ages before, the feat would have been surely far beyond the power of such feeble natives of the soil as the mole, the hedge-hog, the shrew, the dormouse, and the field-vole. The next lecture is that upon the Diseov- erable and the Revealed, to which we have THR TESTIMONY OF THE ROCKS. already referred, and the next to that is an valuable researches on the subject of The exposure of the ignorance and folly displayed Less Known Fossil Floras of Scotland. in scientific discussion by the anti-geolo- From our brief sketch of the contents of gists. The work closes with an enlarged this book it may be seen that it has interest versionia two lecturesof a paper read by of its own, which would have clai~ied for it the author before the British Association, a large share of public attentioir, even had when it met at Glasgow, and communicates there been only its contents to command the result of some of Mr. Hugh Millers own curiosity concerning it. NEW ANEcnoTEs OP NAnIR SHAH. The anecdotes related of Nadir Shah are beyond computation. I may be permitted to repeat one or two, which were lately told me by one whose grandsire had been a soldier in Nadirs army, and had witnessed the sack and massacre of ])elhi. When Nadir invaded India, he ar- rived first at Lahore; where the Governor im- mediately surrendered the city to him, and treated him with princely honors. At night, Nadir, whose only couch, for months past, had been a horse-blanket, with a saddle for a pil- low, was conducted to a magnificent bed, with piles of cushions; and twelve young damsels were in attendance to shampoo his limbs and fan him to sleep. Nadir started from his luxu- rious couch, roared for his secretary, and gave orders that the drums should be beat, and a proclamation made that Nadir had conquered all India. The astonished scribe ventured to hint that this conquest had not yet been ac- complished. No matter, said Nadir, where the chiefs of the people choose to live in this effeminate manner, it will cost me little trouble to conquer them. And his anticipation was fully verifi& . A very common salutation to a friend, whom one has not seen for some time, is to wel- come him and assure him that his place has long been empty. Nadir had ordered a splen- did mausoleum to be built for himself at Mush- hed in Khorassan; and on his return from India, he went to see it. The night before he visited his intended resting-place, some un- friendly wag wrote above the spot destined for the grave Welcome, conqueror of the world your place here has long been empty. Nadir offered a reward for the discovery of the writer; but whoever he was, he took good care to keep incognito. The place was not long empty; for - Nadir was assassinated soon after; and here his remains rested till they were dug up and desecrated by Agha Mahommed.Binnings Two Years Travel in Persia. THANKS AFTER READING THE Goqpsn.The suffrages sung before and after the Gospel were adopted from the Scottish Lit& trgy of 1604, where the rubric occurs: The Gospel shall be read, the Presbyter saying, The Holy Gospel is written in the.- chapter of ,at the-verse. And then the peo- ple standing up shall say, Glory be to Thee, 0 Lord. At the end of the Gospel, the Pres byter shall say, So endeth the Holy Gospel. And the people shall answer, Thanks be to Thee, 0 Lord. The churches of Spain and Francl anciently sang an Allelulia or Anthem after the Gospel. The form in use in many churches of England at this day is, Thanks be to Thee, 0 Lord for Thy Holy Gospel. In the notes to the Common Prayer, pub- lished in Cosins Worics (vol. v. p. 90), it is assumed that the words, Glory be to Thee, 0 Lord, appointed by King Edwards service- book, were omitted by the negligence of the printer. In the church of Wootton, Kent, as soon as the minister has given out the Gospel, the clerk says, Glory be to Thee, 0 God; and when he has finished reading the Gospel, the response is, Thanks be to Thee, 0 God. In the parish church of Cattistock, Dorset, after the Gospel is ended, the clerk repeats aloud, We thank Thee, 0 Lord, for thy Holy Gospel. And in other churches in Dorset, I heard the clerk and congregation, at the end of the Gospel, add a loud Amen. I have also observed reverence made on repeating the words, and to the Son, in the Doxology very generally. This custom is retained in the parish church of Usk, Monmouthshire..Notes and Queries. FILLIBUSTER.Wh& t is the derivation and exact meaning of this word? The correct spelling of this word is Flibus- tier. Mr. Thornbury in his Monarchs of the Main, vol. i. b. 36, says, that the title of Flibustiers was a mere corruption of the Eng- lish word freebootersa German term imported into England during the Low Country wars of Elizabeths reign. It has been erroneously traced to the Dutch word fly-boat; but the Jesuit traveller, Charlevoix, asserts that, in fact, this species of craft derived its title from being first used by the Flibustiers, and not from its swiftness. This, however, is evidently a mistake, as Drayton and Hakluyt use the word; and it seems to be of even earlier stand- ing in the French language. The derivation from the English word freebooter is at once seen when the s in Flibustier becomes lost in pronunciation. .-,Notes and Queries. 68 THE ART OF UNFATTENING. 1~rom Chambers Journal. THE ART OF UNFATTENING. LEANNEsS, hitherto, has been considered a reproach, rather than a merit, either in an individual or a nation. Pharaohs lean kine were never held up as models to the graziers of any age, or any country. Brutus was not so very much in the wrong, when he enter- tained doubts about that Cassius with hir lean and hungry look. The point of one of the bitterest of the many epigrams shot at Voltaire is blunted and rendered harmless by translation into a language where death and sin do not rhyme to thin. We can- not fancy a fat Macbeth ; a corpulent traitor in Venice Preserved, or an obese lago, are impossibilities. Assuredly, Falstaff was not scrupulously honest or honorable; but what was he, after all, but a merry rogue? Plump- ness and beauty have often been regarded as inseparable Siamese twins, from the illustri- ous regent whose ideal of female loveliness was summed up in fat, fair, and forty, to the Egyptians who fattened their dames systematically, by making them sit in a bath of chicken-broth; the etiquette being that the lady under treatment is to eat, while sit- ting in the broth-bath, one whole chicken of the number of those of which the bath was made, and that she is to repeat both bath and dose for many days. A doubt, on~ should think, must have sometimes arisen, whether the beauty thus in training would fatten or choke first. As to the question of who would be most likely to sink or swim, on getting into hot water or falling upon troublesome times, the lean person would have no chance against the fat one. Byron, certainly, fretted over his increasing bulk; and the same gracious prince, who admired rotundity in his favor- ites, had such a horror of the consciousness of his own corpulence, that Whos your fat friend? was the most severe aside-speech that poor discarded Brummel could make, in revenge for being cut by his former patron. A book has been written by a Dr. Dancel, (a medical practitioner, of Paris,where possibly gastronomic luxuries tend to produce the malady he successfully combats) in which, to be or not to be, fat, is treated as the grand question of human life. The epitome of welfare, is leanness; while the origin of evil, nay, evil itself, is fat. Professional un- fatteners would make Popes Universal Prayer 69 commence with the aspiration, 0, that this too, too solid flesh would melt! I am not writing under the influence of J3rillat-Sava- rins chapters on obesity,its causes, and so on,which arc only pleasant trifling though with a foundation of truth ; but I rise from the perusal of a serious business-like volume; and, after a glance at my own personal points, I thank my stars that I am not what can be really called stout. For, it appears, it is only a vulgar error to believe that an increase of what is called good plight is any symptom of improving health. As an over-sanguine temperament is dangerous; as daily accidents occur from the undue predominance of the nervous sys- tem, so does the extraordinary development of fat cause first inconvenience, then infirmi- ties, and finally constitutes a malady hitherto considered incurable, and known as obesity. To men, it is true, personal grace, is not in- dispensable to happiness; but, with women, the case is different. Dr. Dancel reminds them that when once they have lost their personal attractions, their intellectual treas- ures serve merely to render them just sup- portable in society. Beware, therefore, ladies how you grow too fat! And you also, gentlemen, for your pockets sake. Fat has ruined the prospects of many a man, as of many a woman, by rendering it impossible for them to~ continue a profession which afforded them an honorable livelihood. The infantry officer, overwhelmed with em- bonpoint, cannot follow his regiment; the cavalry officer cannot perform his duty on horseback. The dramatic artist whose voice or whose personal beauty is as good as a gold-mine to the theatre that has engaged him, falls into poverty if an avalanche of tallow clogs the powerful lungs, pads the slender waist, and renders shapeless the graceful arms and legs. Stout rope-dancers are soon laid flat on their backs; over-grown game keepers are only fit for targets to be shot at, as practice, by juvenile sportsmen. Persons who live by mental labor find their faculties clouded by the increase of the cor- poreal substance; and literary menbut there is no need to consider that eventually because it is too outrageous a supposition that a man who earns his bread by his pea should ever have the time to grow rotund and ponderous. With publishers, the case 70 is different; often the publisher sucks the marrow, while the author is left th~ bones for his pains. At one epoch, the Romans, not caring to give house-room to useless in- dividuals, banished those of their fellow-citi- zens who were guilty of the crime of corpu- lence. But all that is a mere nothing. The above misfortunes are only slight and few. Thus, embonpoint is a common cause of sterility, both in man and beast. A fat queen may cause an ancient dynasty to become extinct, for want of an heir to the throne. The very peasants sell off their fat hens, as unproduc- tive of eggs. Even over-luxuriant plants produce no flowers, or barren ones. Excess of fat causes the human epidermis to crack, mottling the skin with white speckles and streaks; it induces hernias of various dis- tressing forms; it is the parent of ulcerated legs; it gives rise to headaches, giddiness, and dimness of sight. In short, among the infinity of causes which originate disease, a bloated habit of body takes conspicuous rank, although modern medical works be- stow but little notice on this morbid disposi- tion. Such evils are often sought to be rein- edied by bleeding; but every medical man is aware that repeated bleedings are prodigious- ly conducive to the development of fat. Certain graziers bleed their oxen and cows before putting them up to be stall-fed; while calves have been inured to the operation from time immemorial. The palliative of bleeding therefore, is only temporary; the more you are bled, the sooner are you stricken with apoplectic fat. And note this, for your com- fort: fat people attacked by apoplexy are al- most sure to die, while lean people have a very fair chance of recovery. The same of all other maladies which fat flesh is heir to. Did you evcr taste, or inspect, a pat~ de foie grasi Well, your own liver, if too fat, is exactly like that. The geese who subscribe personally to the making of those costly pates, are purposely thrown into an unheal- thy state; and no too-obese biped is in a better hygienic position than a Stratsbourg goose. Dropsy, swellings of the legs, and incurable sores, are the consequence of fat at the liver. Fat people, too, are liable to skin diseases, and to multitudinous other dis- tlgurements besides. The causes of obesity are various. First, thore is a natural disposition and conatitu THE ART OF UNFATT.ENING. tional tendency to fat. Obesity may be hereditary. Almost every one is born with a certain predisposition, which is written on his countenance. Out of every hundred persons who die of consumption, ninety have brown hair, long faces, and sharp noses. Out of every hundred obese persons, ninety have short faces, round eyes, and obtuse or snub noses. It is a fact, therefore, that there are individuals predestined to obesity, whose digestive organs elaborate an extra quantity of fat. You remark in society a lively little girl, with rosy cheeks, a roguish nose, plump hands, short broadish feet, and rounded proportions generally. The pro- phetic sage beholds her as she will be ten years hence, and sighs over the full-blown expansion to which her form will become de- veloped. Perhaps her mamma sits beside her, to tell you what she will be, without the exercise of second sight. It is a proof, amongst hundreds of others, that it is not for the happiness of man to be able to read the future. Secondary causes of corpulence are long indulgence in sleep in bed, and constant rid- ing in carriages, to the exclusion of walking exercise. The ]3edouin Arab, who is always astir to procure the means of his nognade ex- istence, is never fat ; nor are English hus- bandmen, who live on a shilling a day, and who earn it. Even well-fed animals of rest- less and active habits, are never laden with grease or suet; examples, the stag, the roe- deer, the hare, the antelope. The same of birds whose flight is prolonged and energetic, while poultry put up to fat, are kept in con- finement. Oriental ladies, who are com- pelled to stop at home, and also the lady-ab- besses of convents, often present extraordi- nary instances of obesity. Further causes are a great fondness for farinaceous, starchy, and sugary diet; want of thought, as is man- ifest in the puffy condition of many idiots; a great absorption of fluids, whether water, beer, tea, or preparations of milk, or by fre- quent tepid baths, or even by constantly breathing damp air, or such as is slightly surcharged with carbonic acid and deficient in oxygen. At every inspiration, the more oxygen is taken in, the more carbon (one of the elements of fat) is thrown off from the lungs, and consequently from the general system. The inhabitant of the clear, pure atmosphere of the mountain, is rarely so fkt THE ART OF UNFATTENING. as the resident in the moister stratum which fills the valley. But the grand cause of obesity, is our eat- ing and drinking more than enough. It has been said that one of the privileges of the human race is, to eat without being hungry, and to drink without being dry. This double propensity is found wherever men exist. Savages indulge it to a brutal extent, when- ever they have the opportunity; and it is undeniable that we, members of civilized so- ciety, both eat and drink too much. As dinner-givers, as diners-out: at weddings and other family meetings, at political feasts, at charity banquets, enormous quantities of eatables and drinkables are consumed, of which our bodily frame stands in no real need. Such of us as have good stomachs, convert the surplus into fat, while those who have bad ones transmute it into indigestions, colics, and cramps. The prospect for fat folks is far from cheering; but happily there is no occasion for them to despair so long as Dr. Dancel shall continue to reside in Paris. He asks the question, Is it possible to diminish em- bonpoint without injuring the health? and he answers it in the affirmative. There have existed professional emaciators, who have attained their result by a surgical operation, which consisted in cutting a hole- in the patient and taking out his trouble- some lump of fat, very much in the way in which the avaricious farmer opened his goose that laid golden eggs. I have heard of a man-cook who possessed everything that could make life happy~z~~health, wealth, fame, good children, and attached friends, who not unu- sually follow the restwith the sad draw- back that he was very fat. So he went to be operated on, and died. There is a story of a Pasha, who was always accompanied by a travelling surgeon, to relieve him of his fat in this way, as often as it became trouble- some. In seventeen hundred and eighteen, a Parisian surgeon, named Rhothonet, is said to have delivered a noted personage of an enormous paunch; after the operation, the patient became slim and active. Rhothonet was soon assailed by crowds of persons suf- fering from repletion, and begging him to un- dertake their alleviation. Be paid little heed to the weight of their afflictions. He sent them all about their business, simply telling them that the case in which he had succeeded was a different affair to theirs. Mystification was all the help he gave them. Fortunately, we are able to re-assure our fat friends; no operation is involved in the modern system of treating their sup~fluities. Dr. Dancels grand principle is this; to di- minish embonpoint without affecting the health, the patient must live principally on meat (eating but a small quantity of other aliment), and drinking but little, and that little not water. In a hundred parts of hu- man fat, there are seventy-nine of carbon, fifteen and a fraction of hydrogen, and five and a fraction of oxygen. But water is noth- ing but the protoxide of hydrogen; and hy- drogen is one of the main elements of fat. Therefore, the aspirant after leanness, must eat but few vegetables, or watery messes, or hot-rolls, puddings, tarts, potatoes, haricots, pease-soup, charlottes, sweet biscuits, apple- rolls, nor cakes in any of their protean forms; because all those dainties have carbon and oxygen for their principal bases. If he will persist in living on leguminous, farinaceous, and liquid diet, he will make fat as certainly as the bee makes honey by sucking flowers. Chemistry tells us that th~ principal base of meat is azote, which does not enter into the composition of fat; while the principal ele- ments of fruits, sugar, flour, and starch, are carbon and hydrogen, the elements of fat. Human fat is found ready-made in certain aliments which are not flesh, as in olive-oil and in all the oleaginous seeds. If you live principally on lean meat, you will not fatten so fast as those who follow a regimea com- posed of carbonic and hydrogenic bases. It may be objected to this theory, that butchers, and butcheresses are in general fat; because (as is taken for granted), they live on meat. But inquiry will prove that the premises are false. Butchers and their wives (as any one may learn by taking the trouble to inquire), dislike meat. When they do eat flesh, they prefer poultry; but they are much better pleased with a meal consisting of fish, vegetables, pastry, or even bread-and-cheese; besides which they drink copiously. The supposition that they imbibe their fat from the flesh-laden atmosphere in which they live, is a hypothesis which re- mains to be proved. What is the best fat- ting diet for pigs? Barley-meal and milk, assuredly, and not flesh, although pigs eat flesh greedily~ What ntade Louis the Eighteenth 71 THE ART OF UNFATTENING. so enormously fat? What, but his passion for mealy potatoes l While carnivorous ani- malslions, tigers, and wolvesare never fat. To aid you to in shaking off your super- abundant fat, other means besides diet may be brought into action. Overladen sufferers ought to take internally certain substances which aid in the decomposition of fat. The alkalis, for instance, combining with it, form soaps. You may thus establish a home manufactory of real brown Windsor, and other fancy articles. Such alkalis, adminis- tered in ordinary doses, never produce incon- venience ; they increase, rather than dimin- ish the appetite, and thus favor the decrease of fat. Soap pills have been prescribed for ages past, to cure obstructions of (i. e. fat in) the liver. The Vichy waters are recom- mended for the same purpose: and it is by the portion of alkali still left free in the soap pills, and by the same alkali in the Vichy waters, that obstructions of the liver are re- moved. Dr. Cullen, in his Elements of Practical Medicine, relates that a physician named Fleming, sometimes succeeded in re- ducing embonpoint by prescribing soap pills. Another English writer speaks highly of al- kaline baths as an antidote to obesity; while a French practitioner records a case of ema- ciation resulting in a very stout lady from the use of carbonate of soda and soda water which she was ordered to take with a differ- ent object in view. You will understand that alkalis alone will not deliver you from your burden of fat. If by your diet you take in as many grease- making elements as the alkali drives out, things will remain in their old condition, the supply being equal to the demand. Even when living exclusively on meat, you may spoil all by drinking too much. The ab- sorption of the smallest possible quantity of liquid is an indispensible condition, whether in the form of food, drink, or baths. A moist atmosphere even encourages the growth of fat: some people become sensibly heavier in muggy weather. As a warning, be it mentioned that draughts of vinegar and other acids produce leanness (when they do not cause death) only by deranging the general health through the injury they cause to the digestive canal. Many young persons have fallen victims to the marasm brought on by daily doses of vinegar taken with the object of making themselves thinner. A persist- ence in drinking strongly acidulated lemon- ade as a habitual beverage, for the same purpose, has proved scarcely less injurious. As to slight doses of tincture or iodine, or iodide of potassium, to diminish fat they may bedescribed in one wordPOISON. The great comfort is, that fat folk now need not go and hang; for drown they can- not. Ladies and gentlemen who have not seen their shoe-strings for years, may still hope to see them yet. Twenty stone need be no solid ground for despair. Mortals grown to the proportions of a Stilton cheese have yet returned to the aspect of humanity Listen, all ye disconsolate situation-seekers~ who are unable to advertise yourselves as without incumbrance! Monsieur Guenaud, master baker, of the Rue St. Martin, Paris, at the age of twenty- eight was not quite four feet high. He grew so fat that he could scarcely waddle. As soon as he made an attempt to walk, he was overcome by the oppression of his own weight. If he remained long in a standing posture, he was seized with violent pains. He could not follow his business; he could not lie down in bed; he could not wear a hat without turning giddy. Had he seen the Regent diamond lying on the pavement in the street, he would not have dared to stoop to pick it up. The poor man there- upon took to bleeding and purging, to sorrel and spinach, to plenty of bread and water and no meat, only to progress from bad to worse. He was disbanded out of the Na- tional Guard, and he fell into a state of somnolent indifference which might have ended in a journey to P~re-la-Chaise, had not his mother happened to read the very book I have just been quoting. The sequel may be guessed. In thirteen days, M. Guenaud was able to take a long walk, carrying his hat on his head all the while, which latter fact is not mentioned as a joke. In a month he had lost sixteen pounds of weight, and eighteen centim~tres of circumference. In three months, his fat was diminished by forty pounds, and his ab- dominal equator by forty centimetres. Finally his heavy luggage in front was ul-. timately removed. When M. Guenaud re- appeared in the ranks of the National Guard, his return created immense sensation amongst his gallant comrades. He rendered 72 THE ART OF UNFATTENING. justice to the author of his restoration to moderate breadth and thickness; who, in return, has rendered his patient the justice to record that he punctually observed the treatment prescribed: for breakfast, a beef- steak or a couple of cutlets, with a very small quantity of vegetables and a derni- tasse of coffee; his dinner likewise consisted of meat and very little vegetable. From being a great water-drinker, he restrained himself to a bottle or a bottle and a halE of liquid per day. When thirsty, he drank very little at a time; and between meals he rinoed his mouth with water, either pure or ~Iightly acidulated with vinegar, whenever a wish to drink was felt, as a substitute for it. THE OLD IIUNDREDTH.Dr. Gauntlett has such a strong claim on every church musician, that I cannot refrain from a communication, which may be of interest to him personally, and to all those who are seeking the origin of the above tune. I remember, some years ago, while making a musical search in the Dean and Chapters library at St. Pauls Cathedral, the Rev. R. H. Barham (Thomas Ingoldsby of le- gendary fame), being then librarian, accompa- nied me to the library, up the church, and he showed me a Genevan Psalter, by Theodore Beza, and Clement Marot, in which the Old Hundredth is printed as usually sung in our churches. As I did not make a note of the title-page, I cannot give its proper date; but well remembering the book, a duodecimo, and that Mr. Barham considered it a curiosity, and kept it locked up among the more choice works in that library, besides it being entered in the catalogue there kept, I have no doubt, if Dr. Gauntlett is anxious to see it, he will easily find it by applying to the present librarian (the Rev. R. C. Packman, I believe). M. C. Enclosed are extracts from The Doncaster Gazette, on the subject of the Old hundredth Psalm, recently noticed in your very interest- ing paper, which you may deem worthy of no- tice. The long-disputed question whether Purcell or Handel was the author of the grand music of the Old Hundredth has been set at rest by a discovery made a few days since in Lincoln Ca- thedral library. Purcell died in 1695, and Handel in 1759. But in the Cathedral library a French psalter, printed in 1546, contains the music of the Old Hundredth, exactly as it is now sung, so that it could not be the produc- tion of either of the great musicians to whom it has been attributed..Nbtes and Queries. Mxs. STARKES CONTINENTAL GuIDE. Those who lived before the days of handbooks will appreciate the following lines, incerti auctoris, which I found written in a copy of the above very useful, though now obsolete book. Young gentlemen, going abroad in their raw age, Have need of a decent compagnon-de-voyaga, Like Pallas, who once condescended, they say, To abandon Olympuss busses, Her sex to disguise, and the posters to pay For the Hopeful of prudent Ulysses. 0 needless tis now that her honors, and bod- dice Shd be turned into breeches and boots by a Goddess Mrs. Starke, that most learned old matron. will serve a Youths turn, or they misrepresent her, Will chatter of flannel and thread like Minerva, And spout crabbed Greek, like old Mento~ Tis clear, though divinely inspired, that acuter Than her cd be never or Courier or Tutor; From the price of a house to the pace of a Vet. From the relics stupendous of Rome, To where you can purchase the best heavy wet. The old womans always at home. Cyclopean walls, and Gorgona Anchovies, Westphalian hams, and proconsular Trophies, Swiss chaldts, Dutch Inns, and Sicilian clois- ters, Danube, Silarus, Tiber, or Po, Quails, ortolans, sparrows, Marsala, Port. oysters, For her noughts too high, or too low. Weird woman, indeed! human things and divine, She crams in one page, nay, and oft in a lin~ Like a poet in phrenzy her vision can glance In a twinkling creation all oer, From Parthenopes Bay to the paves of France: Say, what could the Goddess do more? JVbtes and Queries. 73 r4 DIALOGUES ON DIVINE PROVIDENCE. From The Literary Gazette. denial or forgetfulness of them has proved as Dialogues on Divine Providence. By a Fel- fatal to philosophy as to religion. low of a College. John W. Parker and The popular error, into which we are all Son. apt to fall, is, that God having created the universe and subjected it to c~tain laws, leaves it to their guidance. But that when these laws are in danger of producing some great evil or injusticewhen a dignus vindice modus occursHe interferes to correct His own laws, by what is popularly called an Interposition of Providence. To this supposition is opposed the fact, that, according to the only notion that we can form of Deity, God is the sole original worker in nature, and therefore no less the executor than the framer of its laws. When we speak of a law of nature, we mean only the uniform operation of Gods will under certain circumstances which we have had the opportunity of observing. Now, to say that he sometimes interposes, is to assert that, at some given moment, He begins to work, and therefore that, before that mo- ment arrived, He was not working. But this is absurd. It is objected, however, that miracles are, from their very nature, interpositions of Providence. No, replies the philosopher; miracles are evidence of the activity of some law with which we are not acquainted, but which may be neither more nor less a law of nature than that of gravitation. The won- derful acts which signalized our Lords ap- pearance upon earth, may have been as much the necessary effects of the causes at work, as the tidal wave which flows up the Seine to Barre-y-va, or the power of elec- tricity to supersede the law of gravitation. On the same occasions God acts in the same way; but miracles occur on extraordi- nary occasions, and then God acts in an ex- traordinary way. This appears to us a much truer mode of viewing miracles than the ordinary one, which defines them to be reversals of the laws of nature. In the Bible it is certain that the ordinary laws of nature, providen- tial circumstances by which those laws were made to minister to God s moral govern- ment, and the seeming reversal of those laws, as in some of our Lords miracles, are all placed in the same category, as alike the direct effects of the divine will alone. For this reason we never could see how the Mosaic account of the drying up of the Red Tuis is a confutation of popular errors in religion and philosophy, conveyed in a pop- ular form. An accident is supposed to occur to a young lady named Eliza: what it is we are not informed; but we are given to understand that she has escaped death by one of those surprising combinations of cir- cumstances which are vulgarly called In- terpositions of Providence. This gives odeasion to two friends, Henry and Philip, to discuss the subject of Divine Providence in general, in the Socratic method. Henry is Socrates, and Philip and Eliza, when she recovers, are the respondents, whom he envelopes in the meshes of his leading ques- tions. This plan has many advantages. It enables the writer to avoid formal introduc- tions to each topic, and to put his objections in a short and succinct form. But we doubt whether it is the best that could be adopted at the present day. In the dia- logues of Plato there is an indescribable interest in perusing, even to the faintest sketch, the familiar conversation of that knot of great and subtle minds who repre- sent the highest development of the un- assisted reason and virtue of the old civiliza- tion. But an imitation of the exquisite simplicity of the Pha~do is apt to degenerate into puerility; and the introduction of pic- turesque descriptions of English firesides and autumnal leaves into a philosophical discussion, rather distracts than assists the mind in its effort to follow the thread of the argument. There is something which strikes us as affected in illustrating the omniscience of the Deity, by asserting that the particular curve, formed by the combi- nation of Elizas graceful ringlet with the dark vein in the marble chimney-piece, is as much present to the mind of God as that which is formed by the orbit of a planet. This reminds one of a frippery altar-piece of the eighteenth century in a Gothic cathe- dral. But having pointed out what we conceive to be obvious blemishes of taste, we can give our heartyapproval of the philosophi- cal principles which it is the design of the book to uphold; we are convinced that the DIALO(*UES ON DIVINE PROVIDENCE. Sea was invalidated by showing that it might have been the effect of a strong wind blowing continually in one point. It very likely was so; but that only means that in this particular case we can discern the means, predetermined by God from the be- ginning of time, for preserving the people whom he had chosen to be the guardians of true religion. The miraculous character of a miracle depends entirely upon our ignor- ance. To a being accustomed to witness the operations of Gods power in a larger sphere than ours, what we call natural laws and miracles would both appear exactly on the same footing, inasmuch as they are both the results of an exertion of the will of God. It is only our limited experience which ma1kes what we call miracles appear to us unconnected and arbitrary acts, contradic- tory to the other phenomena of nature. Miracles are not, however, the less satisfac- tory proofs of a divine mission; because they are as much acts of divine power as the sustaining the earth in her course; only from their want of connection with the phenomena which we are in the habit of observing they are calculated to conVince us. In the second chapter the origin of the erroneous idea of Interpositions of Provi- dence is asserted to have arisen from a false analogy with human laws. In these providence or prudence must precede the law, in order that all cases may be provided for. But as human foresight is limited, it is necessary that a providence should follow the law in the shape of some corrective, lodged in the executive power. Hence it is supposed that God, having in like manner once for all framed general laws, must leave them to execute themselves, and when they go wrong, must interpose to correct their decisions. But this is evidently an errorGods providence does not precede the law, nor follow itit acts in the law, and what we distinguish as the general law and the special interposition are both equally the immediate operation of Gods will. A law without a personal law-giver and executor is the idlest dream of metaphysicians, and has no place in the reality of things. But the only law-giver and executor is God. The third dialogue treats of Gods omni science, and corrects the common error of supposing that the Almighty concerns him- self only with great events or general laws. It seems to us so essential to the notion of Deity that every event that has occutjed, is occurring, or shall occur, for all eternity, every thought or emotion that has arisen in the mind of men or animals, and every par- ticle of matter and inch of space throughout the universe, are at every moment of time present to the consciousness of the divine mind, that we should scarcely have thought this dialogue necessary. Indeed, all these questions have been discussed and settled by the great philosophical theologians of the early church. But from a passage quoted from the works of some popular divine of the present day, it seems that even our com- mentators on scripturemen who pretend to teach theologyare guilty of the absurdity of supposing that there are some things so insignificant that they escape the notice of Him who contains all in Himself; and sus- tains them by the word of His power. When our Saviour told His disciples that even the very hairs of their heads were numbered, He was enunciating a fact which even unassisted reason must accept as essential to the idea of Gods omni- science. Hitherto the friends have been discussing the power and wisdom of God; in the last dialogue they treat of His love. This is a more difficult subject. There is nothing in the universe to oppose itself to His two former attributes; all bears witness to the all-wise and almighty Creator. But the existence of sin and evil seems to contradict His love. Their origin and final destiny are not touched upon, because they are in- scrutable, and under every system of theo- logy, whether founded upon unassisted reason alone, or Revelation, must remain a difficulty. To say that any statement of Christian doctrine is new, is at once to condemn it. It is not for nothing that the subtlest intellects and the most religious minds have been, for more than a thousand years from the enunci- ation of the gospel message, sifting revela- tion by the light of reason; and he must be a bold man indeed who expects to glean a large harvest in the field of philosophical theology after the Fathers and Schoolmen. But it is the office of the scribe instructed 75 76 DIALOGUES ON DIVINE PROVIDENCE. in the kingdom of Heaven to bring forth have been largely treated in one of the wit- things old and new. In these dialogues tiest sermons of the learned and witty Dr. old, hut forgotten, truths are brought for- South, as he is called in the established ward in a new form, which is likely to at- formulary of Anglican divines. On the tract attention. They are full of the cau- whole, we hailwith pleasure thi~unpretend- tious spirit of the great Butler, who has ing, but far from superficial att& npt to treat done more than any other for Anglican theol- theology in a philosophical and, at the same ogy, and we have noticed some points which time, scriptual spirit. CHINESE AMusmhI~NTs. Sir Dugald Dal- should report favorably to his Britannic Maj- getty, who was so scandalized by the bows and esty of the martial bearing of the celestial arrows of the Children of the Mist among the host. Through the whole route, proclaimed civilized weapons of Montroses host, would an imperial rescript, take care that the soldiers have been more shocked by the appearance of have their armor fresh and shining, and their a Chinese army. The mateblocks now in use weapons disposed in a commanding style, and among them are the old Portuguese matchlock that their attitude be dignified and formida- of the sixteenth century, which bears about the ble. Westminster Review. same relation to our old Brown Bess that Brown Bess bears to the Minis rifle. The MICE AND Music.Miss Louisa Foote Hay Tartars, mostly cavalry, are soldiers by profes- gave a concert last week at Colyton. Soon sion. Their arms are bows and broad scime- after Miss Hay had commenced her first song, tars; and in comparison with the cumbrous Annie Laurie, the party occupying the first and uncertain matchlock, the bow is not to be seat saw a mouse sauntering leisurely up and despised. The scimitar is worn on the left side, down close to the skirting of the platform on like a gentlemanly and Christian sword; but it which she was singing. As the song proceeded does not, like that appendage, dangle at the the mouse stood spellbound; a lady tried to hams of its wearer; neither is it ever carried drive it away by shaking her concert bill at it, jauntily upon his arm, but protrudes forward but the animal had lost its fear of man and shockingly, and is drawn by carrying the right would not retire; at the conclusion of the bal- hand behind the back, for the prudent Tartar lad the mouse vanished, and reappeared, bring- is of opinion that to draw it from the front of ing with it a companion, when the next song his body would expose his arm to an adversary, was commenced. At the end of song the see- Of these Tartar forces, which are the 6lite of ond the two mice retreated to their hole, but the Chinese army, there are eight brigades, or made their third appearance on the boards banners. The native soldiers are for the most when the singing was again renewed. Eventu- part a militia, who perform many of the func- ally six or seven mice came out regularly with tions of a garde civique; and as they are per- every song, and retired when the music ceased. mitted to follow their peaceful avocations dur- while the melodious tone filled the apartment ing at least two thirds of the year, they possess all attempts to drive away the mice were vain; about as military an aspect as citizen soldiers these most timid members of the animal king- usually wear. Their ordinary employments are, dom were too fascinated to be in terror of the to guard the city-gates, to carry Government human family who actually filled the room, and expresses, to act as custom-house officers at the though a fiftieth part of the means used tQ military stations along the roads, rivers, and drive them would, under ordinary circum.~ canals; and to aid the civil magistracy as p0- stances, have been sufficient to have scared hoemen. In dress and appearance they resem- them away, they now stood, or slowly glided, so ble the valiant supernumeraries who represent entranced by the melody which pervaded the in provincial theatres the armies of Richard or room that they were heedless of the presence of Rolla. Their helmets are made of paper; their their natural enemies. How naturalists may boots of a coarse satin; and their uniform con- explain this phenomenon we know not, nor sists of a wadded gown and a quilted petticoat. shall we swell this article by attempting a solu- Instead of a military salute, they acknowledge tion, but shall conclude this strange truth the presence of an officer by falling on their stranger than fictionby referring any persons knees; and in warm weather they ply their who may doubt my statement to Mr. and Mrs. fans as assiduously as any dowager duchess in Kingdon of Colyton; Mrs. Carew, of Senton; an opera-box in July. The Government has Mr. Leversedge, of Taunton; and Miss Isnacs, occasionally betrayed misgivings of the effect of of Colyton; who were in the foremost seat, and these military phenomena upon barbarians, who can vouch for the truth of our report. There was great anxiety that Lord Amherst Bristol .ildvertiser.Aotes and Queries. A MOTHER. Prom Household Words. A MOTHER. I WAS left a widow at the age of five and twenty, after a three years peaceful mar- riage, with a little boy of only a year old to bring up as I best could. I was resolved that my boy should prove an exception to the bitter rule which makes the only sons of widowed mothers educational mistakes; and, from the hour of his fathers death, I devoted myself to his education with a singleness of purpose, and an exclusiveness of endeavor which I thought could only bring me a rich harvest of reward. He was too frail and delicate for a public school; besides, I was afraid, not only of the rough usage he would meet with there, but also of the moral mis- chief sure to be contracted. So that I had nothing else to do but to keep him at home, and engage a modest-mannered young woman to teach him the rudiments of what he ought to know. Thus, until the age of fourteen he was brought up solely by women, and never suffered to hear a word or to read a line which the most saintly maiden might not have joined in; for I understood nothing of the difference which people assert ought to exist in the education of boys and girls. To me, morality was single and direct, and admitted no species of deviation. When nearly fifteen, I arranged for my boy a kind of daily tutorship with our young curate; still keeping him at home under my own eye, and superintending his studies my- self. For I remembered to have heard strange things of the classics, and I would not trust even a clergyman with my childs studies unchecked. I made Mr. Gary trans- late to me every evening the lesson he was to give the next morning; and, as I do not confide implicitly in any one, I learnt enough Latin myself to feel sure he was not mis- leading me. Mr. Gary did not like this superintendence,but he was weak, and poor, and dared not oppose me. I was ncver a fond mother. I have a hor- ror of all kinds of demonstrativeness, and look on impulse and expat~sion as very nearly convertible terms with madness and imbecil- ity. But, perhaps I loved my child all the more because I thought it wise and good to he seW-restrained. It seems to me that the concentration of inward affection strengthens and consolidates; whereas superficial expan- sion excites, but weakens it. Therefore, 77 very few caresses or endearing words passed between Derwent and myself; but we were none the less good friends on that account. I was proud and fond of him, for all that I did not show my pride by the foolish caj~esses which most mothers indulge in. He ~was a fair, waxen-looking creature with delicate features, and slender, well-shaped limbs; very quick, very agile, like a young chamois in some of his movements; and taking greedily to all accomplishments. He was a good musician, and a clever draughtsmen; he sang sweetly, and danced with peculiar grace; but he knew nothing of the more essentially manly exercises. He had never climbed a tree in his lireat least I trust not; he could not swim, for I was afraid of his taking cold in the water; and, of course, all such exercises as fencing, boxing, or wrestling, I should not have dreamed of allowing to him. I did not suffer the com- panionship of other boys: not even our vicars sons, when home for their holidays, for would they not have taught him their school-vices, rough, and vulgar, though brave and generous lads, as they were. I did not regret his want of that rough handiness and coarse strength which people generally think necessary for boys. I would rather have had him the etherial creature he was, than the bravest and most powerful of a class; if, to gain those qualities, he must have lost the purity of the gentlewomans son. At last I was obliged to part with him. I had nothing for it but to send him to the university. It was the first wish of my heart that he should be a clergyman; and, to gain this wish, I must Deeds see him pass through the terrible ordeal of a college ca- reer. I could only hope in the power of the education I had given him, and pray and believe that it would prove sufficient against all the temptations which I knew, by report, must necessarily beset him. Derwents first letters were very satisfac- tory. Breathing love for his old home, and saintly abhorrence at all that he saw around him, they did not bear a trace of any new influence; and I was reassured if, by chance I had ever unconsciously doubted. But, by degrees, the tone of his letters changed. He spoke of strange men as his friends, to me, who had so often urged on him the ne- cessity of keeping aloof from all intimacy whatsoever with his fellow-collegians. For 78 A MOTHER. had I brought him up in seclusion from boys, to see him adopt the habits, perhaps the vices of men The very name applied to strangers made me predict all sorts of un- known dangers. Soon, also, he began to use strange words whereof I knew not the mean- ing; to talk of parties of pleasure, which seemed to me sadly at variance with the ob- ject of his studies ; to speak of subjects that froze the blood in my veinsand then, what was hardest to bear of all, he more than once reproached me with the carefulness of my education, and bewailed a pampered boyhood, which left him nothing but an ig- norant and ridiculous manhood. lie soon grew to speaking of himself in the most hu- miliating and degrading terms. I felt that it was not modesty, but wounded pride, which made him use these bitter words, and they angered me even more than they pained; for the sting of each was meant for me; yet I had been a faithful and devoted mother. Thus a coolness between us grew and spread, till soon I felt that I had two sons: one who had died in boyhood, and one who had come suddenly before me as an alien but still my child. It was a fearful feeling, for a moral death is more fearful to witness than any physical death. Vacation time came. How I had looked forward to this time! I had turned back to school-girl days, and counted the hours which lay between me and the moment when I should hold my son to my heart. For the consciousness that he was drifting from me made me feel much more tenderly, more fondly for him, than I had ever done before; and I think if he had come to me then, 1 could have redeemed him by my very love. But, a week before the appointed day, I re- ceived a letter from him, telling me that he had engaged to go with a reading party into Wales, and that he could not consequently see me until the next vacation, which would be at Christmas. It was now mid-summer. Wounded and hurt, I wrote back a cold re- ply, simply consenting to the arrangement, but not expressing a word of sorrow at my own disappointment; knowing, alas, that the omission would not be remarked. Nor was it. Derwents answer was full of pleasura- ble anticipations of his summer with his dear friends, enthusiastic praises of his party, dis- respectful satire on his home at Haredale, and on men tied to their mothers apron strings; which last observation he qualified by adding praises on my common sense in not requiring such milksop devotion. He ended with his usual expressions ~f regret at his early education, and of self-contempt for his want of manly acquirements. A want, however, lessening daily, he said, under the able tuition of his friends. What followed until Christmas was merely a deepening of those shades ; till, at last, the silent misunderstanding between us grew out into a broad, black linean impassable barrier, which neither of us sought to con- ceal. Derwent had been absent a year and a-half when I saw him again. And, had it been a spectre which had usurped the name of my child, I should not have recognized him less readily than I did now in the vulgar rou6 who returned to me in place of that pure saint I had sent out like a dove from my ark. The long golden hair which had floated on each side of his dark face low to his shoulders, was cut short, darkened by oils, and parted at the side. The face which had borne no deeper traces than what a childs simple sen- sations might have marked, was now blotched by dissipation. The very features were dif- ferent. The eyes were smaller, and the blue less blue; the lips were hard and swollen the nose thicker; the jaw more square; while his figure retained nothing of the slight- ness nor of the grace which had made him once so beautiful. His hands were covered with purple scars; his shoulders were broad, his neck coarse and muscular. He was not the Derwent I had sent to the great univer- sity. As changed in outward seeming, so was he in manner and in thought. Coarse jests with the servants and the low people of the village; incessant smoking; spirits, beer, drunk at all hours, from the early morning to late at night; a lounging, restless, dissi- pated habit, seemingly unable to concentrate thought or energy on anything but the mer- est sensuality ; perpetual satiresatire on the noblest, satire on the highest subjects; a conversation blackened with the vilest oaths; this was the Derwent whom the alma mater sent back to his own mother; this the reac- tion of my careful sehoolingthe hideous mark to which the rebound had fallen. The six weeks were only half over, when A MOTHER. Derwent, yawning more noisily than usual, came lounging through the ball to the draw- mg-room. Mother, he said, plunging himself at full length upon the sofa, Haredale is aw- fully slow! By Jove! it uses a man up twice as fast as the fastest college life. I am positively worn out with the monotony of these three weeks. You seem all asleep in this precious old toad-hole. I cant stand it any more, thats a fact. In plain English, mother, I must go. At your pleasure, Derwent, I said, coldly, not even raising my eyes. Well, now, thats prime! You are a fine little mother, anyhow! he said, laugh- ing: but I fancied that his voice had a slight accent of disappointment in it. You are not like most mothers of only sons, he ad- ded, with emphasis. Your visit, Derwent, I went on to say, has not been of such satisfaction to me as to cause me much regret at its termination, Your habits, your ways of life, your tone of thought, and style of conversation are all so foreign to my own ideas of a gentlemanof what my son should bethat I confess to more sorrow than pleasure in your presence. Once you were my pride; now Upon my soul thats cool! shouted Derwent, interrupting me with his college laugh and a college oath. Still, he ad- ded, after a pause, it leaves me freer than I might have felt if you had taken to the pa- thetics. For I dont know how much reso- lution might have been melted, like Cleopa- tras pearls, in your tears. I dont think you ever saw my tears, I answered, very coldly. No; thats true, mother. Your heart might be of iron, for any water-founts lead- ing from ii; to your eyes, said Derwent. And the first, assuredly, shall not be on account of your absence, when that absence is desired and planned by your own will. Then we part good friends, mother? he said, lounging up from the sofa, and tak- ing a cigar from his case. Quite as good frienc!s, Derwent, as we can ever hope to be now, I replied with a voice sterner and steadier than usual; be- cause I had more emotion to conceal. I felt him look at me fixedly, but I did not raise my eyes: and, in a few moments, he strode out of the room, whistling a vul- gar air. 79 That evening he left Ilaredale while I was absent for an hour; and, when next vaca- tion time came, I myself volunteered his spending it away from home. Soon our letters decreased into briefquar- terlies. Soon, they became nearly half~yearly communications; and, in due course, de- gree time came, without Derwents attempt- ing a second sojourn at home. In the mean- while my hair had grown grey, and my face, always pale, paler still and wrinkled. I lost all enjoyment of life; and, though a woman still in the prime of middle age, felt and lived like one on the border of a thorny grave. It seemed to me that the sun never shone, and the south wind never blew. It was nothing hut a grey, chill, winter time that I lived through; a time of spiritual death. Perhaps I was to blame for all this. Had I been more demonstrative: had I conde- scended to sue, to entreat, to caress, I dare say I might have softened him somewhat to the old shape. But I could not do this; the iron of my nature was too strong and too intolerant. So I left him to his own way, and left on his own head the curse or the blessing of his life. The examination for degrees came, and my son was plucked. He could not pass, even among the lowest of the lowest class. He wrote, in a careless, off-hand manner, about this new dishonor, saying, that it did not much signify, as he intended to be- come artist, Bedouin, Bohemian, Sagaburd, any thing rather than a parson; and that M.A. would look worse than ridiculous after the name of an historical painter, or a marker at a billiard-table. I answered that Ire had my consent to any course of life he chose to adopta consent wrung from a shattered pride and ruined hopesand that I was too indifferent to his future now to interfere in any of the details of its disgrace. But he did not know that this letter, so hard, and stern, and cold as it seemed, was written between tears and sobs; and, in the fitful bursts of such a storm of passionate anguish, as I never thought could sweep through my strong and chastened heart. He went to London; which he said was the only field for him; and, in a short time, he told me that he had begun to study art seriously; but that he feared he should never make much substantial progress. Time passed; fading Cver into deeper, 80 A MOTHER. duller gray, until all the horizon round my life became soon black and mourning. I need scarcely say what disgust my sons profession caused me. I had always held the artist-world as something different to and below ourselves, and should as soon have expected a child of mine to have turned mountebank of a strolling company as to have seen him take up painting as a profes- sion. No one knew, and none could see or guess, what I suffered; for I bore myself in my own manner, and hardened that I might strengthen myself. But this, coupled with the disgrace of his college failure, nearly broke my heart. One day a telegraphic message came from Derwent, requiring my instant presence in London. It was the only communication I had had from him for above a year; and, until I read his address in the message, I did not know where he lived. I hesitated at the first moment whether I should go or not; but the remembrance of my old Jove, rather than any present affection no! that had been lived down in his dis- grace !determined me. And the evening saw me on my way to town. I arrived at about eleven that night, and drove direct to the obscure street near Fitzroy Square where Derwent lived: a part of the town I had never known in my former days, and which sufficiently shocked me when I saw it. A dirty, coarse-looking woman opened the door to me, and, after a long time of insolent scrutiny, admitted mc into a narrow hall, the close smell of which, and its neglect and filth, prepared me for the scene I had to witness upstairs. At the top of the house, in a low, squalid garret-room, worse than any be- longing to the meanest peasant on my estate, with daubs rather than pictures scattered confusedly about it; with dirty strips of red and blue hung round at various points in hideous mockery of the bits of color artists delight in ; in the midst of one tangled mass of dirt, confusion, and poverty, crouching in bed beneath a heap of soiled blankets, lay my son, my only child, the one-time pride and glory of my life. Mercy! how he was chang~ed! I should not have known him had I met him unexpectedly: he had not the faintest trace of resemblance with his former self. It was another man, more hideous and more degraded than the college rou6 who had so shocked and estranged me at Haredale. By the side of the bed sat a pretty-looking woman, her hair dishevelled, her dress disor- dered, and dirty; herself evidently a creature of the humblest class of society; but with a certain frank good-nature in the Widst of her vulgarity that I could imagine ~inight have prepossessed some who were not quite so ex- clusive as myself. She gave me a broad, bold stare when I entered, not moving from her place till Derwent said in a languid tone, My mother, Melly, when she got up from the bed and offered me her hand. I was astonishedtoo startled to refuse it. She shook mine warmly, saying, 0! how glad I am you have come! I turned to Derwent, and I felt that my lips were set and my brows contracted as I looked at him inquiringly. I fancied that I saw a blush cross his pale, haggard face as he answered my silent inquiry by My wife, mother, adding as he took her hand, and a good wife, too! I do not know what strange feeling took possession of me; but all the room grew dark, my son and that terrible creature faded into small dim specks; I thought I was dying and fell prone on the floor, for I faintedthe first and only time in my life that such a thing happened to me. When I recovered, I found they had placed me on the bed by my son: that fearful woman bending over me and tending me, I must confess, carefully and tenderly enough. Derwent was weeping; sobbing passionately. I felt his tears fall hot on my hand, as he kissed it again and again. I was bewil- dered. There was evidently a mystery in all this beneath the mere surface of degradation easy enough to read. But I was afraid of nothing now: it seemed to me as if nothing could be worse to hear than the shocking fact of his marriage with such a woman. When I had recovered sufficient physical strength to speak and move, I withdrew my- self from Derwents side, and placed myself on a chair, fronting them both. Tell me frankly, I said, the meaning of all this. Why have you sent for me? Why are you in this state? Why do I find you living the squalid life of a pauper, when your allowance ought to have kept you like a gentleman? Why have you married so far out of your own sphere? And I shuddered, and they both saw I shuddered. Without, too, tell$ng me that you were A W~TREL even engaged? Tell me what it ill means? It is a long story, mother, said Der- went, trying hard to speak in a composed voice, but failing sadly in the effort, poor soul. I have been unfortunate, and I have been guilty, and between the two (here he smiled with a flash of reckless gaiety more painful to witness than any de- spair) I am done for. I bave lost at play, heavily, the officers are after me, and I want you to save me mother! What do you mean Derwent? I asked, for he spoke so fast, and in such a changed voiceso weak, and yet so hoarsethat I, confused yet by my own sudden failure of strength, could not follow half he said. I have committed forgery, said Der- went, with terrible distinctness, and if I cannot redeem the bill before to-morrow at noon, I shall be arrested as a felon. Besides all this, I am dying of fever and ague. Here that woman bent over him and kissed him, and I heard her whisper: No, my Derwent, you shall not die, if Mellys love can save you! Had I been a manhad I been even a passionate womanI should have struck her. I never knew before what passion might arise from mingled jealousy and disgust. But I conquered myself, and said in a cold, measured voice: And what do you ask me to do for you, Derwent? .1 saw my sons lips quiver; I saw that womans face flush, and her hand involunta- lily clench, as she set her teeth, as if to keep back rebellious words. But Derwent, who had my blood in him, answered as coldly as I had spoken: I want you to pay the forged bill, mother, and so to rescue me from the hulks. For how much, Derwent? For five thousand pounds! I have not got it, I said. I have not above twenty pounds at my hankers; with your allowance I live now up to my full income, and have not saved. Is there nothing to sell? exclaimed the woman, savagely, her large, black eyes glaring at me from under her tangled hair. Hush, Melly! said Derwent; do not interfere, you will only do harm, and make bad worse. MDCLXXXV. LIVING AGE. VOL. xviii. 6 $1 Curses on her proud, cold hesW I heard her mutter. It is she who has brought you to this by her pride and want of love! Well, mother, said Derweot, I can- not advise you what to do. If yoU have not got the money, and will not raise it for me, I must suffer for my own act. My las~ chance was to send to~ you; if that fails me, I can meet my fate like a man. I have been the only one to blame; and now that the punishment must come, I will not whine over my fate, nor swear I was ill-used inno- cence. I have been mad, reckless, head- strong, and unprincipledI will not a4d un- manly cowardice to the list. There was something in his tone which went to my heart. Had he cowered or whined, I should ~ave left him to his fate; but the indomilrilAe insaalwod with which he fronted his fate-sick, ill, deserted as he was filled me with an admiration that stood somewhat instead of my old love. I felt my eyelids droop over my swollen eyes. I rose from my chairnot passionately, and yet with some irrepressible signs of emotion I laid my hand on his shoulder, and said, (0! how I tried to steady my faltering voice, and how I failed!): I will not let you suffer, Derwent! To- morrow before noon this fearful evidence against you shall he cancelled and destroyed. Sleep in peaceyou have still a mother for your hour of need. God bless you, mother! cried Bet- went, flinging his wasted arms round me, and burying his face in my bosom; and, 0, you have something of a mothers heart in you, after all, said the woman, in a softened voice, passing her coarse hand caressingly over my shoulders. But through all the fur and velvet of my dress I felt her touch, like a repelling magnet, and shivered. She took her hand away, more sadly I fan- cied than insolently; and I felt sorry that I had allowed my repugnance to he seen. Ab, mother! said Derwent, you and I have been unfairly matched. I needed a freer life than thatwhich you gave me when under your control, and the consequence was, what it always is, that, when I got my liberty, I carried it into license. And license leads to sin, mother, and sin to crime. It is a fatal union, but an inevitable one. If it had not been for Melly here, I should have 82 A MOTHER. been utterly lost; but she saved me when almost too late though, by giving me some- thing to love and live for. She is not of your station, mother, continued Derwent, while the woman laughed, and chimed in with Thank God, no! I am no cold lady. But she has a heart that would do honor to a throne, and a power of love that you, mother ought to envy. I was glad to make my wife of one who dared be natural and dared be free. I am glad, Derwent, that you are con- tented with your choice, said I coldly, for I could not feign pleasure or participation; our lives are to far sundered now to make your surroundings matters of much conse- quence to me. You have made your own life ; and, he it ill or well, little of its shadow or sunshine can fall upon me. 0, mother! ~aid poor Derwent, burst- ing into tears, be, for once, good and lov- ing to me. I am weak and broken now, and you do not know how I have longed hungered, motherfor your voice and words; could they be only more loving and more kindly than they used to be. 0, mother! if you had been softer to me; if you had drawn me to you and made yourself my friend, not only my monitress; if you had been more the woman, and less the mere ab - stract principle, you might have saved me from all that has befallen me. God knows, I do not mean to reproach you, he added passionately, still less to throw on you the responsibility for sins which I alone ought to bear. You followed the instincts of yotsr own nature; and, if that nature did not i~ccord with the needs of mine, that was net-your fault, only my misfortune, he added, ~with a faint attempt at his old, wild levity, butfailing as once before, and falling to broken, dhild-like, yet not coward weeping again. And something broke in me too. My pride fell from me, like ice under the breath of summer, and I took my son to my heart as I had never taken him since he had lain cradled there in childhood. H~ wife, too the artists model, the low-boi~n daughter of a day laborer, the woman whose antece- dents I knew and felt would not bear close scrutinyeven she I suffered to kiss my cheek, and checked the shiver of disgust while she did so. But do not think that I am one of those lying pretences of instantaneous conversion. I did all for my boy that I promised. I redeemed his forged bill; I sold my estate, and established him in comfort and respecta- bility. Butthat done, and done with fron nerves and unfeeling heart throughoutI wrote him an adieu forever, changed my name, and left the country, never to return. I could not live in England under the altered conditions of fortune and my childs social retrogressionI, who had held my head so high, who had worn the immaculate ermine with never a stain on its whitenessI could not stay to be the s~orn where I had so long been the envy of my circle. No, the pride which the excitement of passion had been able to meet could not be destroyed. What I was then I must still continue to be. My nature was not one either to change or to bend. I had never bcen able to contemplate disgrace with philosophy. In a country where I shall not be known, and under an assumed name, I may once more walk with my former dignity. If lower, according to our ideas, in social surroundings, at the least I shall be untouched in moral pride. No one there, can point at me as the mother of a possible felon; no one there, can say that a false education bore fatal fruit, and that pride and exclusiveness produced degradation and ruin. SABLE OR COLORED M.P.s iii IMPERIAL PAR- (Dyce Sombre, and the ex-M.P. who repre- LIAMENT. sented Lymington for many years, John Stew- Mislike me not for my complexion, art, Esq.) The bigoted anti-color party in the The shaded livery of the burnished sun. West Indies can never get over his election; but Othello. the ann sacra fames always carried him Can any of your readers recall to mind how through. I believe I am correct in saying, that many colored members ever sat in the House of neither of them troubled the house with a Commons. I know of two instances only speech..?Votes and Queries. SPRING IS COME.LIFE RETURNING. From Dwights Journal of Music, Juno 5. THE FIFTIETH BIRTH-DAY OF AGASSIZ, THE NATURALLST.MAY 28, 1857. (The following lines (as one will hardly need to be told) are by Longfellow, and were read among friends at a birthday dinner, which they will long keep in fresh remembrance.] IT was fifty years ago In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: Here isa story-book Thy Father has written for thee, Come, wander with me, she said, Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God. And he wandered away and away, With Nature, the dear, old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderfulsong, Or tell a more marvellous tale. So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold; And the mother at home says Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return! SPRING IS COME. Yn coat the timid verdure Along the hills of spring, Blue skies and gentle breeses, And soft clouds wandering. The choir of birds on budding spray, Loud larks in ether sing; A fresher pulse, a wider day, Give joy to every thing. The gay, translucent morning Lies glittering on the sea, The noonday sprinkles shadows Athwart the.dasied lea: The round suns sinking, scarlet rim In vapor hideth he, The darkling hours are cool and dim, As vernal night should be. Our earth has not grown aged, With all her countless years; She works, and never wearies, Is glad, and nothing fears. The glow of air, broad land and wave In season reappears; 88 And shall, when slumber in the grave These human smiles and tears. 0! rich in songs and colors, Thou joy-reviving Spring! Some hopes are chilld with winter Whose term thou caust not bring. Some voices answer not thy call When sky and woodland ring; Some faces come not back at all With primrose-blossoming. The distant-flying swallow, The upward-yearning seed, Find natures promise faithful, Attain their hujmble meed. Great Parent! Thou hast also formd These hearts which throb and bleed; With love, truth, hope, their life hast warmd, And what is best decreed. .dllinghams Poem8. LIFE RETURNING. AFTER WAR-TIME. O rirx, dear life, with sunbeam finger touching This poor, damp brow, or flying freshly past On wings of mountain winds, or clasped fast In links of visionary embraces, clutching Me from the yawning grave Can I believe thou yet hast power to save? I see thee, 0 my life, like phantom giant, Stand on the hill-top, large against the dawn; Upon the night-black clouds retreating drawn; -In aspect wonderful, with hope defiant, And so majestic grown, I scarce discern the image as my own. Those mists lift off, and through the vale re- splendent Behold the pathway of my years prolong! Not without labor, yet for labor strong; Not without pain, but pain sublimed, transcend- ent, That by divinest laws Heart unto heart, and all hearts upwards, draws. O life, 0 loveyour diverse tones bewildering Make silence, like two meeting waves of sound, And force a lull in this worlds noisy round: I dream of wifely, white arms, lisp of chil- dren Never of ended wars, Save kisses sealing honorable scars. Peace t No more battles: save the combat glo~. rious To which all earth and heaven do witness stand: The sword o the spirit taking in my hand, I shall go forth, for in new fields victorious The King yet grants that I His servant live, or His good soldier die. Cluzmbers Joursial. THE ATHELINGS.PAR~ TIlE LAST. CHAPTER XXX.AN ADVENTYRE. IT was Septemberthe time when all Englishmen of a certain rank in life burn with unconquerable longings to get as far away from home as possibleand there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this solitary traveller p acing along Calais piernothing remarkable, except his own personal appearance, which was of a kind not easily overlooked. There was nothing to be read in his embrowned but refined face, nor in his high thoughtful forehead. It was a face of thought, of speculation, of a great and vigorous intellectual activity; but the haughty eyes looked at no onethe lips never moved even to address a childthere was no response to any passing glance of in- terest or inquiry. His hcad was turned to- wards England, over the long sinuous wel- tering waves of that stormy Channel which to-day pretended to be calm; but if he saw any~ thing, it was something which appeared only in his own imaginationit was neither the far-away gleam, like a floating mist, of the white cli ifs, nor the sunbeam coming down out of the heart of a cloud into the dark mid-current of that treacherous sea. He had no plan of, travelno settled in- tentions indeed of any kindbut had been roaming about these three months in the restlessness of suspense, waiting for definite intelligence before he decided on his further course. An often recurring fancy of return- ing home for a time had brought him to-day to this common highway of all nations from a secluded village among the Pyrenees; but he had not made up his mind to go home he only lingered within sight of it, chafing his own disturbed spirit, and ready to be swayed by any momentary impulse. Though he had been disturbed or a time out of his study of the deepest secrets of human life, his mind was too eager not to have returned to it. He had come to feel that it would be sacrilege to proclaim again his own laboring and disordered thoughts in a place where he was set to speak of One, the very imagina- tion of whom, if it was an imagination, was so immeasurably exalted above his highest elevation. A strange poetic justice had come upon Lionel Riversprosecuted for his ex- treme views at the time when he ceased to make any show of holding themseparating himself from his profession, and from the very name of a believer, a t the moment when it began to dawn upon him that he believedand thrust asunder with a violent wrench and convulsion from the first and sole human creature who had come into his heart, at the very hour in which he discovered that his heart was no longer in his own power. He saw it all, the strange story of contradic- tory and perverse chances, an~ knew himself the greatest and strangest contradiction of the whole. He gave no attentlon whatever to what passed round him, yet he heard ~e foreign voicesthe English voicesfor there was no lack of his countrymen. It was growing dark rapidly, and the shadowy evening lights and mists were stealing far away to sea. He turned to go back to his hotel, turning his face away from his own country, when at the moment a voice fell upon his ear, speak- ing his own tongue You will abet an im- postoryou who know nothing of English law, and are already a marked man. These were the words spoken in a very low, clear, hissing tone, which Lionel beard distinctly only because it was well known to him. The speaker was wrapt in a great cloak, with a travelling-cap over his eyes; and the per- son he addressed was a little vivacious Italian, with a long olive face, smooth-shaven cheeks, and sparkling lively eyes, who seemed much disconcerted and doubtful what to do. The expression of Lionels face changed in an instanthe woke out of his moody dream to alert and determined action; he drew hack a step to let them pass, and then fol- lowed, The discussion w~ animated and eager between them, somet~es in Eng1~J~, sometimes in Italian, tqpsm& ~t& ~ as ca~rics guided the one or the other.~tionel did not listen to what they said, but he followed them home. The old Italian parted with his companion at the door of the hotel where Lionel himself was lodged; there the Englishman in the cloak and cap lingered to make an appoint- ment. At eleven to-morrow, said again that sharp hissing voice. Lionel stepped aside into the shadow as the stranger turned reluctantly away; he did not care for mak- ing further investigations to ascertain his identityit was Lord Winterbourne. He took the necessary steps immediately. It was easy to find out where the Italian was, in a little room at the top of the house, the key of which he paused to take down before he went up stairs. Lionel waited again till the old man had made his way to his lofty lodging. He was very well acquainted with all the details of Louiss case; he had, in fact, seen Charlie Atheling a few days before he left London, and satisfied himself of the nature of his young kinsmans claimit was too important to himself to be forgotten. He remembered perfectly the Italian doctor Serrano who had been present, and could testify to the marriage of the late Lord Winterbourne. Lionel scaled the great stair- case half-a-dozen steps at a time, and reached the door immediately after the old man had entered, and before he had .truek his light. 84 THU ATHELINGS~ The Rector knocked softly. With visible perturbatiou, and in a sharp tone of self- defence, the Italian called out in very good French to know who was there. Dr. Serrano was a patriot and a plotter, and used to domiciliary visitations. Lionel answered him in English, asked if he were Dr. Serrano, and announced himself as a friend of Charles Atheling. Then the door opened slowly and with some jealousy. Lionel passed into the room without waiting for an invitation. You are going to England on a matter of the greatest importance, said the Rector, with excitement to restore th~i son of your friend to his inheritance; yet I find you, with the serpent at your ear, listening to Lord Winterbourne. The Italian started back in amaze. Are you the devil? said Doctor Serrano, with a comical perturbation. No; instead of that, you have just left him, said Lionel; but I am a friend, and know all. This man persuades you not to go onby accident I caught the sound of his voice saying so. He has the most direct personal interest in the case; it is ruin and disgrace to him. Your testimony may be of the greatest importancewhy do you linger.? why do j~ou listen to him? Rea ly, you are hot-headed; it isso with youth, said Dr. Serrano, when we will move heaven and earth for one friend. He tells me the child is deadthat this is another. I know notit may be true. It is not true, said Lionel. I will tell you who I amthe next heir if Lord Winterbourne is the true holder of the title there is my card. I have the strongest in- terest in resisting this claim if I did not know it to be true. It can be proved that this is the same boy who was brought from Italy an infant. I can prove it myself; it is known to a whole village, if you choose it, confront me with Lord Winterbourne. No; I believe youyou are a gentle- man, said Doctor Serrano, turning over the card in his handand the old man added with enthusiasm, apd abero for a friend! You believe me? said Lionel, who could not restrain the painful smile which crossed his face at the idea of his heroism in the cause of Louis. Will you stay then another hour within reach of Lord Winter- bourne? The Italian shrugged his shoulders. I will break with him; he is ever false, said the old man. What besides can I do? I will tell you said Lionel. Tl~ boat sails in an hourcome with me at ohee, let me see you safe in England. I shall attend to your comfort with all my power. There is time for agood English bed at Dover, and an undisturbed rest. Doctor Serrano, for the sake of the oppressed, and because you are a philosopher, and understand the weak- ness of human nature, will you come with me? The Italian glanced lovingly at the couch which invited himat the slippers and the pipe which waited to make him comfortable then he glanced up at the dark and reso- lute countenance of Lionel, who, high in his chivalric honor, was determined rather to sleep at Serranos door all night than to let him out of his hai~ds. Excellent young man! you are not a philosopher! eaid the rueful doctor; but he had a quick eye, and was accustomed to judge men. I will go with you, he added seriously, and some time, for liberty and Italy, you will do as much for me. It was a bargain, concluded on the spot. An hour after almost within sight of Lord Winterbourne, who was pacing the gloomy pier by night in his own gloom of guilty thought, the old man and the young man embarked for England. A few hours later the little Italian slept under an English roof, and the young Englishman looked up at the dizzy cliff, and down at the foaming sea, too much excited to think of rest. The next morning Lionel carried off his prize to Lon- don, and left him in the hands of Charlie Atheling. Then, seeing no one, speaking to no one, without lingering an hour in his native country, he turned back and went away. lie had made up his mind now to remain at Calais till the matter was entirely decidedthen to resign his beneficeand then, with things and not thoughts around him in the actual press and contact of com- mon life, to read, if he could, the grand secret of a true existence, and decide his fate. OHAPTEn xxxi.THE TItIAL. LORD WINTERBOURNE had been in Italy, found the courier Monte, whom he himself going over the ground which Charlie Athe- had established in his little mountain-inn. ling had examined so carefully. Miss Anas- Monte was a faithful servant enough to his tasias proverb was coming true. He who employer of the time, but he was not scrupu- all his life had been so wary, began to calcu- bus, and had no great conscience. He late madl~y, with an insane disregard of all undertook, without much objection, for the the damning facts against him, on overturn- hire which Lord Winterbourne gave him, to ing, by one bold stroke, the careful fabric of say any thing Lord Winterbourne pleased. the young lawyer. He sought out and lie had been present at the marriage; U~d 85 86 if the old doctor could have been delayed, or turned back, or even kidnappedwhich was in the foiled plotters scheme, if nothing better would serveMonte, being the sole witness of the ceremony present, might have made it out a niock marriage, or at least d~layed the case, and thrown discredit upon the union. It was enough to show what mad shifts even a wise intriguer might be driven to trust in. He believed it actually possible that judge and jury would ignore all the other testimony, and trust to the un- supported word of his lying witness. He did not pause to think, tampering with truth as he had been all his life, and trust- ing no man, what an extreme amount of credulity he expected for himself. But even when Dr. Serrano escaped him when the trial drew nearer day by day when Louis agents came in person, respect- ful and urgent, to make their statement to himand when he became aware that his case was naught, and that he had no evi- dence whatever to depend on save that of Monte, his wild confidence did not yield. He refused with disdain every offer of a com- promise; he commanded out of his presence the bearers of that message of forbearance and forgiveness; he looked forward with a blind defiance of his fate miserable to see. He gave orders that preparations should be made at Winterbourne for the celebration of his approaching triumph. That autumn he had invited to his house a larger party than usual; and though few came, and those the least reputable, there was no want of sports- men in the covers, nor merrymakers at the Hall: he himself was restless, and did not continue there, even for the sake of his guests, but made incessant journeys to Lon- don, and kept in constant personal attend- ance on himself the courier Monte. He was the object of incessant observation, and the gossip of half the county: he had many enemies; and many of those who were dis- posed to take his part, had heard and been convinced by the story of Louis. Almost every one, indeed, who did hear of it, and remembered the boy in his neglected but noble youth, felt the strange probability and vraisemblance of the tale; and as the time drew nearer, the interest grew. It was known that the new claimant of the title lived in Miss Anastasias house, and that she was the warmest supporter of his claim. The people of Banburyshire were proud of Miss Anastasia; but she was Lord Winter- bournes enemy. Why? That old tragedy began to be spoken of once more in whispers; other tales crept into circulation ; he was a bad man: everybody knew something of him enough ground to judge him on; and if he was capable of all these, was he not capa- ble of this? THE ATHELINGS. As the public voice grew thus, like the voice of doom, the doomed man went on in his reckless and unreasoning confidence; the warnings of his opponents and of his friends seemed to be alike fruitless. No extent of self-delusion could have justified ~im at any time in thinking himself popular, yet he seemed to have a certain insane conviction now, that he had but to show himself in the court to produce an immediate reaction in his favor. He even said so, shaken out of all his old self-restrained habits, boasting with a vain braggadocio to his guests at the Hall; and people began, with a new impulse of pity, to wonder if his reason was touched, and to hint vaguely to each other that the shock had unsettled his mind. The trial came on at the next assize; it was long, elaborate, and painful. On the very eve of this momentous day, Louis him- self had addressed an appeal to his uncle, begging him, at the last moment when he could withdraw with honor, to accept the compromise so often and so anxiously pro- posed to him. Lord Winterbourne tore the letter in two, and put it in his pocket-book. I shall use it, he said to the messenger, when this business is over, to light the bonfire on Badgeley Hill. The trial came on accordingly, without favor or private arrangementa fair struggle of force against force. The evidence on the side of the prosecutor was laid down clearly, particular ~yparticular; the marriage of the late Lord Winterbourne to the young Italianthe entry in his pocket-book, sworn to by Miss Anastasiathe birth of the childrentheir journey from Italy to Lon- don, from London to Winterbourneand the identity of the boy Louis with the pres- ent claimant of the titleclearly, calmly, deliberately, every thing was proved. It took two days to go over the evidence; then came the defence. Without an overwhelm- ing array of witnesses on the other side without proving perjury on the part of these what could Lord Winterbourne answer to such a charge as this? He commenced, through his lawyer, by a vain attempt to brand Louis over again with illegitimacy, to sully the name of his dead brother, and represent him a villanous de- ceiver. It was allowed, without contro- versy, that Louis was the son of the old lord; and then Monte was placed in the witness- box to prove that the marriage was a mock marriage, so skilfully performed as to cheat herself, her family, the old quick-witted Serrano, whose testimony had pleased every oneall the people present, in short, except his own acute and philosophical self. The fellow was bold, clever, and scrupu- lous, but he was not prepared for such an THE ATHELINGS. ordeal. His attention. distracted by the furious contradictory gestures of Dr. Ser- rano, whose cane could scarcely be kept out of actionby the stern, steady glance of Miss Anastasia, whom he recognizedhe was no match for the skilful cross-examiners who had him in band. He hesitated, pre- varicated, altered his testimony. He held, with a grim obstinacy, to unimportant trifles, and made admissions at the same moment which struck at the very root of his own credibility as a witness. He was finally ordered to sit down by the voice of the judge himself, which rung in the fellows ears like thunder. That was all the case for the defence! Even Lord Winterbourne s coun- sel colored for shame as he made the misera- ble admission. The jury scarcely left the court; there was no doubt remaining on the mind of the audience. The verdict was pronounced solemnly, like a passiQnlesS voice of justice, as it was, for the plaintiff. There was no applauseno exultationa universal human horror and disgust at the strange depravity they had just witnessed, put down every demonstr& tion of feeling. People drew away from the neighborhood of Lord Winterbourne as from a man in a pestilence. He left the court almost immediately, with his hat over his eyeshis witness following as he best could; then came a sudden revul- sion of feeling. The best men in the county hurried towards Louis, who sat, pale and excited, by the side of his elder and his younger sister. Congratulatory good wishes poured upon him on every side. As they left the court slowly, a guard of honor sur- rounded this heir and ero of romance; and as he emerged in toth e street the air rang with a cheer for the new Lord WinterL~ourne. They called him My lord, as he atood on the step of Miss Anastasias carriage, which she herself entered as if it had been a car of triumph. .She called him My lord, making a proud obeisance to him, as a mother might have done to her son, a new- made king; and they drove off slowly, with riders in their train, amid the eager observa- tion of all the passengersthe new Lord Winterbourne! The old one hastened home on foot, no one observing himfollowed far off, like a shadow, by his attendant villainunob- served, and almost unheeded, entered the Hall; thrust with his own hand some nec- essaries into his travelling-bag, gathered his cloak around him, and was gone. Winter- bourne Hall that night was left in the cus- tody of the strangers who had been his guests, an uneasy and troubled company, all occupied with projects of departure to-mor- row. Once more the broad chill moonlight fell on the noble park, as when Louis and his sister, desolate and friendless, passed out from its lordly gates into midnight and the vacant world. Scarcely a year! but what a change upon all the actors and all the pas- sions of that moonlight October night! CHAPTER xXxII.ESPOUSALS. Tr was winter, but the heavens were olden ages, and native to the soil. There brighta halcyon day among the December was a fresh breath from the broad country, glooms. All the winds lay still among the a hum of life in the air, a twitter of hardy withered ferns, making a sighing chorus in birds among the trees. It was one of those the underground of Badgeley Wood; but days which belong to no season, but come, the white clouds, thinner than the clouds of like single blessings, one by one, throwing a summer, lay becalmed upon the chill blue gleam across the darker half of the year. sky, and the sun shone warm under the Though it was in December instead of May, hedgerows, and deluded birds were perching it was as fair a bridal of the earth and out upon the hawthorn boughs; the green sky as poet could have wished to see; but grass brightened under the morning light; the season yielded no flowers to strew upon the trees which had no leaves clustered their the grassy footpath between the Old Wood branches together, with a certain pathos in Lodge and the little church of Winter- their nakedness, and made a trellised shadow bourne: they did not need them who trode here and there over the wintry stream; and, that road to-day. noble as in the broadest summer, in the Hush, they are coming homeseeing sheen of the December sunshine lay Oxford, nothing but an indefinite ~plendor in the jewelled like a bride, gleaming out upon the earth and in the skysweet in the dews of tower of Maudlin, flashing abroad into the their youthtouched to the heartto that firmament from fair St. Mary, twinkling very depth and centre where lie all ecstasies with innumerable gem-points from all the and tears. Walking together arm in arm, lesser cupolas and spires. In the midst of in their young humilityscarcely aware of all, this sunshine retreated in pure defeat the bridal train behind themin an en- and failure, from that sombre old heathen, chantment of their own; now coming back with his heavy domebut only brightened to that old little room, with its pensive old all the more upon those responsive and memories of hermit life and solitudethis human inhabitants dwelling there from the quiet old place, which never before was 87 88 THE ATflEUNG8. lighted up with such a gleam of splendid efforts to question and set aside the verdict fortune and happy hope. which transferred to the true heir his name You would say it was Marian Atheling, and inheritanceefforts in which even the with the smile on her lip, a 3d the tear lawyers whom he had employed at the trial, in her eye the very same lovely vision and who were not over-scrupulous, had re- whom the lad Louis saw some eighteen fused any share. The attempt ~s entirely months ago at the garden-gate. But you fruitlessan insane resistance tt the law, would he mistaken; for it is not Marianit which was irresistible; and the Honorable is t he young Lady Winterbourne. This one Reginald Rivers, whom some old sycophants is quite as beautiful for a consolation who came in his way still flattered with his almost more so in her bridal blush, and sun- old title, was now at Baden, a great man shine, and tearsand for a whole hour by enough in his own circle, rich in the allow- the village clock has been a peeress of the ance from his nephew, which he was no realm, longer too proud to accept. He akmne of This is what it has come to after all all men expressed any disapprobation of what they must all come to, those innocent Louis marriagehe whose high sense of young peopleeven Rachel, who is as wild family honor revolted from the idea of a as a child, in her first genuine and una- mesallianceand one other individual, who larmed outburst of youthful jubilation had something of a more reasonable arga- even A~nes, who through all this joy carries ment. We hasten to extract, according toa a certain thoughtful remembrance in her former promise, the following pathetic para- dark eyespossibly even Charlie, who fears graph from the pages of the Mississippi Ga- no man, but is a little shy of every woman- zelte: kind younger than Miss Anastasia. There I have just heard of the marriage of the are only one or two strangers; but the young Lord Wwith the beautiful M party almost overflows Miss Bridgets parlor, A. Well !is thrtt so wonderful? where the old walls smile with flowers, and 0, visionary dream! That thou shouldst the old apartment, like an ancient hand- pause to comment upon a common British maid, receives them with a prim and antique bargainthe most ordinary arrangement of gracea little doubtful, yet half hysterical this conventional and rotten life? What is with joy, a heart in comparison with a title ?true But it does not last very long, this crown- love in the baYance of a coronet? 0, my ing festival. By-and-by the hero and the country, thou hast not come to this! But heroine go away; then the guests one by for these mercenary and heartless parents one; then the family, a little languid, a but for the young mind dazzled with the little moved with the first inroad among splendid cheat of rankO heaven, what them, disperse to their own apartments, or true felicitywhat poetic rapture-what a to a meditative ramble out of doors; and home thou mightst have seen! For she when the twilight falls, you could almost was beautiful as the day when it breaks suppose Miss Bridget, musing too over the upon the rivers and the mountains of my story of another generation, sitting before native land! It is enougha poets fate the fire in her great old chair, with no com- would have been all incomplete with- panion but the flowers, out this fiery trial. Farewell, M! This new event seemed somehow to con- Farewell, lovely deluded victim of a false solidate and make certain that wonderful society! Some time out of yoir hollow fortune of Louis, which until then had splendor you will think of a true heart and I ~ looked almost too much like a romance tb be weep. realized. His uncle had made various CHAPTER XXXIII.AN OLD FRIEND. THE Winterbournes had been for some ancecharmed to know her sister, who had time at homethey were now in London, so much genius, and wrote such delightful and Marian had appeared at court in the books, and most extraordinary of all, ex- full splendor of that young beauty of hers, tremely curious and interested about Char- which never had dazzled any one at home as lie, the wonderful young brother who had it dazzled every one now. She and her found out the mystery. At one of the fash- handsome young husband were the lions of ionable assemblies, where Louis and Marian, the season, eagerly sought after in the best Rachel and Agnes, were pointed out eagerly society. Their story had got abroad, as oti all sides, and commented upon as sue~ stories which are at all remarkable have fresh unsophisticated young creaturessuch such a wonderful faculty of getting; and a group! so picturesque, so interesting! strangers whoni Marian had never seen be- they became aware, all of them, with differ- fore, were delighted to make her acquaint- ent degrees of embarrassment and pain, that TH1~ kTHELING~. Mrs. Edgerley was in the company. Louis found her out last of all. She could not possibly fail to notice them; and the young man, anxious to save her pain, made up his mind at once to be the first to address her. He went forward gravely, with more than usual deference in his manner. She recog- nized him in a moment, started with a little surprise and a momentary shock, but im- mediately rushed forward with her most charming air of enthusiasm, caught his hand, and overwhelmed him with congratu- lations. 0, I should be so shocked if you supposed that I entertained any prejudice because of poor dear papa! cried Mrs. Edgerley. Of course he meant no harm; of course he did not know any better. I am so charmed to see you! I am sure we shall make most capital cousins and firm allies. Positively you look quite grave at me. 0, 1 assure you family feuds are en- tirely out of fashion, and no one ever quar- rels with me! I am dying to see those sweet girls! And very much amazed, and filled with great perturbatian, those sweet girls were, when Mrs. Edgerly came up to them, lean- ing upon Louis arm, bestowed upon them all a shower of those light perfumy kisses which Marian and Agnes remembered so well, and, declaring Lady Winterbourne far too young for a chaperone, took her place among them. Amazed as they were at this sudden renewal of old friendship, none of them desired to resist it; and before they were well aware, they found themselvt~s engaged, the whole party, to Mrs. Edgerleys next reception, when every one would be so charmed to see them! Positively, my love, you are looking quite lovely, whispered the fine lady into the shrinking ear of Marian. I always said so. I con- stantly told every one you were the most perfect little beauty in the world; and then that charming book of Miss Athelings, which every one was wild about! and your brothernow, do you know, I wish so very much to know your brother. 0, I am sure ~ou could persuade him to come to my fh ursday. Tell him every one comes; no one ever refuses me! I shall send him a card to-morrow. Now, may I leave my cause in your hands? We will try, said Marian, who, though she bore her new dignities with extraordinary self-possession on the whole, was undeniably shy of Agnes first fashionable patroness. The invitation was taken up as very good fun indeed, by all the others. They resolved to make a general assault upon Charlie, and went home in great glee with their undertaking. Nor was Charlie, after all, so hard to be moved as they expected. He twisted the pretty note in his big fingers with somewhat grim amusement, and said he did not mind. With this result Mrs. Atheling showed the greatest delight, for the good mother began to speculate upon a wife for Charlie, and to be rather afraid of some humble beauty catching her boys eye before he had seen the world. With almost the feeling of people in a dream, Agnes and Marian entered once more those well-remembered rooms of Mrs.. Edgerley, in which they had gained their first glimpse of the world; and Charlie, less demonstrative of his feelings, but not with- out a remembrance of the past, entered these same portals where he had exchanged that first glance of instinctive enmity with the former Lord Winterbourne. The change was almost too extraordinary to be realized even by the persons principally concerned. Marian, who had been but Agnes Athelings pretty and shy sister, came in now first of the party, the wife of the head of her for.. mer patroness family. Agnes, a diffident young genius then, full of visionary ideas of fame, had now her own known and ac- knowledged place, but had gone far beyond it, in the heart which did not palpitate any longer with the glorious young fancies of a visionary ambition; and Charlie, last of allCharlie, who had tumbled out of the Islington fly to take charge of his sistersa big boy, clumsy and manful, whom Lord Winterbourne smiled at, as he passed with his ungenial smileCharlie, almost single- handed, had thrust the usurper from his seat, and placed the true heir in his room. No wonder that the Athelings were some- what dizzy with recollections when they came among all the fashior~able people who were charmed to see them, and found their way at last to the boudoir where Agnes and Marion had looked at the faces and the dia- monds, on that old Thursday of Mrs. Edger- leys, which sparkled still in their recollec- tion, the beginning of their fate. But though Louis and Marian, and Agnes and Rachel, were all extremely attractive, had more or less share in the romance, and were all more or less handsome, Charlie was without dispute the lion of the night. Mrs. Edgerley fluttered about with him, holding his great arm with her pretty hand, and in- troducing him to every one; and with a smile, rueful, comical, half embarrassed, half ludicrous, Charlie, who continued to be very shy of ladies, suffered himself to be dragged about by the fashionable enchant- ress. He had very little to sayhe was such a big fellow, so unmanageable in a delicate crowd of fine ladies, with draperies like gossamer, and, to do him justice, very much afraid of the dar~gerous steering; but 89 THE ATHELINGS. Charlies manners, though they would have overwhelmed with distress his anxious mother, rather added to his success. It was he who conducted the whole case. I do not wonder! Look, what a noble head! What a self-absorbed expression! What a power of concentration! were the sweet and audible whispers which rang around him; and the more sensible observers of the scene, who saw the secret humor in Charlies upper-lip, slightly curved with amusement, acute, but not unkindly, and caught now and then a gleam of his keen eye, which, when it met with a response, always made a momentary brightening of the smilewere disposed to give him full credit for all the power imputed to him. Mrs. Edgerley was in the highest delight he was a perfect success for a lion. Lions, as this patroness of the fine arts knew by experience, were sadly apt to betray them- selves, to be thrown off their balance, to talk nonsense. But Charlie, who was not given to talking, who was still so delightfully clumsy, and made such a wonderful bow, was perfectly charming; Mrs. Edgerley declared she was quite in love with him. After all, natural feeling put out of the question, she had no extraordinary occasion to identfy herself with the resentments or enmities of that ruined plotter at Baden; and he must have been a worthy father, in- deed, who had moved Mrs. Edgerley to shut her heart or her house to the handsome young couple, whom everybody delighted to honor, or to the hero of a fashionable romance, which was spoken of everywhere. She had no thought of any suc~ sacrifice; she established the most friendly relations instantly with her charming young cousins. She extended the kindly title, with the most fascinating amiability, to Agnes and Char- lie. She overwhelmed the young lawyer with compliments and invitations. He had a much stronger hold upon her fickle fancy than the author of Hope Haziewood. Mrs. Edgerley was delighted to speak to all her acquaintances of Mr. Atheling, who con- ducted all the case against poor dear papa did every thing himself I assure youand such a charming modesty of genius, such a wonderful force and character! 0, any one may be jealous who pleases; I cannot help it. I quite adore that clever young man. Charlie took it all very quietly; he con- cerned himself as little about the adoration of Mrs. Edgerley, as he did about the secret scrutiny of his mother concerning every young woman who chanced to cross the path of her son. Young women were the only created things whom Charlie was afraid of and what his own secret thoughts might be upon this important question, nobody could tell. CHAPTER xxxlv.SETTLING DOWN. MANY lesser changes had been involved in scurity after he had made this final arrange- the great revolution which made the name- ment. It was sometimes possible to hear of less Louis head of the family, and conferred him, for English travellers, journeying upon him the estates and title of Lord Win- through unfamiliar routes, did not fail to terbourne: scarcely any one, indeed, in the note the wandering English gentleman who immediate circle of the two families of seemed to travel for something else than Rivers and Atheling, the great people and pleasure, and whose motives and objects no thesmallremained uninfluenced bythechange one knew; but where to look for him next, of sovereignty, except Miss Anastasia, whose or what his occupations were, neither Louis heart and household charities were mani- nor his friends, in spite of all their anxious festly widened, but to whom no other change inquiries, could ever ascertain. except the last, and grand one, was like to And Mr. Mead was now the rector, and come. The Rector kept his word; as soon reigned in Lionels stead. A new rectory, as he heard of the definite settlement of that all gabled and pinnacled, more correct great question of Louis claim, he himself than the model it followed, and truer to its resigned his benefice; and one of the first period than the truest original in Christen- acts of the new Lord Winterbourne was to dom, rose rapidly between the villag& and answer the only request of Lionel, by con- the Hall; and Mr. Mead, whose altar had ferring it upon Mr. Mead. After that, Lionel been made bare by the iconoclastic hands of made a settlement upon his sister of all the authority, began to exhibit some little alter- property which belonged to them, enough ation in his opinions as he grew older, held to make a modest maidenly income for the modified views as to the priesthood, and cast gentle invalid, and keep her in possession of an eye of visible kindness upon the Honora- all the little luxuries which seemed essential ble Rachel Rivers. The sentiment, how- to her life. For himself he retained a ever, was not at all reciprocal; no one be- legacy of a thousand pounds which had lieved that Rachel was really as old as Louis been left to him several years before. This older than the pretty matron Marian, was the last that was known of the Rector older even than Agnes. She had never been he disappeared into entire gloom and ob- a girl until nowand Rachel cared a great 90 THE ATHELINGS. deal more for the invalid Lucy in her noise- less shadowy chamber in the Old Wood House, than for all the rectors and all the curates in the world. She was fancy free, and promised to remain so; and Marian had already begun with a little horror to enter- tam the idea that Rachel possibly might never marry at all. The parent Athelings themselves were not unmoved by the changes of their children. Charlie was to be received as a partner into the firm which Mr. Foggo, by dint of habit, still clung to, as soon as he had attained his one-and-twentieth year. Agnes, as these quiet days went on, grew both in reputation and in riches, girl though she still was; and the youngest of them was Lady Winter- bourne! All these great considerations somewhat dazzled the eyes of the confidential clerk of Messrs Cash, Ledger, & Co., as he turned over his books upon that desk where he had once placed Agnes fifty-pound notes, the beginning of the family fortune. Belle- vue came to be mightily out of the way when Louis and Marian were in town living in so different a quarter; and Mr. Atheling wearied of the City, and Mamma concluded that the country air would be a great deal better for Bell and Beau. So Mr. Atheling accepted a retiring allowance, the half of his previous income, from the employers whom he had servcd so long. The whole little household, even including Susan, removed to the country, where Marian had been de- lighting herself in the superintendence of the two or three additional rooms built to the Old Wood Lodge, which were so great a surprise to Mamma when she found them, risen as at the touch of a fairys wand. The family settled there at once in unpretending comfort, taking farewell affectionately of Miss Willsie and Mr. Foggo, but not forget- ting Bellevue~. And here Agnes pursued her vocation, making very little demonstration of it, the main pillar for the mean time, and crowning glory of her fathers house. 11cr own mind and imagination had been profoundly im- pressed, almost in spite of herself, by that last known act of Lionelshis hasty jour- ney to London with Dr. Serrano. It was the kind of act beyond all others to win upon a temperament so generous and sensi- tive, which a more ostentatious generosity might have disgusted and repelled; and perhaps the very uncertainty in which they remained concerning him kept up the lurk- ing interest in Agnes Athelings heart. It was possible he might appear any day at their very doors; it was possible that he never might be seen again. It was not easy to avoid speculating upon himwhat he was thinking, where he was ?and when, 01 in that spontaneous delight of her young genius, which yet had suffered no diminu- tion, Agnes thoughts glided into imperson- ation, and fairy figures gathered round her, and one by one her fables grew, ~jn the midst of the thread of storyin the midst of what people called, to the young au- thors amusement, an elaborate develop- ment of character, the result of great study and observation thoughts came to h~r mind, and words to her lips, which she sup.. posed no one could thoroughly understand save one. Almost unconsciously she shad- owed his circumstances and his story in many a bright imagination of her own; and contrasted with the real one half-a-dozen imaginary Lionels, yet always endaing in finding him the nob lest type of action in in that great crisis of his career. It blended somehow strangely with all that was most serious in her work; for when Agnes had to speak of faith, she spoke of it with the fervor with which one addresses an individ- ual, opening her heart to show the One great Name enshrined in it to another, who, woe for him, in his wanderings so sadly friendless, knew not that Lord. So the voice of the woman who dwelt at home went out over the world; it charmed multitudes who thought of nothing but the story it told, delig~hted some more who rec- ognized that sweet faulty grace of youth, that generous young directness and simplic- ity which made the fable truth. If it ever reached to one who felt himself addressed in it, who knew the words, the allusions, that noble craft of genius, which, addressing all, had still a private voice for oneif there was such a man somewhere, in the desert or among the mountains far away, wandering where he seldom heard the tongue of his country, and never saw a face he recog- nized, Agnes never knew. But after this fashion time went on with them all. Then there came a second heir, another Louis, to the Hall at Winterbourne and it was very hard to say whether this young gentlemans old aunt or his young aunt, the Honorable Rachel, or the Honor- able Anastasia, was most completely out of her wits at this glorious epoch in the history of the House. Another event of the most startling and extraordinary description took place very shortly after the christening of Marians miraculous baby. Charlie was one-and-twenty; he was admitted into the firm, and the young man who was one of the most rising young men in his profession, took to himself a holiday, and went abroad without any one knowing much about it. No harm in that; but when Charlie re- turned, he brought with him a certain Sig- nora Qiulia, a very amazing companion 92 THE ATHELINGS. indeed for this taciturn hero, who was delicate little beauty, extremely proud of the afraid of young ladies. He took her down big young lover, who had carried her off at once to Winterbourne, to p resent her from her mothers house six weeks ago: to his mother and sisters. He had the and we are grieved to acknowledge that grace to blush, but really was not half so Charlie hencef~rth showed no fear whatever, much ashamed of himself as he ou~ht to have scarcely even the proper awe o~ a dutiful been. For the pretty young italian turned husband in the presence of Miu. Charles out to be cousin to Louis and Rachela Atheling. CHAPTER XXXV.THE END. AGNES ATHELING was alone in old Miss I gazing with eagerness in the bronzed face Bridgets parlor; it was a fervent day of J of the stranger, uttered a wondering ex- July, and all the country lay in a hush and I clamnation. He hastened to her, holding stillness of exceeding sunshine, which reduced out his hand. Mr. Rivers? cried all the common sounds of life, far and near, Agnes, in extreme surprise and agitation.. to a drowsy and languid humthe mid- is it you?~ summers luxurious voice. The little house What he said was some hasty faltering was perfectly still. Mrs. Atheling was at expressions of delight in seeing her, and the Hall, Papa in Oiford, and Hannah, they gazed at each other with their mutual whose solo beatific duty it was to take care interest, glad, yet constrained. We have of the children, and who envied no one in tried often to find out where you were, the world save the new nurse to the new said Agnes I mean Louis; he has been baby, had taken out Bell and Beau. The very anxious. Have you seen him? When door was open in the fearless fashion and did. you come home? license of the country. Perhaps Susan was I have seen no one save you. dozing in the kitchen, or on the sunny out~. But Louis has been very anxious, said side bench by ~tho kitchen door. There was Agnes with a little confusion. We have not a sound about the house save the deep all tried to discover where you were. Is it dreamy hum of the bees among the roses wrong to ask where you have been? those roses which clustered thick round the But Lionel did not at all attend to her old porch and on the wall. Agnes sat by questions. lIe was less self-possessed than the open window, in a very familiar old she was; he seemed to have only one idea occupation, making a frock for little Bell, at the present moment, so far as was visi- who was six years old now, and appreciated ble, and that he simply expressed over pretty things. Agnes was not quite so again I am very gladhappyto see you young as she used to befour years, with a here, and alone. great many events in them, had enlarged Oh! said Agnes with a nervous tremor the maiden mind, which still was as fresh as a II was asking, Mr. Rivers, where you childs. She was changed otherwise: the had been? ease which those only have who are used to This time he began to attend to her. I the company of people of refinement, had have been everywhere, he said, except added another charm to her natural grace. where pleasure was. I have been on fields As she sat with her work on her knee, in of battlesin p laces of wretchedness. I her feminine attitude and occupation, mak- have come to tell you somethingyou only. ing a meditative pause, bowing her head upon Do you remember our conversation once by her hand, thinking of something, with Badgeley Wood? those quiet walls of home around herthe Yes. open door, the open window, and no one You gave me a talisman, Agnes, said else visible in the serene and peaceful house, the speaker, growing more excited; I have she made, in her fair and thoughtful young carried it all over the world. womanhood, as sweet a type as one could Well, said Agnes as he paused. She desire of the serene and happy confidence of looked at him very earnestly, without even a a quiet English home. blush at the sound of her own name. She did not observe any one passing; she Wellbetter than well! cried Lionel; was not thinking, perhaps, of any one here- wonderfulinvincibledivine! I went to about who was like to passbut she heard try your spelli who trusted nothingat a step entering at the door. She scarcely the moment when everything had failed me looked up, thinking it some member of the even you. I put yonder sublime Friend of fkmilyscarcely moved even when the door yours to the experimenti dared to do it! of the parlor opened wider, and the step I took His name to the sorrowful, as you came in. Then she looked upstarted up bade me. I cast out devils with his name, ~ her work drop out of her hauds, and, a~ the sorcerers tried to do. I put all the THE ATHEUNG~. 93 hope I could have in life upon the trial, a second thought, more subtle, made her Now I come to tell you the issue; it is fit pause, and blush, and draw back. Lionel that you should know. was not so foolish as to wait the end of this Agnes leaned forward towards him, listen- self-controversy. He left his seat, came to ing eagerly; she could not quite tell what her side, took the hand firmly into his own, she expecteda confession of faith. which she half gave, and half withdrew I ~m a man of ambition, said Lionel, did not blush, but grew pale, with the quiet turning in a moment from the high and concern of a man who was about deciding solemn excitement of his former speech, with the happiness of his life. The end, but the a sudden smile like a gleam of sunshine. beginning too, said Lionel, with a tremor You remember my projects when I was in his voice. Agnes, hear me stillI have heir of Winterbourne. You knew them, something more to say. though I did not tell you; now I have found She did not answer a word; she lifted her a cave in a wild mining district among a race eyes to his face with one hurried, agitated, of giants. I am Vicar of Botallach, among momentary glance. Sqmething more! but the Cornish menhave been for four-and- the whole tale was in the look. They did twenty hoursthat is the end. not know very well what words followed, Agn~ had put out her hand to him in and neither do we. the first impulse of joy and congratulation; CHALMERS is Ax ORATOn. Among recent British orators, Chalmers was an extraordinary example of the power of sheerly physiological action which distinguishes the born orator from the merely cultivated speaker. He was a man of large and heavy build, whose demeanor, when he was not himself speaking, was so far from being fidgety or excitable, that he sat like a mass of stone, perfectly placid and unper- turbed, either not moving his head at all, or moving it slowly round as if it turned on a weighty pivot. All the more impressive was it to see this heavy frame under the influence of the oratorical agitation. How thewhole man was moved while he moved others! It was not speech; it was phrenzy. Even on lesser occa- sions, when he still kept within bounds, it was plain that in hearing him the audience was sub- jected not merely to the influence of his nroan- ing, but to the influence also of the sheer phys- ical excitement which accompanied his own sense of that nieaning. And on greater occa- sions the sight was absolutely terrible. His heavy frame was convulsed; his face flushed and grew Pythic; the veins in his forehead and neck stood out like cordage; his voice pealed or reached to a shriek; foam flew from his mouth in flakes; he hung over his audience almost menacing them with his shaking fist; or he stood erect, maniacal and stamping. More than once after such an exhibition there were fears of apoplexy; and once he lay for three hours on a sofa, having his head laved with vinegar, be- fore sufficiently recovering himself. And often, when one remembered and carried awa~y the ex- act words spoken by him in one of these phren- zies, they would seem plain enough, and such as any one else might have delivered without any approach to the same state of fury. Once, .for example, when his agitation was at the ut- termost, the sentiment which he was expressing was simply thisthat if the landed aristocracy of the country did not pay heed to certain so- cml tendencies, the importance of which he had been expoi.tnding, their estates were not worth ten years purchase. Here was a notion, here were words, which could have been spoken by any hardheaded man, or any quiet thinker who had nnyhow got them into his head, and which certainly, if spoken by such a person, might have been spoken calmly; so that clearly the oratorical fury with which they came from the lips of Chalmers depended on a constitu- tional peculiaritythat peculiarity being an unusual amount of emotional and nervous per- turbabiity in association with his thoughts and feelings, whatever they were.~Britisl& Quar- terly Review. EPITAPH OH A CHIan MURDERED BY ITS MOTHER.May I offer a much better version of these two lines, in the second of which Honor can have no place? Twas Love that conquered Shame that gave thee breath, And Shame that conquered Love decreed thy death. Instead of the Latin translation given, may I humbly suggest this? Heu nasci to jussit Amor, vicitque Pudorem, Teque Pudor victo jussit Amore mon. .TVotes and Queries. C. DE LA PBYME. l3own4ra AT A PART or THE VEnrrsxIn the country church of Esh, near Durham, the congregation always makes obeisance at the words: 0 come let us worship and fall doWn, and kneel before the Lord our Maker. I have no doubt that this is a prevalent cus.- torn in the county of Durham.JVotes and Queries. THE DEAD SECRET. THE afternoon wore away, and the evening came, and still there were no signs of Uncle Josephs return. Towards seven oclock. Rosamond was summoned by the nurse, who reported that the child was awake and fret- ful. After soothing and quieting him, she took him back with her to the sitting-room; having first with her usual consideration for the comfort of any servant whom she em- ployed, sent the nurse down-stairs, with a leisure hour at her own disposal, after the duties of the day. I dont like to be away from you, Lenny, at this anxious time, she said, when she rejoined her hus- band; so I have brought the child in here. He is not likely to be troublesome ~lgaiii; and th6 having him to take care of is really a relief to me in our present state of sus- pense.~ The clock on the mantel-piece chimed the half-hour past seven. The carriages in the street were following one another more and more rapidly, filled with people in full dress, on their way to dinner, or on their way to the opera. The hawkers were shouting pro- clamations of news in the neighboring square, with the second editions of the even- ing papers under their arms. People who had been serving behind the counter all day were standing at the shop doors to get a breath of fresh air. Working men were trooping homeward, now singly, now to- gether in weary, shambling groups. Idlers, who had come out after dinner, were light- ing cigars at corners of streets, and looking about them, uncertain which way they should turn their steps next. It was just that transitional period of the evening at which the street-life of the day is almost over, and the street-life of the night has not quite begunjust the time, also, at which Rosamond, after vainly trying to find relief from the weariness of waiting by looking out of the window, was becoming more and more deeply absorbed in her own anxious thoughts, when her attention was abruptly recalled to events in the little world about her by the opening of the room door. She looked up immediately from the child lying asleep on her lap, and saw that Uncle Joseph had returned at last. The old man came in silently, with the form of declaration which he had taken away with him by Mr. Franklands desire, open in his hand. As he approached nearer CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.TUE STORY or THE PAST. to the window, Rosamond noticed that his face looked as if it had grown strangely older during the few hours of his absence. He came close up to h~, and still not saying a word, laid his treinblin~g fore- finger low down on,the open paper, and held it before her so that she could look at the place thus indicated without rising from her chair. His silence and the change in his face struck her with a sudden dread which made her hesitate before she spoke to him. Have you told her all?~ she asked, after a moments delay, putting the question in low, whispering tones, and not heeding the paper. This answers that I have, he said, still pointing to the declaration. See! here is the name, signed in the place that was left for itsigned by her own hand. Rosamond glanced at the paper. There indeed was the signature, S. Jazeph; and underneath it were added, in faintly traced lines of parenthesis, these explanatory words: Formerly, Sarah Leeson. Why dont you speak? exclaimed Rosamond, looking at him in growing alarm. Why dont you tell us how she bore it? Ah! dont ask me, dont ask me! he answered, shrinking back from her hand, as she tried in her eagerness to lay it on his arm. I forgot nothing. I said the words as you taught me to say them.. I went the roundabout way to the truth with my tongue; but my face took the short cut, and got to the end first. Pray, of your goodness to me, ask nothing about it! Be satisfied, if you please, with knowing that she is bet- ter, and quieter, and happier now. The bad is over and past, and the good is all to come. If I tell you how she looked, if I tell you what she said, if I tell you all that hap- pened when first she knew the truth, the fright will catch me round the heart again, and all the sobbing and crying that I have swallowed down will rise once more and choke me. I must keep my head clear, and my eyes dryor, how shall I say to you all the things that I have promised Sarah, as I love my own soul and hers, to tell, before I lay myself down to rest to-night? He stopped, took out a course little cotton pocket handkerchief, with a flaring white pattern on a dull blue ground, and dried a 94 THE DEAD SECRET. few tears that had risen in his eyes while he was speaking. My life has had so much happiness in it, he said, self-re- proachfully, looking at Rosamond, that my courage, when it is wanted for the time of trouble, is not easy to find. And yet, I am German! all my nation are philosophers .why is it that I alone am as soft in my brains, and as weak in my heart, as the pretty little baby, there, that is lying asleep in your lap? Dont speak again; dont tell us any thing till you feel more composed, said Rosamond. We are relieved from our worst suspense now that we know you have left her quieter and better. I will ask DO more questions,at least, she added, after a pause, I will only ask one.Sbe stopped; and her eyes wandered inquiringly towards Leonard. He had hitherto been listening with silent interest to all that had passed; but he now interposed gently, and advised his wife to wait a little before she ventured on saying any thing more. It is such an easy question to answer, pleaded Rosamond. I only wanted to hear whether she has got my message whether she knows that I am waiting and longing to see her, it she will but let me come? Yes, yes, said the old man nodding to Rosamond with an air of relief. That question is easy; easier even than you think, for it brings me straight to the be- ginning of all that I have got to say. Lie had been hitherto walking restlessly about the room; sitting down one moment, and getting up the next. He now placed a chair for himself, midway between Rosamond who was sitting, with the child, near the windowand her husband, who occupied the sofa at the lower end of the room. In this position, which enabled him to address himself alternately to Mr. and Mrs. Frank- land without difficulty, he soon recovered composure enough to open his heart unre- servedly to the interest of his subject. When the worst was over and past, he said addressing Rosamond when she could listen and when I could speak, the first words of comfort that I said to her were the words of your message. Straight she looked at me, with doubting, fearing eyes. Was her husband there to hear her? she says. Did he loQk angry? did 95 he change ever so little, when you got that message from her? And I said, No: no change, no anger, no sorrow, nothing like it. And she said again, Has it made be- tween them no misery? has it nothing wrenched away of all the love and ~all the happiness that binds them the one to the other? And once more I answer to that, No! no misery, no wrench. See now! I shall go my ways at once to the good wife, and fetch her here to answer for the good husband with her own tongue. While I speak those words there flies out over all her face a lookno, not a looka light like a sunflash. While I can count one, it lasts; before I can count two, it is gone; the face is all dark again; it is turned away from me on the pillow, and I see the hand that is outside the bed begin to crumple up the sheet. I shall go my ways, then, and fetch the good wife, I say again. And she says, No! not yet. I must not see her, I dare not see her till she knows and there she stops, and the hand crumples up the sheet again, and softly, softly, I say to her, Knows what? and she answers me, What I, her mother, cannot tell her to her face, for shame. And I say, So, so, my child! tell it not, thentell it not at all. She shakes her head at me, and wrings her two hands together, like this, on the bed-cover I must tell it, she says. I must rid my heart of all that has been gnawing, gnawing, gnaw- ing at it, or how shall I feel the blessing that seeing her will bring to me, if my conscience is only clear? Then she stops a little, and lifts up her two hands, so, and cries out loud, 0 will Gods mercy show me no way of telling it that will spare me before my child! And I say, Hush, then! there is a way. Tell it to Uncle Joseph, who is the same as father to you! Tell it to Uncle Joseph, whose little son died in your arms, whose tears your hand wiped away, in the grief-time long ago! Tell it, my child, to me; and I shall take the risk, and the shame (if there is shame) of telling it again. I, with nothing to speak for me but my white hair; I, with nothing to help me but my heart that means no harmI shall go to that good and true woman, with the burden of her mothers grief to lay before her; and, in my soul of souls I believe it, she will not turn away! He paused, and looked at Rosamond. Her 96 head was bent down over her child; her tears were dropping slowly, one by one, on the bosom of his little white dress. Wait- ing a moment to collect herself before she spoke, she held out her hand to the old man, and firmly and gratefully met the look he fixed on her. 0, go on, go on! she said. Let me prove to you that your generous confidence in me is not mis- placed! I knew it was not from the first, as surely as I know it now! said Uncle Jo- seph. And Sarah, when I had spoken to her, she knew it too. She was ~ilent for a little; she leant over from the pillow and kissed me here, on my cheek, as I sat by the bedside; and then she looked back, back, back, in her mind, to the Long Ago, and very quietly, very slowly, with her eyes looking into my eyes, and her hand resting so in mine, she spoke the words to me that I must now speak again to you, who sit here to-day as her judge; before you go to her to-morrow, as her child. Not as her judge! said Rosamond. I cannot, I must not hear you say that. I speak her words, not mine, rejoined the old man gravely. Wait, before you bid me change them for otherswait, till you know the end. He drew his chair a little nearer to Rosa- mond, paused for a minute or two, to ar- range his recollections, and to separate them one from the other; then resumed: As Sarah began with me, he said, so I, for my part, must begin also, which means to say, that I go down now through the years that are past, to the time when my niece went out to her first service. You know that the sea-captain, the brave and good man Treverton, took for his wife an artist on the stagewhat they call play- actress, here? A grand big woman, and a handsome; with a life, and a spirit, and a will in her, that is not often seen: a woman of the sort who can say, We will do this thing, or that thingand do it in the spite and face of all the scruples, all the obsta- cles, all the oppositions in the world. To this lady there comes for maid to wait upon her, Sarah, my niece,a young girl, then, pretty, and kind, and gentle, and very, very shy. Out of many others who want the place, and who are bolder and bigger and quicker girls, Mistress Treverton, neverthe THE DEAD ~LEORET. less, picks Sarah. This is strange, but it is stranger yet, that Sarah, on her part, when she comes out of her first fears, and do~ibts, and pains of shyness about herself, gets to be fond with all her heart of that.grnnd and handsome mistress, who has a life, and a spirit, and a will of the sort that is not often seen. This is strange to say, but it is also, as I know from Sarahs own lips, every word of it true. True beyond a doubt, said Leonard. Most of the strong attachments in the world are formed between people who are unlike each other. So the life they led in that ancient house of Porthgenna began happily for them all, continued the old man. The love that the mistress had for her husband was so full in her heart, that it overflowed in kindness to everybody who was about her, and to Sarah, her maid, before all the rest. She would have nobody but Sarah to read to her, to work for her, to dress her in the morning and the evening, and to undress her at night. She was as familiar as a sister might have been with Sarah, when they two were alone, in the long days of rain. It was the game of her idle time- the laugh that she liked mostto astonish the poor country maid, who had never so much as seen what a theatres inside was like, by dressing in fine clothes, and paint- ing her face, and speaking and doing all that she had done on the theatre-scene, in the days that were before her marriage. The more she startled and puzzled Sarah with these jokes and pranks of masquerade, the better she was always pleased. For a year this easy, happy life went on in the ancient house,happy for all the servants, happier still for the master and mistress, but for the want of one thing to make the whole complete, one little blessing, that was always hoped for, and that never came-the same, if you please, as the blessing in the long white frock, with the plump delicate face and the tiny arms, that I see before me now. He paused, to point the illusion by nod- ding and smiling at the child in Rosamonds lap; then resumed. As the new year gets on, he said, Sarah sees in the mistress a change. The good sea-captain is a man who loves children, and is fond of getting to the house THE DEAD SECRET. all the little boys and girls of his friends round about. He plays with them, he kisses them, he makes them presentshe is the best friend the little boys and girls have ever had. The mistress, who should be their best friend too, looks on and says nothing; looks on, red sometimes, and sometimes pale; goes away into her room where Sarah is at work for her, and walks about, and finds fault; and on~ day lets the evil temper fly out of her at her tongue, and says, Why have I got no child for my hus- band to be fond of? Why must he kiss and play always with the children of other women? They take his love away for something that is not mine. I hate those children and their mothers too! It is her passion that speaks then, but it speaks what is near the truth for all that. She will not make friends with any of those mothers; the ladies she is familiar-fond with, are the ladies who have no children, or the ladies whose families are all up- grown. You think that was wrong of the mistress? He put the question to Rosamond, who was toying thoughtfully with one of the babys hands which was resting in hers. I think Mrs. Treverton was very much to be pitied, she answered, gently lifting the childs hand to her lips. Then I, for my part, think so too, said Uncle Joseph. To be pitied ?yes! To be more pitied some months after, when there is still no child and no hope of a child, and the good sea-captain says one day, I rust here, I get old with much idleness, I want to be on the sea again. I shall ask for a ship. And he asks for a ship, and they give it to him, and he goes away on his cruiseswith much kissing and fond- ness at parting from his wifebut still he goes away. And when he is gone, the mis- tress comes in again where Sarah is at work for her on a fine new gown, and snatches it away, and casts it down on the floor, and throws after it all the fine jewels she has got on her table, and stamps and cries with the misery and the passion that is in her. I would give all those fine things, and go in rags for the rest of my life to have a child! she says. I am losing my husbands love; he would never have gone away from me if I had brought him a child! Then she looks in the glass, and says between her MDCLXIXV. LIVIXO AOL VOL. XVIII. 7 teeth~ yes! yes! I am a fine woman with a fine figure, and I would change places with the ugliest, crookedest wretch in all creation, if I could only have a child! And then she tells Sarah that the captains brother spoke the vilest of all vile words of her, when she was married, because she was an artist on the stage; and she says, If 1 have n~ child, who but hethe rascal- monster that I wish I could kill !who but he will dome to posess all that the captain has got? And then she cries again, and says, I am losing his loveah, I know it, I know it !L am losing his love! Noth- ing that Sarah can say will alter her thoughts about that. And the months go on, and the sea-captain comes back, and still there is always the same secret grief growing and growing in the mistress heart growing and growing till it is now the third year since the marriage, and there is no hope yet of a child; and, once more the sea- captain gets tired on the land, and goes off again for his cruiseslong cruises, this time; away, away, away, at the other end of the world. Here Uncle Joseph paused once more, apparently hesitating a little about how he should go on with the narrative. His mind seemed to be soon relieved of its doubts, but his face saddened, and his tones sank lower, when he addressed Rosamond again. I must, if you please, go away from the mistress -now, he said, and get back to Sarah, my niece, and say one word also of a mining man, with the Cornish name of Pol- wheal. This was a young man that worked well and got good wage, and kept a good character. He lived with his mother in the little village that is near the ancient house; and, seeing Sarah from time to time, took much fancy to her, and she to him. So the end came that the marriage-promise was be- tween them given and taken; as it hap- pened, about the time when the sea-captain was back after his first cruises, and just when he was thinking of going away in a ship again. Against the marriage-promise nor he nor the lady his wife had a word to object, for the miner, Polwheal, had good wage and kept a good character. Only the mistress said that the loss of Sarah would be sad to hervery sad; aDd Sarah answered that there wa~ yet no hurry to part. So the weeks go on, and the sea-captain sails 97 98 away again for his long cruises; and about the same time also the mistress finds out that Sarah frets and looks not like herself, and that the miner, Poiwbeal, he lurks here and lurks there round about the house; and she says to herself, So! so! Am I standing too much in the way of this mar- riage? For Sarahs sake, that shall not be! And she calls for them both one even- ing, and talks to them kindly, and sends away to put up the banns next morning the young man, Polwheal. That night, it is his turn to go down into the Porthgenna mine, and work after the hours of the day. With his heart all light, down into that dark he goes. When he rises to the world again, it is the dead body of him that is drawn up the dead body, with all the young life, by the fall of a rock, crushed out in a moment. The news flies here; the news flies there. With no break, with no warning, with no comfort near, it comes on a sudden to Sarah, my niece. When to her sweetheart that evening, she had said good-bye, she was a young pretty girl; when six little weeks after, she, from the sick-bed where the shock threw her, ~ob up,all her youth was gone, all her hair was gray, and in her eyes the fright-look was fixed that has never left them since. The simple words drew the picture of the miners death, and of all that followed it, with a startling distinctnesswith a fearful reality. Rosamond shuddered and looked at her husband. 0, Lenny! she mur- mured, the first news of your blindness was a sore trial to mebut what was it to this! Pity her! said the old man. Pity her for what she suffered then! Pity her for what came after, that was worse! Yet five, six, seven weeks pass, after the death of the mining-man, and Sarah, in the body suffers less, but in the mind suffers more. The mistress, who is kind and good to her as any sister could be, finds out, little by little, something in her face which is not the pain- look, not the fright-look, not the grief-look; something which the eyes can see but which the tongue cannot put into words. She looks and thinks, looks and thinks, till there steals into her mind a doubt which makes her tremble at herself, which drives her straight forward into Sarahs room, which sets her eyes searching through and through Sarah THE DEAD SECRET. to her inmost heart. There is something on your mind besides your grief for the dead and gone, she says, and catches Sarah by both the arms before she can turn away, and looks her in 1~he face, front to front, with curious eyes that search and suspect steadily. The miner-man, Polwheal, she says; my mind misgives me about the miner-man, Pol- wheal. Sarah! I have been more friend to you than mistress. As your friend I ask you, nowtell me all the truth? The question waits; but no word of answer! only Sarah struggles to get away, and the mistress holds her tighter yet, and goes on and says, I know that the marriage-promise passed between you and miner Polwheal; I know that if ever there was truth in man, there was truth in him; I know that he went out from this place to put the banns up, for you and for him, in the church. Have secrets from all the world besides, Sarah, but have none from me. Tell me, this minute, tell me the truth! Of all the lost creatures in this big, wide world, are you ? Before she can say the words that are next to come, Sarah falls on her knees, and cries out suddenly to be let go away to hide and die, and be heard of no more. That was all the answer she gaVe. It was enough for the truth, then ; it is enough for the truth now. He sighed bitterly, and ceased speaking for a little while. No voice broke the reverent silence that followed his last words. The one living sound that stirred in the still- ness of the room, was the light breathing of the child as he lay asleep in his mothers arms. That was all the answer, repeated the old man, and the mistress who heard it, says nothing for some time after, but still looks straight forward into Sarahs face, and grows paler and paler the longer she looks paler and paler, till on a sudden she starts, and at one flash the red flies back into her face. No, she says, whispering and look- ing at the door, once your friend, Sarah, always your friend. Stay in this house, keep your own counsel, do as I bid you, and leave the rest to me. And with that, she turns round quick on her heel, and falls to walking up and down the room,faster, faster, faster, till she is out of breath. Then she pulls the bell with an angry jerk, and calls out loud at the %loor, The horses! I TIlE DEAD SECRET. want to ride; then turns upon Sarah, My gown for riding in! Pluck up your heart, poor creature! On my life and h& nor I will save you. My gown, my gown, then; I am mad for a gallop in the open air! And she goes out, in a fever of the blood, and gallops, gallops, till the horse reeks again, and the groom-man who rides after her wonders if she is mad. When she comes back, for all that ride in the air, she is not tired. The whole evening after, she is now walking about the room, and now striking loud tunes all mixed up together on the piano. At the bed-time, she cannot rest. Twice, three times in the night she frightens Sarah by coming in to see how she does, and by saying always those same words over again, Keep your own counsel, do as I bid you, and leave the rest to me. In the morning, she lies late, sleeps, gets up very pale and quiet, and says to Sarah, No word more between us two of what happened yes- terdayno word till the tirhe comes when you fear the eyes of every stranger who looks at you. Then I shall speak again. Till that time let us be as we were before I put the question yesterday, and before you told the truth. At this point he broke the thread of the narrative again, explaining, as he did so, that his memory was growing confused about a question of time, which he wished to state correctly in introducing the series of events that were next to be described. Ah, well! well! he said, shaking his head, after vainly endeavoring to pursue the lost recollection. For once, I must acknowledge that I forget. Whether it was two months, or whether it was three, after the mistress said those last words to Sarah, I know notbut at the end of the one time, or of the other, she, one morning, orders her carriage and goes away alone to Truro. In the evening she comes back with two large, flat baskets. On the cover of the one there is a card, and written on it are the letters, S. L. On the cover of the other there is a card, and written on it are the letters, R. T. The baskets are taken into the mistress room, and Sarah is called, and the mistress says to her, Open the basket with S. L. on it; for those are the letters of your name, and the things in it are yours. Inside, there is first a box, which holds a grand bonnet of black lace; 99 then a fine, dark shawl; then black silk of the best kind, enough to make a gown; then linen and stuff for the under garments, all of the finest sort. Make up those things to fit yourself, says the mistress. ~ You are so much littler than I, that to mike the things up, new, is less trouble, than from my fit to yours to alter old gowns. Sarah, to all this, says in astonishment, Why? And the mistress answers, I will have no questions. Remember what I said; keep your own counsel, and leave the rest to me So she goes out, and leaves Sarah to work; and the next thing she does is to send for the doctor to see her. He asks what is the matter; gets for answer that she feels strangely, and not like herself; also that she thinks the soft air of Cornwall makes her weak. The days pass, and the doctor comes and goes, and, say what he may, those two answers are always the only two that he can get. All this time, Sarah is at work; and when she has done, the mis- tress says, Now for the other basket, with R. T. on it; for those are the letters of my name, and the things in it are mine. In- side this, there is first a box which holds a common bonnet of black straw; then a coarse dark shawl; then a gown of good common black stuff; then linen, and other things for the under garments, that are only of the sort called second best. Make up all that rubbish, says the mistress, to fit me. No questions! You have always done as I told you; do as I tell you now, or you are a lost woman. When the rub- bish is made up, she tries it on, and looks in the glass, and laughs in a way that is wild and desperate to hear. Do I make a fine, buxom, comely servant-woman? she says. Ha! but I have acted that part times enough in my past days on the theatre-scene. And then she takes off the clothes again, and bids Sarah pack them up at once in ope trunk, and pack the things she has made for herself in another. The doctor orders me to go away out of this damp-soft Cornwall climate, to where the air is fresh, and dry, and cheerful- keen! she says, and laughs again, till the room rings with it. At the same time, Sarah begins to pack, and takes some kniek-knack things off the table, and among them a brooch which has on it the likeness of the sea-captains face. The mis- 100 THE DEAD SECRET. tress sees her, turns white in the cheeks, bitter tears and to say faintly No. Do trembles all over, snatches the brooch away, you doubt, says the mistress, and grips her and locks it up in the cabinet in a great by the arm, and looks her close in the face hurry as if the look of it frightened her. with fierce eyes, Do you doubt which is I shall leave that behind me, she says, and best, to cast yourself into the worl4 forsaken, turns round on her heel, and goes quickly and disgraced, and ruined, or tGsave your- out of the room. You guess, now, what the self from shame, and make a friend of me thing was that Mistress Treverton had it in for the rest of your life? You weak, waver- her mind to do?~~ ing, baby-woman, if you cannot decide for He addressed the question to Rosamond yourself, I shall for you. As I will, so it first, and then repeated it to Leonard. They shall be! To-morrow, and the day after, and both answered in the affirmative, and en- the day after that, we go on and on, up to treated him to go on. the north, where my good fool of a doctor You guess? he said. It is more than says the air is cheerful-keenup to the Sarah, at that time, could do. What with north where nobody knows me or has heard the misery in her own mind, and the strange my name. I, the maid, shall spread the re- ways and strange words of her mistress, the port that you, the lady, are weak in your wits that were in her were all confused. health. No stra,ngers shall you see, but the Nevertheless, what her mistress has said to doctor and the nurse, when the time to call her that she has always done; and together them comes. Who they may be, I know alone those two from the house of Porth- not; but this I do know, that the one and genna drive away. Not a word says the the other will serve our purpose without the mistress till they have got to the journeys least suspicion of what it is; and that when end for the first day, and are stopping at we get back to Cornwall again, the secret their inn among strangers for the night. between us two will to no third person have Then at last she speaks out, Put you on, been trusted, and will remain a Dead Secret Sarah, the good linen and the good gown to- to the end of the world!~ With all the morrow, she says, but keep the common strength of the strong will that is in her, at bonnet and the common shawl, till we get the hush of night and in a house of strangers, into the carriage again. I shall put on the she speaks those words to the woman of all coarse linen and the coarse gown, and keep women the most frightened, the most afflicted, the good bonnet and shawl. We shall pass the most helpless, the most ashamed. What so the people at the inn, on our way to the need to say the end? On that night Sarah carriage, without very much risk of surpris- first stooped her shoulders to the burden that ing them by our change of gowns. When has weighed heavier and heavier on them we are out on the road again, we can-change with every year, for all her after-life. bonnets and shawls in the carriageand How many days did they travel towards then, it is all done. You are the married the north? asked Rosamond, eagerly. lady, Mrs. Treverton, and I am your maid Where did the journey end? In England who waits on you, Sarah Leeson. At that, or in Scotland? the glimmering on Sarahs mind breaks in In England, answered Uncle Joseph. at last: she shakes with the fright it gives But the name of the place escapes my her, and all she can say is, 0, mistress! foreign tongue. It was a little town by the for the love of Heaven, what is it you mean aide of the seathe great sea that washes to do? I mean, the mistress answers, to between my country and yours. There they save you, my faithful servant, from disgrace stopped, and there they waited till the time and ruin; to prevent every penny that the came to send for the doctor and the nurse. captain has got from going to that rascal- And as Mistress Treverton had said it should monster, his brother, who slandered me; be, so, from the first to the last, it was. The and, last and mQ8t, I mean to keep my hus- doctor and the nurse, and the people of the band from going away to sea again, by mak- house were all strangers; and to this day, if ing him love me as he, ha~ never loved me they still live, they believe that Sarah wa~ yet. Must I say snore, you poor, afflieted, the se~-captains wife and that Mistres~ - f~ightenecj creatureor is it enough so? Treverton was the maid who waited on her. And ~dl that Sarah ~aa as~iw~r, i~ to cry Not till they were far back on their w~y THE DEAD SECRET. home with the child, did the two change gowns again, and return each to her proper place. The first friend at Porthgenna that the mistress sends for to show the child to, when she gets back, is the other doctor who lives there. Did you think what was the matter with me, when you sent me away to change the air? she says and laughs. And the doctor, he laughs too, and says, Yes, surely! but I was too cunning to say what I thought in those early days, because, at such times, there is always fear of a mistake. And you found the fine dry air so good for you that you stopped? he says. Well, that was right! right for yourself and right also for the child. And the doctor laughs again and the mistress with him, and Sarah who stands by and hears them, feels as if her heart would burst within her, with the hor- ror, and the misery, and the shame of that deceit. When the doctors back is turned, she goes down on her knees, and begs and prays with all her soul that the mistress will repent, and send her away with her child, to be heard of at Porthgenna no more. The mistress with that tyrant will of hers, has but four words of answer to give : It is too late! Five weeks after, the sea-captain comes back, and the Too late is a truth that no repentance can ever alter more. The mistress cunning hand that has guided the deceit from the first, guides it always to the lastguides it so th~tt the captain, for the love of her and of the child, goes back to sea no moreguides it till the time when she lays her down on the bed to die, and leaves all the burden of the secret, and all the guilt of the confession, to Sarahto Sarah who, under the tyranny of that tyrant will, has lived in the house, for five long years, a stranger to her own child! Five years! murmured Rosamond, raising the baby gently in her arms, till his face touched hers. 0 me! five long years a stranger to the blood of her blood, to the heart of her heart! And all the years after! said the old man. The lonesome years and years among strangers, with no sight of the child that was growing up, with no heart to pour the 101 story of her sorrow into the ear of any living creaturenot even into mine! Better, I said to her, when she could speak to me no more, and when her face was turned away again on the pillow; a thousand tirftes bet- ter, my child, if you had told the Secret! Could I tell it, she said, to the master who trusted me? Could I tell it afterwards to the child, whose very birth was a reproach to me? Could she listen to the story of her mothers shame, told by her mothers lips? How will she listen to it now, Uncle Joseph, when she hears it from you? Remember the life she has led, and the high place she has held in the world. How can she forgive me? How can she ever look at me in kind- ness again! You never left her, cried Rosamond, interposing before he could say more; surely, surely, you never left her with that thought in her heart! Uncle Josephs head drooped on his breast. What words of mine could change it? he asked, sadly. 0, Lenny, do you hear that! I must leave you, and leave the baby. I must go to her, or those last words about me will break my heart. The passionate tears burst from her eyes as she spoke; and she rose has- tily from her seat, with the child in her arms. Not to-night, said uncle Joseph. She said to me at parting, I can bear no more to-night; give me till the morning to get as strong as I can. Oh, go back then yourself! cried Rosamond. Go, for Gods sake, without wasting another moment, and make her think of me as she ought! Tell her how I listened. to you, with my own child sleeping on my bosom all the timetell herO, no, no; words are too cold for it !Come here, come close, Uncle Joseph (I shall always call you so now); come close to me and kiss my child her grandchild !Kiss him on this cheek because it has lain nearest to my heart. And now, go back, kind and dear old man- go back to her bedside, and say nothing but that I sent that kiss to her! CHATTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH.THE CLOSE or DAY. THE night, with its wakeful anxieties, The first event of the day was the arrival wore away at last; and the morning light of Mr. Nixon, who had received a note on dawned hopefully, for it brought with it the previous evening, written by Leon& rds the promise of an end to Rosamonds sus- desire, to invite him to breakfast. Before pease. 4 THE DEAD SECRET. the lawyer withdrew, he had settled with Mr. and Mrs. Frankland all the preliminary ar- rangements that were necessary to effect the restoration of the purchase-money of Porth- genna Tower, and had despatched a mes- senger with a letter to llayswater, announc- ing his intention of calling upon Andrew Treverton that afternoon, on private business of importance relating to the personal estate of his late brother. Towards noon, Uncle Joseph arrived at the hotel to take Rosamond with him to the house where her mother lay ill. He came in, talking, in the highest spirits, of the wonderful change for the better that had been wrought in his niece by the affec- tionate message which he had taken to her on the previous evening. He declared that it had made her look happier, stronger, younger, all in a moment; that it had given her the longest, quietest, sweetest nights sleep she had ~joyed for years and years past; and, last, best triumph of all, that its good influence had been acknowledged, not an hour since, by the doctor himself. Rosa- mond listened thankfully, but it was with a wandering attention, with a mind ill at ease. When she had taken leave of her husband, and when she and Uncle Joseph were out in the street together, there was something in the prospect of the approaching interview between her mother and herself, which, in spite of her efforts to resist the sensation, almost daunted her. If they could have come together, and have recognized each other without time to think what should be first said or done on either side, the meeting would have been nothing more than the natural result of the discovery of the Secret. But, as it was, the waiting, the doubting, the mournful story of the past, which had filled up the emptiness of the last day of suspense, all had their depressing effect on Rosamonds impulsive disposition. Without a thought in her heart which was not tender, compassionate, and true towards her mother, she now felt, nevertheless, a vague sense of embarrassment, which increased to positive uneasiness the nearer she and the old man drew to their short journeys end. As they stopped at last at the house-door, she was shocked to find herself thinking be- fordhand, of what first words it would be best to say, of what first things it would be best to do, as if she had been about to visit a total stranger, whose favorable opinion she wished to secure, and whose readiness to receive her cordially was a matter of doubt. The first person whom they s~dv after the door was opened, was the doctor. He ad- vanced towards them from a little empty room at the end of the hall, and asked per- mission to speak with Mrs. Frankland for a few minutes. Leaving Rosamond to her in- terview with the doctor, Uncle Joseph gaily ascended the stairs to tell his niece of her arrival, with an activity which might well have been envied by many a man of half his years. Is she worse? Is there any danger in my seeing her?~ asked Rosamond, as the doctor led her into the empty room. Quite the contrary, he replied. Shc is much better this morning; and the im- provement, I find, is mainly due to the com- posing and cheering influence on her mind of a message which she received from you last night. It is the discovery of this which makes me anxious to speak to you now on the subject of one particular symptom of her mental condition, which surprised and alarmed me when I first discovered it, and which has perplexed me very much ever since. She is sufferingnot to detain you, and to put the matter at once in the plain- est termsunder a mental hallucination of a very extraordinary kind, which, so far as I have observed it, affects her, generally, to- wards the close of day, when the light gets obscure. At such times, there is an expres- sion in her eyes, as if she fancied some per- son had walked suddenly into the room. She looks and talks at perfect vacancy, as you or I might look or talk at some one who was really standing and listening to us. The old man, her uncle, tells me that he first observed this when she came to see him (in Cornwall, I think he said) a short time since. She was speaking to him then on private affairs of her own, when she sud- denly stopped, just as the evening was clos- ing in, startled him by a question on the old superstitious subject of the retippearance of the dead, and then, looking away at a shad- owed corner of the room, began to talk at it exactly as I have seen her look and heard her talk up-stairs. Whether she fancies that she is pursued by an apparation, or whether she imagines that some living per- 102 TilE DEAD SECRET. son enters her room at certain times, is more than I can say; and the old man gives me no help in guessing at the truth. Can you throw any light on the mat- ter? I hear of it now for the first time, answered Rosamond, looking at the doctor in amazement and alarm. Perhaps, he rejoined, she may be more communicative with you than she is with me. If you could manage to be by her bedside at dusk to-day or to-morrow, and, if you think you are not likely to be frightened by it, I should very much wish you to see and hear her, when she is under the influence of her delusion. I have tried in vain to draw her attention away from it, at the time, or to get her to speak of it afterwards. You have evidently considera- ble influence over her, and you might there- fore succeed where I have failed. In her state of health, I attach great importance to clearing her mind of every thing that clouds and oppressess it, and especially of such a serious hallucination as that which I have been describing. If you could succeed in combating it, you would be doing her the greatest service, and would be materially helping my efforts to improve her health. Do you mind trying the experiment? Rosamond promised to devote herself un- reservedly to this service or to any other which was for the patients good. The doctor thanked her, and led the way back into the hall again. Uncle Joseph was de- scending the stairs as they came out of the room. She is ready and longing to see you, he whispered in Rosamonds ear. I am sure I need not impress on you again the very serious necessity of keeping her composed, said the doctor, taking his leave. It is, I assure you, no exaggeration to say that her life depends on it. Rosamond bowed to him in silence, and in silence followed the old man up the stairs. At the door of a back room on the second floor, Uncle Joseph stopped. She is there, he whispered eagerly. I leave you to go in by yourself, for it is hest that you should be alone with her at first. I shall walk about the streets in the fine warm sunshine, and think of you both, and come back after a little. Go in; and the blessing and the mercy of God go with you! He lifted her hand to his lips, and softly and quickly descended the staire again. Rosainond stood alone before the door. A momentary tremor shook her from head to foot as she stretched out her hand to knock at it. The same sweet voice that she had last heard in her bedroom at West Winston, answered her now. As its tones fell on her ear, a thought of her child stole quietly into her heart, and stilled its quick throbbing. She opened the door at once, and went in. Neither the look of the room inside, nor the view from the window; neither its char- acteristic ornaments, nor its prominent pieces of furniturenone of the objects in it or about it, which would have caught her quick observation at other times, struck it now. From the moment when she opened the door, she saw nothing but the pillows of the bed, the head resting on them, and the face turned towards hers. As she stepped across the threshold, that face changed; the eyelids drooped a little, and the pale cheeks were tinged suddenly with burning red. Was her mother ashamed to look at her? The bare doubt freed Rosamond in an instant from all the self-distrust, all the embarrassment, all the hesitation about choosing her words and directing her actions which had fettered her generous impulses up to this time. She ran to the bed, raised the worn shrinking figure in her arms, and laid the poor weary head gently on her warm, young bosom. I have come at last, mother, to take my turn at nursing you, she said. Her heart swelled as those simple words came from ither full eyes overflowedshe could say no more. Dont cry! murmured the faint, sweet voice timidly. I have no right to bring you here, and make you sorry. Dont dont cry! 0, hush! hush! I shall do nothing but cry if you talk to me like that! said Ros- amond. Let us forget that we have ever been partedcall me by my namespeak to me as I shall speak to my own child, if God spares me to see him grow up. Say Rosa- mond, and0, pray, pray,tell me to do something for you! She tore asunder, passionately, the strings of her bonnet, and threw it from her on the nearest chair. 103 104 Look! here is your glass of lemonade on the table. Say, Rosamond, bring me my lemonade! say it familiarly, mother! say it as if you knew that I was bound to obey you! She repeated the words after her daughter, but still not in steady tonesrepeated them with a sad, wondering smile, and with a lingering of the voice on the name of Rosa- mond, as if it was a luxury to her to utter it. Youmade me so happy with that mes- sage, and with the kiss you sent me from your child, she said, when Rosamond had given her the lemonade, and was seated quietly by the bedside again. It was such a kind way of saying that you pardoned me! It gave me all the courage I wanted to speak to you as I am speaking now. Perhaps my illness has changed mebut I dont feel frightened and strange with you; as I thought I should, at our first meeting after you knew the Secret. I think I shall soon get well enough to see your child. Is he like what you were at his age? If he is, he must be very, very She stopped. I may think of that, she added, after waiting a little, but I had better not talk of it, or I shall cry too; and I want to have done with sorrow now. While she spoke those words, while her eyes were fixed with wistful eagerness on her daughters face, the old instinct of neatness was still mechanically at work in her weak, wasted fingers. Rosamond had tossed her gloves from her on the bed but the minute before; and already her mother had taken them up, and was smoothing them out care- fully and folding them neatly together, all the while she spoke. Call me mother again, she said, as Rosamond took the gloves from her and thanked her with a kiss for folding them up. I have never heard you call me mother till nownever, never, till now, from the day when you were born! Rosamond checked the tears that were rising in her eyes again, and repeated the word. It is all the happiness I want, to lie here, and look at you, and hear you say that! Is there any other woman in the world, my love, who has a face so beautiful and so kind as yours? She paused, and smiled faintly. THE DEAD SECRET. I cant look at those sweet rosy lips now, she said, without thinking how many kisses they owe me! If you had only let me pay the debt before! said Rosamond, taking hw~ mothers hand, as she was accustomed to take her childs, and placing it on her neck. If you had only spoken the first time we met, when you came to nurse me! how sorrow- fully I have thought of that since! 0, mother, did I distress you much, in my ig- norance? Did it make you cry when you thought of me after that? Distress me ! All my distress, Rosa- mond, has been of my own making, not of yours. My ~dnd, thoughtful love! you said, Dont be hard on her do you re- member? When I was being sent away, deservedly sent away, dear, for frightening you, you said to your husband, Dont be hard on her! Only five wordsbut, 0, what a comfort it was to me, afterwards, to think that you had said them! I did want to kiss you so, Rosamond, when I was brushing your hair I had such a hard fight of it to keep from crying out loud when I heard you, behind the bed~curtains, wishing your little child good-night. My heart was in my mouth, choking me all that time. I took your part afterwards, when I went back to my mistressI wouldnt hear her say a harsh word of you. I could have looked a hundred mistresses in the face then, and contradicted them all. 0 no, no, no! you never distressed me. My worst grief at going away was years and years before I came to nurse you at West Winston. It was when I left my place at Porthgenna; when I stole into your nursery, on that dreadful morning, and when I saw you with both your little arms round my mas- ters neck. The doll you had taken to bed with you was in one of your hands; and your head was resting on the captains bosomjust as mine rests nowO, so hap- pily, Rosamond !on yours. I heard the last words he was speaking to you! words you were too young to remember. Hush! Rosie, dear, he said, Dont cry any more for poor mamma. Think of poor papa, and try to comfort him! There, my lovethere was the bitterest distress, and the hardest to bear! I, your own mother, standing like a spy, and hearing him say that to the child 1 dared not own! Think THE DEAD SECRET. of poor papa! My own Rosamond! you know, now, what father I thought of when he said those words! How could I tell him the Secret? how could 1 give him the letter, with his wife dead that morningwith no- body but you to comfort himwith the aw- ful truth crushing down upon my heart, at every word he spoke, as heavily as ever the rock crushed down upon the father you never saw! Dont speak of it now ! ~ said Rosa- mond. Dont let us refer again to the past: I know all I ought to know, all I wish to know of it. We will talk of the future, mother, and of happier times to come. Let me tell you about my husband. If any words can praise him as he ought to be praised, and thank him as he ought to be thanked, I am sure mine oughtI am sure yours will! Let me tell you what he said and what he did when I read him the letter that I found in the Myrtle Room. Yes, yes, do let me! Warned by a remembrance of the doctors last injunctions; trembling in secret, as she felt under her hand the heavy, toilsome, irregular heaving of her mothers heart, as she saw the rapid changes of color from pale to red, and from red to pale again that fluttered across her mothers face, she re- solved to let no more words pass between them which were of a nature to recal pain- fully the sorrow and the suffering of the years thnt were gone. After descriing the interview between her husband and herself which had ended in the disclosure of the Secret, she led her mother with compassionate abruptness, to speak of the future, of the time when she would be able to travel again, of the happiness of returning together to Cornwall, of the little festival they might hold on arriving at Uncle Josephs house in Truro, and of the time after that when they might go on still further to Porthgenna, or perhaps to some other place where new scenes and new faces might help them ~ for- get all sad associations which it was best to think of no more. Rosamond was still speaking on these topics ; her mothe~r was still listening to her with growing interest in every word that she said, when Uncle Joseph returned. He brought in with him a basket of flowers and a basket of fruit, which he held up in triumph at the foot of his niecea bed. I have been walking about, my child, in the fine bright sunshine, he said, and waiting to give your face plenty of time to look happy, so that I might see it again as I want to see it always, for the rest~of my life. Aba, Sarah! it is I who have t~rought the right doctor to cure you! he added gaily, looking at Rosamond. She has made you better already: wait but a little while longer, and she shall get you up from your bed again, with your two cheeks as red, and your heart as light, and your tongue as fast to chatter as mine. See! the fine flowers, and the fruit I have bought that is nice to your eyes, and nice to your nose, and nicest of all to put into your mouth. It is festival time with us to-day, and we must make the room bright, bright, bright, all over. And then, there is your dinner to come soon; I have seen it on the disha cherub among chicken-fowls! And, after that, there is your fine sound sleep, with Mozart to sing the cradle-song, and with me to sit for watdh, and to go down stairs when you wake up again, and fetch you your cup of tea. Ah, my child, my child, what a fine thing it is to have come at last to this festival-day! With a bright look at Rosamond, and with both his hands full of flowers, he turned away from his niece to begin decorating the room. Except when she thanked the old man for the presents he had brought, her attention had never wandered, all the while he had been speaking, from her daughters face; and her first words, when he was silent again, were addressed to Rosamond alone. While I am happy with my child, she said, I am keeping you from yours. I, of all persons, ought to be the last to part you from each other too long. Go back now, my love, to your husband and your child; and leave me to my grateful thoughts and my dreams of better times. If you please, answer Yes to that, for your mothers sake, said Uncle Joseph, be- fore Rosamond could reply. The doctor says, she must take her repose in the day as well as her repose in the night. And how shall I get her to close her eyes, so long as she has the temptation to keep them open upon y& u? Rosamond felt the truth of those last words, and consented to go back for a few hours to the hotel, on the understanding that she was to resume her place at the bed~ 105 106 THE DEAD SECRET. Side in the evening. After making this ar- rangement, she waited long enough in the room to see the meal brought up which Un- cle Joseph had announced, and to aid the old man in encouraging her mother to par- take of it. When the tray had been removed, and when the pillows of the bed had been comfortably arranged by her own hands, she at last prevailed on herself to take leave. 11cr mothers arms lingered round her neck; her mothers cheek nestled fondly against hers. Go, my dear, go now, or I shall get too selfish to part with you even for a few hours, murmured the sweet voice in its lowest, softest tones. My own Rosa- mond! I have no words to bless you that are good enough; no words to thank you that will speak as gratefully for me as they ought! Happiness has been long in reaching me,but, oh how mercifully it has come at last! Before she passed the door, Rosamond stopped and looked back into the room. The table, the mantel-piece, the little framed prints on the wall were bright with flowers; the musical-box was just playing the first sweet notes of the air from Mozart; Uncle Joseph was seated already in his accustomed place by the bed, with the basket of fruit on his knees; the pale, worn face on the pillow was tenderly lighted up by a smile: peace and comfort, and repose, all mingled together happily in the picture of the sick room, all joined in leading Rosamonds thoughts to dwell quietly on the hope of a happier time. Three hours passed. The last glory of the sun was lighting the long summer day to its rest in the western heaven, when Rosamond returned to her mothers bedside. She entered the room softly. The one window in it looked towards the west, and on that side of the bed the chair was placed which Uncle Joseph had occupied when she left him, and in which she now found him still seated on her return. He raised his finger to his lips, and looked towards the bed, as she opened the door. Her mother was asleep, with her hand resting~ in the hand of the old man. As Rosamond noiselessly advanced, she saw that Uncle Josephs eyes looked dim and weary. The constraint of the position that ho occupied, which made it impossible for him to move without the risk of awakening his niece, seemed to be beginning to fatigue him. Rosamond removed her bonnet and shawl, and made a sign to him to rise and let her take his place. Yes, yes! she whispered, seeing him reply by a shake of the head. ~ Let me take my turn, while you go out a little and enjoy the cool evening air. There is no fear of waking her: her hand is not clasping yours but only resting in itlet me steal mine into its place gently, and we shall not disturb her. She slipped her hand under her mothers while she spoke. Uncle Joseph smiled as he rose from his chair, and resigned his place to her. You will have your way, he said; you are too quick and sharp for an old man like me. Has she been long asleep? asked Rosa- mond. Nearly two hours, answered Uncle Joseph. But it has not been the good sleep I wanted for her ;a dreaming, talking, restless sleep. it is only ten little minutes, since she has been so quiet as you see her now. Surely you let in too much light? whispered Rosamond, looking round at the window, through which the glow of the evening sky poured warmly into the room. No, no! he hastily rejoined. Asleep or awake, she always wants the light. If I go away for a little while, as you tell me, and if it gets on to be dusk before I come back, light both those candles on the chim- ney-piece. I shall try to be here again before that; but if the time slips by too fast for me, and if it so happens that she wakes and talks strangely, and looks much away from you into that far corner of the room there, remember that the matches and the candles are together on the chimney-piece, and that the sooner you light them after the dim twilight-time, the better it will be. With those words he stole on tiptoe to the door and went out. IIi~ parting directions recalled Rosamtmd to a remembrance of what had passed be- tween the doctor and herself that morning. She looked round again anxiously to the window. The sun was just sinking beyond the distant house-tops: the close of the day was not far off. As she turned her head once more towards the bed, a momentary chill crept over her. She trembled a little, partly at the sensation itself, partly at the THE DEAD SECRET. recollection it aroused of that other chill which had struck her in the solitude of the Myrtle Room. Stirred by the mysterious sympathies of touch, her mothers hand at the same instant moved in hers, and over thesad peacefulness of the weary face there fluttered a momen- tary troublethe flying shadow of a dream. The pale, parted lips opened, closed, quivered, opened again; the faint breaths came and went quickly and more quickly; the head moved uneasily on the pillow; the eyelids half unclosed themselves; low, faint, moan- ing sounds poured rapidly from the lips changed ere long to half-articulated sentences then merged softly into intelligible speech, and uttered these words: Swear that you will not destroy this paper! Swear that you will not take this paper away with you if you leave the house! The words that followed these were whis- pered so rapidly and so low that Rosamonds ear failed to catch them. They were followed by a short silence. Then the dreaming voice spoke again suddenly, and spoke louder. Where? where? where? itsaid. In the bookcase? In the table-drawer ?Stop! stop! In the picture of the ghost The last words struck cold on Rosamonds heart. She drew back suddenly with a movement of alarm,checked herself the instant after, and bent down over the pillow again. But it was too late. Her hand had moved abruptly when she drew back, and her mother woke with a start and a faint cry,with vacant, terror-stricken eyes, and with the perspiration standing thick on her forehead. Mother! cried Rosamond, raising her on the pillow. I have come back. Dont you know me? Mother? she repeated, in mournful, questioning tones. Mother? At the second repetition of the word a bright flush of delight and surprise broke out on her face, and she clasped both arms suddenly round her daughters neck. 0, my own Rosamond! she said. If I had ever been used to waking up and seeing your dear face look at me, I should have known you sooner, in spite of my dream! Did you wake me, my love? or did I wake myself? 1 am afraid I woke you, mother. Dont say afraid. I would wake from 107 the sweetest sleep that. ever woman had, to see your face and to hear you say M~ther to me. You nave delivered me, my love, from the terror of one of my dreadful dreams. 0, Rosamond, I think I ~should live to be happy in your love, if I could only get Porthgenna Tower out of my mindif I could only never remember again the bed- chamber where my mistress died, and the room where I hid the letter We will try and forget Porthgenna Tower now, said Rosamond. Shall we talk about other places where I have lived, which you have never seen? Or shall I read to you, mother? Have you got any book here that you are fond of? She looked, across the bed, at the table on the other side. There was nothing on it but some bottles of medicine, a few of Uncle Josephs flowers in a glass of water, and a little oblong work-box. She looked round at the chest of drawers behind herthere were no books placed on the top of it. Be- fore she turned towards the bed again, her eyes wandered aside to the window. The sun was lost beyond the distant house-tops: the close of day was nearer at hand. If I could forget! 0, me, if could only forget! said her mother, sighing wearily and beating her hand on the coverlid of the bed. Are you well enough, dear, to amuse yourself with work? asked Rosamond, pointing to the little oblong box on the table, and trying to lead the conversation to a harmless, every-day topic, by asking ques- tions about it. What work do you do? May I look at it? Her face lost its weary, suffering look, and brightened once more into a smile. There is no work there, she said. All the treasures I had in the world, till you came to see me, are shut up in that one little box. Open it, my love, and look inside. Rosamond obeyed, placing the box on the bed where her mother could see it easily. The first object that she discovered inside, was a little book, in dark, worn binding. It was an old copy of Wesleys Hymns. Some withered blades of grass lay between its pages; and on one of its blank leaves was this inscription; Sarah Leeson, her book. The gift of hugh Polwheal. Look at it, my dear, said her mother. I want you to know it again. When my THE DEAD SECRET. time comes to leave you, Rosamond, lay it on my bosom with your own dear hands, and ~ut a little morsel of your hair with it, and bury me, in the grave in Porthgenna churchyard, where he has been waiting for me to come to him so many weary years. The other things in the box, Rosamond, be- long to you; they are little stolen keep- sakes that used to remind me of my child, when I was alone in the world. Perhaps. years and years hence, when your brown hair begins to grow gray like mine, you may like to show these poor trifles to your children when you talk about me. Dont mind telling them, Rosamond, how your mother sinned and how she sufferedyou can always let these little trifles speak for her at the end. The least of them will show that she always loved you. She took out of the box a morsel of neat- ly-folded white paper, which had been placed under the book of Wesleys Hymns, opened it, and showed her daughter a few faded Lburnum leaves thnt lay inside. I took these from your bed, Rosamond, when I came as a stranger, to nurse you at West Winston. When I heard who the lady was who was staying at the inn, the temptation to risk any thing for the sake of seeing you and seeing my grandchild was too much for me. I tried to take a ribbon out of your trunk, love, after I had taken the flowers a ribbon that I knew had been round her neck. But the do~~tor came near at the time, and frightened me. She folded the paper up again, laid it aside on the table, and drew from the box next a small print which had beon taken from the illustrations to a pocket-book. It represented a little girl, in a gipsy-hat sit- ting by the water-side, and weaving a daisy chain. As a design, it was worthless; as a print, it had not even the mechanical merit of being a good impression. Underneath it a line was written in faintly-pencilled let- ters : Rosamond when I last saw her. It was never pretty enough for you, she said. But still there was something in it that helped me to remember what my own love was like, when she was a little girl. She put the engraving aside with the laburnum leaves, and took from the box a leaf of a copy-hook, folded in two, out of which there dropped a tiny strip of paper, covered with small printed letters. She looked at the strip of paper first. The advertisement of your marriage, Rosa- mond, she said. I used to be fond of reading it over and over again to myself when I was alone, and trying to fancy how you looked and what dress you wore. If I had only known when you were going to be married, I would have ventured into the church, my love, to look at you and at your husband. But that was not to be,and perhaps it was best so, for the seeing you in that stolen way might only have made my trials harder to bear afterwards. I have had no other keepsake to remind me of you, Rosamond, except this leaf out of your first copy-book. The nurse-maid at Porthgenna tore up the rest one day to light the fire, and I took this leaf when she was not look- ing. See! you had not got as far as words then,you could only do up-strokes and down-strokes. 0 me! how many times I have sat looking at this one leaf of paper, and trying to fancy that I saw your small childs hand travelling over it, with the pen held tight in the rosy little fingers. I think I have cried oftener, my darling, over that first copy of yours than over all my other keepsakes put together. Rosamond turned aside her face towards the window to hide the tears which she could restrain no longer. As she wiped them away, the first sight of the darkening sky warned her that the twilight dimness was coming soon. how dull and faint the glow in the west looked now! how near it was to the close of day! When she turned towards the bed again, her mother was still looking at the leaf of the copy-book. That nurse-maid who tore up all the rest of it to light the fire, she said, was a kind friend to me, in those early days at Porthgenna. She used sometimes to let me put you to bed, Rosamond; and never asked questions, or teased me, as the rest of them did. She risked the loss of her place by being so good to me. My mistress was afraid of my betraying myself and betray- ing he