LITTELLS LIVING AGE..No. 697.3 OCTOBER, 1857. LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. [The following Essay, by Henry Rogers, author ot Reason and Faith, & c., was originally pub- Jished in the Edinburgh Review about 15 years ago. It has lafely been prefixed to a volume of Selec- tions from Fullers Writings.] THE republication, within the last few years, of all the principal works of this singular author, affords us an opportunity, by no means unwelcome, of canvassing his merits, and assigning him his proper niche in the temple of our literature. Nor is it necessary, we are sure, to make any apology for dedicating a few of our pages to such a subject. He cannot be unworthy of atten- tion who was a favorite author of Coleridge and Lamb, and of whom the former (cer- tainly in a moment of unreflecting enthu- siasm) could write thus: Next to Shak- speare, I am not certain whether Thomas Fuller, beyond all other writers, does not excite in me the sense and emotion of the marvellous ;tbe degree in which any given faculty, or combination of faculties, is pos- sessed and manifested, so far surpassing what one would have thought possible in a single mind, as to give ones admiration the flavor and quality of wonder. Let this statement of a critic, the soundness of whose literary judgments, generally correct and often admirable, cannot always be relied upon, require what abatement it may, it may be safely said, that there is scarcely any writer whose intellectual character will better repay an attempt at analysis than that of Fuller. We set about our task the more willingly; as we believe it to be an act of bare justice. We are convinced that posterity has dealt hardly by his memory, and that there are hundreds who have been better remembered with far less claims to that honor. Thus it i~ singular that even Mr. ilallam, in his recent History of European Literature, should not have bestowed upon him any special notice; dismissing him with only a slight allusion, in a note upon another sub- ject.* Yet Fuller was not only one of the ~ Hallam, vol. iii. p. 104. It must not be sup- posed that any serious censure of Mr. Hallams great work is here intended~ If it be singular that DCXCVII. LIVING AGH. VOL XIX. 1 most voluminousan equivocal indication of merit, it must be allowedbut one of the most original writers in our language. If he had merely resembled those of his dull contemporaries, who wrote apparently for writings sakewithout genius or fancy, without any of those graces of thought or diction, which have a special claim on the historian of literature :if his books had been collections of third-rate sermons or heavy commentaries; of commonplace spread out ~to the last degree of tenuity, scarcely tolerable even in the briefest form in which truisms can be addressed to our impatience, and perfectly insupportable when prolonged into foliosthere would be sufficient reason for the critics neglect. But it is far other- wise: though Fullers works, like those of many of his contemporaries, are sometimes covered with rubbish, and swollen with redundancies, they are, as is the case alsG with some of them, instinct with genius. Like Taylor, and Barrow, and Sir Thoma& Brown, he wrote with a vigor and originality, with a fertility of thought and imagery, and a general felicity of style, which, consider- ing the quantity of his compositions, and the haste with which h& produced them, impress us with wonder at his untiring activity and preternatural fecundity. He has scattered with careless prodigality, over the pages of his many works, thoughts and images which, if collected, properly disposed, and purified from the worthless matter which encrusts, and often buries them, would have insured him a place.bcside those who, by writing less and elaborating it more, by concentrating their strength on works of moderate compass and high finish, have seew~ed themselves & place not only in the libraries, but in the memories, of their readers; and are not simply honored with an occasional reference,.. but live in perpetual and familiar quotation. Before proceeding further with the analysis Fuller has been so summarily dealt with, it would have been far more singular had there been no im- portant omissions. The real wonder is, that the author should have been able at all to dispose of subjects, so immense and so multifarious, in s moderate a compass; to daguerreotype so bound-~ less a landscape, on so small a surface, with srxh fidelity and distinetness~ LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. of Fullers intellectual character, it may be advisable to give a rapid sketch of the prin- cipal events of his life. He was born in 1608 at Aldwinckle, in Northainptonshire; his father was the Rev. T. Fuller, rector of St. Peters in that vil- lage. his early education seems to have been conducted chiefly under the paternal roof, and that so successfully, that at twelve years of age he was sent to Queens College, Cambridge; the Master of which was his maternal uncle, Dr. Davenant, afterwards Bishop of Salisbury. In 16245, he took his degree of B.A., and that of M.A. in 1628. He then removed to Sidney College, and, after a short interval, was chosen minis- ter of St. Benet, Cambridge, where his great talents as a preacher soon rendered him ex- tremely. popular. Preferment now came rapidly. In 1631, he was chosen fellow of Sidney College, and made a prebendary of Salisbury. The same year was signalized by his maiden publication. Like many other men of powerful imaginafion, who have eventually distinguished themselves as prose writers, he had in early life toyed a little with the Muses. His first work was poeti- eal, and we may be sure that it was steeped in the quaintness which was equally charac- teristic of the age and of the man. The very title, indeed, smacks of that love of alliteration of which his writings are so full. It was entitled Davids Ilainous Sin, Heartie Repentance, and Ileavie Punish- ment. It is now extremely scarce. Peace to its ashes! its authors prose writings have a better and a surer claim to remembrance. Soon after entering priests orders, he was presented to the rectory of Broad Winsor, ~in Dorsetshire. In 1635 he repaired again to Cambridge, to take his degree~of Bachelor of Divinity; and, on his return to Broad Winsor, got rid of another kind of bachelor- ship in a happy marriage. This event took place in 1638; but his felicitywas not of long continuance. After givingbirth. to one son, his wife died, about the year 1641. In the quietude of Broad Winsor he began to complete, to use a curious phrase of one of his biographers, several works he had planned at Cam- bridge; but, getting sick of solitude, and impatient to know something more of public ~affairs, he went to London, where his pulpit talents soon obtained him an invitation to the lectureship of the Savoy. In 1639-40 he published his history of the Holy War, which gained him some money and more reputation. He was a member of the Convocation which assembled at Westmins- ter in 1640, and has left us a miiiute ac- count of its proceedings in his Church History. In 1643 he preached at West- minster Abbey, on the aniversary of the kings inauguration; and the sermon con- tained some dangerous allusions to the state of public affairs. his text was character- istic: Yea, let him take all, forasmuch as my lord the king is come again in peace. The sermon, when printed, gave great \im- brage to the parliamentary party, and in- volved the preacher in no little odium. In the previous year he published his best and most popular work, entitled The Holy and Profane State. Refusing to take an oath to the Parliament, except with certain reser- vations, Fuller left London and repaired to the king at Oxford, by whom he was well received. The king was anxious to hear him preach. Fuller complied; but, strange to say, he managed to displease the royalists as much as he had before displeased the patrb ots. His ill-success on both occasions may be taken as an argument of his sincerity and moderation, whatever may be thought of hi. worldly wisdom. During his stay at Oxford he resided at Lincoln College; but he was not long to escape the cup which, in those sad times, came round to all parties. Sequestration was pronounced against him, and was em- bittered by the loss of all his books and man- uscripts. This misfortune was partly re- paired by the generosity of Henry Lord Beauchamp and Lionel Cranfleld, Earl of ~vhiddlesexthe latter of whom bestowed upon him the remains of his fathers li- brary. In order to obviate the suspicion of indifference to the kings cause, he now sought and obtained, from Sir Ralph Hop- ton, a chaplaincy in the royal army; and employed his leisure, while rambling through the country, in collecting materials for his future work, The Worthies of England. It appears that, in his capacity of chaplain, he could, on occasion, beat drum ecclesiastic as well as any of the preachers in Cromwells army; for we are told that, when a party of the royalists were besieged at Basing-House, Fuller animated 2 LIFE AND WRITINGS OP THOMAS FULLER. the garrison to so vigorous a defence, that Sir William Wailer was compelled to aban- don the siege. When the royal forces were driven into Cornwall, Fuller, taking refuge in Exeter, resumed hs studies, and preached regularly to the citizens. During his stay here, he was appointed chaplain to the Princess Henrietta Maria (then an infant), and was presented to the living of Dorches- ter. He was present at the siege of Exeter, in the course of which an incident occurred, so curious in itself, and narrated by Fuller (who vouches for the truth of his statement) in so characteristic a style, that no apology is necessary for inserting his account of it here; leaving the reader to philosophize upon it in any way that may seem to him most proper. The extract is from the Worthies of England: When the city of Exeter was besieged by the parliamentary forces, so that only the south side thereof, towards the sea, was open unto it, incredi- ble numbers of larks were found in that open quarter, for multitude like quails in the wildernesse, though (blessed be God!) unlike them both in cause and effect, as not desired with mans destruction, nor sent with Gods anger, as appeared by their safe digestion into wholesome nourishment: hereof I was an eye and a mouth witnesse. I will save my credit in not conjecturing any number, knowing that herein, though I should stoop beneath the truth, I should mount above belief. They were as fat as plentiful; so that, being sold for twopence a-dozen and under, the poor, who could have no cheaper, as the rich no better meat, used to make pottage of them, boyling them down therein. Several natural causes were assigned hereof However, the cause of causes was Divine Providence. After the taking of Exeter, Fuller once more repaired to London, where he obtained the lectureship at St. Clements, Lombard Street, and subsequently that of St. Brides, Fleet Street. lIe does not appear to have long discharged the functions of either, having been forbidden (to use his own language), till further order, the exercise of his public preaching. Silenced though he was, however, this did not prevent his being presented, about 1648, to the living of Waltham. For this he was indebted to the Earl of Carlisle, to whom he had become chaplain. To men of less activity of mind and less zealous to do good, compulsory silence might have been no unacceptable con- comitant of a rich living; but not to Fuller. The first two years of his time here he spent chiefly in the preparation of one of the quaintest of all his writingshis Pis0ah- sight of Palestine and the Confines thereof, with the History of the Old and New Testa- ments acted thereon. The work was illus- trated by several curious engravings, in which the artists seem to have vied in quaint- ness with the author, and which are as char- acteristic of the spirit of the age as the let- terpress which accompanied them. In the two or three following years he published several tracts and sermons, which have long since passed into oblivion. In 1654 he mar- ried again, and into a noble family; his wife being the sister of Viscount Baltinglass. rn 1655, as Mr. Chalmers tells us, he persisted in the discharge of his ministerial functions, notwithstanding Cromwells prohibition of all persons from preaching or teaching schools, who had been adherents of the late king. We shall not stop to inquire whether the biographer has been altogether just to Cromwell, in omitting to state that the ordinance in question was immediately modified, on Archbishop Ushers representa- tion of its hardship, and its application lim- ited to such clergymen as had been political offenders. It is more to our purpose to ob- serve, that we may account for Fullers con- tinuing to preach, without either accusing him of rash zeal, or praising, him for consci- entious resistence ; inasmuch as he was duly authorized so to do by the Court of Triers, before whom he had been exam- ined. Calamy has given us a droll account of Fullers perplexities when summoned to this ordeal. He doubtless had some mis- givings as to whether he might be able to answer satisfactorily all the inquisitorial in- quiries of this strange court; and whether he might not get limed by some of their the- ological subtleties. In this dilemma, he applied to the celebrated John Howe (then one of Cromwells chaplains), whose Catho- lic spirit ever prompted him to exert what- ever influence he possessed in behalf of the good men of all parties. You may ob- serve, sir, said Fuller to him, that I am a somewhat corpulent man, and I am to go through a very strait passage. I beg you would be so good as to give me a shove, 3. LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. and help me through. Howe gave him the hest advice in his power. When the Triers inquired, Whether he had ever had any experience of a work of grace in his heart? Fuller replied in terms of cau- tious generality, that, He could appeal to the Searcher of all hearts, that he made a conscience of his very thoughts ;implying, doubtless, that it was not without the most diligent investigation of his motives, that he had ventured on the sacred office. With this answer they were satisfied, and it was, perhaps, well for Fuller, that it was not more specific. In 1656, he puolished his Church His- tory of Great Brit4in, to which was ap- pended, The History of the University of Cambridge, and The History of Waltham Abbey. His Church History called forth some animadversions from Dr. Heylyn, to which Fuller replied. In 1658, Lord Berkely, one of his many patrons, made him his chaplain, and presented him to the rec- tory of Cranford in Middlesex. Just before the Restoration, he was reinstated in his lectureship in the Savoy, and immediately after it, was restored to his prebend at Salis- bury, appointed chaplain-extraordinary to the king, and created Doctor of Divinity by mandamus. He was within sight of a bish- opric, when death brought all his earthly prospects to a close in 1661. He was buried in his church at Cranford, in the chancel of which there is a monument to his memory. The Latin inscription, which has the rare merit of telling hut little more than the truth, closes with an antithetical conceit, so much in Fullers vein, that it would have done his heart good, could he but have read the following sentence: lie jacet Thomas Fuller - . . - Qui dum viros Anglke illustres opere posthumo immortalitate consecrare meditatus est, ipso immortalitatem est con- secutus. This alludes to the Worthies of England, partly printed before his death, but published by his son. Fuller is one of the few volmminous au- thors who are never tedious. No matter where we pitch, we are sure to alight on something which stimulates attention; and perhaps there is no author equally vol- uminous, to whom we could so fearlessly apply the ad aperturam libri test. Let the subject be ever so dry and barren, he is sure to surround it with some unlooked-for folio- ity, or at least some entertaining oddity of thought or expression: the most meagre matter of fact shall suggest either some solid reflection or curious inference, some ingenious allusion or humorous story; or, if nothing better, so[ne sportive alliteration or ludicrous pun. To this must be added, that his re- flections and his images are in general so ex- ceedingly novel, (often, it is true, far-fetched and quaint enough, but often also very beautiful,) that they surprise as well as please, and please in a great measure by surprising us. Probably there is no other author who so often breaks upon his readers F with turns of thought for which they are totally unprepared; nor would it be unamus- ing to watch the countenance of any intelli- F gent man while perusing his pages. We will venture to say, that few writers in the English language could produce more rapid variations of expression. We should see the face, in succession, mantling with a smile distended into a broad grinbreaking out into loud laughter; the eyebrows now arched to an expression of sudden wonder and pleased surprise ; the whole visage now clouded with a momentary shade of vexation over some wanton spoiling of a fine thought now quieted again into placidity, by the presentation of something truly wise or beautiful, and anon chuckling afresh over some outrageous pun or oddity. The same expression could not be maintained for any three paragraphsperfect gravity scarcely for three sentences. The activity of Fullers suggestive faculty must have been immense. Though his principal characteristic is wit, and that too so disproportionate, that it conceals in its ivy-like kxuriance the robust wisdom about which it coils itself, his illustrations are drawn from every source and quarter, and are ever, ready at his bidding. In the variety, frequency, and novelty of his illus~. trations, he strongly resembles two of the most imaginative writers in our language, though in all other respects still more unlike them than they were unlike one another Jeremy Taylor and Edmund Burke. Each, indeed, has his peculiar characteristics, even in those very points in which they may be compared. The imagination of Jeremy Taylor takes its hue from his vast learnirhg, aRd derives from classical and historical allusions more than half its sources of ilua~ 4 LIFE A1~(D WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. tration; that of Fuller, from the wit which forms the prime element in his intellectual constitution. Burke, on the other hand, had comparatively little wit; at least it was no characteristic: the images his mind sup- plies are chiefly distinguished by splendor and beauty. Still, in a boundless profusion of imagery of one kind or another, available on all occasions and on all subjects, and capable of clothing sterility itself with sudden freshness and verdure, they all re- semble one another, and, in this point, are perhaps unequalled among English prose writers. Most marvellous and enviable is that fecundity of fancy, which can adorn whatever it toucheswhich can invest naked fact and dry reasoning with unlooked-for beautymake flowerets bloom even on the brow of the precipice, and, when nothing better can be had, can turn the very sub- stance of rock itself into moss and lichens. This faculty is incomparably the most im- portant for the vivid and attractive exhibition of truth to the minds of men; and, taken in connection with other qualities, which neither Taylor nor Fuller possessed, namely, method and taste, will do more to give books permanent power and popularity than even the very truths they contain. Indeed, that, to a great extent, may be said of every dis- course, which Fuller says more particularly of sermons, that though reasons are the pillars of the fabric, similitudes are the win- dows which give the best lights. We have said that Fullers faculty of illustration is boundless; surely it may be safely asserted, since it can diffuse even over the driest geographical and chronological details an unwonted interest. We have a remarkable exemplification of this in those chapters of his holy War, in which he gives what he quaintly calls a Pisgah- sight, or Short Survey of Palestine in gene- ral; and a still stronger, if possible, in his Description of the Citie of Jerusalem. In these chapters, what in other hands would have proved little more than a bare enumeration of names, sparkles with per- petual wit, and is enlivened with all sorts of vivacious allusions. One or two short specimens of the arts by which ho manages to make such a survey attractive will be found below; * but much of the effect is lost by their being presented in a detached form. * Nain, where our Sa~ionr raised the widows son, so that she was twice a mother, yet had but one child. The principal attribute of Fullers genius is unquestionably wit; though, as Coleridge has well observed, this very circumstunce has defrauded him of his due praise for the practical wisdom of the thoughtsfor the beauty and variety of the truths into which he shaped the stuff. If it be inquired what was the character of his wit, it must be replied, it is so various, and assumes so many different shapes, that one might as well attempt to define wit itself; and this, seeing the comprehensive Barrow has con- tented himself with an enumeration of its forms, in despair of being able to include them all within the circle of a precise defi- nition, we certainly shall not attempt. Suffice it to say, that all the varieties re- corded in that singularly felicitous passage are exemplified in the pages of our author. Of his wit, as of wit in general, it may be truly said, that sometimes it lieth in pat allusion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging an apposite tale; sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the affinity of their sound; sometimes it is wrapped in a dress of humorous expression; sometimes it lurketh under an odd similitude; sometimes it is lodged in a sly question, in a smart answer, in a quirkish. reason, in a shrewd intimation, in cunningly diverting or cleverly retorting an objection ; sometimes it is couched in a bold scheme of speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of con- tradictions, or in acute nonsense; sometimes a scenical representation of persons or things, a counterfeit speech, a inimical look or Mount Carmel, the Jewish Parnassus, where the prophets were so conversant. Aphek, whose walls falling down, gave both death and gravestones (!)to 27,- 000 of Benhadads soldiers. Tyre, anciently the Royal Exchange of the world. The river Kishon, the besom to sweep away Siseras army. Gilboa, the mountain that David cursed, that neither dew nor rain should fall on it; but of late, some English travellers climbing this mountain were well wetted, David not cursing it by a prophetical spirit but in a poetical rapture. Gilgal, where the manna ceased, the Israelites having tiu then been fellow commoners with the angels. Gibeon, whose inhabitants cozened Joshua with a pass of false- dated antiquity. Who could have thought that clouted shoes could have covered so much subtility. Gaza, the gates whoreof Samson carried away; and being sent for to make sport in the house of Dagon acted such a tragedy as plucked down the stage, slew himself and all the spectators. Macphelab, where the patriarchs wets buried, whose bodies took livery and seisin in behalf of their posterity, who were to possess the whole land. Edrel, the city of Og, on whose giant-like proportions the rabbis have more giant-like lies. Pisgah, where Moses viewed the land; hereabouts the angel buried him, and also buried the grave, lest it should occasion idola- try. 5 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. gesture, passeth for it; sometimes an affected simplicity, sometimes a presumptuous blunt- ness giveth it being; sometimes it riseth only from a lucky hitting upon what is strange; sometimes from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose. Often it consisteth in one knows not what, and springeth up one can hardly tell how. Its ways are un- accountable~ and inexplicable; being answer- able to the numberless rovings of fancy, and windings of language. Of all the preceding varieties of wit, next to the play with words and phrases, perhaps Fuller most delighted in pat allu- sions to a known story; in seasonable application of a trivial saying; in a tart irony and an affected simplicity; in the odd similitude and the quirkish reason. In these he certainly excelled. We have noted some brief specimens, which we here give the reader. Speaking of the Jesuits he says, such is the charity of the Jesuits, that they never owe any man any ill-willmaking present payment thereof. Of certain prurient canons, in which virtue is in imminent danger of being tainted by impure descriptions of purity, he shrewdly remarks One may justly admire how these canonists, being pretended virgins, could arrive at the knowledge of the criti- cisms of all obscenity. Touching the miraculous coffin in which St Audr6 was de- posited, he slyly says Under the ruined walls of Grantchester or Cambridge, a coffin was found, with a cover correspondent, both of white marble, which did fit her body so exactly, as if, (which one may believe was true) it was made for it. On Machiavels saying, that he who undertakes to write a history must be of no religion, he observes if so, Machiavel himself was the best qualified of any in his age to be a good his- torian. On the unusual conjunction of great learning and great wealth in the case of Selden, he remarks, Mr. Selden had some coins of the Roman emperors, and a great many more of our English kings. After commenting on the old story of St. Dunstans pinching the Devils nose with the red-hot tongs, he drolly cries out But a way with all suspicions and queries. None need to doubt of the truth thereof, finding it in a sign painted in Fleet Street, near Temple Bar. The bare, bald style of the schoolmen, he tells us, some hm~v~ attributed to design lest any of the vermin of equivo- cation should hide themselves under the nap of their words. On excessive attention to fashion in dress he says Had some of our gallants been with the Israelites in the wilderness, when for forty years their clothes waxed not old, they would have been vexed, though their clothes were whole, to have been so long in one fashion. Speaking of the melancholy forebodings which have sometimes haunted the death-bed of good men, he quaintly tells us, that the Devil is most busy in the last day of his term, and a tenant to be outed cares not what mischief he does. Of unreasonable expectations he says, with characteristic love of quibbling, those who expect what in reason they can- not expect, may expect. The court jester he wittily and truly characterizes thus It is an office which none but he that hath wit can perform, and none bmjt he that wants wit will perform. Of modest women, who nevertheless dress themselves in questionable attire, he says I must confess some honest women may go thus, but no whit the honester for going thus. That ship may have Castor and Pollux for the sign, which, notwith- standing, has St. Paul for the lading. He thus speaks of anger He that keepeth anger long in his bosom, giveth place to the Devil. And why should we make room for ~im who will crowd in too fast of himself? Heat of passion makes our souls to crack, and the Devil creeps in at the crannies.~~ Of intellectual deficiencies in the very tall he remarks, that oft-times such who are built four stories high, are observed to have little in their cock-loft. Of virtue in a very short man, he says, His soul had but a short diocese to visit, and therefore might the better attend the effectual informing thereof. Of the quirkish reason, mentioned as one of the species of wit in the above-recited passage of Barrow, the pages of our author are full. What can be more ridiculous than the reason he assigns, in his description of the good wife, for the order of Pauls admonitions to husbands and wives in The third chapter of the epistle to the Colossians? The apostle first adviseth women to submit themselves to their husbands, and then counselleth men to love their wives. And sure it was fitting that women should first have their lesson given them, because it is 6 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. hardest to be learned, and therefore they need have the more time to con it. For the same reason we first begin with the character of a good wife. Not less droll, or rather far more so, is the manner in which he sub- tilizes on the command, that we are not to let the sun go down on our wrath. Anger kept till the next morning, with manna, doth putrefy and corrupt; save that manna, corrupted not at all, (and anger most of all,) kept the next Sabbath. St. Paul saith, Let not the sun go down on your wrath, to carry news to the antipodes in another world of thy revengeful nature. Yet let us take the apostles meaning rather than his words, with all possible speed to depose our passion; not understanding him literally so that we may take leave to be angry till sun- set; then might our wrath lengthen with the days, and men in Greenland, where day lasts above a quarter of a year, have plenti- ful scope of revenge.* Of all the forms of wit, Fuller affects that of the satirist least. Though he can be caustic, and sometimes is so, he does not often indulge the propensity; and when he does it is without bitterness; a sly irony, a good-humored gibe, which tickles, but does not sting, is all he ventures upon. Perhaps there is no mental quality whatever, which so much depends on the temperament and moral habitudes of the individual, as this of wit; so much so, indeed, that often they will wholly determine its character. We are inclined to think, that he who is master of any one species of wit, might make himself no mean proficient in all; whether it shall have the quality of waspish spleen, or grave banter, or broad and laughing humor, de- pends far more on moral than on intellectual causes. Imagine Fullers wit in a man of melancholic temperament, querulous dis- position, sickly health, morbid sensibility, or irritable vanityand we should have a satirist whose malignity would repel, still more than his wit would attract. The sallies of our author are enjoyed without any * On this passage charles Lamb makes the following characteristic remarks : This whimsical prevention of a consequence which no one would have thought of de- ducing, setting up an abssodum on purpose to hunt it downplacing guards, as it were, at the very outposts of possibilitygravely giving out laws to insanity, and pre- scriblig moral fences to distempered intellects, could never have entered into a head less entertainingly con- struc d than that of Fuller or Sir Thomas nrowne, the very air of whose style the conclusion of this passage moat aptly intimates. drawback, even when they are a little satirical; so innocent, so childlike, so free from malice, are they. His own temper- ament eminently favored the development of the more amiable qualities of wit: he was endowed with that happy buoyancy of spirit, which, next to religion itself, is the most precious possession of man; and which is second only to religion, in enabling us to bear with ease the trials and burdens of humanity. Both conspired to render him habitually light-hearted. With such a temperament, thus added to unfeigned piety and unfeigned benevolence; with a heart open to all innocent pleasures, and purged from the leaven of malice and uncharitable- ness, it was as natural that he should be full of good-tempered mirth, as it is for the grasshopper to chirp, or the bee to hum, or the birds to warble,.in the spring breeze and the bright sunshine. His very physiognomy was an index to his ni~tural character. As described by his contemporaries, he had light flaxen hair, bright blue and laughing eyes, a frank and open visage. Such a face was a sort of guarantee, that the wit with which he was endowed could not be employed for any purpose inconsistent with consti- tutional good-nature. Accordingly, never was mirth more devoid of malice than his; unseasonable and in excess it doubtless often is, but this is all that can be charged upon it. his gibes are so pleasant, so tinctured by an overflowing bonhommie, that we doubt whether the very subjects of them could for- bear laughing in sympathy, though at their own expense. Equally assured we are, that, as lie never uttered a joke on another with any malice, so he was quite ready to laugh when any joke was uttered upon himself. Never dreaming of ill-will to his neighbor, and equally unsuspicious of any towards himself, it must have been a bitter joke indeed in which he could not join. It is rarely that a professed joker relishes wit when directed against himself; and the manner in which lie receives it may usually be taken as an infallible indication of his temper. lie well knows the difference between laughing at another, and being laughed at himsiflf. Fuller was not one of that irritabile genus, who wonder that any should be offended at their innocent plea- santry, and yet can never find any pleasantry innocent but their own! There is a story 7 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. told, which, though not true, ought to have been true, and which, if not denied by Fuller, would have been supposed to au- thenticate itself. It iS said that he once caught a Tartar in a certain Mr. Sparrowhawk, of whom he asked, What was the difference between an owl and a sparrowhawk? The reply was, that an owl was fuller in the head, and fuller in the face, and fuller all over! We believe that if the retort had been really uttered, it would have been received by the object of it, not with that curious expression of face so common on such occasions, in which con- strained mirth struggles with mortified vanity, and simulated laughter vainly strives to cover real annoyance, but with a peal of 1]earty gratulation.* As the temperament of Fuller was most cheerful, and a pledge for the innocence of his wit, so he jested by what may be called a necessity of his natureon all subjects, at all times, under all circumstances. Wit, in one or other of its multitudinous shapes, was the habitual attire of his thoughts and feelings. With the kindest heart in the world, he could not recite even a calamitous story without investing it with a tinge of the ludicrous. It would seem as if, in his case, a jest were the natural expression of all emotion; he is no more to he wondered at for mingling his condolence and his lamen- tations with merriment, than are other men for accompanying them with tears and sighs. An epitaph in his hand would have been a sort of epigram, not free from grotesque * This story is, however, more than doubtful; it is ex- pressly denied by Fuller himself, in his reply to Heylyns Examen Historicum. The circumstances which led to the denial are curious. Fuller, in his Ecclesiastical History, had related of Laud, that having once de- manded of a lady, who had lately become a proselyte to Popery, the reason of the change, he received for answer, that ~she hated a crowd. Upon being further pressed to explain so dark a saying, she said, Your Lordship and many others are making for Rome as fast as ye can, and therefore, to prevent a press, I went before you. This anecdote roused the indignation of Ileylyn, who by way of showing the impropriety of recording in print idle reports to the disadvantage of individuals, tells of a ~retort on Fuller, substantially the same with that related of Mr. Sparrowhawk, but disguised in a form, and attended with circumstances which rob it of more than half its point, and make Fuller appear to greater dis- advantage than that of having merely been diseomfited by a happy repartee. Fuller thus replied: My tale was true and new, never printed before; whereas his is old (made, it seems, on one of my name, printed before I was born) andf Se, never by mafs or woman retorted on me. I had rather my name should make many cause- lessly merry, than any justly sad; and, seeing it lieth equally open and obvious to praise and dispraise, I shall as little be elated when flattered Fuller of wit and learning, as dejected when dented Fuller of folly and ignorance. humor; and his ordinary pulpit discouises must, we are convinced, have often contained passages which severely tried the gravity of his audience. In confirmation of all we have said, we may remark, that he actually finds it impossible to suppress his vivacious pleasantry even in the most tragical parts of his histories, and tells the most rueful tidings in so droll a manner as sets all sobri- ety at defiance. One or two odd specimens we cannot refrain from laying before the reader. He thus recounts a lamentable accident which befell a congregation of Catholics at Blackfriars : The sermon be- gan to incUne to the middle, the day to the end thereof: when on the sudden the floor fell down whereon they were assembled. It gave no charitable warning groan beforehand, but cracked, broke, and fell, all in an instant. Many were killed, more bruised, all frighted. Sad sight, to behold the flesh and blood of different persons mingled together, and the brains of one on the head of another! One lacked a leg; another, an arm; a third, whole and entire, wanting nothing but breath, st~f led in the ruins. Was ever such a cal-. amity so mirthfully related? But one of the most singular instances of the peculiarity in question, is contained in his account of the capture and execution of the principal conspirators in the Gunpowder plot. It is so characteristic, that no apology is required for inserting one or two extracts below.* * Meantime Catesby, Percy, Rookwood, both the Wrigbts, and Thomas Winter, were hovering about Lon- don, to attend the. issue of the matter. Having sate to long abrood, and hatching nothing, they began to sus- pect that all their eggs had proved addle. Yet, betwixt hope and fear, they and their servants post down into the country, through Warwick and Worcester, into Stafford- shire. Of traitors they turn felons, breaking up stables and stealing horses as they went. nut many of their own men, by a far more lawful felony, stole away from their masters, leaving them to shift for themselves. The neighboring counties, and their own consciences, rise up against these riotous roisterers, yet unknown for traitors. At last Sir Richard Walsh, high sheriff of Woi- cestershire, overtook them at Holbeck, in Staffordshire, at the house of Mr. Stephen Littleton; where, upon their resistance, the two Wrights were killed, Rook wood and Thomas Winter shrewdly wounded. As for Percy ansi Catesby, they fought desperately for their lives, as knoW- log no quarter but quertccing would be given unto these; and. as if they scorned to turn their backs to any bui~ themselves, setting back to back, they fought against all that assaulted them. Many swords were drawn upots them, but gunpowder must do the deed, which dis- charged that bullet which dispatched them both. Never were two bad mens deaths more generally lamented of all good men; only on this accountthat they lived no losger, to be forced to a further discovery nf their secret associates. It must not be forgotten, how, some hours before their apprehension, as these plotters were drying dank gunpowder in an inn, a miller casually coming in (haply not heeding the black meal on the hearth), by careless casting on of a billet, fired the gunpowder: up flies the chimney with part of the house; all therein aes 8 UF~ AND WRLTLNG$ OF THO~1AS FULLER. So exuberant is Fullers wit, that, as his very melancholy is mirthful, so his very wis- dom wears motley. T~ut it is wisdom not- withstanding; nor are tiere many authors, in whom we shall find so much solid sense and practical sagacity, in spite of the gro- tesque disguise in which they masque them- selves. Nothing can be more true than the remark already qi~oted from Coleridge, that Fullers wit has defraaded him of some of the praise of wisdom which is his due. There was nothing, however, of the reality, whatever there might be of the appearance of profane or inhuman levity, in his mode of dealing with sacred or serious subjects. His was the natural expression of much hilarity conjoined with much wit. He would have been mirthful, whether he had had much wit or not; having also much wit, his mirth expressed itself in the forms most natural to him. Lie spoke only as he felt; and though we may think that another mode of speech would have been more proper, and better adapted to the ordinary feelings of mankind under the circumstances, we cannot consent to rank the facetiat of Fuller on grave sub- jects, with the profane, heartless witticisms of those with whom nothing is sacred, and who speak lightly because they feel lightly. His whole life and even his whole writings, prove him to have been possessed of genuine veneration for all that is divine, and genuine sympathy with all that is human. The limits within which wit and humor may be lawfully used, are well laid down by himself in his holy and Profane State, in the essays on Jesting and Gravity, and in his character of the Faithful Minister. It would be too much to say that he has al- ways acted strictly up to his own maxims; but it may be safely asserted that he seldom frightened, most hurt; but especially Catesby and Rook- wood had their faces soundly scorched, so bearing in their bodie,, not an 7/tare, the marks of Our Lord Jesus Christ, but the print of their own impieties. Well might they guess how good that their cup of cruelty was, whose dregs they meant others should drink, by this little sip which they themselves had unwillingly tasted thereof. The rest were all at London solemnly ar- raigned, convicted, condemned. So foul the fact, so fair ~se proof, they could say nothing for themselves. Mas- ter Tresham dying in the prison, prevented a more igno- minious end. . . They all craved testimony that they died Roman Catholics. My pen shall grant them this their last and so equal petition, and bears witness to all whom it may cs,sccr,e, that they lived and died in the Bomish relig-ism. And although the heinousness of their s%ience might, with some color of justice, have angered severity into cruelty against them, yet so favorably were they proceeded with, that most of their sons or heirs, except since, disinherited by their own prodigality, at ~id,aday enjdy their paternal possessions. violates the most important of them, and that, when he did, it was in perfect uncon- sciousness of so doing. Of profane jests, he says, in his strong manner Jest not with the two-edged sword of Gods word. Will nothing please thee to wash thy hands in but the font? or to drink healths in but the church chalice? On inhuman jests, he says Scoff not at the natural defects of ~ny which are not in their power to amend. 0, it is cruelty to beat a cripple with his own crutches! In another place, he quaintly sa$s, It is unnatural to laugh at a natl- ml. Speaking of the Faithful Minister, he says That he will not use a light com- parison to make thereof a grave application, for fear lest his poison go further than his antidote. But his sermons on the book of Ruth contain many curious instances of his oblivion of this maxim; of which, a striking one is given by the editor of the recent edition of his Holy and Profane State. In his essay on Gravity, he touchingly pleads for a charitable construe- tion of the levities of a mirthful tempera- ment. Some men, says he, are of a very cheerful disposition; and God forbid that all such should be condemned for light- ness! 0, let not any envious eye disinherit men of that which is their portion in this life, comfortably to enjoy The blessings thereof! Yet gravity must prune, not root out our mirth. Gravity must have had hard work to do in his own case; for as he himself says in another placebeautifully commenting on a well-known line of Horace That fork must have strong tines where- with one would thrust out nature. The imagination of Fuller, though gen- erally displaying itself in the forms imposed by his overflowing wit, was yet capable of suggesting images of great beauty, and of true poetic quality. Though lost in the perpetual obtrusion of that faculty to which every other was compelled to minister, it is brilliant enough to have made the reputation of any inferior writer; and we believe that what Coleridge has said of his wisdom, might as truly be said of his fancy ;his wit has equally defrauded both of the admit- ation due to them. Fullers imagination is often happily em- ployed in embodying some strong apoph- thegm, or maxim of practical wisdom, in a powerful and striking metaphor; the vea~y 10 best form in which they can be presented to us. There occur in his writings very many sentences of this kind, which would not be altogether unworthy of Bacon himself, and in which, as in that far greater genius, we have the combination of solid truth, beauti- ful imagery, and graceful expression ;where we know not which most to admirethe value of the gem, the lustre of the polish, or the appropriateness of the setting. In many respects, Fuller may be considered the very type and exemplar of that large class of religious writers of the seventeenth century, to which we emphatically apply the term quaint. That word has long ceased to mean what it once meant. By deriva- tion, and by original usage, it first signified scrupulously elegant, refined, ex- act, accurate, beyond the reach of com- mon art. In time it came to be applied to whatever was designed to indicate these characteristicsthough exeogitated with so elaborate a subtlety, as to trespass on ease and nature. In a word, it was applied to what was ingenious and fantastic, rather than tasteful or beautiful. It is now wholly used in this acceptation; and always implies some violation of true taste, some deviation from what the natural requires under the given circumstances. The application of the worl both to literary compositions and to the more material products of art, of course simultaneously underwent similar modifications. Now the age in which Fuller lived was the golden age of quaintness of all kinds; in gardening, in architecture, in costume, in manners, in religion, in literature. As men improved external nature with a per. verse expenditure of money and ingenuity made her yews and cypresses grow into pea- cocks and statuestortured and clipped her luxuriance into monotonous uniformity turned her graceful curves and spirals into straight lines and parallelogramscompelled things incongruous to blend in artificial union, and then measured the merits of the work, not by the absurdity of the design, but by the difficulty of the execution ;so in Pterature, the curiously and elaborately unnatural was too often the sole object. Far-fetched allusions and strained simili- tudes, fantastic conceits and pedantic quota- tions, the eternal jingle of alliteration and antithesis, puns and quirks and verbal pleas- LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. antries of all kindsthese too often forrea the choicest objects of the writers ambition The excellence of the product was judgeu. not by its intrinsic beauty, but by the labuz it involved, and the ingenuity it displayed. But while much of the quaint~ litera ture of that age is now as little relished ai~ the ruffs, wigs, and high-backed chairs of our great-great-grandfathers, there is not ~ little which will be held in everlasting r& ~ membrance. Not only are the works of powerful, though it may be perverted genius, full of thoughts and images, and felicities of expression, which, being the offspring of truth and fancy, will he beauti- ful through all time; but the aspect in which the quaint itself appears to us, will depend upon the character 6f the indi- vidual writer, and the nature of the subjects he treats. The constitution of Fullers mind had such an affinity with the peculiai- ities of the day, that what was quaint in others seenis to have been his natural elementthe sort of attire in which his active and eccentric genius loved to clothe itself. The habit which others perhaps slowly attained, and at length made (by those strong associations which can for a while sanctify any thing in taste or fashion) a second nature, seems to have cost him nothing. Allusions and images may appear odd, unaccountably odd, but in him they are evidently not far-fetched; they are spontaneously and readily presented hy his teeming fancy: even his puns and allitera- tions seem the careless, irrepressible exuba- rances of a very sportive mindnot racked and tortured out of an unwilling brain, as is the case with so many of his contem poraries. We are aware, of course, that it is the office of a correct judgment to circumscribe the extravagances of. the suggestive fimculty,, and to select from the materials it offers only what is in harmony with good taste. All we mean is, that in the case of Fuller, the suggestions, however eccentric, were sponta- neous, not artificialoffered, not sought for. The water, however brackish or otherwise impure, still gushed from a natural spring, and was not brought up by the wheel and axle. His mind was a fountain, not a foro- ing-pump. Thus his very quaintness~~ is also nature nature in him, though it would not be so in others; and we therefore read his most outrageous extravagances wi,tli LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. very different feelings from those with which we glance at the frigid conceits and dreary impertinences of many of his con- temporaries. Nor do we simply feel indul- gence towards them as spontaneous; their very spontaneity insures them an elasticity and vivacity of expression, which we should seek in vain in writers whose minds had less affinity with the genius of the day. Nor are we apt to forget that there are certain subjects to which the quaint style of those times is better adapted than to others; and in which it appears not desti- tute of a certain fantastic grace and fitness. We mean subjects in which little of passion or emotion would he expected. When con- viction or persuasion is the object, and di- rectness of purpose and earnestness of feel- ing are essential, we will not say to success, but merely to gain a hearing, nothing can be more repulsive, because nothing more unnatural, than the quaint style ; nothing being more improbable than that far-fetched similitudes and labored pretti- nesses should offer themselvcs to the mind at such a moment, except, indeed,.wLere universal custom has made (as in the case of some of our forefathers) quaintness itself a second nature. When lachrymatories were the fashion, it might, for aught ~ can tell, have been easy for the ancient mourner to drop a tear into the little cruet at any given moment. But, ordinariJy, nothing is more certain than that the very sight of such a receptacle would, as it was carried round to the company, instantly annihilate all emo- tion, even if it did not turn tears into laughter. Not less repellent, under ordi- nary circumstances, are all the forms of the quaint when the object is to excite emo- tion strong and deep. But it is not so with certain other subjects, in which the quaint itself is not without its recom- mendations; for example, in enforcing and illustrating moral maxims, in inculcating lessons of life and manners, in depicting va- rieties of human. characterin all which cases no continuous reasoning, no warmth of passion, is expected or required. Here the fancy maybe indulged in her most sport- ive and playful moods, and allowed t attire the sententious aphorisms she is commis- sioned to recommend, in any way that seems to her best. She may travel in any circuit, however wide, for her illustrationsmay employ analogies, the very oddity of which shall ensure their being rememberedmay lock up wisdom in any curious casket of an- tithesis or alliterationnay, may not dis- daia even a quip or a pun, when these may serve to stimulate attention, or to aid the memory. The very best specimens of the quaint style, at all events, are on such themes. Such, to mention a single exam- ple, is Earles Microcosmography ; such, also, are the best and most finished of Ful- lers own writingsas his Profane and Holy State, his Good Thoughts in Bad Times, his Good Thoughts in Worse Times, and his Mixed Contemplations. The composition in such works often reminds us of some gorgeous piece of cabinet-work from China or India, in which ivory is richly inlaid with gems and gold. Though we may not think the materials always harmo.. nious, or the shape perfectly consistent with our notions of elegance, we cannot fail to admire the richness of the whole product, and the costliness and elaboration of the workmanship. We have said, that in many respects Ful- ler may be considered the master of the quaint school of the seventeenth century. It is by no means to be forgotten, however, that he is almost entirely free from many of ~he most offensive peculiarities of that school. As those qualities of quaintness he possesses in common with his contemporaries are, as already intimated, natural to him, so from those which could hardly be natural in any, he is for the most part free. Thus he is almost wholly untainted by that vain pedantry, which so deeply infects the style of many of the greatest writers of his age; more especially Burtcn, Jeremy Taylor, Donne, and Browne. His quotations are very rare, and generally very apt, intro- duced for use, not ostentation. You no- where find that curious mosaic work of dif- ferent tonguci, which is so common in the pages of Burton and Taylor. You never find him, as you do this last writer, enforc- ing some commonplace of moral wisdom by half a dozen quotations from different writers, as though afraid to allow even a truism to walk abroad except under the guard of some venerable names; or as though men would not believe their own senses, unless they had the authority of an~ tiquity for doing so. From all the forms of 11 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. 12 learned pedantry, Fuller may be pronounced membrancer. Yet some seem to have built .imost entirely free. His reading was van- their tombs, therein to bury their thoughts ous, and his learning great; though not to of dying; never thinking thereof, but em- be compared to those of the above writers, bracing the world with greater greediness. whose powers, vast as they were, often sank A gentleman made choice of a fair stone, beneath the load of their more prodigious and, intending the same for his gravestone, erudition. caused it to be pitched up in a field a pretty Fullers style is also free to a great extent, distance from his house, and used often to from the Latinisms which form so large an shoot at it for his exercise. Yea, but, element in that of many of his great con- said a wag that stood by, you would be temporaries. Both in style and diction, he loath, sir, to hit the mark. And so are is much more idiomatic than most of th~m. many unwilling to die, who, notwithstand~ The structure of his sentences is far less ing, have erected their monuments. involved and periodic, while his words are in Tombs ought, in some sort, to be pro- much larger proportion of Saxon derivation, portioned, not to the wealth, but deserts of Something may no doubt be attributed to the the party interred. Yet may we see some character of his mind; his shrewd practical rich man of mean worth, loaden under a sense leading him, as it generally leads those tomb big enough for a prince to bear. who are strongly characterized by it, to There were officers appointed in the Grecian prefer the homely and universally intelligible games, who always, by public authority, in point of expression. Still more however, did pluck down the statues erected to the is to be attributed to the habits of his life, victors, if they exceeded the true symmetry He was not the learned recluse which many and proportion of their bodies. of his contemporaries were, and neither read The shortest, plainest, and truest epi.. nor wrote half so much in the learned taphs are best.J say, the shortest; for tongues. He loved to gossip with the com- when a passenger sees a chronicle written on mon people; and, when collecting materials a tomb, he takes it on trust some great man for his historical works, would listen, we are lies there buried, without taking pains t& told, for hours together, to their prolix examine who he is. Mr. Camden, in his accounts of local traditions and family Remains, presents us with examples of legends. Many, very many of the good old great men that had little epitaphs. And English words now lost, may be found in his when once I asked a witty gentleman, an writings. One passage of vigorous idiomatic honored friend of mine, what epitaph was English, and which is, in many other re- fittest to be written on Mr. Camdens tomb spects, striking exemplification of Fullers Let it be, said he, Camdens Re- manner, we cannot refrain from quoting. It mains. I say also, the plainest; foj, is from his Essay on Tombs: except the sense lie above ground, few will Tombs are the clothes of the dead. A trouble themselves to dig for it. Lastly, it grave is but a plain suit, and a rich monu- must be true; not as in some monuments, ment is one embroidered. Most moderate where the red veins in the marble may seem men have been careful for the decent inter- to blush at the falsehoods written on it. He ment of their corpses; . . . . both hereby was a witty man that first taught a stone to to prevent the negligence of heirs, and to speak, but he was a wicked man that taught mind him of his mortality. Virgil tells us, it first to lie. that when bees swarm in the air, and two To want a grave is the cruelty of the armies, meeting together, fight as it were a living, not the misery of the dead. An set battle with great violencecast but a English gentleman, not long since, did 1k little dust upon them, and they will be quiet: on his death-bed in Spain, and the Jesuits 11i motus animorum, atque ha~c certamina did flock about him to pervert him to their tanta, religion. All was in vain. Their lastargu- Pulvenis exiguijactu compressa quiescunt. ment was, If you will not turn Romadp Thus the -mosl~ ambitious motions and Catholic, then your body shall be unburied. thoughts of mans mind are quickly quelled Then, answered he, I will stink; and when dust is thrown on him, whereof his so turned his head and died. Thus love, if re-prepared sepulchre is an excellent re- not to the dead, to the living, will make LIFI~ AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. him, if not a grave a hole A good memory is the best monument. Others are subject to casualty and time; and we know that the pyramids themselves, doting, with age, have forgotten the names of their founders.* To conclude; let us be careful to provide rest for our souls, and our bodies will provide rest for themselves. And let us not be herein like unto gentlewomen, who care not to keep the inside of the orange, but candy and preserve only the outside thereof. One other Essay, which is not only a fine specimen of Fullers best manner, but is full of sound practical criticism, we cannot resist the temptation to cite. It is on Fancy. Fancy is an inward sense of the soul, for a while retaining and examining things brought in thither by the common sense. It is the most boundless and restless faculty of the soul; for, whilst the understanding and the will are kept as it were ire liberd custodid to their objects of verum et bonum, the fancy is free from all engagements. It digs with- out spade, sails without ship, flies without wings, builds without charges, fights without bloodshed; in a moment striding from the centre to the circumference of the world, by a kind of omnipoteney creating and annihil- ating things in an instant; and things divorced in nature are married in fancy, as in a lawful place. It is also most restless; whilst the senses are bound, and reason in a manner asleep, fancy, li.ke a sentinel, walks the round, ever working, never wearied. The chief diseases of the fancy are either, that ~t is too wild and high-soaring, or else too low and grovelling, or else too desultory and over-voluble. Of the first :If thy fancy be but a little too rank, age itself will correct it. To lift too high is no fault in a young horse: because, with travelling, he will mend it, for his own ease. Thus, lofty fancies in young men will come down of themselves; and, in process of time, the overplus will shrink to be but even measure. iBut if this will not do it, then observe these rules: * The reader may compare with this fine thought the still sublimer expressions of Sir Thomas nrowne: Time sadly overcometh all things, and is ixow dominant and sitteth upon a sphinx, and looketh unto Memphis and old Thebes; while his sister, Oblivion, reclineth on a pyramid glorionsly triumphing, ... and turning old glories into dreoms. History sinketh beneath her cloud. The traveller, as he paceth amazedly through those deserts, asketh of her who builded thepyramids? and she mumhleth something, but what it is he heareth ne4. Take part always with thy judgment against thy fancy, in any thing wherein they shall dissent. If thou suspectest thy conceits too luxuriant, herein account thy suspicion a legal, conviction, and damn what.. soever thou doubtest of. Warily Tully Bene~ monent, qui vetant quicquam facere de quo dubitas, wquum sit an iniquum. Take the advice of a faithful friend, and submit thy inventions to his censure. When thou pennest an oration, let him have the power of Index Expurgatorious, to expunge what he pleaseth; and do not thou, like a fond mother, cry if the child of thy brain be corrected for playing the wanton. Mark the arguments and reasons of his alterations why that phrase least proper, this passage more cautious and advised; and, after a while, thou shalt perform the place in thine own person, and not go out of thyself for a censurer. If thy fancy be too low and humble, let thy judgment be king not tyrant, over it, to condemn harmless, yea. commendable con- ceits. Some, for fear their orations should giggle, will not let them smile. Give it also liberty to rove, for it will not be extrava- gant. There is no danger that weak folks, if they walk abroad, will straggle far, as wanting strength. Acquaint thyself with reading poets, fo? there fancy is in her throne; and, in tims, the sparks of the authors wit will catch hold on the reader, and inflame him with lova, liking, and desire of imitation. I confess there is more required to teach one to write than to see a copy. However, there is a secret force of fascination in reading poems, to raise and provoke fancy. If thy fancy be over-voluble, then whip this vagrant, home to the first object whereon it should be settled. Indeed, nimbleness is the perfection of this faculty, but levity the the bane of it. Great is th. difference b~. twixt a swift horse, and a skittish that wifl stand on no ground. Such is the ubiquitary fancy, which will keep long residence on no one subject, but is so courteous to strangers, that it ever welcomes that conceit most which comes last, and new species supplant the old ones, before seriously considered. If this be the fault of thy fancy, I say, whip it home to the first object whereon it should be settled. This do as often as occasion re.. quires, and by degrees the fugitive servant 13 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. will learn to abide by his work without run- ning away. Acquaint thyself by degrees with hard and knotty studiesas school divinity, which will clog thy over nimble fancy. True at the first, it will be as welcome to thee as a prison, and their very solutions will seem knots unto thee. But take not too much at once, lest thy braia tura edge. Taste it first as a potion for physic; and by degrees thou shalt ~ilrink it as beer for thirst practice will make it pleasant. Mathematics are also good for this purpose; if beginning to try a conclusion, thou must make an end, lest thou losest thy pains that are past, and must pro- ceed seriously and exactly. I meddle not with those Bedlam fancies, all whose conceits are antics ; but leave them for the physician to purge with hellebore. To clothe low, creeping matter with high-flown language is not fine fancy, but flat foolery. It rather loads than raises a wren to fasten the feathers of an ostrich to her wings. Some mens speeches are like the high mountains ia Ireland, having a dirty bog in the top of them ; the very ridge of them in high words having nothing of worth, but what rather stalls than delights the auditor. Fine fancies in manufactures invent en- gines rather pretty than useful. And, com- monly, one trade is too narrow for them. They are better to project new ways than to prosecute old, and are rather skilful in many mysteries than thriving in one. They affect not voluminous inventions, wherein many years must constantly be spent to perfect them, except there be in them variety of pleasant employment. Imagination (the work of the fancy) hath produced real effects. Many serious and sad examples hereof may be produced. I will only insist on a merry one. A gentle- man having led a company of children be- yond their usual journey, they began to be weary, and jointly cried to him to carry them ; which because of their multitude, he could not do, but told them he would pro- vide them horses to ride on. Then cutting little wands out of the hedge as nags for them, and a great stake as a gelding for him- self, thus mounted, fancy put mettle into their legs, and they came cheerfully home. Fancy runs most furiously when a guilty conscience drives it. One that owed much money, and had many creditors, as he walked London streets in the evening, a tenter hook caught his cloak. At whose suit said he conceiving some bailiff had arrested him. Thus guilty consciences are afraid where no fear is, and count every creature they meet a sergeant sent from God to punish them. The historical works .of Fuller are simply a caricature of the species of composition to which they professedly belong; a systematic violation of all its proprieties. The gravity and dignity of the historic muse are habitu- ally set at naught by him. Nay more; not only is he continually cracking his jokes, and perpetrating his puns; his matter is as full of treason against the laws of history as his manner. His very methodif we may be allowed such an abuse of languagecon- sists in a contempt of all method. He has so constructed his works as to secure himself the indulgence of perpetual digressionof harboring and protecting every vagrant story that may ask shelter in his pagesof ram- bling hither and thither, as the fit takes himand of introducing all sorts of things where, when, and how he pleases. To this end he has cut up his Histories into little paragraphs or sections, which often have as little connection with one another as with the general subject. Any curious fact, any odd anecdote, is warrant in his opin- ion for a digression, provided only it has any conceivable relation to the events he happens to be narrating. A mere chronological con- nection is always deemed enough to justify him in bringing the most diverse matters into juxtaposition; while the little spaces which divide his sections from one another, like those between the compartments in a cabinet of curiosities, are thought sufficient lines of demarcation between the oddest in- congruities. his Worthies of England is in fact a rambling tour over the English Counties, taken in alphabetic order, in which, though his chief object is to give an account of the principal families resident in each, and of the illustrious men they have severally produced, he cannot refrain from thrusting in a world of gossip on their nat- ural history and geography, on their produc- tions, laws, customs and, proverbs. It may be said that this was an unfinished work; that we have not the fabric itself, but only the bricks vad mortar of which it was to be 14 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. constructed. We reply that the general plan is sufficiently disclosed, and could not have been materially altered had the author lived to complete the work. But is his Church History a whit better in this re- spect Never was there such a medley. First, each book and section is introduced by a quaint dedication to one or other of his many admirers or patrons. Nicholson in his English Historical Library is rather severe on his motives for such a multiplica- tion of dedications. Secondly, of the sev- eral paragraphs into which the Church history is divided (most of them intro- duced by some quaint title), many are as little connected with church history as with the history of China. Thus, in one short section comprising the period from 1330 to 1361, we find paragraphs relating to the ignorance of the English in curious clothing to fullers earth, which, he tells us, was a precious commodity to the manufacture of woollen cloth and to the sumptuary laws which restrained ex- cess in apparel. Here is a strange mixture in one short chapter! Church history as all the world knows, is compelled to treat of matters which have a very remote relation to the church of Christ; but who could have sus- pected that it could by possibility take cog- nizance of fullers earth and woollens? Even Fuller himself seems a little astonished at his own hardihood; and lest any should at Jirst sight fail to see the perfect congru- ity of such topics, he engages, with match- less effrontery, to show the connection be- tween them. His reasons are so very ab- mrd, and given so much in his own manner, that we cannot refrain from citing them. But enough of this subject, which let none condemn for a deviation from church history. First because it would not grieve me to go a little out of the way, if the way be good, as the digression is, for the credit and profit of our country. Secondly, it reductively be- longeth to the church history, seeing many poor people, both young and old, formerly zharging the parishes (as appeared by the ~ccount of the church officers), were hereby ~nabIed to maintain themselves!! It may well be supposed, after what has amusing oddities. But that he is careless been said, that his Histories are not to in the admission or investigation of facts, ~e judged by the ordinary rules applied to we cannot admit without better proof than that class of compositions. They possess Nicholson has furnished; and we much fear intrinsic value only as collections and reper- tories of materials for other and less eccen- tric writers. In this point of view he often modestly represents them ; and in fact, as we conjecture, for the very purpose of secur- ing the larger license of rambling. The praise of method and regularity (if indeed he formed any notion of these) he coveted little, compared with the free indulgence of his vagrant and gossiping humor. He loved, like Edie Ochiltree, to daunder along the green lanes, to leave the dusty high-road of continuous history, and solace himself in every bypath meadow that invited his feet by its softness and verdure. Even as a collector of materials, his merits have been strongly called in question by Bishop Nich- olson. Through the whole of his Church history, says the critic, he is so fond of his own wit, that he does not seem to have minded what he was about. The gravity of an historian (much more of an ecclesiastical one) requires a far greater care, both of the matter and style of his work, than is here to be met with. If a pretty story comes in his way that affords scope for clinch and droll, off it goes with all the gaiety of the stage, without staying to inquire whether it have any foundation in truth or not; and even the most serious and authentic parts of it are so interlaced with pun and quibble, that it looks as if the man had designed to ridicule the annals of our church into fable and romance. Yet if it were possible to refine it well, the work would be of good use, since there are in it some things of moment hardly to be had elsewhere, which may often illustrate dark passages in more serious writers. These are not to be despised where his authorities are cited, and appear credible. But in other matters, where he is singular, and without his vouchers, [Icuvl7ao cit-urretv. That Fuller has intermingled a great deal of gossip and rubbish with his facts, is in- deed most true; but then, usually, he neither receives such matter for truth him- self, nor delivers it for truth to others; so that the worst that can be said of him on that score is, that he is content to merge his historic character in that of a retailer of lb LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. that the censure of the critic was excited rather by Fullers candor, than by either his partiality or his negligence. If he had been a more thorough partisan, and on the side of his censor, we should have been spared some of the indignation of this his- torian of historians. With indolence in his researches at all events, Fuller cannot be justly taxed. Frequently compelled, in hi~ capacity of chaplain to the royal army, to change his quarters, often writing with- out the advantage of books and access to documents, it was impossible that he should not fall into serious errors ; but he diligently availed himself of such resources as were within his reach. As already intimated, he would spend hours in patiently listening to the long-winded recitals of rustic ignorance, in hopes of gleaning some neglected tradi- tion, or of rescuing some half-forgotten fact from oblivion. His works every where dis- close the true antiqu~irian spirt, the genuine veneration for whatever bears the charm- ing rust, or exhales the musty odor of age; and it is plain, that if his opportuni- ties had been equal either to his inclinations or his aptitudes, he would have been no mean proficient in the arts of spelling out and piecing the mouldering records of an- tiquityof deciphering documentsof ad- justing datesof investigating the origin of old customs, and the etymology of old names of interpreting proverbial sayingsof sifting the residuum of truth in obscure tra- dition, and of showing the manner in which facts have passed into fable. Like many men of the same stamp, however, he had not the faculty of discriminating the relative value of the facts thus elicited; but fre- quently exhibits the most insignificant with as much prominence as the most valuable: like them, too, he often mistakes probability for demonstration, and magnifies conjecture into certainty. In some respects he bore a sort of resemblance (though in others hov~ different!) to ilerodotus and Froissart. The charm of continuous narrative, indeed, for which they are so justly eminent, he pos- sessed not; still less the happy art of a pic- turesque and graceful disposition of his materials. But in his diligent heed to tradi- tional stories, in the personal pain and labor which he was willing to take in the accumu- lation of his materials, in the eagerness and th& patience with which he prosecuted the chase, in the large infusion of merely curioup and amusing matter amongst the sober verb- ties of history, by which his Worthies and his Church Ilistory are equally marked, there is some resemblance. The traditions, and the reports, and the sayings, of the common people, were as dear to him as was the ~ ?~eyova, to the father of history. Like the above writers, too, he usually lets us know for what he vouches,and what he gives on the report of others ; and we believe that, as in their case, his principal statements will be found more nearly true the more they are investigated. But, after all, his professedly historical works are not to be read as histories; their strange want of method, the odd intermi~- ture of incongruous and irrelevant matter they contain, and the eccentricitiee of all kinds with which they abound, will for ever prevent that. They are rather books of amusement; in which wisdom and whita, important facts and impertinent fables, solid reflections and quaint drolleries, r~ fined wit and wretched puns, great beauties and great negligencies, are mingled in equal proportions. Perused as books of amuse- ment, there are few in the English language which a man, with the slightest tincture of love for our early literature, can take up with a keener relish; while an enthusiast, whether by natural predisposition or m~. quired habit, will, like Charles Lamb, al4so- lutely riot in their wild luxuriance. Faulty as Fullers Histories are, it will be seen that he yet possessed in great perfectisn many of the essential conditions of excellence in that department of composition. His spirit of research, his love of minute inves~. gation, his fine imagi,nation, his boundleas vivacity, his freedom from prejudice, his liberality and candor, would seem to haw ensured success; and that success w6uld doubtless have been eminent, had he x~A given such license to his inordinate wit, so freely indulged his oddities of manner, arid set all method at defiance. These defects have gone far to neutralize his other admi,.. able qualifications for historical compositior~, and what was absurdly said of Shakspeare, might with some propriety be said of him, that a pun was the Cleopatra for which he lost the worlds and was content to lose it1~ In a moral and religious point of view, the character of Fuller is entitled to csir veneration, and is altogether one of the most attractive and interesting which that age exhibits to us. His buoyant temper, and his perpetual mirthfulness, were wholly at variance with that austerity and rigor which characterized so many of the religionists of his time; but his life and conduct bore ample testimony that he possessed genuine and habitual piety. Amidst all his levity of manner, there was still the gravity of the heartdeep veneration for all things sacred; and while his wit clothed even his religious thoughts and feelings with irresistible pleas- antry, his manner is as different from that of the scorner, as the innocent laugh of childhood from the malignant chuckle of a demon. In all the relations of domestic and social life, his conduct was most exemplary. In one point, especially, does he appear in honorable contrast with the bigots of all parties in that age of strifehe had learnt, partly from his natural benevolence, and partly from a higher principle, the lessons of that charity which thinketh no evil, and which so few of his contemporaries knew how to practise. His very moderation, however, as is usually the case, made him suspected by the zealots of both parties. Though a sincere friend of the Church of England, he looked with sorrow (which in his Church History he took no pains to disguise) on the seventies practised towards the Puritans; and every where adopts the tone of apology for their supposed errors, and of compassion for their undoubted sufferings. His candor and impartiality in treating some of the most delicate portions of our ecclesiastical historyus, for example, the Hampton Court controversy, and the administration of Laudare in admirable contrast with the resolute spirit of partisan- ship which has inspired so many of the writers of the Church of England. There were not wanting persons, however, who, as we have seen, insinuated that his candor in these and ether instances was nothing but a peace-offering to the men in power at the time he published his Church History. But, not to urge that he has said too much on the other side to justify such a suppo- sition, his whole manner is that of an honest man, striving to be impartial, even if not always successfuL Had he been the un- principled tire-~ejrv~r ~hi~ e~hamny weuld represent him, he would have suppzessed a DCXCVII. LIVING AOX. VOL. XIX. 2 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ThOMAS FULLER. 17 little more. Coleridge says that he was incomparably the most sensible, the least prejudiced, great m~n of an age that boasted a galaxy of great men. If this statement be confined to religious prejudices, there are, it must be confessed, few of his age who can be compared with him. As to prejudices of other kinds, he seems to have shared in those of most of his contemporaries. It is hard, or rather impossible, to be wholly beyond ones age. He believed in witches he was a resolute stickler for the royal pre- rogative of curing the kings evil, though whether his loyalty or philosophy had most to do with his convictions on that point, may well admit of doubt. It is true that he treats the idle legends and fabled miracles of Romish superstition with sovereign con- tempt; but then his Protestantism came to the aid of his reason, and, considering the superstitions he has himself retained, the former may be fairly supposed to have offered the more powerful logic of the two. Though Fuller cannot be accused of shar- ing the bigotry and bitterness of his age, he is by no means perfectly free from a very opposite vice, with which that age was nearly as chargeablewe mean flattery. his multitudinous dedications to his numer- ous patrons, contained in the Chureh History, are, many of them, very striking,. and even beautiful compositions, and full of ingenious turns of thought; but they cer- tainly attribute as much of excellence to the objects of them as either history, or tra- dition, or charity can warrant us in ascribing Something may, however, be pardoned to the spirit of the age, and something to the gratitude or necessities of the author. But that any author, even a hungry one, could be brought to write them, is a wonder; that any patron could, either with or without a blush, appropriate them, is a still greater one. It is in the conclusion to his character of the Good King, in his Holy State, that our author has fallen most unworthily into the complimentary extravagance of the times. He, of course, makes the reigning monarch the reality of the fair picture, and draws his character in language which truth might well interpret into the severest irony. It would be improper to close this analy~is of one of the most singular intellects that ~ev~r appeared in the world of letters, with- out saying a word or two ef the prodigies LIF]~ AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. related of his powers of memory. That he had a very tenacious one may easily be credited, though some of its traditional feats almost pass belief. It is said that he could repeat five hundred strange words after once hearing them, and could make use of a sermon verbatim, under the like circum- stances. Still further, it is said that he undertook, in passing from .Temple Bar to the extremity of Cheapside, to tell, at his return, every sign as it stood in order on both sides of the way (repeating them either backwards or forwards), and that he per- formed the task exactly. This is pretty well, considering that in that day every shop had its sign. The interpretation of such hyperboles, however, is very easy; they signify, at all events, thus muchthat he had an extraordinary memory. That many of the reports respecting it were false or ex- aggerated, may be gathered from an amusing anecdote recorded by himself. None alive, says he, ever heard me pretend to the art of memory, who in my book (Holy State) have decried it as a trick, no art; and, indeed, is more of fancy than memory. I confess, some ten years since, when I came out of the pulpit of St. Dunstans East, one (who since wrote a book thereof) told me in the vestry before credible people, that he, in Sydney College, had taught me the art of memory. I returned unto him, That it was not so, for I could not remember that I had ~ever seen him before! which, I conceive, was a real refutation. One is prepared to meet with all sorts of oddities of manner about such a man; for it would be strange that a person so eccentric in all his writings, should not have been eccentric in his private habits; but really the following account of his method of com- position passes belief. It is said that he was ~in the habit of writing the first words of every line near the margin down to the foot of the paper, and, that then beginning again, he filled up the vacuities exactly, without spaces, interlineations, or contrac- tions; and that he would so connect the ends and beginnings that the sense would appear as complete as if it had been written in a continued series, after the ordinary manner. This, we presume, is designed to be a compliment to the ease with which he performed the process of mental composition, and the accuracy with which his memory could transfer what he had meditated to paper. But though he might occasionally perform such a feat for the amusement of his friends, it never could have been his ordinary practice. As we quoted, at the commencement of this essay, the opinion entertained of our author by Coleridge, we shall conclude it by citing that of Charles Lamb, than whom there OQuld not be a more competent judge. The writings of Fuller, says he, are usually designated by the title of quaint, and with sufficient reason; for such was his natural bias to conceits that 1 doubt not, upon most occasions, it would have been going out of his way to have expressed him- self out of them. But his wit is not always lumen siccum, a dry faculty of surprising; on the contrary, his conceits are oftentimes deeply steeped in human feeling and passion. Above all, his way of telling a story, for its eager liveliness, and the perpetual running commentary of the narrator, happily blended with the narration, is perhaps unequalled.* * the preceding essay was published, have ap. peared Memorials of the Life and Works of ruller, by the Rev. Arthur T. Russell, B.C.J~. In that volume, all that either history or tradition has left respecting our author has been laboriously and faithfully compiled; and thither the reader, curious about the biography of this eccentric genius, is referred for more minute information than could be given in the sketch at the commencemeni of this essay. HER PLEASURE IN HER POWER TO CRARM. Mr. Thackeray makes use of the same idet~: In Coventry Patmores pure and delicately A fair young creature, bright and blooming beautiful poem, The Angel ia the House, the yesterday, distributing smiles, levying homage, ~above line twice occurs. inspiring desire, conscious of her power to An exquisite line, says The Critic, lice, charm, and gay with the natural enjoyments of 1, 1854: who could have believed that the her conquestswho, in his walk through the ugly and often unjust word vanity could ever world, has not looked on many such a one ? ~be melted down into so true and pretty and fiat- The ,Afewcomes, ii. l~31.JVotes ctnd Queries. tering ~ periphrasis?~ 18

LIF]~ AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS FULLER. related of his powers of memory. That he had a very tenacious one may easily be credited, though some of its traditional feats almost pass belief. It is said that he could repeat five hundred strange words after once hearing them, and could make use of a sermon verbatim, under the like circum- stances. Still further, it is said that he undertook, in passing from .Temple Bar to the extremity of Cheapside, to tell, at his return, every sign as it stood in order on both sides of the way (repeating them either backwards or forwards), and that he per- formed the task exactly. This is pretty well, considering that in that day every shop had its sign. The interpretation of such hyperboles, however, is very easy; they signify, at all events, thus muchthat he had an extraordinary memory. That many of the reports respecting it were false or ex- aggerated, may be gathered from an amusing anecdote recorded by himself. None alive, says he, ever heard me pretend to the art of memory, who in my book (Holy State) have decried it as a trick, no art; and, indeed, is more of fancy than memory. I confess, some ten years since, when I came out of the pulpit of St. Dunstans East, one (who since wrote a book thereof) told me in the vestry before credible people, that he, in Sydney College, had taught me the art of memory. I returned unto him, That it was not so, for I could not remember that I had ~ever seen him before! which, I conceive, was a real refutation. One is prepared to meet with all sorts of oddities of manner about such a man; for it would be strange that a person so eccentric in all his writings, should not have been eccentric in his private habits; but really the following account of his method of com- position passes belief. It is said that he was ~in the habit of writing the first words of every line near the margin down to the foot of the paper, and, that then beginning again, he filled up the vacuities exactly, without spaces, interlineations, or contrac- tions; and that he would so connect the ends and beginnings that the sense would appear as complete as if it had been written in a continued series, after the ordinary manner. This, we presume, is designed to be a compliment to the ease with which he performed the process of mental composition, and the accuracy with which his memory could transfer what he had meditated to paper. But though he might occasionally perform such a feat for the amusement of his friends, it never could have been his ordinary practice. As we quoted, at the commencement of this essay, the opinion entertained of our author by Coleridge, we shall conclude it by citing that of Charles Lamb, than whom there OQuld not be a more competent judge. The writings of Fuller, says he, are usually designated by the title of quaint, and with sufficient reason; for such was his natural bias to conceits that 1 doubt not, upon most occasions, it would have been going out of his way to have expressed him- self out of them. But his wit is not always lumen siccum, a dry faculty of surprising; on the contrary, his conceits are oftentimes deeply steeped in human feeling and passion. Above all, his way of telling a story, for its eager liveliness, and the perpetual running commentary of the narrator, happily blended with the narration, is perhaps unequalled.* * the preceding essay was published, have ap. peared Memorials of the Life and Works of ruller, by the Rev. Arthur T. Russell, B.C.J~. In that volume, all that either history or tradition has left respecting our author has been laboriously and faithfully compiled; and thither the reader, curious about the biography of this eccentric genius, is referred for more minute information than could be given in the sketch at the commencemeni of this essay. HER PLEASURE IN HER POWER TO CRARM. Mr. Thackeray makes use of the same idet~: In Coventry Patmores pure and delicately A fair young creature, bright and blooming beautiful poem, The Angel ia the House, the yesterday, distributing smiles, levying homage, ~above line twice occurs. inspiring desire, conscious of her power to An exquisite line, says The Critic, lice, charm, and gay with the natural enjoyments of 1, 1854: who could have believed that the her conquestswho, in his walk through the ugly and often unjust word vanity could ever world, has not looked on many such a one ? ~be melted down into so true and pretty and fiat- The ,Afewcomes, ii. l~31.JVotes ctnd Queries. tering ~ periphrasis?~ 18 IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. From Notes and Queries. IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. I HAVE waited to reply to Mr. Inglebys questions until I could look again at one or two points, and also until I could put to- gether a few remarks on the general subject, which is one of much curiosity, and continu- ally recurring inquiry. I must, however, premise that the remarks are not addressed to, or at, Mr. Ingleby: not that I think he would suppose such a thing, but because people find out such curious meanings, that, without this warning, I should not be sur- prised if I heard that Mr. Ingleby had been squaring at the circle, and that I had been squaring at him for it. When we find a long and enduring discus- sion about any points of speculation, we naturally ask whether there be not some verbal difficulty at the bottom. What is the solution of a problem? It is the showing how to arrive at a desired result, under pre- scribed conditions to the means which are to be used, and as to the form in which the result is to be presented. There are thea three possibilities of impossibility. The desired result may be among non-existing things; the prescribed conditions may be insufficient; the form demanded may be necessarily unattainable. And any one of these things being really the case, it may be impossible to demonstrate that it is the case. Human nature, which always assumes that it can know whatever can be known, must bear to be told that this assumption may be one of its little mistakes, or may be a true exposition of its own powers, and may be a matter on which no certainty can be arrived at. In prescribing conditions of solution, and form of result, we dictate to existence we determine that our mental nature shall be so constructed that we shall know beforehand what means are wanted, and what form the result shall appear in, the matter being one on which the very necessity of proposing the problem shows our ignorance. And when we fail, we quarrel with the universe. As Porson did, when he proposed to himself the problem of taking up the candlestick, his condition being that in which two images of objects appear, one the consequences of the laws of light, the other what a psychologist would perhaps call purely subjective. He accordingly handled the wrong image, which of course did not prevent his fingers from meeting. Incensed at this, he exclaimed, D the nature of things. He had better have attended to preliminaries under which so simple a problem might have been solved without a quadratic equation. Undoubtedly the dictation of conditions and of form has been attended with the most advantageous results. Abundance of possi- bles have been turned up in digging for im- possibles. Alchemy invented chemistry; astrology greatly improved astronomy; the effort to find a certainty of winning in gambling nurtured the science under which insurance is safe and intelligible, and the inscrutable inquiry into ens quatenus ens. so properly placed (lera ra pvaoca, has added much to our powers of investigating komo quatenus homo. There was a separate dictation of condi- tions in arithmetic and in geometry. In arithmetic, the simple definite number or fraction, the earliest object of our attention, was declared to be the universal mode of ex- pression. It was prescribed to the circle that it should be, in circumference, a definitely ex- pressible derivation from the diameter: it was demanded of the nature of things that by cutting the circumference into a certain number of equal parts, a certain number of those parts should give the diameter; and vsce versd. In geometry, Euclid laid down, as his pre- scribed instruments, the straight line and circ}e. Of all the infinite number of lines which exist, he would use none except the straight line and circle. It was demanded of the nature of things that it should be possi- ble to construct a square equal to a given circle, without the use of any curve except the cirCle. The second demand was not quite so im- pudent as the first. It was soon discovered and proved that there is no square root to 2, as a definite fraction of a unit.. That is, there is nothing but an interminable series of decimals, 1.4142135 . ; by help of which we discover the square root of fractions within any degree of nearness to 2 we please. And yet, with such a result as this known to all, it was thought the most reasonable thing in the world to demand that the ratio of the circumference to the dia- meter should be that of number to number. I will now speak of the problems set forth in the question. 19

IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. From Notes and Queries. IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. I HAVE waited to reply to Mr. Inglebys questions until I could look again at one or two points, and also until I could put to- gether a few remarks on the general subject, which is one of much curiosity, and continu- ally recurring inquiry. I must, however, premise that the remarks are not addressed to, or at, Mr. Ingleby: not that I think he would suppose such a thing, but because people find out such curious meanings, that, without this warning, I should not be sur- prised if I heard that Mr. Ingleby had been squaring at the circle, and that I had been squaring at him for it. When we find a long and enduring discus- sion about any points of speculation, we naturally ask whether there be not some verbal difficulty at the bottom. What is the solution of a problem? It is the showing how to arrive at a desired result, under pre- scribed conditions to the means which are to be used, and as to the form in which the result is to be presented. There are thea three possibilities of impossibility. The desired result may be among non-existing things; the prescribed conditions may be insufficient; the form demanded may be necessarily unattainable. And any one of these things being really the case, it may be impossible to demonstrate that it is the case. Human nature, which always assumes that it can know whatever can be known, must bear to be told that this assumption may be one of its little mistakes, or may be a true exposition of its own powers, and may be a matter on which no certainty can be arrived at. In prescribing conditions of solution, and form of result, we dictate to existence we determine that our mental nature shall be so constructed that we shall know beforehand what means are wanted, and what form the result shall appear in, the matter being one on which the very necessity of proposing the problem shows our ignorance. And when we fail, we quarrel with the universe. As Porson did, when he proposed to himself the problem of taking up the candlestick, his condition being that in which two images of objects appear, one the consequences of the laws of light, the other what a psychologist would perhaps call purely subjective. He accordingly handled the wrong image, which of course did not prevent his fingers from meeting. Incensed at this, he exclaimed, D the nature of things. He had better have attended to preliminaries under which so simple a problem might have been solved without a quadratic equation. Undoubtedly the dictation of conditions and of form has been attended with the most advantageous results. Abundance of possi- bles have been turned up in digging for im- possibles. Alchemy invented chemistry; astrology greatly improved astronomy; the effort to find a certainty of winning in gambling nurtured the science under which insurance is safe and intelligible, and the inscrutable inquiry into ens quatenus ens. so properly placed (lera ra pvaoca, has added much to our powers of investigating komo quatenus homo. There was a separate dictation of condi- tions in arithmetic and in geometry. In arithmetic, the simple definite number or fraction, the earliest object of our attention, was declared to be the universal mode of ex- pression. It was prescribed to the circle that it should be, in circumference, a definitely ex- pressible derivation from the diameter: it was demanded of the nature of things that by cutting the circumference into a certain number of equal parts, a certain number of those parts should give the diameter; and vsce versd. In geometry, Euclid laid down, as his pre- scribed instruments, the straight line and circ}e. Of all the infinite number of lines which exist, he would use none except the straight line and circle. It was demanded of the nature of things that it should be possi- ble to construct a square equal to a given circle, without the use of any curve except the cirCle. The second demand was not quite so im- pudent as the first. It was soon discovered and proved that there is no square root to 2, as a definite fraction of a unit.. That is, there is nothing but an interminable series of decimals, 1.4142135 . ; by help of which we discover the square root of fractions within any degree of nearness to 2 we please. And yet, with such a result as this known to all, it was thought the most reasonable thing in the world to demand that the ratio of the circumference to the dia- meter should be that of number to number. I will now speak of the problems set forth in the question. 19 IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. 1. The three bodies. This is the problem of determining the motion of a planet at- tracted, not only by the sun, but by another planet. In the early days of the integral calculus, it was demanded of the nature of things that all deferential equations should be soluble in what are called finite terms, that is by a definite number of algebraical, & c. terms consisting of our usual modes of expression. Mathematicians had not then opened their eyes to the fact that there exists an unlimited number of modes of expression of which those we employ cannot give an idea, except by interminable series. Ac- cordingly, they considered the problem of three bodies unsolved so long as it was neces- sary to have recourse to these interminable series. But is this problem unsolved, in any other sense than this, that the nature of things has not listened to human dictation on matters which humanity knew nothing about? Do we not find the moons place within a fraction of a second of time, by the existing solution? And did not Adams and Leverrier even solve the inverse problem, Given the effect produced upon a known planet by an unknown planet, to discover the place of the unknown planet? There are hundreds of problems, in pure and mixed mathematics both, which are treated only by interminable series, and which no one ever complained of as not being solved. The difference is this: we speak of these problems in the language of the newer day; we speak of the problem of the three bodies after the tradition of an older day. It is not practicable, that is, it has not been found practicable, to prove the impossi- bility of solving the problem of three bodies without interminable series. But a long chain of cogent analogies convinces every one who has gone through them, with full moral evidence, that the finite terms, must be terms of a kind of which we have at present no conception. 2. The Perpetual motion. This is a prob- lem of a very different kind. The purse of Fortunatus, which could always drop a penny out, though never a penny was pu~ in, is a problem of the same kind. He who can construct this purse may conGtruct a perpet- ual motion; in this way. Let him hang the purse upside down, and with the stream of pence which will flow out let him buy a strong-steam-engine, and pay for koeping it at work day and night. Have a new steam- engine ready to be set in motion by the old one at its last gasp, and so on to all eternity. A perpetual motion demands of the nature of things a machine which shall always com- municate momentum in the doing of some work, without ever being fed with any means collecting momentum. It could be compassed, in a certain way,-.that is, by retaining the work done to do more work, which again should do more, and so on ,if friction and other resistences could be abolished, and nothing thrown away. In this way the fall of a ton of water from a reservoir might be employed in pumping up as much water into another reservoir, which, when landed, if it be lawful to say so of water, might, by its subsequent fall, pump up an equal quantity into the original reservoir, and so on, back- wards and forwards, in secula seculorum. But not a drop must be wasted, whether by adhesion to the reservoir, by evaporation, by splashing, or in any way whatever. Every drop that falls down must be made to raise another drop to the same height. So long as the sockets have friction, or the air re- sists, this is impossible. In fact, matter, with respect to momentum, has the known qualities of a basket with respect to eggs, butter, garden-stuff, & c. No more can come out than was put in; and every quantity taken out requires as much more to be put in before the original state is restored. So soon as the law of matter is as clearly known as the law of the basket, there is an end of looking for the perpetual motion. That people do try after a perpetual mo- tion to this day is certain. A good many years ago a perpetual motion company was in contemplation; and the promoters did me the unsolicited honor of putting my name on the list ef directors. Fortunately the inten- tion came round to me before the list was circulated: and a word to the editor of a periodical produced an article which, I be- lieve, destroyed the concern. The plan was to put a drum or broad wheel with one ver- ti~ie half in mercury and the other in vacu- um. This instrument, the most unlucky drum since Parolles, feeling the balance of its two halves very unsatisfactory, was to go round and round in search of an easy posi- tion, for ever and ei~er, working away all the time,..I mean all the eternityat lace-mak- ing, or water-pumping, or any other useful 20 IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. employment. People were told that if they would sell their steam-engines for old iron, they might buy new machines with the money, which would work as long as they held together without costing a farthirig for fuel. Certainly, had the scheme heen pro- posed to me, I should have declined to join until I had derived assurance from seeii~g the donkey who originated it turned into a head- over-heels perpetual motion by tying a heavy weight to his tail and an exhausted receiver to his nose. 3. Quadrature of the circle. The arith- metical quadrature involves the determination of the circumference by a definite arithmeti- cal multiplier, which shall be perfectly accu- rate. Lambert proved that the multiplier must be an interminable decimal fraction; and the proof may be found in Legendres geometry, and in Brewsters translation of that work. The arithmeticians have given plenty of approximate multipliers. The last one, and the most accurate of all, was pub- lished a few years ago by Mr. W. Shanks, of Houghton-le-Spring, a calculator to whom multiplication is no vexation, & e. He pub- lished the requisite multiplier (which mathe- maticians denote. by ir) to six hundred and seven decimal places, of which 441 were ver- ified by Dr. Rutherford. To give an idea of the power of this multiplier, we niust try to master such a supposition as the following. There are living things on our globe so small that, if due proportion were observed, the corpuscles of their blood would be no more than a millionth of an inch in diame- ter. Suppose another globe like ours, but so much larger that our great globe itself is but fit to be a corpuscle in the blood of one of its animaleules: and call this the first globe above us. Let there be another globe so large that this first globe above us is but a corpuscle in the animalcule of that globe; and call this the second globe above us. Go on in this way dli we come to the twentieth globe above us. Next, let the minute cor- puscle on our globo be another globe liJ~e ours, with everything in proportion; and call this the first globe below us. Take a blood- corpuscle from the animalcule of that globe, and make it the second globe below us: and so on down to the twentieth globe below us. Then if the inhabitants of the twentieth globe above us were to calculate the circumference of their globe from its diameter by the 607 21 decimals, their error of length could not be made visible to the inhabitants of the twen-. tieth globe below us, unless their microscopes were relatively very much more powerful than ours. By the geometrical quadrature is meant the determination of a square equal to the circle, using only Euclids allowance of means; that is, using only the straight line and circle as in Euclids first three postu- lates. On this matter James Gregory, in 1668, published an asserted demonstration of the impossibility of the geometrical quadra- ture. The matter is so difficult, and proofs of a negative so slippery, that mathemati- cians are rather shy of pronouncing positive opinions. Montucla, in the first edition of the work presently mentioned only ventured to say that it was very like demonstration. In the second edition, after further reflection, he gave his opinion that the point was dem- onstrated. I read James Gregorys tract many years ago, and left oft with an impres- sion that probably more attentive considbra- tion would compel me to agree with its au- thor. But he would be a bold man who would be very positive on the point: even though there nrc trains of reasoning, different from Gregorys which render it in the highest degree improbable, which are in fact all but demonstration themselves, that the geometri- cal quadrature is impossible. To say that a given problem cannot be solved, because two thousand years of trial have not succeeded, is unsafe: far more powerful means may be invented. But when the question is to solve a problem with cer- tain given means and no others, it is not so unsafe to affirm that the problem is insolu- ble. By hypothesis, we are to use no means except those which have been used for two thousand years; it becomes exceedingly probable that all which those means can do has been done, in a question which has been tried by hundreds of men of genius, patience and proved success in other things. 4. Trisection of the Angle.The question is to cut any given angle into three equal parts, with no more assistance than is con- ceded in Euclids first three postulates. It is well known that this. problem depends upon representing geometrically the three roots of a cubic equation which has all its roots real: whoever can do either can do the other. Now the geometrical solution, as the IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. word geometrical is understood, of a cubic equation, has never been attained; and all the ~l priori considerations which have so much force with those who are used to them are in favor of the solution being impossible. A person used to algebraic geometry cannot conceive how; by intersections of circles and straight lines, a problem should be solved which has three answers, and three only. To sum up the whole. The problem of the three bodies has such solution as hun- dreds of other problems have: approximate in character, but wanting only pains and pa- tience to carry the approximation to any de- sired extent. The problem of the perpetual motion is a physical absurdity. The arith- metical quadrature of the circle has been proved impossible in finite terms, but 607 decimal places of the interminable series have been found, and 441 of them verified. Of the geometrical quadrature an asserted proof of impossibility exists, which no one who has read it ventures to gainsay, but in favor of-which no one speaks very positively. The trisection of the angle has no alleged proof o~ its impossibility. But were this the proper place, an account might be given of those considerations which lead all who have thought much on the subject to feel sure tl~iat the difficulty arises from the restrictions placed upon the means of solution amount- ing to a little too much dictation to the na- ture of things. For it must be remembered that the problem is not to square the circle, nor to trisect the angle, but to square the circle or trisect the angle without recourse to any means e~cept those afforded by Euclids first three postulates. This limitation is fre- quently omitted; and persons are led to con- clude that mathematicians have never shown how to square a circle, or to trisect an angle than which nothing can be more untrue. I may take occasion to raise a Query in some future communication, whether these difficul- ties would ever have existed if Euclids ideas of solid geometry had been as well arranged as his ideas of plane geometry. The reader may find details on this subject in the articles QUADRATURE and TRIsEcTIoN in the Penny Cyclopa~dia. But further infor- mation will be found in Montuclas Histoire des R6cherches sur la Quadrature du Cercie, Paris, 1831, Svo. (second edition). This work contains, besides the vagaries of the in- sufficiently informed, an account of the at- tempts of older days, which ended in useful discovery. In later times the whole subject has lapsed into burlesque; the few who have made rational attempts being lost in the crowd who have made absurd misconceptions of the problem. To square the circle has become a byword, though many do not know the problem under a change of terms, say the rectification of the circumference. For ex- ample, when Mr. Goulburn was a candidate for the University of Cambridge in 1831, some wags of the opposite faction sent the following to a morning paper, which actually inserted it (May 4) in triumphant answer to the objection against their candidates want of Cambridge knowledge We understand that although, owing to circumstances with which the public are not concerned, Mr. Goulburn declined becominga candidate for University honors, hisscientific attainments are far from inconsiderable. He is well known to be the author of an Essay in the Philosophical Transactions on the accurate rectification of a circular arc, and an investigation of the equation to the Lunar Caustica problem likely to become of great use in nautical astronomy. I need hardly say that mathematicians know no lunar caustic, except what the chemists call nitrate of silver. And so much for the impossible problems, which have caught so many ingenious minds, and almost always held them tight. For this reason, I should advise any one not to try them; Video quod vestigia Intrantium multa, at nulla exeuntium. A. DE MORGAN. CorrEE-ilousEs, EARLY 3IENTI~N or.Burton This is a very early mention of coffee-houses; says, ./lnat. Mel., part i. sect. 2., m. 2. s. 2.: long before they were introduced into this coun- Tis the summum bonuta of our tradesmen try. As my copy of Burton is only a modern their felicity, life, and soul, their chief comfort reprint, I am not sure whether the original to be merry together in an alehouse or tavern spelling of the word coffee is not modernized as our modern Muscovites do in their mede- here. Some thirty years after this time it wa~ inns, and Turks in their coffee-houses, which advertised for sale as kauphi.JVbtes and Que- much resemble our taverns. rles. 22

IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEMS. word geometrical is understood, of a cubic equation, has never been attained; and all the ~l priori considerations which have so much force with those who are used to them are in favor of the solution being impossible. A person used to algebraic geometry cannot conceive how; by intersections of circles and straight lines, a problem should be solved which has three answers, and three only. To sum up the whole. The problem of the three bodies has such solution as hun- dreds of other problems have: approximate in character, but wanting only pains and pa- tience to carry the approximation to any de- sired extent. The problem of the perpetual motion is a physical absurdity. The arith- metical quadrature of the circle has been proved impossible in finite terms, but 607 decimal places of the interminable series have been found, and 441 of them verified. Of the geometrical quadrature an asserted proof of impossibility exists, which no one who has read it ventures to gainsay, but in favor of-which no one speaks very positively. The trisection of the angle has no alleged proof o~ its impossibility. But were this the proper place, an account might be given of those considerations which lead all who have thought much on the subject to feel sure tl~iat the difficulty arises from the restrictions placed upon the means of solution amount- ing to a little too much dictation to the na- ture of things. For it must be remembered that the problem is not to square the circle, nor to trisect the angle, but to square the circle or trisect the angle without recourse to any means e~cept those afforded by Euclids first three postulates. This limitation is fre- quently omitted; and persons are led to con- clude that mathematicians have never shown how to square a circle, or to trisect an angle than which nothing can be more untrue. I may take occasion to raise a Query in some future communication, whether these difficul- ties would ever have existed if Euclids ideas of solid geometry had been as well arranged as his ideas of plane geometry. The reader may find details on this subject in the articles QUADRATURE and TRIsEcTIoN in the Penny Cyclopa~dia. But further infor- mation will be found in Montuclas Histoire des R6cherches sur la Quadrature du Cercie, Paris, 1831, Svo. (second edition). This work contains, besides the vagaries of the in- sufficiently informed, an account of the at- tempts of older days, which ended in useful discovery. In later times the whole subject has lapsed into burlesque; the few who have made rational attempts being lost in the crowd who have made absurd misconceptions of the problem. To square the circle has become a byword, though many do not know the problem under a change of terms, say the rectification of the circumference. For ex- ample, when Mr. Goulburn was a candidate for the University of Cambridge in 1831, some wags of the opposite faction sent the following to a morning paper, which actually inserted it (May 4) in triumphant answer to the objection against their candidates want of Cambridge knowledge We understand that although, owing to circumstances with which the public are not concerned, Mr. Goulburn declined becominga candidate for University honors, hisscientific attainments are far from inconsiderable. He is well known to be the author of an Essay in the Philosophical Transactions on the accurate rectification of a circular arc, and an investigation of the equation to the Lunar Caustica problem likely to become of great use in nautical astronomy. I need hardly say that mathematicians know no lunar caustic, except what the chemists call nitrate of silver. And so much for the impossible problems, which have caught so many ingenious minds, and almost always held them tight. For this reason, I should advise any one not to try them; Video quod vestigia Intrantium multa, at nulla exeuntium. A. DE MORGAN. CorrEE-ilousEs, EARLY 3IENTI~N or.Burton This is a very early mention of coffee-houses; says, ./lnat. Mel., part i. sect. 2., m. 2. s. 2.: long before they were introduced into this coun- Tis the summum bonuta of our tradesmen try. As my copy of Burton is only a modern their felicity, life, and soul, their chief comfort reprint, I am not sure whether the original to be merry together in an alehouse or tavern spelling of the word coffee is not modernized as our modern Muscovites do in their mede- here. Some thirty years after this time it wa~ inns, and Turks in their coffee-houses, which advertised for sale as kauphi.JVbtes and Que- much resemble our taverns. rles. 22 AGNES LEE. From Household Words. AGNES LEE. CHAPTER THE FIRST. Mas. WARREN WR5 a charming womanas like the popular notion of a perfect angel as any body could hope to find, if they took the longest summer day for the search. She was an Jrishwoman, the widow of an English gentleman of large fortune, who had left her endowed with an ample jointure and a hand- some manor-house in Staffordshire. She was young, bright, fascinating, and thoroughly good-natured; she enjoyed nothing so much as making people happy, and would sacrifice her own pleasure or convenience even, for an entire stranger, provided the necessities of the case had been brought before her with sufficient eloquence or emphasis. She did every thing in the easiest and most graceful manner, and had the virtue of forgetting all about it herself, as soon as the occasion had passed away. She was devoted to her friends, and loved them dearly, so long as they were there to assist themselves; but, if they went away, she never thought of them till the next time she saw them, when she was again as fond of them as over. With all her gene- rosity, however, her tradespeople complained that she did not pay her bills ; that she did very shabby things, and that she drove dreadfully hard bargains. A poor woman whom she had employed to do some plain work, declared contemptuously that she would sooner work for Jews than for char- itable ladies: they screwed down so in the price, ~nd kept folks waiting so long for their money. It was not difficult for Mrs. Warren to be an angel: she had no domestic discipline to test her virtues too severely, nor to ruffle the bird of paradise beauty of her wings. Hus- bands are daily stumbling-blocks in the path of female perfection ; they have the faculty of taking the shine out of the most dazzling appearances. It is easier to be an angel than to be an average good woman under domestic difficulties. Mrs. Huxley was the wife of the hard- working clergyman in whose parish Mrs. Warren~s manor-house was situated. She had a cross husband, who did not adore her, but who (chiefly from the force of habit) found fault with every thing she did; nothing but the purest gold could have stood the constant outpouring of so much sulphuric 23 acid. Yet Mrs. Huxley went on in the even tenor of her way, struggling with straitened means, delicate health, recurring washing- days, and her husbands temper. Her eco- nomical feebleness, and the difficulties of keeping her weekly bills in a state of liquidation, were greatly complicated in con- sequence of all the poor people in the parish coming to her as to a sort of earthly Provi- dence, to supply all they lacked in the shape of food, physic, raiment, and good advice. Strangers said that Mrs. Huxley looked fret- ful, and that it wos a pity a clergymans wife should have such unattractive manners; that it must be a trial to such a pleasant, genial man as her husband to have a partner so unlike himself, and all that. The recording angel might have given a different verdict: the poor of her parish knew her value. The family at the Rectory consisted of one daughter, named Miriam,. and an orphan niece of Mr. Huxleys whom they had adopted. Mr. huxley had made many diffi- culties when this plan was first proposed. He objected to the expense, and wished the girl to be sent as an articled pupil to some cheap school, where she might qualify herself to be- come a nursery governess, or to wait on young ladies. This he said on the plea that, as they would not be able to give her any fortune, it would be cruel to give her a taste for comforts she could not hereafter expect; that it was best to accustom her betimes to the hardships of her lot. Mrs. Huxley did not often contradict her husband; but, on this occasion, she exerted. her powers of speech; she was a mother, and acted as she would have wished another to act by her own Miriam. Mr. huxley gra- ciously allowed himself to be persuaded, and Agnes Lee, the child of his favorite sister, was adopted into the Rectory nursery on a perfect equality with her cousin. It somehow got to be reported abroad, that Mrs. Huxley had greatly opposed her husbands generosity, and had wished the little orphan to be sent to the workhouse. The two children grew up together, and were as fond of each other as sisters usually are; but Agnes Lee had the strongest will and the most energy. So it was she who settled the plays and polity of doll-land, and who took the lead in all matters of books, and work, and needle-play. Agnes was twelve, and Miriam fourteen, when the fasci

AGNES LEE. From Household Words. AGNES LEE. CHAPTER THE FIRST. Mas. WARREN WR5 a charming womanas like the popular notion of a perfect angel as any body could hope to find, if they took the longest summer day for the search. She was an Jrishwoman, the widow of an English gentleman of large fortune, who had left her endowed with an ample jointure and a hand- some manor-house in Staffordshire. She was young, bright, fascinating, and thoroughly good-natured; she enjoyed nothing so much as making people happy, and would sacrifice her own pleasure or convenience even, for an entire stranger, provided the necessities of the case had been brought before her with sufficient eloquence or emphasis. She did every thing in the easiest and most graceful manner, and had the virtue of forgetting all about it herself, as soon as the occasion had passed away. She was devoted to her friends, and loved them dearly, so long as they were there to assist themselves; but, if they went away, she never thought of them till the next time she saw them, when she was again as fond of them as over. With all her gene- rosity, however, her tradespeople complained that she did not pay her bills ; that she did very shabby things, and that she drove dreadfully hard bargains. A poor woman whom she had employed to do some plain work, declared contemptuously that she would sooner work for Jews than for char- itable ladies: they screwed down so in the price, ~nd kept folks waiting so long for their money. It was not difficult for Mrs. Warren to be an angel: she had no domestic discipline to test her virtues too severely, nor to ruffle the bird of paradise beauty of her wings. Hus- bands are daily stumbling-blocks in the path of female perfection ; they have the faculty of taking the shine out of the most dazzling appearances. It is easier to be an angel than to be an average good woman under domestic difficulties. Mrs. Huxley was the wife of the hard- working clergyman in whose parish Mrs. Warren~s manor-house was situated. She had a cross husband, who did not adore her, but who (chiefly from the force of habit) found fault with every thing she did; nothing but the purest gold could have stood the constant outpouring of so much sulphuric 23 acid. Yet Mrs. Huxley went on in the even tenor of her way, struggling with straitened means, delicate health, recurring washing- days, and her husbands temper. Her eco- nomical feebleness, and the difficulties of keeping her weekly bills in a state of liquidation, were greatly complicated in con- sequence of all the poor people in the parish coming to her as to a sort of earthly Provi- dence, to supply all they lacked in the shape of food, physic, raiment, and good advice. Strangers said that Mrs. Huxley looked fret- ful, and that it wos a pity a clergymans wife should have such unattractive manners; that it must be a trial to such a pleasant, genial man as her husband to have a partner so unlike himself, and all that. The recording angel might have given a different verdict: the poor of her parish knew her value. The family at the Rectory consisted of one daughter, named Miriam,. and an orphan niece of Mr. Huxleys whom they had adopted. Mr. huxley had made many diffi- culties when this plan was first proposed. He objected to the expense, and wished the girl to be sent as an articled pupil to some cheap school, where she might qualify herself to be- come a nursery governess, or to wait on young ladies. This he said on the plea that, as they would not be able to give her any fortune, it would be cruel to give her a taste for comforts she could not hereafter expect; that it was best to accustom her betimes to the hardships of her lot. Mrs. Huxley did not often contradict her husband; but, on this occasion, she exerted. her powers of speech; she was a mother, and acted as she would have wished another to act by her own Miriam. Mr. huxley gra- ciously allowed himself to be persuaded, and Agnes Lee, the child of his favorite sister, was adopted into the Rectory nursery on a perfect equality with her cousin. It somehow got to be reported abroad, that Mrs. Huxley had greatly opposed her husbands generosity, and had wished the little orphan to be sent to the workhouse. The two children grew up together, and were as fond of each other as sisters usually are; but Agnes Lee had the strongest will and the most energy. So it was she who settled the plays and polity of doll-land, and who took the lead in all matters of books, and work, and needle-play. Agnes was twelve, and Miriam fourteen, when the fasci 24 nating Mrs. Warren came to live at the Great House. She took up the Rectory people most warmly, and threw herself with enthusiasm into all manner of benevolent schemes for the benefit of the parish. To the two girls she seemed like a good fairy. She had them eonstantly to her beautiful house, she gave them lessons in singing, and taught them to dance; her French maid manufactured their bonnets and dresses; she lavished gifts upon them, she made pets of them, and was never weary of inventing schemes for giving them pleasure. Lb was delightful to see their en- joyment and to receive their gratitude, and she never suspected the delicate unobtrusive care with which poor cold, stiff, Mrs. Huxley eontrived that the two girls should never fall too heavily upon the hands of their beau- tiful patroness. She also tried to inspire them with a portion of her own reserve; but that was not so easy. Miriama mild, shy, undemonstrative girlfelt an admiration of Mrs. Warren that approached to idolatry. It took the place of a first love. Mrs. Warren liked the excitement of being loved with enthusiasm ; but she never calculated the responsibility it brought along with it, and omitted nothing that could stimulate Miri- ams passionate attachment. Agnes was less impressionable. She had a precocious amount of common sense, and Mrs. Warrens fascinations did not take too much hold upon her. The Rector was almost as much be- witched as his daughter by the fair widow. She talked gaily to him, and obliged him to rub up his ancient gallantry, which had fallen into rusty disuse. She dressed all the chil- dren of his school in green gowns and red ribbons. She subscribed a painted window to the church. She talked over two refrac- tory churchwardens, who had been the tor- ment of his life: above all, she admired his sermons; and, as she was in correspondence with a lord bishop, he had sanguine hopes that hcr admiration might lead to something better.. Mrs. Huxley was the only person who refused to be charmed. She did not con- tradict the raptures expressed by her hus- band and daughter, but she heard them in silence. - When Miriam was sixteen, she fell into delicate health; a slight aceident developed a spinal affection. A London physician, who with his wife was on a short visit to Mrs. AGNES LEI~. Warren, saw Miriam at her request and gave little hope that she would ever be anything but a life-long invalid. She was ordered to keep as much as possible in a recumbent po- sition. Mrs. Warren was on the point of departing for London. Nothing couldxceed her sympathy and generosity. At first she declared she would postpone her journey, to assist Mrs. Huxley to nurse her sweet Miriam; but she easily gave up that idea when Mrs. Huxley declared, rather dryly, that there was not the least occasion; for, as the case was likely to be tedious, it was better to begin as they could go on. Mrs. Warren, however, loaded Miriam with pres- ents. She made Miriam promise to write to her all she read and thought; and for this purpose, she gave her a supply of fairy-like paper and a gold pen. Miriam, on her side, promised to write twice a-week at least, and to tell Mrs. Warren everything that could amuse her. Mrs. Warren gave orders to her gardener to supply the Rectory with fruits, flowers, and vegetables; but either Mrs. Warrens directions were not clear, or the gardener did not choose to act upon them. He charged for everything that he sent down and gave as his reason that his mistress paid him no wages in her absence, but let him pick up what he could. After Mrs. Warrens departure, she wrote for a month ; after that, her letters ceased. Newspapers supplied their place; and, it appeared from the notices of fashionable life, that Mrs. Warren had taken h~r place amongst the gayest. At last the newspapers ceased; the last that came contained the an nouncement that Mrs. Warren had left town for Paris. After this, no more news reached the Rectory. The M~inor House remained shut up, and the lodge-keeper said that the Missis was spending the winter at Bath. At first Miriam wrote in all the enthusiasm and good faith of youthful adoration. Mrs. Warren had begged she would not count with her letter for letter, but have trust in her unalterable attachment, & c., & c. ; and Miriam went on writing, long after all answers h~jd ceased. Everything earthly has its limit; and when reciprocity is all on one side, the term is reached rather earlier than it might otherwise have been. Poor Miriam lay on her couch, and went through nIl the heart-sickening process of disenchantment AGNES LEE. about the friendship which she had made the light of her life. She rejoiced moodily in her physical sufferings, and hoped that she should soon die, as she could not endure such misery long. The young believe in the eter- nity of all they feel. She was roused from this sorrow of sen- timent by a real affliction. . Scarlet fever broke out in the parish. Mr. Huxley caught it, and died, after a fortnights illness. A life insurance for a thousand pounds, and a few hundreds painfully saved and laid by in the Bank of England, was all the provision that remained to his family. A fortnight after the funeral, Mrs. Huxley and Agnes were sitting Badly before the fire, which had burned low, on a dull, chill No- vember evening. Miriam lay on her conch, and could scarcely be discerned in the deep- ening shadow. The dusk was gathering thick, the curtains were not drawn; both without and within, the world looked equally desolate to these three women. The silence was broken only by the sighs of poor Mrs. Huxley; the dull firelight showed her widows cap, and the glaze of tears upon her pale clay-like cheeks. Al~ length Agnes roused herself. She had taken the lead in the house since the family troubles, and now moved briskly about the room, endeavoring to impart something like comfort. She re- plenished the fire, trimmed the lamp; and made the old setvant bring in tea. Agnes threw in an extra spoonful of green spread a tempting slice of toast, and placed a small table between Mrs. Huxley and Miriam, who both began insensibly to be influenced by the change she had produced. When tea was over they became almost cheerful. After tea, Mrs. Huxley took out her knitting, and Agnes brought out her work-basket. Now listen, dear aunt; for I have schemed a scheme, which only needs your approval. That will go a very little way towards doing good, sighed Mrs. huxley. Oh, it will go further than you think! said Agnes, cheerfully. I was up at the Green this morning, and I heard that Sam Blacksmith is going to leave his cottage for another that is nearer to his smithy. It struck inc that the one he is leaving would just suit you, and Miriam, and old Mary. There is a garden; and the cottage in your 26 hands will be charming. This furniture will look to more advanta~,e there than it does here: and when I have seen you comfortably settled, I shall leave you, to seek my for- tune. My dear, you are so rash, and you talk so fast, I dont hear one word you say, said Mrs. Huxley, quei~ulously. I was talking aunt, about a cottage I had seen this morning, said Agnes, gently. I thought it would just suit us. I am sure I should not like it. It will have stone floors, which will not do for Miriam. You talk so wildly of going to seek your fortune. I am sure I dont know what is to become of us. You arc so sanguine: no good ever comes of it. You were all so set up with Mrs. Warren, and you see what came of it.. Well, aunt, my belief is, that Mrs. Warren would be as good as ever, if she only saw us; but she cannot recollect people out of sight. She loves flattery, and she likes fresh people, said Miriam, bitterly. Agnes went to the piano, and begafi to play some old hymn tunes very softly. Agnes, my dear, I cannot bear music. Do come back and sit still, said her aunt. The next morning Agnes persuaded her aunt to go with her to the Green, to h~k a~ the cottage; and, after some objections, Mrs. Huxley agreed that it might be made to do. Whilst making arrangements for the re- moval, Agnes thought seriously how she was to obtain a situation of some kind, and anxiously examined what she wa~ qualified to undertake. She knew that she had only herself to depend upon. A few days after- wards the postman brought a letter with a fereign postmark. It was Mrs. Warrens handwriting. Agnes bounded with it into the parlor, exclaiming, See! who was rIght about Mrs. Warren? It is for you. Miriam turned aside her head. Mrs. Huxley put on her spectacles; and, after turning the letter over half-a-dozen times, opened it. A bank-note for twenty pounds fell out. The letter was written in the kind- est tone. She had just seen the mention of Mr. Huxleys death, and wrote on the spur of the moment. She was full of self-reproach for her neglect; begged them to believe she loved them as much as ever; spoko of Miriam with great kindness, but without any spe 26 AGNES LEE. ciality; begged to be informed of their plans for the future; and, in a hasty postscript, said, that the enclosure was towards erecting a tablet to the memory of her dear friend, or for any other purpose they preferred. Nothing could be kinder or more delicate; het Miriam was nearly choked with bitter feelings. The letter showed her how com- pletely she had faded away from Mrs. Warrens affection. She vehemently urged her mother and cousin to send back the money. Agnes undertook to answer the letter; which she did with great judgment. Even Miriam was satisfied. She mentioned her own desire to find a situation as preparatory governess, and asked Mrs. Warren if she had it in her power to recommend her. As soon as could reasonably be expected, the answer came, adressed to Mrs. Huxley, begging that Agnes might at once join the writer in Paris, where, she had not the least doubt, she would be able to place her ad- vantageously. Minute directions were given for the journey. On arrivin~ in Paris, Agnes was to proceed at once to the Hotel Ray- mond, where Mrs. Warren was staying. How kind! how very kind! exclaimed Agnes. You see her heart is in the right pk~ce after all! It is certainly very kind; but I do not like ~rou to take so long ajourney alone, you are too young. I cannot feel it either right or prudent, said Mrs. Huxley. My dear Agnes, said Miriam, you shall not be trusted to the mercy of that wo- man. She cares for nothing but excitement. She has no notion of obligation, and will be as likely as not to have left Paris by the time you arrive, if the fancy has taken her for visiting Egypt or Mexico. I know what she is, and you shall not go. My dear aunt, as I am to make my own way in the world, the sooner I begin the better. I am to take charge of others, and I must learn to take care of myself. My dear Miriam, you are unjust. I place very little dependence on the stability of Mrs. Warrens emotions; but abe always likes people when they are with her. It is an opening I am not likely to have again, and the sooner I arail myself of it the better. Agnes, be warned, I entreat you. No good will ever come out of that womans random benefits. They are no better than snares. have nothing to do with her. Agnes would not be warned. She wisli~I to go out into the world, to make her own way. She had no fears for herself. She argued and persuaded, and at last her aunt consented. Miriam was over-ruled, and a grateful acc~ptaice was written to Mrs. Warren, fixing that day three weeks for her departure. The die is cast now! said Agnes, when she returned from carrying her letter to the post. I wonder what my future lot wjll be! CHAPTER THE SECOND. THE diligence rolled heavily into the Coli~rt of the Messageries Royal in Paris, towards the middle of a keen, bright day in the last week of December. A fair, elegant EngU~h girl, in deep mourning, looked anxiously out of the window of the coup6, in search, of some one to claim her. Is there any one waiting for you, Mam- selle? . asked the good-natured coaductDy. Will it please you to alight I see no one, said AgnQs, who was bewildered with the noise and bustle. I must have a coach to go to this address, please. Mrs. Warren, Hotel Raymond, read the conductor, looking at her keenly. You want to go there, do you? Well, I will see. Your friends ought not to have left you to ~w- nyc alone. But the English are so droll l~ In a few minutes he returned. Now, Mamselle, here is a coach. ~1Y1iC driver is my friend ; he will see you safe. You may trust him. I would go with you myself, but, You have been very kind to me, said Agnes, gratefully. Her command of French was very limited, and she said this in Eng- lish ; but the look that accompanied it spoke the language which needs no intei~- preter. Pardon. No thanks; it is my duty. Mamselle is too generous! There is no oe- casion. And the gallant conductor put back the five-franc piece that Agnes tendered with some embarrassment ; for, during the journey he had shown her kindness that she felt could not be repaid in money. She took from her purse a half-crown piece English money. This the conductor put into his left waistcoat- AGNES LEE. pocket, as he said for a remembrance of Mamselle. The hackney-coach soon arrived at Ray- monds. A grand-looking servant came to the door of the coach, and inquired her pleas- ure, with an elaborate politeness that would have been overwhelming at any other time; but Agnes scarcely noticed him. She eagerly handed him Mrs. Warrens card; bnt what little French she could command had entirely departed, and she could not utter a word. The gar~on took the card, looked at it with a slight gesture of surprise, and returned to the house. In the meantime the coachman dismounted, took down the modest luggage, and demanded his fare. Agnes alighted, gave the man what he asked, and he had just driven away, when the gar~on returned, ac- companied by another. Mamselle is under a meestake, said the new corner who evidently believed that he spoke English like a native. Madame Warren is no i~ore hereshe departed two days since for Marseilles. Agnes looked stupidly at him. She had heard what he said perfectly, and she was quite calm; but it was the calmness that makes the heart stand still, and turns the life within to stotue. She told me to come here. She kne~v I was to come. A ones spoke with stiffened lips and a voice that did not seem her own. She may have left some messagesome lester for Mamselle, suggested the first gar~on. I will inquire. Agnes sat down upon her trunk. See felt convinced that Mrs. Warren had gone and left no directions about her. She had just five francs and a half a guinea left of money. 11cr position presented itself to her with perfect lucidity; but she felt no alarm, only a horrible stillness and paralysis of all emotion. The gar~on returned he had a letter in his hand. Madame Warren had departed for Marseilles, en route for Sicily. She had left no message or direction. The letter had arrived a few hours after her departure, but they did not know where to forward it. Agnes looked at the letter. It was her own, stating the time she would arrive in Paris, and requesting to be met. She gave it back to the gar~on without speaking, and rested her head dreamily and wearily upon her hand. 27 The sight of a young, and extremely pretty English girl in deep mourning and sitting upon her trunk, had by this time attracted a group of curious spectators. The fate of Agnes Lee was trembling in the ba1ance~ Already, a man, no longer young, who had lost his front teeth, and who looked as if he had no bones in his body, and a woman with a hard, insolent, determined face, varnished with cajolery, approached her. The woman addressed her in passably good English, but Agnes seemed not to hear. At this crisis a grave, middle-aged man made his way from the street. lie looked round with surprise at the persons crowding in the court, and his eye fell on Agnes. lie went up to her. The man and woman both shrank back from his glance. What is the meaning of all this, my child? How came you here, and what do you want? lie spoke with a certain benevolent auster~ ity. His tone roused Agnes; she looked up and passed her hand in a bewildered way over her forehead ; but she could not recol- lect or explain her story. Mechanically she gave him Mrs. Warrens letter directing her to the Hotel Raymond, and looked acutely at him as his eye glanced over it. My poor child, you cannot remain here. They ought not to have left you here for a moment. You must come in and speak to my wife. We will see what can be done. The loiterers dispersedthe new-corner was the proprietor of the hotel. IDesiring a porter to take up her trunk, he led her into a private office, where a pleasant-looking woman of about forty sat at a desk sur- rounded by account-books and ledgers. Sh~ looked up from her writing as they entered~ He spoke to her in a low voice, and gave her the letter to read. Maiscestuneinfamie! said she, vehe- mently, when she had read it. You have done well to bring her init was worthy of you, my friend. heavens! she is stupified with cold and fear! Agnes stood still, apparently unconsciou8 of what was passing; she heard, but she could give no sign. At length sight and sound became confused, and she fell. When she recovered, she was lying in bed, and a pleasant-looking nurse was sitting beside her, dressed in a tall white Normandy cap and striped jacket. She nodded and. 28 AGNES LEE. smiled,and shewed her white teeth, when Agnes opened her eyes, shook her head, and jabbered something that Agnes could not comprehend. The girl felt too weak and too dreamy to attempt to unravel the mystery of where she was and how she came there. In a short time, the lady she had seen sitting in the office among the day-books and ledgers came in. She laid her hand gently on her forehead, saying, in a cheerful voice, You are better now. You are with friends. You shall tell us your story when you are stronger. You must not agitate yourself. Agnes endeavored to rise, but sank back; the long journey and the severe shock she had received had made her seriously ill. The doctor who had been called to revive her from her long trance-like swoon ordered the profoundest quiet, and, thanks to the Samari- tan kindness of her new friends, Agnes was enabled to follow the doctors directions: for. two days she lay in a delightful state of repose, between waking and dreaming. Everything she needed was brought to her, as by some friendly magic, at precisely the right moment. On the third day she felt alm.pst well, and expressed a wish to get up and dress. Her hostess took her down to a pleasant parlor beyond the office. There were books, and prints, and newspapers; she was desired to amuse herself, and not to trouble her head with any anxiety about the future: she was a visitor. M. Raymond, the proprietor, came in. Agnes had not seen him since the day he brought her into his house. He was a grave sensible man. To him she told her whole story, and gave him Mrs. Warrens letters to read. My good young lady, said he, as he returned them, we have only a little strength, and should not waste it in super- fluities; we need it all to do our simple duty. This lady was too fond of the luxury of doing good, as it is called; but I cannot under- stand her thoughtlessness. There must be some mistake; thou~h, after incurring the responsibility of sending for you, no mistake ought to have been possible. Agnes tried to express all the gratitude ~he felt; but M. Raymond interrupted her. ~he was far from realizing all the danger ~he had escaped; she knew it in after years. I shall write home, she said; my aunt ~nd cousin Will be anxious until they hear. Let them be uneasy a little longer, till you can tell them something definite about your prospects. Anything you could say now would only alarm them. Two days afterwards M. Raymond came to her and said, Do not think we want to get rid of you ; but, if it suits you, I have heard of a situation. Madame Tremordyn wants a companiona young lady who will be to her as like a daughter as can be got formoney. She isa good woman, but proud and peculiar; and, ~so long as her son does not fall in love with you, she will treat you well. The son is with his regiment in Algiers just now; so you are safe. I will take you to her this afternoon. They went accordingly. Madame Tre- mordynan old Br~ton lady, stately with gray hair and flashing dark gray eyes, dressed in stiff black silkreceived her with stately urbanity, explained the duties of her situation, and expressed her wish that Agnes should engage with her. The salary was liberal, and Agnes thankfully accepted the offer. It was settled that she should come the next morning. Recollect your home is with us, said M. Raymond. Come back to us if you are unhappy. That night Agnes wrote to, her aunt the history of all that had befallen her, and the friends who had been raised up to her, and the home that had offered in a land of strangers. But, with all this cause for thankfulness, Agnes cried herself to sleep that night. She realized for the first time that she was alone in her life, and belonged to nobody. CHAPTER THE TllIR~. ALL who have had to live under the dy- nasty of a peculiar temper, know that it can neither ~be defined nor calculated upon. It is the knot in the wood that prevents the material from ever being turned to any good account. Madame Tremordyn always de- clared that she was the least exacting person in existence; and, so long as Agnes was always in the room with her, always on the alert watching her eye for any thing she might needso long Madame was quite ~a~- isfied. Madame Tremordyn had a passion for every thing English. She would he read aloud to at all hours of the day or night. Agnes slept upon a bed in her room, whence she might be roused, if Madame Tremordyn herself could not rest; and woe to Agnes if her attention flagged, and if she did not AGNES LEE. seem to feel interest and enjoyment in what- ever the book in hand might bewhether it were the history of Miss Betty Thoughtless, or the Economy of Human Life. Madame Trernordyn took the life of Agnes, and crumbled it away: she used it up like a hoice condiment, to give a flavor to her own. Yet, with all this exigence, Agnes was nothing to Madame Tremordyn, who consid- ered her much as she did the gown she wore, or the dinner she ate. She was one of the many comforts- with which she had sur- rounded herself; she gave Agnes no more regard or confidence, notwithstanding their close intercourse, than she granted to her arm-chair, or to the little dog that stood on its hind legs. Yet, Agnes had no material hardship to complain of; she only felt as if the breath were being drawn out of her, and she were slowly suffocating. But where else could she go? what could she do? At length, Madame Tremordyn felt really ill, and required constant nursing and tending. Agnes had sleepless nights, as well as watch- ful days, but it was a more defined state of existence. Agnes was a capital nurse; the old lady was human after all, and was touched by skill and kindness. She declared that Agnes seemed to nurse her as if she liked it. Henceforth Agnes had not to live in a state of moral starvation. The old lady treated her like a human being, and really felt an interest in her. She asked her ques- tions about home, and about her aunt and cousin; also, she told Agnes about herself, about her son, and about her late husband. She spoke of her own affairs and of her own experiences. It was egotism certainly; but egotism that asks for sympathy is the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. Agnes grew less unhappy as she felt she became more necessary to the strange exacting old woman with whom her lot was cast. She had the pleasure of send- ing remittances to her aunt and cousin proofs of her material well-being; and she always wrote cheerfully to them. Occasion- ally, but very rarely, she was allowed to go and visit her friends the Raymonds. No news ever came of Mrs. Warren. She might have been a myth; so cchnpletely had she passed away. There had been an admixture of accident in her neglect; hut it 29 was accident that rather aggravated than excused her conduct. The day after she wrote so warmly to Agnes to come to her in Paris, Sir Edward Destrayes came to her, and entreated her to go to his mother, who was ill; and Mrs. Warren was her most in- timate friend : in deed, they were strangers in Paris, and Mrs. Warren was nearly the only person they knew. Lady Destrayes was ordered to the South of Francewould dear, kind Mrs, Warren go with her? It would be the greatest kindness in the world! Mrs. Warren spoke French so beautifully, and neither mother n~r son spoke it at all. Sir Edward Destrayes was some years younger than Mrs. Warren. The world, if it had been ill-natured, might have said he was a mere boy to her; nevertheless, Mrs. Warren was in love with him, and she hoped it was nothing but his bashfulness that hindered him from declaring himself in love with her. Gladly would she have agreed to the proposed journey; but there was that invitation to Agnes. She must await her answer. Agnes, as we have seen, accepted the offer, which Mrs. Warren felt to be provoking enoughLady Destrayes needed her so much! What was to be done? A certain Madame de Brissac, to whom she confided her dilemma, offered to take Agnes into her own nursery (without salary) until a better place could be found. Mrs. Warren was enchanted: nothing could be better. She wrote a note to Agnes, telling her she had found her a situation with Madame de Brissac; where she hoped she would be happy, and enclosed her some money, along with Madame de Brissacs address. The preparations for departure were hurried; for the party set out some days earlier than was intended. Agnes and her concerns passed entirely from Mrs. Warrens mind. Si~ weeks afterwards, searching her portfolio, a letter fell out with the seal unbroken; it was her own letter to Agnes. The sight of it turned her sick. She did not dare to think of what might have happened. She sat for a fe~ moments stupefied, and then hastily flung the accusing letter into the fire, without a thought for the money inside, She tried not to think of Agnes. She did not dare to write to Mrs. Huxley to inquire what had become of her. Mrs. Huxley an~ Miriam never heard fr~ m her again; the Manor House wns sold, and Mrs. Warren 30 AGNES LEE. passed away like a dream. Meantime she married Sir Edward Destrayes against his mothers wishes. It is to be presumed that he did not find her the angel she was reputed to be; for, at the end of a year they sepa- rated. She always got on better alone; but, as she had married without settlement, she had not the wherewith to be so much of an angel in her latter days as in the begin- ning. Agnes wondered and speculated what could have become of her. Madame Tre- mordyn grimly smiled, and said nobody ever made such mischief in life as those who did at once too much and too little. If you begin an act of benevolence, you are no longer free to lay it down in the middle. So, my dear, dont go off into benevolence. You never know where it will lead you. When Agnes had been with Madame Tremordyn a little more than a year, Madame Tremordyns son came home from Africa. He was a handsome, soldierly young man; but grave and melancholy; poetical, dreamy, gentle as a woman; but proud and sensitive. Agnes was nineteen, extremely lovely, with golden hair, blue eyes and a delicate wild-rose complexion; a little too firmly set in figure for her height, but that seemed characteristic. She had learned to be self-reliant, and had been obliged to keep all her thoughts and emotions to herself. At, first Madame Tremordyn was proud to show off her son. She insisted that Agnes should admire him, and was never weary of talking about him. Agnes had been trained to be a good listener. Madame liked her son to sit with her, and he showed himself remarkably tractablea model for sons. He did not seem to care in the least for going out. He preferred sitting and watching Agneslisten- ing to her as she readwhilst he pretended to be writing or reading. In a little while Madame Tremordyn opened her eyes to the fact that her son was in love with Agnes Agnes, a portionless orphan, with few friends and no connexions. But Agnes was a mor- tal maiden, and she loved M. Achille Tre- mordyn, who might have aspired to the hand of an heiress with a shield full of quartev- ings. M. Achille Tremordyn opened his heart to hi~ mother, and begged her blessing and consent to his marrying Agnes. Madame Tremordyn was very indignant. She accused Agnes of the blackest ingratitude, and de- sired her son, if he valued her blessing in the least, not to think of her, but dutifully to turn his eyes to the young lady she des- tined for him, and with whose parents she had, indeed, opened a negotiation. M. Achille declared that he would have his own way; Agnes only wept. The storm of dame Tremordyns wrath fell heaviest upon her, she being the weakest, and best able to hear it without reply. The result was, that Agnes was sent away in disgrace. The Raymonds gladly received her, and entered warmly into her case. Madame Raymond declared it was unheard-of bar- barism and pride, and that the old lady would find it come home to her. M. Achille Tremordyn left home to join his regiment, first having had an interview with Agnes. He vowed eternal constancy, and all passion- ate things that to lovers make the world, for the time being, look like enchantment. It was the first ray of romance that had gilded Agnes life. She loved as she did everything else,thoroughly, steadfastly, and with her whole heart; but refused to marry, or to hold a correspondence with her lover, until his mother gave her consent. She would, however, wait, even if it were for ll~i. After her son was gone, Madame Tre- mordyn felt very cross and miserable. She did not, for one moment, believe she had done wrong; but it was very provoking that neither her son nor Agnes could be made to confess that she had done right. Agnes remained with the Raymonds, wrapped round with a sense of happiness she had never known before. She assisted Ma- dame Raymond to keep the books; for they would not hear of her leaving them. Madame Tremordyn felt herself aggrieved. She had engaged a young person in the room of Agnes, with whom no man was likely to be attracted; but, unluckily, Madame Tremor- dyn found her as unpleasant and unattractive as the rest of the world did. She missed Agnes sorely. At length she fairly fretted and fumed herself into a nervous fever. Mademoiselle Bichat, her companion, became doubly insupportable. Madame wrote a note to Agnes, reproaching her with cruelty for leaving her, and bidding her come back. She signed herself the Mother of Achille. There was nothing for it but to go; and Agnes went, hoping that the difficulties that AGNES LEE. lay botween her and happiness were soluble, nod had begun to melt away. The demoi- salle Biehat was discarded, and Agnes re-in- 8talled in her old place. The old lady was not the least more amiable or reasonable for being ill. She talked incessantly about her son, and reproached Agnes with having stolen his heart away from her, his mother; yet with curious contradiction, she loved Agnes all the more for the very attachment she so bitterly deprecated. If Agnes could only have loved him in a humble, despairing way, she would have been allowed to be miserable to her hearts content. But to be loved in return! To aspire to marry him! That was the offence. Two years passed over. At the end of them Achille returned on sick-leave. He had had a fever, which had left him in a low desponding state. Madame Tremordyn would not spare Agnesshe could not do without her. She told her she would never consent to her marriage with her son, and that she must submit to her lot like a Christian, and nurse Achille like a sister; which she had no objection to consider her. The sight of Achille, gaunt and worn with illness, made Agnes thankful to stop on any terms. Achille was greatly changed; he was irri- table, nervous, and full of strange fancies. He clung to Agnes as a child to its mother. Her calm and tender gentleness soothed him, and she could rouse him from the fits of gloom and depression to which he was sub- ject. His mother lamented over the wreck be had become; but the love of Agnes had became stronger and deeper. The nature of it had changed, but his need of her had a more touching charm than when, in his brilliant days, she had looked up to him as asomethingmore than mortal, and wondered, ;~ her humility, what he saw in her to tttract him. Gradually he seemed to recover his health. The shadow that lay upon him was lifted off, and he became like his old ;clf. He was not, however, able to return ~o the army. He retired, with the grade of ~aptain and the decoration of the Legion of I-Ionor. Madame Tremordyns fortune was small, -nd consisted in a life-rent. There would )e little or nothing at her death for her son. It was necessary he should find some employ- oent. Through the influence of some rela- ives, he obtained a situation in the Customs. 31 The salary was modest, but it was enough to live upon in tolerable comfort. He again announced to his mother his intention of marrying Agnes; and, this time, he met with no oppositionit would have been useless. Agnes was presented to friends and relatives of the clan Tremordyn as the betrothed of Aehille. It was half settled that Agnes should pay a visit to her aunt and cousin whom she had not seen for near four years-; but Mrs. Tremordyn fell ill, and could not spare her. The visit was postponed till she could go with her husband; and, in the meanwhile, letters of love and congratula- tion came from them. The whole Tre- mordyn tribe expressed their gracious appro- bation of the young English girl their kins- man had chosen, and made liberal offerings of marriage gifts. The good Raymonds furnished the trousseau~, and Agnes could scarcely believe in the happiness that arose upon her life. Once or twice she perceived a strangeness in Achille. It was no coldness or estrangement, for he could not bear her out of his sight. lie was quite well in health, and, at times, in extravagantly good spirits. Yet he was unlike himself: he appeared conscious that she perceived some- thing, and was restless and annoyed if she looked at him. The peculiarity passed off, and she tried to think it was her own fancy. The wedding-day came. The wedding guests were assembled in Madame Ray- monds best salon; for Agnes was their adopted daughter, and was to be married ~om their house. Neither Achille nor his mother had arrived. Agnes, looking lovely in her white dress and veil, sat in her room until she should be summoned. The time passed onsome of the guests looked at their watchesa carriage drove up. Madame Tremordyn, dressed magnificently, but look- ing pale and terror-stricken, came into the room, her usual stately step was now tottew- ing and eager. Is my son, is Achille here? she asked in an imperious but hollow voice. No one replied. A thrill of undefined terror passed through all assembled. Is he here, I ask? lie left home twe hours ago. lie has not been here. We have not seen him, replied the eldest member of the family. Calm yourself, my cousin, doubt less he will be here soon.,~ 32 AGNES LEE. There was an uneasy silence, broken by the rustling of dresses, and the restless moving of people afraid to stir; feeling, as it were under a spell. The eldest kinsman spoke again. Let some one go in search of him. Three or four rose at this suggestion. Madame Treinordyn bowed her head, and said Go! It was all she had the force to articulate. The guests who remained looked at each other with gloomy forebod- ings, and knew not what to do. At last the door opened and Agnes entered. A large shawl was wrapped over her bridal dress, but she was without either veil or orna- ments; her face was pale, her eyes dilated. Wh t is all this? Let rue know the worstwhat has happened? She looked from one to the other, but none answered her. She went up to Madame Tremordyn, and said, Tell me,mother. But, Madame Tremordyn put her aside, and said: You are the cause of whatever ill has befallen him. A murmur rose from the company; but the poor mother looked so stricken and miserable that no one had the heart to blame her unreason. Everybody felt the position too irksome to endure longer; and, one after another, they glided noiselessly away; leav- ing only Agnes, Madame Tremordyn, and the good Raymonds. The hours passed on, and still no tidin ~s. The suspense became intolerable. Mr. Raymond went out to seek for information, and also to put the police in motion. Agnes, who had sat all this while still and calm, without uttering a word or shedding a tear, rose and beckoned Madame Raymond to come out of hearing. I must cl~ange this dress and go home with her; we must be at home when he is brought back. But you cannot go there my childit would be unheard of. They will both need methere is no one who can fill my placelet me go. She spoke gently, but resolutely. Madame Raymond saw that it was no case for remon- strance. In a few moments Agnes returned in her walking-dress. She laid her hand on Madame Tremordyn, ~nd said Let us go home. The poor mother, looking ten yeam oldex than on the previous day, rose, and leaning upon Agnes walked feebly to the door. Madame Raymond supported her on the other side; she would have gone with them, but Agnes shook her head and kissed her silently. Arrived at home Agnes resumed her old position. She busied herself about Madame Tremordyn. She made her take some nourishment, chafed her hands and feet, and tried to keep some warmth and life within her; but little speech passed between them. The weary hours passed on, and no ti- dings; about midnight a strangely sounding footstep was heard upon the stair. The door of the room opened, and Achille, with his dress disordered and torn, and covered with mud, stood before them. He stopped short at seeing them, and evidently did not reeo~niRe them. lie did not speak. There was a wild glare in his eye,he was quite mad. Madame Tremordyn, in extreme terror, shrank back in her arm-chair, trying to hide herself. Agnes placed herself before her; looking steadily at Achille, she said quietly, Make no noise, your mother is ill. He sat down slowly, and with apparent reluctance, upon the chair she indicated. She kept her eye fixed upon him, and he moved uneasily under its influence. It was like being with an uncaged, wild beast; and, what was to be the end, she did not know. At length he rose stealthily and backed towards the door, which remained open. The instant he gained the landing-place he sprang down stairs with a yell. The house door was closed with violence, and he was heard running furiously up the street his yells and shouts ringing through the air. Agnes drew a deep breath, and turned to Madame Tremordyn, who lay back in hei chair speechless ; her face was dreadfully distorted. She had been struck with paral- ysis. CHAPTER TIlE IOiJETH. AGNES roused the domestics for medical assistance, and go1~ Madame Tremordyn to bed, as speedily as possible. Her strength and calmness seemed little less than super- natural. The medical man remained in attendance the rc9t of the night; but no change for the better took place. Madame Tremordyn lay t.ill speechless, distorted, yet not altogether insensible, as might be seen by her eyes, which followed Agnes AGNES LEE. wistfully. No tidings came of Achille, until the next day at noon, when Mrs. Tremordyns kinsman came with the news that Achille had been conveyed to the Bic6tre, a furious maniac. He spoke low, but Mrs. Tremordyn heard him; a gleam of terrible anguish shone from her eyes, but she was powerless to move. We must leave him there, said the kins- man. He will be better attended to than he could be elsewhere. I will make in- quiries to-morrow about him, and send you tidings. The physician says it has been coni- ing on for some time. flow fortunate, dear girl, that it was before the marriage instead of after: what a frightful fate you have & ~caped! Do you think so~ said Agnes sadly. I must regret it always ; for, if I had been his wife I should have had the right to be with him ill or well. You could do him no good. I doubt whether he would know you; but you are romantic.~ Day after day passed slowly on without any change. The accounts of Achille were that he continued dangerous and ungovernable; that his was one of the worst cases in the house. Mrs. Tremordyn lay helpless and speech- less. The guests who had assembled at the ilI-omened wedding, had departed to their different abodes; most of them had come up from distant parts of the country for the occasion ; none of them resided perma- nently in Paris. The old kinsman alone re- mained until Madame Tremordyns state declared itself one way or other. One night about a fortnight after her seizure, Madame Tremordyn recovered her speech so far as to be intelligible. She spoke lucidly to Agnes, who was watching beside her, and began to give her some directions about her affairs ; but her mind was too much weakened. She blessed her for all her attention and goodness; bade her ho the good angel of her son; and, while speaking a stupor benumbed her, and she never awoke from it. The kinsman assumed the direction of affairs, took possession of her effects, broke up her establishment, made Agnes a present, and a handsome speech, and evidently con- sidered her connection with the family at an end. Agnes went back to the Raymonds to consider what she would do. t)cxCYiI. LIVING AGI. VOL XII. 3 33 The first thing needful, was to recruit her strength. She felt bitterly the severance of the tie between her and the rest of Achilles family. They had made up their minds that he was never to get better; but, to her, the idea of leaving him to his fate was too painful to contemplate. As soon as she had sufficiently recovered she asked M. Raymond to take her to the Bic~tre. There she had an interview with the head physician; who said that Achilles case if not hopeless, would be of long duration. Agnes entreated to be allowed to see himof course she was refused; but her importunity was not to be put by; and, at last. she was conducted to his cell. He received her calmly, and de- clared he knew she would come, and that he had been expecting her since the day before. He seemed quite rational and collected, and entreated her to take him away as it drove him mad to be there. The physician spoke, but Achille did not heed him. He kept his eyes fixed on Agnes, with a look of touching entreaty. Agnes looked wistfully at the physician, who said to Achille, It depends entirely on yourself. You shall go the mo- ment you render it possible for us to send you away.~~ Achille put his hand to his forehead, as though endeavoring to follow out an idea. At last he said., I understand. I will obey. He gravely kissed Agnes hand, and at- tended her to the door of the cell, as though it had been a drawing-room. You have wonderful power over that patient, Mademoiselle, said the physician, are you accustomed to mad persons? Agnes shook her head. Although he looks so quiet now, I would~ not be left alone with him for a thousan& . pounds, said he. During their ride home, Agnes never spoke; she was maturing a plan in her mind~. She asked the Raymonds to procure her som& out-of-door teaching. They entreated her. to remain with them as their daughter, and. to live with them; but she steadily refused their kindness, and they were obliged to desist. They procured her some pupils, whom she was to instruct in music, drawing~ and English. She still further distressed the~ Raymonds by withdrawing from their house, and establishing herself in a modest lodging near the Bic~t~e; she attended her pupils,~. 84 AGNES LEE. and visited Achille whenever the authorities permitted. As for Achille, from the first day she came, a great change had come over him. He was still mad, but seemed by superhuman effort, to control all outward manifestations of his madness. His delusions were as grave as ever,sometimes he was betrayed into speaking of them, and he never renounced thembut all his actions were sane and collected. If Agnes were a day beyond her time he grew restless and despond- ing. In her personal habits Agnes exercised an almost sordid parsimonyshe laid by nearly the whole of her earningsher clien- t~le increasedshe had more work than she could do. Her story excited interest wher- ever it was known, and her own manners and appearance confirmed it. She received many handsome presents, and was in the receipt of a comfortable income still she confined herself to the barest necessaries of life. The Raymonds seldom saw her, and they were hurt that she took them so little into her confidence. A year passed, and Agnes made a formal demand to have Achille discharged from the hospital, and given over to her care. There were many difficulties raised, and a great deal of opposition. M. Achille Tremordyn was not recovered; he was liable to a dan- gerous outbreak at any moment; it was not a fit charge for a young woman, and much besides; but Agnes was gifted with the power of bearing down all opposition. She argued and intreated, and finally prevailed. Great was the astonishment of Monsieur Raymond, to sce her thus accompanied, drive up to his door: that of Madame Raymond, of course was not less, but the surprise of both reached its height, when Agnes gravely, and without any embarrassment requested him to come with them to the Maine to see her married. Achille stood by, perfectly calm, but the imprisoned madness lurked in his eyes, and looked out as on the watch to spring forth. He spoke, however, with grave and graceful courtesy, and said that M. and Madame Raymond must perceive that Agnes was his good angel who had procured his deliverance, and that it was necessary she should give him the right to remain with her and protect her. He could not leave her -it was necessary to fulfil their old contract. lIe said this in a subdued, measured way; hut with a suppressed impatience, as if a very little opposition would make him break out into violence. M. Raymond took her apart, and represented everything that com- mon sense and friendship could suggest. Agnes was immovable. Her sole reply was, lIe will never get well there; if he comes to me I will cure him. In the end, M. Raymond had to give way as the doctors had done. He and Madame Raymond went with them to the Maine, and saw them married. They went home with them afterwards. Agnes had arranged her modest manage with cheerfulness and good taste. A sensible good-looking middle-aged woman was the only domestic. I have known her long, said Agnes, she lived with Madame Tremordyn in Nor- mandie, and she knew A~hille as a boy, and is quite willing to share my task. I believe you are a rational lunatic, Agnes,~ said M. Raymond. However, if you fail, you will come to us at once. They remained to partake of an English tea which Agnes had got up, Achille per- formed his part, as host, with simple dignity. M. Raymond was almost re-assured. Never- theless he led her aside, and said, My dear girl, I stand here as your father. Are you sure you are not afraid to remain with this man? Afraid? 0, no. How can one feel afraid of a person we love? said she, looking up at him with a smile. And then she tried to utter her thanks for all his goodness to her; but her voice choked, and she burst into tears. There, there, my child, do not agitate yourself. You know we look on you as our daughterwe love you. And tears dropped upon the golden curls as he kissed them. Poor Madame Raymond sobbed audibly, as she held Agnes in her arms, and would not let her go. Achille stood by, lookiirg on. Why do you weep? he asked, gently; are you afraid that I shall hurt your friend? You need not fear,she is my one blessing. I will make her greatI will! He seemed to recollect himself, and stopped, drawing himself up haughtily. Agnes disengaged herself gently from the embrace of Madame Raymond, and Achille attended them courteously to their coach. There was a dangerous glare in his eyes when he came back. Now Agnes, those AGNES LEE. people are gone. They shall never come back. If they had stayed a moment longer I would have killed them! After that evening, the Raymonds did not see Agnes for many months. Whatever were the secrets of her home, no eye saw them; she struggled with her lot alone. She attended her pupils regularly, and none of them saw any signs of weakness or anxiety. Her face was stern and grave; but her duties were punctually fulfilled, and no plea of illness or complaint, of any kind, escaped her. It was understood that her husband was an invalid, and that she did not go into companythat was all the world knew of her affairs. The old servant died, ani her place was never filled up. Agnes went to market and managed all her household affairs before she went to her pupils. Her husband was seen sometimes working in the garden or sitting if the weather was warmin the sunny arbor, shaded with climbing plants; but, he never left the house except with his wife. At the end of three years, the hope to which Agnes had clung with such passionate steadfastness was fulfilled. Her husband entirely recovered his reason but, in this hope realized there was mixed a great despair. With recovered sanity came the conscious- ness of all that his wife had done for him, and he had not 1~readth of magnanimity to accept it. It may be that the habits of rule and self-reliance which had been forced upon her by her position did not exactly suit the 35. changed position of thingspeople must brave the defects of their qualities. This trial was the hardest she had endured; but she hid suffering bravely. Her husband respected herhonored herwas always gentle and courteousdid everything except love her; but she loved him, and it is more blessed to give than to receive. It is the love we give to others, not the love they give us, that fills our heart. Six years after marriage Achille Tremor- dyn died. He expressed eloquently and even tenderly his sense of all he owed to his wife, and his high opinion of her many virtues, and regretted all she had suffered for him. It was not the farewell that a woman and a wife would wish for; hut she loved him, and did not cavil at his words. After his death she went to live near the Raymonds. She still continued to teach, though no longer from necessity; but, after she had somewhat recovered from the blank- ness which had fallen on her life, she de- voted herself to finding ciut friendless young girls, and providing them with homes and the means of gaining a living. For this purpose she worked, and to it she devoted all her earnings: recollecting the aunt who had adopted her when she arrived in Paris, and found herself abandoned. The good Raymonds left her a fortune, with which she built a house, and was the mother in it; and many were the daughters who had cause to bless her. She lived to an advanced age, and died quite recently. SASUEL GoaroN.Might I ask what is known of the above-named person? He was banished from England in 1646; and going to the New World, founded a sect known as the Gortinians. I have read that his form of worship was not unlike that of the Quakers. Never having heard of this sect in the United States, I am in- clined to believe it died with its founder. W.W. rSamuel Gorton left London for Boston, U. S. in 1636, and from that place removed in a short time to Plymouth, then to Rhode Island, where he was wbipped for his heterodoxy. In 1641 he settled at Providence, where the followers of Roger Williams, to prevent a schism in the col- ony, fined and imprisoned him and his followers. His treatment is minutely detailed in his work, Simplicitys Defence against Seven-Headed Policy, republished in vol is. of Collections of the Rhode Island Historical Society. After his imprisonment Gorton, in company with Randall Holden and John Greene, sailed for England in 1644. Gorton left England the second time in 1648, and settled at Shawomet, which he named Warwick, where he resided until his death in 1677. One biographical notice of him states, that his opinions on religion were so peculiar, that is impossible for any one at this day fully to comprehend them. There is conclusive evi- dence that he was not a Quaker, for in 1656 four of that sect arrived in Boston, and were committed to prison until a ship could be found to carry them back to England, Lest, says Gorton, the purity of the religion professed in the churches of New England should be defiled with error. Farther particulars of him will be found in Savages Winthrop, ii. 57, 295 299; ilutchinsons Massachusetts, r. 117124. 549; Mortons Memorial, 202206; .hlassa- chusets Hist. Call. xvii. 4751; and Callen- ders Hist. Discourse in Rhode Island Hist. Coll. iv. 8992., and ii. 920. See also Youngs Chronicles of the Pilgrims, chat. xxv.].Notes and Queries.

AGNES LEE. people are gone. They shall never come back. If they had stayed a moment longer I would have killed them! After that evening, the Raymonds did not see Agnes for many months. Whatever were the secrets of her home, no eye saw them; she struggled with her lot alone. She attended her pupils regularly, and none of them saw any signs of weakness or anxiety. Her face was stern and grave; but her duties were punctually fulfilled, and no plea of illness or complaint, of any kind, escaped her. It was understood that her husband was an invalid, and that she did not go into companythat was all the world knew of her affairs. The old servant died, ani her place was never filled up. Agnes went to market and managed all her household affairs before she went to her pupils. Her husband was seen sometimes working in the garden or sitting if the weather was warmin the sunny arbor, shaded with climbing plants; but, he never left the house except with his wife. At the end of three years, the hope to which Agnes had clung with such passionate steadfastness was fulfilled. Her husband entirely recovered his reason but, in this hope realized there was mixed a great despair. With recovered sanity came the conscious- ness of all that his wife had done for him, and he had not 1~readth of magnanimity to accept it. It may be that the habits of rule and self-reliance which had been forced upon her by her position did not exactly suit the 35. changed position of thingspeople must brave the defects of their qualities. This trial was the hardest she had endured; but she hid suffering bravely. Her husband respected herhonored herwas always gentle and courteousdid everything except love her; but she loved him, and it is more blessed to give than to receive. It is the love we give to others, not the love they give us, that fills our heart. Six years after marriage Achille Tremor- dyn died. He expressed eloquently and even tenderly his sense of all he owed to his wife, and his high opinion of her many virtues, and regretted all she had suffered for him. It was not the farewell that a woman and a wife would wish for; hut she loved him, and did not cavil at his words. After his death she went to live near the Raymonds. She still continued to teach, though no longer from necessity; but, after she had somewhat recovered from the blank- ness which had fallen on her life, she de- voted herself to finding ciut friendless young girls, and providing them with homes and the means of gaining a living. For this purpose she worked, and to it she devoted all her earnings: recollecting the aunt who had adopted her when she arrived in Paris, and found herself abandoned. The good Raymonds left her a fortune, with which she built a house, and was the mother in it; and many were the daughters who had cause to bless her. She lived to an advanced age, and died quite recently. SASUEL GoaroN.Might I ask what is known of the above-named person? He was banished from England in 1646; and going to the New World, founded a sect known as the Gortinians. I have read that his form of worship was not unlike that of the Quakers. Never having heard of this sect in the United States, I am in- clined to believe it died with its founder. W.W. rSamuel Gorton left London for Boston, U. S. in 1636, and from that place removed in a short time to Plymouth, then to Rhode Island, where he was wbipped for his heterodoxy. In 1641 he settled at Providence, where the followers of Roger Williams, to prevent a schism in the col- ony, fined and imprisoned him and his followers. His treatment is minutely detailed in his work, Simplicitys Defence against Seven-Headed Policy, republished in vol is. of Collections of the Rhode Island Historical Society. After his imprisonment Gorton, in company with Randall Holden and John Greene, sailed for England in 1644. Gorton left England the second time in 1648, and settled at Shawomet, which he named Warwick, where he resided until his death in 1677. One biographical notice of him states, that his opinions on religion were so peculiar, that is impossible for any one at this day fully to comprehend them. There is conclusive evi- dence that he was not a Quaker, for in 1656 four of that sect arrived in Boston, and were committed to prison until a ship could be found to carry them back to England, Lest, says Gorton, the purity of the religion professed in the churches of New England should be defiled with error. Farther particulars of him will be found in Savages Winthrop, ii. 57, 295 299; ilutchinsons Massachusetts, r. 117124. 549; Mortons Memorial, 202206; .hlassa- chusets Hist. Call. xvii. 4751; and Callen- ders Hist. Discourse in Rhode Island Hist. Coll. iv. 8992., and ii. 920. See also Youngs Chronicles of the Pilgrims, chat. xxv.].Notes and Queries. 36 THE INTERPRETER. CHAPTER XXIX. A MERRY MASQUE. Iv was a beautiful sight, one calculated to inspire feelings of mirth and gaiety, even in a heart ill at. ease with itself. Such a ball- room as the Redouten-Saal is perhaps hardly to be seen elsewhere in Europe. Such musk~ I will venture to say can only be heard in Vienna, where the whole population, from the highest to the lowest, seem to live only that they may dance. Everybody knows the effect of brilliant light on animal spirits; the walls of these magnificent rooms are of a pale fawn color, almost approaching to whitethe very shade that best refracts and enhances the effect of hundreds of wax candles, shedding their soft radiance on the votaries of pleasure below. No wonder people are in good spirits; no wonder they throng the spacious halls, or parade the long galleries above, and looking down from their elevated position, pass many a pointed jest and humorous sally on the varied scene that crowds the floor below. No wonder they frequent the refreshment rooms that skirt these galleries, and flirt and talk non- sense, and quiE each other with the cumbrous vivacity of the Saxon race. When I entered from the quiet street, I was dazzled by the glare, and almost stupefied by the hum of many voices, and the pealing notes of one of those waltzes which Strauss seems to have composed expressly to remind the fallen children of Adam of their lost Paradise. From a boy music has made me melancholy the sweeter the sadder; and although it is a morbid, unmanly feeling, which I have striven hard to overcome, it has always con- quered me, it will always conquer me to the iast. I felt bitterly out of place amongst these pleasure worshippers. What had I to do here, where all were merry and full of enjoyment? My very dress was out of keep- ing with the scene, for I was one of a very small minority in civil attire. Georgeous uniforms, white, blue, and green, glittered all over the ball-room; for in Austria no officer now-a-days ever appears out of uni- form; and as an army of six hundred thou- sand men is officered almost exclusively from the aristocracy, the fair ball-goers of Vienna find no lack of partners in gaudy and war- like attire. The ladies were all masked; not so their respective cavaliers, it being part of the amusement of these balls, that the gentler sex alone should appear ineog nito, and so torment their natural prey at more than their usual advantage; thus many a poisoned dart is planted, many a thrust driven securely home, without a chance of a parry or a fear of a return. Though Pity is represented in a female garb, it seems to me that woman, when she does strike, strikes harder, straighter, swifter, more un- sparingly than man. Perhaps she suffers as much as she inflicts, and this makes her ruthless and recklesswho knows? if so, she would rather die than acknowledge it, These are not thoughts for a ball, and yet they crowded on me more and more as I stood under the musicians gallery gazing va- cantly at the throng. Victor and his party had not yet arrived. I was sure to distinguish them by Ropsleys scarlet uniform, and I was also sure that in such an assemblage of military connoisseurs the costume of Queen Victorias body-guard would attract observation and remark that could not pass unnoticed even by so preoccu- pied a spectator as myself. Besides, I knew the color of Vah~ries dress; it was to be pink, and of some fabric, beautiful exceed- ingly, of which I had forgotten the name au soon as told. I was consequently sure of finding them whenever I wished, so I stood quietly in my corner, and watched the crowd go by without caring to mingle in the stream or partake of the amusements every one else seemed to find so delightful. How poor and vapid sounded the conversation of the passer-by; how strained the efforts at wit; how forced and unnatural the attempts at mystification! The Germans are too like ourselves to sustain for any length of time the artificial pace of badinage and repartee. It is not the genius of the nation, and they soon come to a humble jog-trot of old jokes and trite facetile, or worse still, break down completely, and stop once for all. The only man that seemed in his element was a French attache, and he indeed entered into the spirit of the thing with a zest and enthusiasm of truly Parisian origin. Surrounded by masks, he kept up a fire of witticism, which never failed or diminished for an instant; like the juggler who plays with half-a-dozen balls, now one, now another, now all up in the air at once. The Frenchman seemed to ask no respite, to shrink from no emergency; he was little, ho was ugly, he was not oven

36 THE INTERPRETER. CHAPTER XXIX. A MERRY MASQUE. Iv was a beautiful sight, one calculated to inspire feelings of mirth and gaiety, even in a heart ill at. ease with itself. Such a ball- room as the Redouten-Saal is perhaps hardly to be seen elsewhere in Europe. Such musk~ I will venture to say can only be heard in Vienna, where the whole population, from the highest to the lowest, seem to live only that they may dance. Everybody knows the effect of brilliant light on animal spirits; the walls of these magnificent rooms are of a pale fawn color, almost approaching to whitethe very shade that best refracts and enhances the effect of hundreds of wax candles, shedding their soft radiance on the votaries of pleasure below. No wonder people are in good spirits; no wonder they throng the spacious halls, or parade the long galleries above, and looking down from their elevated position, pass many a pointed jest and humorous sally on the varied scene that crowds the floor below. No wonder they frequent the refreshment rooms that skirt these galleries, and flirt and talk non- sense, and quiE each other with the cumbrous vivacity of the Saxon race. When I entered from the quiet street, I was dazzled by the glare, and almost stupefied by the hum of many voices, and the pealing notes of one of those waltzes which Strauss seems to have composed expressly to remind the fallen children of Adam of their lost Paradise. From a boy music has made me melancholy the sweeter the sadder; and although it is a morbid, unmanly feeling, which I have striven hard to overcome, it has always con- quered me, it will always conquer me to the iast. I felt bitterly out of place amongst these pleasure worshippers. What had I to do here, where all were merry and full of enjoyment? My very dress was out of keep- ing with the scene, for I was one of a very small minority in civil attire. Georgeous uniforms, white, blue, and green, glittered all over the ball-room; for in Austria no officer now-a-days ever appears out of uni- form; and as an army of six hundred thou- sand men is officered almost exclusively from the aristocracy, the fair ball-goers of Vienna find no lack of partners in gaudy and war- like attire. The ladies were all masked; not so their respective cavaliers, it being part of the amusement of these balls, that the gentler sex alone should appear ineog nito, and so torment their natural prey at more than their usual advantage; thus many a poisoned dart is planted, many a thrust driven securely home, without a chance of a parry or a fear of a return. Though Pity is represented in a female garb, it seems to me that woman, when she does strike, strikes harder, straighter, swifter, more un- sparingly than man. Perhaps she suffers as much as she inflicts, and this makes her ruthless and recklesswho knows? if so, she would rather die than acknowledge it, These are not thoughts for a ball, and yet they crowded on me more and more as I stood under the musicians gallery gazing va- cantly at the throng. Victor and his party had not yet arrived. I was sure to distinguish them by Ropsleys scarlet uniform, and I was also sure that in such an assemblage of military connoisseurs the costume of Queen Victorias body-guard would attract observation and remark that could not pass unnoticed even by so preoccu- pied a spectator as myself. Besides, I knew the color of Vah~ries dress; it was to be pink, and of some fabric, beautiful exceed- ingly, of which I had forgotten the name au soon as told. I was consequently sure of finding them whenever I wished, so I stood quietly in my corner, and watched the crowd go by without caring to mingle in the stream or partake of the amusements every one else seemed to find so delightful. How poor and vapid sounded the conversation of the passer-by; how strained the efforts at wit; how forced and unnatural the attempts at mystification! The Germans are too like ourselves to sustain for any length of time the artificial pace of badinage and repartee. It is not the genius of the nation, and they soon come to a humble jog-trot of old jokes and trite facetile, or worse still, break down completely, and stop once for all. The only man that seemed in his element was a French attache, and he indeed entered into the spirit of the thing with a zest and enthusiasm of truly Parisian origin. Surrounded by masks, he kept up a fire of witticism, which never failed or diminished for an instant; like the juggler who plays with half-a-dozen balls, now one, now another, now all up in the air at once. The Frenchman seemed to ask no respite, to shrink from no emergency; he was little, ho was ugly, he was not oven THfl tNTRRP1Ul~Th1L. gentlemanlike, but he was the right man in the right place, and the ladies were en- chanted with him accordingly. Surrounded by his admirers, he was at a sufficient dis- tance for me to watch his proceedings with- out the risk of appearing impertinent, and so I looked on, half amused at his readiness, half disgusted with his flippancy, till I found my attention wandering once more to my own unprofitable and discontented thoughts. Mouton qui reve, said a voice at my elbow, so close that it made me start. I turned rapidly round, and saw a lady standing so near that her dress touched mine. masked, of course, and thoroughly disguised in figure and appearance. Had it not been for the handsome arm and the camellia she held to her lips, I should not have recog- nized her as the lady I had spoken to at the door of the Opera, and who had appointed to meet me at this very spota rendezvous which, truth to tell, I had nearly for- gotten. Mouton qui reve, she repeated, and added, in the same langnage, Your dreams must be very pleasant if they can thus abstract you from all earthly considerations, eVen music and dancing, and your duty towards the fair sex. Now what can this woman want with me? I wish she would let me alone, was my inward thought; but my outward ex- pression thereof was couched in more polite language. Dreaming! of course I was dreaming and of Madame; so bright a vision, that I could hardly hope ever to see it realized. I place myself at Madames feet as the hum- blest of her slaves. She laughed in my face. Do not at- tempt compliments, she said, it is not your metier. The only thing I like about you English is your frankness and straight- forward character. Take me up-stairs. I want to speak seriously to you. Dont look so preoccupied. At this instant I recognized Ropsleys scarlet uniform showing to great advantage on his tall person in the distance; I could not help glancing towards the part of the room in which I knew the pink dress was to be found, for the pink dress would of course have entered with Ropsley, and where the pink dress was there would be another 87 whom, after to-night, I had resolved never, never to see again. My mysterious acquaintance had now hooked herself on to my arm, and as we toiled up the stairs it was necessary to say something. I said the first thing that oc- curred to me. ~How did you know I was an Englishman? She laughed again. Not by your French, she answered; for without compliment, you speak it as well as I do; but who except an English- man would go to sleep with his eyes open in such a place as this? who else would forget such a rendezvous as I gave you here? who else, with a pretty woman on his arm (Lam a pretty woman, though I dont mean to unmask), would be longing to get away, and hankering after a pink dress and a black domino at the other end of the room? You neednt wince, my friend; I know all your secrets. You were in the seventh heaven when I interrupted you. I wish you would come down to earth again. I will not say where I wished she would go down to, but I answered gravely and politely enough It was not to tell me this you stopped your carriag after the Opera to-night; tell me how can serve youI am at the disposition of Madame, though I am at a loss to discover what she means by her pink dresses and black domi- noes. I will not laugWat you for being seri- ous, she replied. I am serious myself now, and I shall be for the next ten minutes. Frankly, I know you; I know all about you. I know the drawing-room at Edeldorf, and I know Yah~rie de Robandont look so frightened, your secret is safe with me. Be equally frank, Monsieur lInterpr~te, and interpret something for me, under promise of secresy. You are an Englishman, she added, hurriedly, her manner changing suddenly to one of earnestness, not unmixed with agitation; can I depend upon you? Implicitly, Madame, was my reply. Then, tell me why Victor de Roban is constantly at the HOtel Munsch with his foreign friends; tell me why he is always in attendance on that proud young lady, that frigid specimen of an English meess? Is it true, I only ask you,tell me, is it true?~ Agitated as was the questioner, her words smote home to her listeners heart. . How blind I had been, living with them every 38 day, and never to see it! while here was a comparative stranger, one at least who, by her own account, had been absent from Vienna for weeks, and she was mistress of the details of our every-day life; she had been watching like a lynx, whilst I was sleeping or dreaming at my po~st; well, it mattered little which, now. The hand that held her bouquet was shaking visibly, but her voice was steady and even slightly sar- castic as she read her answer in my face, and resumed, What I have heard, then, is true, and Count de Rohan is indeed an enviable man. You need not say another word, Monsieur lInterpr~te, I am satisfied. I thank you for your kindness. I thank you for your patience; you may kiss my hand; and she gave it me with the air of a queen. I am an old friend of his and of his family; I shall go and congratulate him; you need not accompany me. Adieu! good sleep and plcasant. dreams to you. I followed her with my eyes as she moved away. I saw her walk up to Victor, who had a lady in blue, Constance, of course, upon his arm. She passed close by him, and whispered in his ear. He started, and I could see that he turned deadly pale. For an instant he hesitated as if he would follow her, but in a twinkling she was lost amongst the crowd, and I saw her no more that night. I threaded my way to where Ropsley in his scarlet uniform was conversing with a knot of distinguished Austrian officers; they were listening to his remarks with attention, and here, as elsewhere, in the ball-room at Vienna as in the play-ground at Everdon, it seemed natural that my old schoolfellow should take the lead. Sir Harry was by his side, occasionally putting in his word, some what mal4i-propos, for though a shrewd capable man, foreign politics were a little out of Sir Harrys depth. Behind him stood the much-talked-of pink dress; its wearer was closely masked, but I knew the flowers she held in her hand, and I thought now was the time to bid Val~rie a long farewell. She was a little detached from her party, and I do not think expected me so soon, for she started when I spoke to her, but bowed in acquiescence, and put her arm within mine when I proposed to mnke the tour of the room with her, although, true to the THE INTERPRETER. spirit of a masquerade, not a word escaped her lips. I led her up to the galleries, and placed a seat for her apart from the crowd. I did not quite know how to begin, and contrary to her wont, Val& ie seemed as silently disposed as myself. At last I took courage, and made my plunge. I have asked to speak to you, to wish you good-bye, I said. I am going away to-morrow. For my own sake I must stay here no longer. I am going back to the East. I am well now, and anxious to be on service again. I have stayed in the father- land far too long as it is. To-morrow at daybreak Bold and I must be en route for Trieste. I paused; she winced, and drew in her breath quickly, but bowed her head without speaking, and I went on Mine has been a strange lot, and not a very happy one; and this must account to you for my reserved, unsociable conduct, my seeming ingratitude to my best and kindest friends. Believe me, I am not ungrateful, only un- happy. I might have been, I ought to have been, a very different man. I shall to-night bid you farewell, perhaps for ever. You are a true friend, you have always borne and sympathized with me. I will tell you my history; bear and sympathize with me now. I have been a fool and an idolater all my life; but I have been at least consistent in my folly, and true in my idolatry. From my earliest boyhood there has been but one face on earth to me, and that one face will haunt me till I die. Was it my fault, that seeing her every day I could not choose but love her? that loving her I would have striven heart and soul, life and limb, to win her? And I failed. I failed, though I would have poured out my hearts blood at her feet. I failed, and yet I loved her fondly, painfully, madly, as ever. Why am I an exile from my countrya wanderer on the face of the eartha ruined, desperate man? Why, because of her. And yet I would not have it otherwise, if I could. It is dearer for me to sorrow for her sake, than it could ever have been to be happy with another. Vakrie, God forbid you should ever know what it is to love as I have done. God forbid that the feeling which ought to~ be the blessing and the sunshine of a life should turn to its blight and its curse! Vak~rie. She was shaking all over; she was weeping THE INTERPRETER. convulsively under her mask: I could hear her sobs, and yet I was pitiless. I went on. It was such a relief in the selfishness of my sorrow, to pour out the pent-up grief of years, to tell any one, even that merry light-hearted girl, how bitterly I had sufferedhow hopeless was my lot. It was not that I asked for sympathy, it was not that I required pity; but it seemed a necessity of my being, that I should establish in the ears of one living witness, the fact of my great sorrow, ere I carried it away with me, perhaps to my grave. And all this time the melody of the Weintrauben was pealing on, as if in mockery. Oh, that waltz! How often she had played it to me in the drawing-room at Beverley ! Surely, surely, it must smite that cold heart even now. My companions sobs were less violent, but she grasped the bouquet in her hand till every flower drooped and withered with the pressure. Yall~rie, I continued, do not think me vain or presumptuous. I speak to you as a man who has death looking him in the face. I am resolved never to return. I am no braver than my neighbors, hut ii have nothing on earth to live for, and I pray to die. I can speak to you now as I would not dare to speak if I thought ever to look in your face again. You have been my con- soler, my sister, my friend. Oh, I could have dared to love you, Yal~rie; to strive for you, to win you, had I but been free. You are, perhaps, far worthier than that proud unfeeling girl, and yetand yetit cannot be. Farewell, Vak~rie, dear Vakrie; we shall never meet again. You will be happy, and prosperous, and beloved; and you will think sometimes of the poor wounded bird whose broken wing you healed, only that it might fly away once more into the storm. As for me, I have had no future for years. I live only in the past. Bold and I must begin our wanderings again to- morrowBold whom she used to fondle, whom I love for her sake. It is not every man, Countess Yali~rie, that will sacrifice his all to an idea, and that idea a false one! Stop, Vere! she gasped out, wildly; hush, for mercys sake, hush Oh! that voice, that voice! was I dream- ing? was it possible? was I mad? Still the wild tones of the Weintrauben swelled and sank upon mine ear; still the motley crowd down below were whirling before my sight; and as surely as I saw and heard, so surely was it Constance Beverley who laid her hand in mine, and tearing down her mask, turned upon me a look so wild, so mournful, so unearthly, that, through all my astonishment, all my confusion, it chilled me to the heart. Many a day afterwards ay, in the very jaws of death, in the sulphu- rous breach, in the reeling tide of battle, that look haunted me still. So true, she muttered; 0, misery, misery! too late. Forgive me, Miss Beverley, I resumed, bitterly, and with cold politeness; this communication was not intended for you. I meant to bid Countess Vah~rie farewell. You have accidently heard that which I would have died sooner than have told you. It would be affectation to deny it now. I shall not annoy you any further. I con- gratulate you on your many conquests, and wish you good-bye. She was weeping once more, and wrung my hand convulsively. Vere, Vere, she pleaded, do not beso hard upon me; so bitter, so mocking, so un- like yourself. Spare me, I entreat you, for I am very miserable. You do not know how I am situated. You do not know how I have struggled. But I must not talk thus now. She recovered her self-command with a strong effort, and pale as death, she spoke steadily on. Vere, we may not make our own lot in life; whatever is, is for the best. It is too late to think of what might have been. Vere, dear Vere, you are my brotheryou never can be more to me than a dear, dear brother. Why not? I gasped, for her words, her voice, her trembling frame, her soft, sweet, mournful looks, had raised once more a legion of hopes that I thought. were buried forever in my breast; and, despite my cruel taunts, I loved her, even whilst I smote, as the fierce human heart can love, and tear, and rend, and suffer the while, far, far more keenly than its victim. Because I am the promised wife of an- other. Your friend, Count de Rohan, pro- posed for me this very day, and L accepted him. She was standing up as she said it, and 39 40 she spoke in a steady measured voice, like a child repeating a lesson; but she sat down when she had finished and tried to put her mask on again. Her fingers trembled so that she could not tie the strings. I offered her my arm, and we went down- stairs. Not a word did we exchange till we had nearly reached the place where Sir Harry was still standing talking to Victor de Rohan. Ropsley, in his scarlet uniform, was whirl- ing away with a lady in a blue dress, whose figure I recognized at once for that of the Countess Vakrie. It was easy to discover that the young ladies, who resembled each other in size and stature, had changed dresses; and the Countess, to enhance the deception, had lent her bouquet to her friend. I was giddy and confused, like a man with his death-hurt, but pride whispered in my ear to bear it in silence and seeming unconcern. Three paces more would bring us to Sir Harry. I should never see her again. In a short time she might perhaps read my name in the Gazette, and then hard, haughty, false as she was, she would like to know that I had been true to her to the last. No, I would not part with her in anger; my better angel conquered, and I wrung her hand, and whispered, God bless you, Constance. God bless you, Vere, she replied; and the pressure of those soft trembling fingers thrilled on mine for many a day. I recollect but little more of that ball in the Redouten-Saal. I believe I congratulated Victor on his approaching marriage. 1 be- lieve I wished Vah~rie good-bye, and was a little disappointed at the resignation with which she accepted my departure. I have a vague impression that even Ropsley, usually so calm, so selfish, so unsympathizing, ac- companied me home, under the impression that I was ill. My mind had been over- strung, and I walked about like a man in a dream. But morning came at last, and with my cased sword under my arm, and Bold in a leash at my feet, I stood on the platform of the railway-station, waiting for the de- parture of my train. An English servant, in the well-known livery, touched his hat as he put a letter into my hand. Miser that I was! I would not read it till I was fairly settled in the carriage. Little thought the faded belle, with her false front, opposite me, or the fat man, with a seal-ring on his THE INTERPRETER. fore-finger, by my side how that scrap of paper was all my wealth on earth; but they were honest Germans, and possessed that truest of all politeness, which does as it would be done by. No inquisitive regards annoyed me during its perusal; no imperti- nent sympathy remarked on the tears which I am ashamed to say fell thick and fast upon it ere it closed. I have it by me now, that yellow well-worn paper. I have read those delicate womanly characters by scorching sunlight, by the faint glimmer of a pickets lantern, far away on the boundless sea, cramped and close in the stifling tent. if indeed every bullet has its billet, and any one of them had been destined to lodge in my bosom, it must have found its way right through that fragile shielday, carried in with it the very words, which were in- effaceably engraven on my heart. No won- der I can remember it all. here it is Vere, you must not judge me as men are so prone to judge womenharshly, hastily, uncharitably. We are not all frivolous, selfish, and fond of change, caring only for our amusements, our conquests, as you call them, and our enmities. You were bitter and cruel to me last night. Indeed, indeed, I feel you had a right to be so. Vere, I nra so, so sorry for you. But you must not think I have treated you unkindly, or with want of confidence. Remember how you have avoided me ever since we came to Vienna; remember how you have behaved to me as a stranger, or at most a mere acquaintance; how you never once inquired about my prospects, or alluded to old times. Perhaps you were right: perhaps you felt hurt, proud, and angry; and yet, Vere, I had expected better things from you. Had I been in your place, I think I could have forgiven, 1 think I could have cared for, sympathized with, and respected one whom I was forbidden to love. If I were a man, it seems tome that I should not place happi- ness, however great, as the one sole aim of my existence; that I should strive to win honor and distinction, to benefit my fellow- men, and above all, to fulfil my duty, even with no higher reward here below than my own approval. Vere, when a man feels he is doir~g right, others think so too. I could be proud, 0 so proud, of my brother. Yes, Vere, it is my turn to implore now, and I entreat you let me be a sister, a very dear sister to you. As such I will tell you all my griefs, all my doings; as such I can con- fide in you, write to you, think of you, pray for you, as indeed I do, Vere, every morning and evening of my life. And now let us TIlE INTERPRETEU. 41 dismiss at once and forever the thoughts of beautful, accomplished, and attractive; can what might have been. The past is beyond you wonder that I believed what I was told, recallthe present, as you used to say, does and. judged, besides, by what I saw? Even not exist. The future none can call their now we might be related. You seem to like own. There is but one reality in life, and her, and she would make any one happy. that is Right. Vere, I have done right. I Forgive me, Vere, forgive me for the sugges- have followed the path of dnty. Brother, tion. It seems so unfeeling now, whilst I I call upon you for your help along the rough have your tones of misery ringing in my steep way; you have never failed me yet, cars; and yet, Heaven knows, your happi- you will not fail mc now. ness is the wish nearest my heart. Consult~ You know my mother died when I was only that, and I shall be satisfied. To hear very young. Since then my father has ful- of you welfare, your success, will make me filled the duties of both parents towards his happy. I cannot, I must not write to you child. As I have grown older and seen more again. You yourself would not wish it. I of the world, I have been better able to feel for you, Vere; I know how you must appreciate his affection and devotion to my- suffer, hut the steel must be tempered in the self. A little girl must have been a sad clog fire, and it is through suffering that men upon a man like my dear father, a high- learn to be great and good. There are other spirited gentleman, fond of the world, fond prizes in life hesides happiness. There is an of society, fond of pleasure. Besides, had hour coining for us all, when even the dearest it not been for me, he would have married and closest will have to part. May we both again, and he preferred to sacrifice his happi- be ready when that hour arrives. And now ness to his child. Can I ever repay him? it is time to hid the long farewell; our paths No. Whatever may have been his faults, in life must henceforth be separate. Do not he has been a kind, kind father to me. I think unkindly of me, Vere; I may not he will tell you all frankly, Vere, as this is the with you, hut I may he proud of you, and last time the subject can ever be mentioned wish you every happiness. Forget meyet between us. Had I been free to choose, I not altogether. Dear, dear brother, God would have been yours. I am not ashamed bless you! and farewell ! nay, I am proud to own it. But you Take care of poor Bold. know how impossible it was, how absolutely So it was really over at last. Well, and~ my father forbade it. To have disobeyed what then? Had it not been over, to all him would have been wicked and ungrateful. intents and purposes, long ago? Yes, there I feel that even you would not have respected me had I done so. But of late he has become was something worth living for, after all. most anxious to see me settled in life. From There was no bitterness now, for there was his own hints, and Captain Ropsleys open nothing to hope; the cup had been drained assertions, it seems this alone can stave off to the dregs, and the very intoxication of some dreadful evil. I do not understand it. the I only know I am bound to do all draught had passed away, but it had in- in my vigorated the system and given new life to power for papa; and that he is entangled the heart. It was much to feel that I had with that bad, unprincipled man I feel con- vinced. 0, Vere, it might have been far, been valued and appreciated by such a far worse. In accepting Count de Rohan, I womanmuch to know that my name would have escaped a great and frightful danger. never fall unmeaningly on her ear. And I Besides, I esteem him highly, I like his would be worthy, I would never fail. The society, I admire his open, honorable char- sacrifice would be perfected. And though I acter. I have known him all my life; he is might never see her a~rain on e your oldest friendI need not enlarge upon pres arth, I would his merits to you. His sister, too, is a erve her image pure and unsullied in my charming, frank-hearted girl. From all I heart of hearts. Constance Beverley should heard, from all I saw, I had hoped, Vere, henceforth and forever be my ideal of all that she had effaced in your mind the un- that was purest and noblest and best beloved happy recollections of former days. She is in woman. SIIAPTER xXx.TiIE GOLDEN hORN. Johnny, want to see the bazaar? The lectual beauty. I longed to kick himthe speaker was a Greek of the lowest class, de- climate of Constantinople is provocative of prayed and dirty, with a flexibility of limb irritation, and I felt that with my bushy and cunning of countenance only to be seen beard, my Oriental demeanor, and my ae- in the present representatives of that race quaintance with Turkish habits and pro- who once furnished the sculptor with his ficiency in the language, it was irritating to glorious ideal of god-like strength and intel- be called Johnny, and asked to see the 42 THE INTERPRETER. 3azaar, as though I had been the smoothest bad striven to fulfil her wishesto rise to and ruddiest ensign, disembarked for a days honor and distinction, to be worthy of her leave from yonder crowded troop-ship, an friendship and esteem. Fame I had gained innocent lamb frisking in the sun on my none, but I had done my duty. Omar way up to the shambles before Sebastopol. Pasha, my kind patron, who had never for- Yes, I was pretty well acclimatized in gotten the child that sympathized with hini Turkey now. A year and more had passed at Edeldorf, had expressed himself satisfied over my head since I had left Vienna, the with my services; and Skender Bey, drunk morning after that memorable ball at the or sober, never passed me without a cordial Redouten-Saal, and what changes had that grapp of the hand. For more than a year year brought forth! Sir Harry ]3everley I had shared the fortunes of the Turkish was gathered to his fathers, and an investi- commander and the Turkish Army. I had gation into that worthy gentlemans affairs seen the merits of those poor, patient, had explained much that was hitherto in- stanch unflinching troops, and the short- comprehensible in his conduct as to his comings of their corrupt and venal officers. daughters marriage and his connection with I knew, none better, how the Turkish sol-. Ropsley. The latter had played his game dier will bear hunger, thirst, privation, ill- scientifically throughout. He was aware usage, and arrears of pity, without a that on a proper settlement being made, by murmur; how, with his implicit faith in marriage or otherwise, for his daughter, Sir destiny, and his noble self-sacrifice in the Harry would obtain the fee-simple of certain cause of God and the Sultan, he is capable property which, until such an event, he only of endurance and effort such as put the held in trust for the young ladys benefit; ancient Spartan to the blushwitness the and as these were the sole funds to which wan faces, the spectral forms, guant, fain- the far-seeing Guardsman could look to me-stricken and hollow-eyed, that so dog- liquidate Sir Ilarrys debts to himself, in- gedly carried out the hehests of the tameless curred no one knew exactly how, it was his defender of liars. I have seen him starved object to expediate as speedily as possible the and cheated that his colonel might gorman- marriage of my early love. As she was an dizeay! and in defiance of the Prophet, heiress he would have had no objection to drink to intoxication of the forbidden liquid, wed her himself, and indeed, as we have and I wondered not, as none who knew already seen, had entered into terms with the nation need wonder, that Russian gold her father for the furtherance of this object. will work its way to the defeat of a Turkish That scheme was however defeated by her army far more swiftly than all the steel that own determination, and it had long been bristles over the thronging columns of the apparent to my mind that Constance had Muscovite. Keep the Pashas hands clean, only married my old friend Victor to escape or make it worth his while to be faithful to from the dreadful alternative of becoming his countryforbid the northern eagle from Ropsleys wife: that such an alliance prom- spreading his wing over the Black Sea, and ised but ill for the future happiness of both, you may trust the Turkish soldier that not I could not conceal from myself, and yet so a Russian regiment ever reaches the gates selfish is the human heart, so difficult is it to of Constantinople. All this I had seen, shake the trail of the serpent from off and for long I was content to cast in my lot the flowrets of our earthly love, I could not with this brave people, struggling against regret as I ought to have done that the two the invader; but my own countrymen were people whom most I cared for ia the world, in arms scarce two hundred miles off, the should not be as devoted to each other as is siege of Sebastepol was dragging wearily on essential to the happiness of those whom the from day to dayI felt that I would fain be tie of marriage has bound indissolubly to- under the dear old English flag, would fain gether. strike one blow surrounded by the kindly Ah! she was Countess de Rohan now, English faces, cheered by the homely Eng- living at Edeldorf in all that state and lux~ lish tongues. She was more likely to hear ury which she was so well calculated of me, too, if 1 could gain some employment to adorn; and I, what had I done since we with the English army; and this last argu- parted forever at the masquerade? Well, I ment proved to me too painfully what I had THE INTERPRETER. vainly striven to conceal from myself, how little these long months of trials, privations, and excitement had altered the real feelings of my heart. Would it be always so? Alas, alas! it was a weary lot! Johnny, want to see the bazaar? He woke me from my day-dream, but I felt more kindly towards him now, more cosmo- politan, more charitable. In such a scene as that, how could any man, a unit in such a throng, think only of his own individual interests or sufferings? Never since the days of the Crusaders ay, scarcsly even in that romantic time, was there seen such a motley assemblage as now crowded the wooden bridge that traverses the Golden Horn, between bustling, dirty, disso- nant Pera, and stately, quiet, dignified Stain- boul, those two suggestive quarters that con- stitute the Turkish capital. On that bridge might be seen a specimen of nearly every nation under the sunthe English soldier with his burly, upright figure, and staid, well-disciplined air; the rakish Zouave, with his rollicking gait, and professed libertinism of demeanor, foreign to the real character of the man. Jauntily he sways and swaggers along, his hands thrust into the pockets of his enormous red petticoat trousers, his blonde hair shaved close it la Khabyle, and his fair complexion burnt red by an African sun long before he came here, en route, voyez- vous, to fill the ditch of the Malakhoff. Pardon, he & bserves to a tall, stately Persian fresh from Astracan, whom he jost- les unwittingly, for a Frenchman is never impolite save when he really intends insult; the fire-worshipper, in his long sad-colored robes and high-pointed cap, wreathes his aquiline features into an expression of stately astonishment,for a Persian, too, has his notions of good breeding, and is extremely punctilious in acting up to them. His pic- turesque costume, however, and dignified bearing are lost upon the Zonave, for a gilded araba is at the moment passing, with its well-guarded freight, and the accursed Giaour ogles these flowers of the harem with an impudent pertinacity of truly Parisian growth. The beauties, fresh from their batki, attempt, with henna-tinted fingers, to draw their thin veils higher over their radiant fea- tures, their bedgown-looking dresses tighter round their plump forms; an arrangement which by some fatality invariably discloses the beauties of face and figure more liberally than before. Here a Jew, in his black dress and solemn turban, is counting his gains at- tentively on his fingers; there an Armenian priest, with square cap and long dusky dra- peries, tells his prayers upon sandal-wood beads. A mad dervish, naked to the loins, his hair knotted in clf-locks,his limbs ma- cerated by starvation, howls out his unearthly dirge, to which nobody seems to pay atten- tion, save that Yankee skipper, in a round hat, fresh from halifax to Balaklava, who is much astonished, if he would only confess it, and who sets down in his mental log-book all that he sees and hears in this strange country as an almighty start. Italian sailors, speaking as much with their fingers as their tongues, call perpetually on the Vir- gin; whilst Greeks, Maltese, and Lonian islanders scream, and gesticulate, and jabber, and cheat whenever and however they can. Yonder an Arab from the desert stalks grim and haughty, as though he trod the burning sands of his free, boundless home. Armed to the teeth, the costly shawl around his waist bristling with pistols and sword and deadly yataghan, he looks every inch the tameless war-hawk whose hand is against every man, and every mans hand against him. Preoccupied is he, though, and ill at ease, for he has left his steed in a stable from whence he feels no certainty that priceless animal may not be stolen ere he returns; and should he lose his horse, what will his very life avail him then? Nevertheless, he can sneer bitterly on that gigantic Ethi- opiana slave, of coursewho struts past him in all the borrowed importance of a great mans favorite. At Constantinople, as at New Orleansin the City of the Sultan as in the Land of the Free, the swarthy skin, the flattened features, and the woolly hair of the negro denote the slave. That is a tall, stalwart fellow though, and would fetch his price in South Carolina fast enough, were he put up for sale to the highest bidder. Such a lot he need not dread here, and he leads some half-dozen. of his comrades, like him- self, splendidly dressed and armed, with a confident, not to say bellicose, air, that seems to threaten all bystanders with annihilation if they do not speedily make way for his master the Pasha. And now the Pasha himself comes swinging by at the fast easy walk of his magnificent Turkish charger, no~ 43 TIlE INTERPREThR. many crosses removed from the pure blood of the desert. The animal seems proud of its costly accoutrements, its head-stall em- bossed with gold and housings sown with pearls, nor seems inclined to flag or waver under the goodly weight it carries so jauntily. A gentleman of substantial proportions is the Pasha; broad, strong, and corpulent, with the quiet, contented air of one whose habitual life is spent amongst subordinates and inferiors. He is a true Turk, and it is easy to trace in his gestures and demeanor haughty, grave, and courteousthe bearing of the dominant race. His stout person is buttoned into a tight blue frock-coat, on the breast of which glitters the diamond Order of the Medjidjie, and a fez or crimson skull- cap, with a brass button in the crown, sur- mounts his broad placid face, clean and close shaved, all but the carefully-trimmed black moustache. A plain scimitar hangs at his side, and the long chibouques, with their costly amber mouthpieces, are carried by the pipe-bearer in his rear. The cripple asking for alms at his horses feet narrowly escapes being crushed beneath its hoofs; but in Turkey nobody takes any trouble about any- body else, and the danger being past, the cripple seems well satisfied to lie basking in thesun on those warm boards, and wait for his destiny, like a true Mussulman as he is. Loud are the outcries of this Babel-like throng; and the porters of Galata stagger by under enormous loads, shouting the while with stentorian lungs, well adapted to their Herculean frames. Water-carriers and sweetmeat renders vie with each other in proclaiming the nature of their business in discordant tones; a line of donkeys, bearing on their patient backs long planks swaying to and fro, are violently addressed by their half-naked drivers in language of which the poetic force is equalled only by the energetic enunciation; and a string of Turkish fire- men, holloaing as if for their lives, are hurry- ingif an Osmanli can ever be said to hurry to extinguish one of those conflagrations which periodically depopulate Pera and Stamboul. The blue sparkling water, too, is alive with traffic, and is indeed anything but a silent highway. Graceful caiques, rowed by their lightly-clad watermenby far the most picturesque of all the dwellers by the ]3osphorusshoot out in all directions from behind vessels of every rig and every ton- nage; the boatmen screaming, of course, on every occasion, at the very top of their voices. All is bustle, confusion, and noise; but the tall black cedars in the gardens of the Seraglio-palace tower, solemn and im- movable into the blue cloudless sky, for there is not a breath of air stirring to fan the scorching noon, and the domes and minarets of Stambouls countless mosques glitter white and dazzling in the glare. It is refreshing to watch the ripple yonder on the radiant Bosphorus, where the breeze sighs gently up from the Sea of Marmoraalas! we have not a chance of it elsewhere; and it is curi- ous to observe the restless white sea-fowl, whom the Turks believe to be the lost souls of the wicked, scouring ever along the sur- face of the waters, seemingly without stay or intermission, during the livelong day. It is ominous, too, to mark that enormous vulture poised aloft on his broad wing, like a shadow of evil impending over the devoted city. There are few places in the world so characteristic as the bridge between Galata * and Stamboul. And now the traffic is brought to a stand- still, for the huge fabric has to be opened, and swings back on its hinges for the passage of some mighty craft moving slowly on to the inner harbor to refit. It is a work of timb and labor; the former article is of con- siderably less value to our Moslem friends than the latter, and is lavished accordingly; but though business may be suspended for the nonce, noise increases tenfold, every item of the throng deeming the present an oppor- tune moment at which to deliver his, her, or its opinion on things in general. Nimble fingers roll the fragrant cigarette, and dis- sonant voices rise above the white spiral smoke into the clear bright air. Close be- hind me I recognize the well-known Saxon expletive adjuring Johnny to drive on said Johnny invariably returning a bless~. ing for a curse; but driving on, if by that expression is meant activity and prog- ress, as little as may be. Turning round, I confront a florid Saxon face, with bushy beard and whiskers, surmounting a square ~ The suburb of Pera lying next the Bosphorus, a locality combining the pecaliarities of our own Smithfield, St. Giles, and Billingsgate in their worst days. There is another bridge across the Golden Horn, higher up; but its traffic, compared to that of its neighbor, is as that of Waterloo to London bridge. 44 form that somehow I think I have seen be- fore. Scant greeting serves in time of strife, and taking my chance of a mistake, I salute my neighbor politely. Mr. Manners, I believe? I am afraid you do not recollect me. Major Manners, sir; Major Manners very much at your service, is the reply, in a tone of mild correction. No; I confess you have the advantage of me. And yet. can it be? Yes, it isVere Egerton! The same, I answered, with a cordial grasp of the band ; but it is strange we should meet here, of all places in the world. I always told you I was born to be a soldier, Egerton, said the usher, with his former jaunty air of good-humored bravado; and here I am amongst the rest of you. Bless me, how youre grown! I should not have known you had you not spoken to me. And Idont you think I am altered, eh? improved, perhaps, but certainly altered what? I glanced over my friends dress, and agreed with him most cordially as to the alteration that had taken place in his appearance. The eye gets so accustomed to difference of costume at Constantinople, that it is hardly attracted by any eccentricity of habit, however uncommon; but when my attention was called by Manners himself to his exterior, I could not but confess that he was apparelled in a style of gorgeous mag- nificence, such as I had never seen before. High black riding boots of illustrious polish, with heavy steel spurs that would have be- come Prince Rupert; crimson pantaloons under a bright green tunic, single-breasted, and with a collar & la guillotine, that showed off to great advantage the manly neck and huge bushy beard, but at the same time suggested uncomfortable ideas of sore throats and gashing sabre-strokes; a sash of golden tissue, and a sword-belt, new and richly em- broidered, sustaining a cavalry sabre nearly four feet long,all this was more provo- cative of admiration than envy; but when such a tout ensemble was surmounted, by a white beaver helmet with a red plume, some- thing of a compromise between the head- dress of the champion at Astleys and that which is much affected by the Prince Con- sort, the general effect, I am bound to con- fess, became striking in the extreme. I see, said I~ I adi~ire you ve~y 45 much; but what is it?the uniform, I mean. Staff corps? Land Transport? What? Land Transport, indeed! replied Manners, indignantly. Not a bit of it nothing half so low. The Bashi-Bazouks- Beatsons Horsewhatever you like to call them. Capital serviceexcellent paythe officers a jovial set of fellows; and reallyeh now? confess, a magnificent uniform. Come and join us, Egertonwe have lots of vacan- cies; its the best thing out. And your men? I asked, for I had hear? something of these Bash i-Bazouks and their dashing leader. What sort of sol- diers are they ?can you depend upon them? Id lead them anywhere, replied my enthusiastic friend, whose experience of war~~ fare was as yet purely theoretical. The finest fellows you ever saw; full of confidence in their officers, and such horsemen! Talk of your English dragoons! why, our fellows will ride up to a brick wall at a gallop, and pull up dead short; pick a glove off the ground from the saddle, or put a bullet in it when going by as hard as they can lay legs to the ground. You should really see them under arms. My opinion is, they are the finest cavalry in the world. And their discipline I continued, knowing as I did something of these wild Asiatics and their predatory and irregular habits. Oh, discipline! answered my embryo warrior; bother the discipline! we mustnt begin by giving them too much of that; besides, its nonsense to drill those fellows, it would only spoil their dash. They behave very well in camp. I have been with them now six weeks, and we have only had one row yet. And was that serious? I asked, anxious to obtain the benefit of such long experience as my friends. Serious replied Manners, thought- fully; well, it was serious; pistols kept popping off, and I thought at one time things were beginning to look very ugly, but the chief soon put them to rights. They positively adore him. I dont know whether he punished the ringleaders. However, added he, brightening up, you must expect these sort of things with Irregulars. It was the first time I was ever shot at, Egerton; THE INTERPRETER. THE INTERPRET1~R. it8 not half so bad as I expected: we are all dying to get into the field. Hullob! they have shut the bridge again, and I must be getting on. Which way are you going to the Serasker~t? Come and dine with me to-day at MessiresSalaam! And Manners strutted off, apparently on the best of terms with himself, his uniform, and his Bashi-Bazouks. Well! he, too, had embarked on the stormy career of war. It was wonderful how men turned up at Con- stantinople, on their way to or from the Front. It seemed as if society in general had determined on making an expedition to the East. Dandies from St. Jamess street were amusing themselves by amateur sol- diering before Sebastopol, and London fine ladies were to beseen mincing about on the rugged stones of Pera, talking bad French to the astonished Turks with a confidence that was truly touching. It was Europe invading Asia once more, and I could not always think Europe showed to advantage in the contrast. A native Turk, calm, dignified, kindly, and polite, is a nobler specimen of the human race than a bustling French barber or a greedy German Jew; and of the two latter classes Pera was un- fortunately full even to overflowing. Well, it was refreshing to have crossed the bridge at lastto have left behind one the miser- able attempt at Europeanism, the dirt, the turmoil,.and the discomfort of Pera, for the quiet calm, the stately seclusion, and the venerable magnificence of Stamboul. CHAPTER XXXLTHE SERASKERAT. TRUE Believers were thronging in and his knowledge of my person as attached to out of the great mosque of St. Sophia, pious the staff of Omar Pasha, served somewhat to in the consciousness of their many prostra- arouse him; but ere he was fairly under tions, rigorous in their observance of the arms I was already in the inner court of the hour of prayer. A mollak was shouting Seraskerat, and beyond reach of his chal- from one of the minarets, calling north, lenge or his salute. What a contrast did it south, east, and west on all the faithful present to our own Horse-Guards, to which servants of the Prophet to offer up their office it is a corresponding institution! Not- daily orisons; and the infidel, as we term withstanding our boasted superiority, not- him, responded zealously to the call. Busi- withstanding the proverbial supineness and ness was drowsily nodding in the bazaar; indolence of the Sultans officials, the com- and the tradesman, sitting cross-legged on parison was hardly in favor of our London his counter, pointed feebly with his pipe t~- head-quarters for the hindrance of military wards the rich wares which his customer affairs. Here was no helpless messenger, seemed barely to have energy to select. whose business it seems to be to know Slipshod Turkish ladies, accompanied by nothing, and who answering every question their negro damsels, were tripping slowly with the unfailing I will go and inquire, home from the bath, peeping at the Giaour disappears and is seen no more. Here was through the thin folds of their yash-maks no supercilious clerk, whose duty would with curiosity not untempered by scorn, appear to enjoin concealment of all he does Pot-bellied children, pashas in miniature, know, and an imperative necessity of throw- holding up their garments with one hand, ing difficulties in everybodys way. Here whilst they extended the henna-dyed fingers was no lingering for hours in an ante-room, of the other, waddled after the stranger, now to obtain a five minutes interview of author- spitting at him with precocious fanaticism, itative disapprobation, on the one hand, and now screaming out something about Bono submissive disappointment on the other. On Johnny and Para, in unseemly cupidity the contrary, at the foot of the stairs leading for an alms. Dogs, gorged and sleepy, the to the Seraskiers apartments were collected recognized scavengers of the streets, lay a posse of bustling, smart attendants, all coiled up in each shady corner and recess. alive and willing to assist in whatever was Everything betokened somnolence and re- going on. Foreign officers, chiefly Hun- pose. The very sentry at the gate of the garians, passed to and fro in eager conclave Serasker& t had laid his musket carefully or thoughtful meditation. Interpreters were aside, and was himself leaning against the on the alert to solve a difficulty, and well- wall in an attitude of helpless resignation. bred, active horses stood saddled and bridled, and imbecility. ~My Turkish uniform, and ready to start at a moments notice with an 46 THE INTERPRETER. order or a despatch. A knavish dragoman was jabbering bad Italian to a Jewish- looking individual, who I concluded must be a contractor; and a tall colonel of Turkish cavalry roIling a cigarette in his brown, well-shaped fingers, stood looking on in dignified indifference, as if he understood every word of their conversation, but con- sidered it immeasurably beneath his haughty notice. I sent up my name by a slim-waisted young officer, a Turk of the modern school, with long hair and varnished boots, over which, however, he was forced to wear In- dia-rubber goloshes, that on going into the presence of a superior he might pay the in- dispensable compliment of uncovering his feet; and almost ere I had followed him three steps up-stairs he had returned, and informing me that I was expected, held aside the curtain, under which I passed into the presence~f the Seraskier. Again, how unlike the Horse-Guards! the room, though somewhat bare of furniture, was gorgeously papered, painted, and deco- rated, in the florid style of French art; a cut-glass chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling, and richly framed mirrors adorned the walls. From the windows the eye travelled over the glorious Bosphorus, with its myriads of shipping, to the Asiatic shore, where beautiful Scutari, with its background of hills and cypresses, smiled down upon the waters now gleaming like a sheet of burnished gold. A low divan cov- ered with velvet cushions and costly shawls stretched round three sides of the apartment, and on this divan were seated in solemn con- clave the greatest general of the day and the Seraskier or Commander-in-chief of the Turkish Army. Some knotty point must have been under discussion before I entered, for Omar Pashas brow was perplexed and clouded, and a dead silence, interrupted only by the bubble of the Seraskiers nas-ghileh, reigned between the two. The latter motioned me courte- ously to seat myself by the side of my chief; an attendant brought me a spoonful of sweetmeat, a tiny cup of strong, thick coffee, and an amber-tipped chibouque adorned with priceless diamonds, and filled with tobacco such as the houris will offer to the true believer in Paradise. I knew my assistance would soon be required; for al 47 though Omar Pasha is a good Turkish scholar, few men save those to whom it is almost a mother-tongue can converse fluently for any length of time with a Turk in his own language: so I smoked in silence and waited patiently till I was wanted. True to the custom of the country, Omar Pasha resumed the conversation in an indif- ferent tone, by a polite inquiry after his ex- cellencys health, which must havesuffered from his exertions in business during the late heats. To this his excellency replied, that he had been bled, and derived great benefit from it; but that the sight of his highness, Omar Pasha, had done him more good than all the prescriptions of the Hakim. A long silence, broken only as before; Omar Pasha, who does not smoke, waxing impatient, but keeping it down manfully. The Seraskier at length remarked without fear of contradiction, that his highness was exceedingly welcome at Constantinople, and that God is great. Such self-evident truths scarcely furnished an opening for further comment, but Omar Pasha saw his opportunity and took advan- tage of it. Tell the Seraskier, said he to me, as being a more formal manner of acknowledg- ing his courtesy, that his welcome is like rain on a parched soil; that Constantinople is the paradise of the earth, but the soldier ought not to leave his post, and I must return to the army, taking with me those supplies and arrears of pay of which I stand in need. All this I propounded in the florid hyper- bole of the East. Assuredly, answered the Seraskier, a stout, sedate, handsome personage, who looked as if nothing could ruffle or discom- pose him, and was therefore the very man for the place, Assuredly, the beard of his highness overflows with wisdom; there is but one God. This was undeniable, but hardly conclu- sive; Omar Pasha came again to the attack. I have made a statement of my wants, and the supplies of arms, ammunition, and money, that I require. The army is brave, patient, and faithful; they are the children of the Sultan, and they look to their father to be fed and clothed. That statement has THE INTERPRETER. been forwarded to your excellency through the proper channels. When the children ask for bread and powder to fight the ac- cursed Moscov, what is their general to reply? Bakaloum (we shall see), answered the Seraskier, perfectly unmoved. If your highness statement has been duly for- warded, doubtless it has reached our father the Sultan, with the blessing of God. Our father is all-powerful; may he live for a thousand years. Omar Pasha began to lose patience. But have you not seen and read it your- self? he exclaimed, with rising color; do you not acknowledge the details? do you not know the urgency of our wants? have you not taken measures for supplying them? The Seraskier was driven into a corner, but his sang-froid did not desert him for a moment. 1 have seen the statement, said he, and it was cleverly and fairly drawn up. The war is a great war, and it has great re- quirements. By the blessing of God, the armies of the faithful will raze the walls of Sebastopol, and drive the Moscov into the sea. Kismetit is destiny, praise he to Allah! Before I set on board ship, before I leave the quay at Tophana, I must have those supplies shipped and ready to sail, urged OmarPasha, now thoroughly roused, and showing his European energy in strong con- trast to the Oriental apathy of the other; I cannot proceed without them, I must have them by the end of the month. Orders must be sent out to-nightwill you promise me this? Bakaloum(we shall see), replied the Seraskier, and after a few unmeaning com- pliments the audience ended, and I accom- panied my Chief down stairs into the court- yard of the Serasker~t. And this, my dear Egerton, said he, as he mounted his horse to proceed to his own quarters, is one of the many difficul- ties with which I have to contend. Nobody knows any thingnobody cares for any thingnobody does any thing. If we had hut a Government, if we were not para- lyzed, why with such an army as mine I could have done much. As it is, we are worse than useless. If the men have no shoes, no powder, no bread, and I apply to the authorities, as I have done to-day, it is Bakaloum(we shall see). We shall in- deed see some fine morning when the troops have all deserted, or are starved to death in their tents. Every official, high and low, seems only to look out for himself; what is there for us but to follow the example? And yet what chances lost! what an army thrown away! But the Allies will soon take the place, I remarked, wishing to look on the bright side of things if possible, an~ then our plan of a campaign is feasible enough. We shall sweep the whole of the Crimea, and strike him such a blow in Asia as ~vill crip- ple our old friend the Russky, for many a long day. Oniar smiled and shook his head. Too many masters, friend Egerton, he replied; too many masters. The strings are pulled in Paris, and Londonay, and in Vienna too. Diplomatists who do not know their own business are brought forward to teach us onis, and what is a General to do? There should he hut one head to two hands Here we have it all the other way. No, no, it is all Bakaloumtogether, and we must make the best of it! I will send for you to-morrow if I want you. As he rode away in his long, dark over- coat and crimson fez, I looked after his manly, nervous figure, and thought to my- self what a commander would that have been in any other service in the world. Had he but chanced to be born a Pole in- stead of a Croat, would the Danube still form the line of demarcation between the eagle and its prey l Would the Sultan be even now basking in beauty and revelling in champagne amongst the enervating delights of the Seraglio gardens 1 Would the bal- ance of power in Europe be. still held in equipoise and the red flag, with its star and cresent, still flaunt over the thronging masts of the Golden Horn1 Several of my old acquaintances crowded round me crc I left the court-yard of the Serasker~t, welcoming me back to Constan- tinople, and eager to learn all the trifling. news of the day; every man believing every other to be better informed than himself as to all that was going on in the front. I could gratify them but little, as my duty had now for some considerable period removed 48 me from th~ scene of active operations. Truth to tell, I longed ardently to be in the field once more. Amongst others, my old comrade, Au Mesrour, the Beloochee, touched me on the shoulder, and greeted me with the heartfelt cordiality that no Asiatic ever assumes save with a fast and well-tried friend. The last time I had seen him he was engaged with some half-dozen Cossacks on the heights above Baidar, in the most romantic portion of the Crimea. He had kept them gallantly at lances length for more than ten minutes, and made his escape after all, wounded in two places, and leaving three of his enemies dismounted on the field. Then he was ragged, jaded, dirty, and half-starved, for we were all on short rations about that time; now I should hardly have recognized him, sleek, handsome, and debonair, dressed, moreover, with unparalleled magnificence, and carrying, as is the custom of these war- riors, all his worldly wealth, in the jewelled hilt of his dagger, the mounting of his pis- tols, and the costly shawls that protected his head and wound about his middle. lie seized me by the right hand, and pressed it to his heart, his eyes, aud his forehead; then poured forth a volume of welcomes in the picturesque language of the East. Could I do less than ask after the welfare of Zuleika, the gallant animal to whom I owed liberty and life? Allah has preserved her, replied the Beloochee, and she is now in a stable not far from this spot. Her skin is sleek and fair ; she is still my soul, and the corner of my heart. May she live a thousand years, was my comment; to her and her master I am indebted for being here now. She is one of the best friends I ever had. 49 The Belooche& s eyes sparkled at the rec- ollection. It was a favorable night,he an- swered.~.t. and destiny was on our side The dog of a Cossack! What filth I made him devour! how he rolled in the dust and gasped at the kisses of my sharp knife! The Effeudi rode in pain and weakness, but Allah strengthened him. The Effendi can walk now as well as when he left his mothers side. We were strolling together down one of the shady, narrow streets that lead to the waters edge, for I was on my return to Pera, and the Beloochee, in his delight at meeting his old comrade, would not suffer me to proceed alone. It was about five oclock in the afternoon, and the scorching heat which had reigned all day was at last tempered with the breeze from the Black Sea. 0! blessings on that breeze from the north! Without it how could we have en- dured the stifling atmosphere of Roumelia in the dog-days? By one of those wonder- ful arrangements of nature, which, after all (being accounted for on natural principles,) would be far more wonderful were they not~ so, this welcome air began to blow every dPby7 at the same hour. I used to look for it ~ for the coming of a friend. If he was ~ot with me at half-past three, he was suve not to be later than five-and-twenty minutes. to four; and when he did come, I receivc;d him with bare brow and open arms. ~& re we. reached the bridge, the climate from being well-nigh unbearable had become delightful, and all the inhabitants of Constantinople seemed te have turned out to drink in new life at every pore, and enjoy the unspeakable refreshment of a lowered temperature, till the dews should fall and the sun go down. CHAPTER XXXII.A TURK S HAREM. As we neared the waters edge, my com- panion started and turned perfectly livid, as if laboring under some fearfully strong emo- tion. True to his self-command, however, he allowed no other outward sign to betray his feelings. In front of us walked a Turk- ish lady, closely veiled of course, and accom- panied by a female negro slave. Following the Beloochees gaze, I observed by the ladys dress and demeanor that she was of high rank, and in ~dl probability the property of some great man, a Pasha at DCXCVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 4 least. At that time a black attendant ar gued no inferiority on the part of the mis- tress as it does now. It is only since the peace of 56 that the negro woman has been at such a discount in Stamboul as to fill every corner of the streets with her lamenta- tions, looking in vain for a purchaser, a master, and a home. The cause of this sudden fall in the valu of a strong, servicable article, which had hitherto commanded a fair and r~muneratWe price, is to be found as usual in the enter- THE INTERPRETER. THE INTERPRETER. prise of speculators, and the luxurious ten- dencies of an unfeeling public. The far-see- ing slave-dealers who provide the Turkish market with Circassian wares had no diffi- culty in foretelling that the Treaty of Paris would abandon to their fate those gallant mountaineers of the Caucasus who have so long and so manfully struggled for independ- ence from the Russian yoke, and that soon they must bid an eternal farewell to their lucrative traffic in Circassian beauty, and their judicious supply of wives for the Pashas of Constantinople. Accordingly, ere the treaty came into operation, and the Govern- rrtent of the Czar was authorized to forbid the export of its new subjects, they pro- ceeded to buy up, far and near, every eligible young lady of Circassian origin, and forward her as speedily as possible to the Emporium of Matrimony at Constantinople. Nor was this so hard a lot for these mountain-daisies as it may at first sight appear. They are taught to look upon the slave-market of the Turkish capital as the arena in which they are to contend for the prizes of lifenamely, comfortable quarters, luxurious baths, a house full of slaves, and a rich master. To he deprived of her season at Stamboul is a bitter disappointment to a Circassian belle. We in England cannot understand this. Our fair Anglo-Saxons broil in London through the dog-days simply and entirely for the exquisite delights of its amusements and its society. Who ever heard of an Eng- lish girl going to a ball with any ulterior view but that of dancing? Who ever de- tected her paying her modest court to an elderly Pasha (of the Upper House) for the sake of having jewels and amber, and gilded arabas and slaves, at her disposal? Who ever knew a blooming rose of June that would have made the treasure of his life to Lazarus, and changed his gloomy dwelling to a bower of Paradise, transplanted by her own desire to the hothouses of Dives, there to queen it for a day among all his plants and cx tics, and then pine neglected and withering away? No, no, we know ,noth- ing of such doings, but the trade flourishes handsomely in the East, and consequently the spring and summer of 56 saw Constanti- nople literally smothered in beauty. I use the wordadvisedly, for an Oriental enslaver, in the language of Burns, is a lass who bas acre& of charms, and a Pasha purchases his wife as he does his mutton, by the pound. Now, demand and supply, like action and re-action, are equal and contrary,, nor is woman more than any other marketable commodity exempt from the immutable law; so when this invasion of beauty came pour- ing into Constantinople, the value even of a Circassian decreased steadily in an alarming ratio, till a damsel that, in the golden days of gallantry, would have fetched a hundred and fifty pounds sterling, was now to be bought warranted for five! Mark the sequel. Luxury crept in amongst the lower classes. The poor Turkish artizan, ambi- tioning a Circassian bride, sold his tools, his allnay, his faithful black wives, to pur- chase the unheard-of blessing. The moor negro womenwere turned adrift into the streets. Who was to bid for them? During the worst period of the panic, black women were selling in Constantinople at a shilling a dozen! The Beloochee griped my arm hard. It is Zuleika ! lie whispered between his set teeth. She has not seen meshe does not know I am here. Perhaps she has forgotten me.! Let us follow her, said I, for in truth I sympathized with poor Ali, and my Eng- lish blood boiled at the manner in which he had been deprived of his bride. The Beloochee loosened his dagger in its sheath, and drew the folds of his shawl tighter round his waist. Eff~ndi, said he, you are a true comradeBismillah! the end is yet to come. The lady and her attendant walked pro- vokingly slow, looking at every object of curiosity on their way, and making it ex- ceedingly difficult for us to adapt our pace to theirs without exciting observation in the passers-by At length they reached the waterside, and summoning a caique pushed out into the Bosphorus. We were speedily embarked in another and following in their wake, our caigee, or boatman, at once pene- trating our intentions, and entering into the spirit of the thing with all the fondness for mischief and intrigue so characteristic of his class. As we glided along over the rippling waters we had ample time to dispose our plans, the object of which was to give the Beloochee an opportunity of communicating with his lost love, to learn, and if possible to rescue her from her fate. Keep close 60 to that caique, said I to our sympathizing waterman, and when we are secure from observation go up alongside. The rascal showed all his white teeth, as he grinned in- telligence and approval. So we glided down the beautiful Bos- phorus, past marble palaces and glittering kiosks, till we came under the very walls of a building, more magnificent than any we had yet passed, with a wide frontage to- wards the water, supported on shafts as of smoothest alabaster, the closed lattices of which, with its air of carefully guarded se- clusion, denoted the harem of some great dignitary of the empire, who was in the habit of retiring hither to solace himself after the labors of government and the cares of state. Through a gate of iron trellis- work, beautifully designed and s~rought, we caught a glimpse of a lovely garden, rich in gorgeous hues, and sparkling with fountains murmuring soothingly on the ear, whilst from the lofty doors, securely clamped and barred, wide steps of marble reached down to the waters edge, lipped and polished by the lazy ripple of the waves. Here we brought our bark alongside the object of our chase, but we had reckoned without our host in counting on the imper- turbability of a ladys nerves, for no sooner had the Beloochee turned his face towards Zuleika, and whispered a few short syllables straight from his heart, than with a loud shriek she tossed her hands wildly above her head, and fainted dead away in the bottom of the caique. At that instant the boats nose touched the lower step of the palace, and the negro woman, almost as helpless as her mistress, began screaming loudly for assistance, whilst a guard of blacks opening the huge double doors came swarming down to the waters edge, scowling ominously at the Beloochee and myself, who with our mischievous boat- man had now shoved off and remained at some distance from the shore. There was but one thing to be done, and that quickly. Hakim! I shouted to the blacks, who were bearing the lifeless form of the girl up the palace steps; I am a doctor, do you want my assistance? and at the same time, I handed my pencil-case and the back of a letter to my comrade. Alas! he could not write, but in a hurried whisper entreated me, if possible, to com 51 municate with Zuleika, and bear her the message which he confided to me from his old and faithful love. By dint of threats and a kick or two, I prevailed on my friend the caigee, who began to think the fun was getting too hot for him, to pull ashore; and boldly mounting the steps, I informed the chief of the harem- guard authoritatively that I was a physi- cian, and that if the Khanums (ladys) life was to be saved, not a moment must be lost. She was evidently a favorite wife of her lord, for her fainting fit seemed to have caused much commotion in the household, and during his absence the major-domo of the harem took upon himself, not without many misgivings and much hesitation, to admit me, a giaour and a man, within the sacred and forbidden precincts. The Turks have a superstitious reverence for the science of medicine, which they believe, and not without reason, to be practised by the Franks more successfully than by themselves. To my adoption of the character of a Hakim I owed my present im- munity and my entrance into that sanctum of a Turks house, which it is considered in- decorous even to mention in conversation with its master. I do not lay claim to more courage than my neighbors, and I confess it was with a beating heart that I followed the helpless form of Zuleika borne by her swarthy at- tendants up the palace steps, through the massive doors which swung and closed be- hind me, as if to shut out all chance of escape, to find myself at the top of a hand.. some staircase, on the very threshold of the womens apartment. What confusion my entrance created! Shrieks and jeers, and stifled laughter resounded on all sides, whilst black eyes flashed inquiring glances at the Frankish doctor; veiled, indeed, hut scarcely dimmed by the transparent folds of the yash-mak, and loosely clad forms in all the colors of the rainbow, flitted hither and thither, with more demonstration of activity than the occasion seemed to warrant. I had heard much of the discipline of these caged birds, and pictured to myself, with sympathizing pity, their isolated con- dition, cut off from friends and relatives, weighed down by all the fetters of wedlock, but denied the consolations of domestic happiness, and had imagined that the Turk- THE INTERPRETER. Tlll~ INTERPRETER. ish woman was probably the most unhappy of all the daughters of Eve. What a deal of commiseration thrown away! Perhaps no woman in the world is more completely her owa mistress in her own way than is the wife of a Turkish dignitary. Habit recon- ciles her to the veil, which indeed is of the thinnest material, and is almost her only restriction. She can walk abroad for busi- ness or pleasure, attended by only one female slave, and with such a convoy comes and goes unquestioned. It is only of very late years that an English lady could walk through the streets of London without at least as efficient a guard. The Oriental beauty, too, has her own hours and her own apartments. Even her lord himself, he whom we picture as a turbaned Blue-beard, despotic in his own household, the terror of his wives and servants, preserves a chival- rous etiquette towards the lady that adorns his harem. He does not venture to cross the threshold of her apartment should he find her slippers placed outside. It is a signal that he is not wanted, and nothing would induce him to be guilty of such an act of rudeness as to go in. lIe comes at stated times, and his visits are always pre- ceded by due notice. He lavishes handsome presents on his departure, and when he is unable to sun himself in the sight of her beauty, in consequence of his other engage- ments, and the rest of the suns in whose rays it is his duty to bask, he provides her with caiques and arabas to take her abroad, and furnishes her with plenty of pin-money to spend in the delightful occupation of shopping. The chief of the negro-guard looked wist- fully at me as I accompanied him, rolling the whites of his eyes in evident uncertainty and perturbation. As, however, Zuleika was still senseless, it seemed absolutely necessary that I should prescrihe for her before my departure, and, accordingly, he motioned me to follow the stout blacks who were carrying her into the very inner recesses of the harem. As I passed through those luxuriously- furnished apartments, I could not refrain from casting many a curious glance around at the diverse implements and accessories of the Turkish toilette, the many devices prac- tised here, as in all lands, by ladies to keep them beautiful or leave them neat. Costly shawls, silks from India, muslins like the web of the gossamer, and brocades stiff and gorgeous as cloth of gold, were scattered about in unlimited profuson, mixed with amber heads, massive gold chains, necklaces, bracelets, and anklets, French watches set to Turkish time, precious stones of every value and hue, sandal-wood fans, and other rare knick-knacks, mixed up with the most insignificant articles one can imagine, such as card-racks, envelope-cases of papier- machd, small brushes with oval mirrors at the back, and all sorts of trifles sent out from Paris and bought in Pera, to amuse those grown-up children. The rooms were lofty and spacious, but the casements, even those that overlooked the gardens, jealously closed, and the lattices almost impervious even to the cool northern breeze. Bath- rooms opened from either side of the apart- ments, and every appliance for that Turkish luxury was of the most complete kind. At length we reached the room appropriated to Zuleikas especial use, and as her bearers laid her on the divan, I observed that in this more than in any other apartment of the palace luxury reigned supreme. I argued Zuleika must be, at least for the present, the reigning favorite and queen of the Seraglio. MOUYTED SrArr-OrrIcEns.By an order just issued from the Horse Guards, regulating the qualifications of officers to be appointed in future on the staff, the aides-de-camp, & c., are required to be adepts in taking, among other things, flying sketches on horseback. Now, I should thank any corresponpent of N. & Q. who would point out to me any apparatus or manner in which this may be accomplished, having, when whirled along in the old mail- coach, found it a most impracticable matter; and to a mounted officer, it seems to me next to an impossibility for, so long ago as the time of Swift, a similar difficulty is pointed out, even by Hannah, Lady Achesons maid, who remarks to her mistress A Captain of Horse never takes off his hat, Because he has never a hand that is idle; For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle.Hamiltons Bawn, lines 1068. We may have many ambidextrous aides-de- camp, but I have never yet heard of a Briareus among them ?Notes and Queries. 52

Tlll~ INTERPRETER. ish woman was probably the most unhappy of all the daughters of Eve. What a deal of commiseration thrown away! Perhaps no woman in the world is more completely her owa mistress in her own way than is the wife of a Turkish dignitary. Habit recon- ciles her to the veil, which indeed is of the thinnest material, and is almost her only restriction. She can walk abroad for busi- ness or pleasure, attended by only one female slave, and with such a convoy comes and goes unquestioned. It is only of very late years that an English lady could walk through the streets of London without at least as efficient a guard. The Oriental beauty, too, has her own hours and her own apartments. Even her lord himself, he whom we picture as a turbaned Blue-beard, despotic in his own household, the terror of his wives and servants, preserves a chival- rous etiquette towards the lady that adorns his harem. He does not venture to cross the threshold of her apartment should he find her slippers placed outside. It is a signal that he is not wanted, and nothing would induce him to be guilty of such an act of rudeness as to go in. lIe comes at stated times, and his visits are always pre- ceded by due notice. He lavishes handsome presents on his departure, and when he is unable to sun himself in the sight of her beauty, in consequence of his other engage- ments, and the rest of the suns in whose rays it is his duty to bask, he provides her with caiques and arabas to take her abroad, and furnishes her with plenty of pin-money to spend in the delightful occupation of shopping. The chief of the negro-guard looked wist- fully at me as I accompanied him, rolling the whites of his eyes in evident uncertainty and perturbation. As, however, Zuleika was still senseless, it seemed absolutely necessary that I should prescrihe for her before my departure, and, accordingly, he motioned me to follow the stout blacks who were carrying her into the very inner recesses of the harem. As I passed through those luxuriously- furnished apartments, I could not refrain from casting many a curious glance around at the diverse implements and accessories of the Turkish toilette, the many devices prac- tised here, as in all lands, by ladies to keep them beautiful or leave them neat. Costly shawls, silks from India, muslins like the web of the gossamer, and brocades stiff and gorgeous as cloth of gold, were scattered about in unlimited profuson, mixed with amber heads, massive gold chains, necklaces, bracelets, and anklets, French watches set to Turkish time, precious stones of every value and hue, sandal-wood fans, and other rare knick-knacks, mixed up with the most insignificant articles one can imagine, such as card-racks, envelope-cases of papier- machd, small brushes with oval mirrors at the back, and all sorts of trifles sent out from Paris and bought in Pera, to amuse those grown-up children. The rooms were lofty and spacious, but the casements, even those that overlooked the gardens, jealously closed, and the lattices almost impervious even to the cool northern breeze. Bath- rooms opened from either side of the apart- ments, and every appliance for that Turkish luxury was of the most complete kind. At length we reached the room appropriated to Zuleikas especial use, and as her bearers laid her on the divan, I observed that in this more than in any other apartment of the palace luxury reigned supreme. I argued Zuleika must be, at least for the present, the reigning favorite and queen of the Seraglio. MOUYTED SrArr-OrrIcEns.By an order just issued from the Horse Guards, regulating the qualifications of officers to be appointed in future on the staff, the aides-de-camp, & c., are required to be adepts in taking, among other things, flying sketches on horseback. Now, I should thank any corresponpent of N. & Q. who would point out to me any apparatus or manner in which this may be accomplished, having, when whirled along in the old mail- coach, found it a most impracticable matter; and to a mounted officer, it seems to me next to an impossibility for, so long ago as the time of Swift, a similar difficulty is pointed out, even by Hannah, Lady Achesons maid, who remarks to her mistress A Captain of Horse never takes off his hat, Because he has never a hand that is idle; For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle.Hamiltons Bawn, lines 1068. We may have many ambidextrous aides-de- camp, but I have never yet heard of a Briareus among them ?Notes and Queries. 52 VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE. From The Examiner. The Eventful Voyage of H. M. Discovery Ship Resolute to the Arctic Regions in Search of Sir John Franklin and the missing Qrews of H. M. Discovery Ships Erebus and Terror, 1852, 1853, 1854. To which is added an Ac- count of her being fallen in wi/h by an American Whaler after her abandon- ment in Barrows Straits, and of her Presentation to Queen Victoria by the Gov- ernment of the United States. By George F. MDougall, Master. Longman and Co. ARCTIC literature would have been incom- plete, of course, without a book devoted to the story of the Resolute, and we are very well content that such a book should be supplied, as it is here, from the journals of a sailor who can tell in his own natural way the round, unvarnished tale of his ex- perience, and under whose narrative we feel often the swelling of brave thoughts, and the stir of an emotion that gives power to his words although he has no skill whatever as a writer. The interest in the story of the voyage of the Resolute arises partly out of the perils and escapes of the ship itself, but is more especially fixed upon that portion of the narrative which describes the adventures of the several travelling parties sent out from her when in winter quarters. Of these parties the most important was the one under Lieutenant Bedford Pim, which secured the rescue of the crew of the Investigator, and so joined the story of the Resolute to that of the discovery of the North-west Passage. The public has already read in journals written on board the Investiga- tor that first incident of the rescue which we here quote from another record: Licut. Pim, in the meantime, was cross- ing the Straits, and on the 6th April the Investigator was descried. Running on in advance of the sledge, Pim approached within a few hundred yards without being observed. ~t so happened that Captain MClure and Licut. llaswell were walking to and fro alongside the ship, no doubt discuss- ing the all-engrossing subject of abandoning the vessel, which was to have taken place on the 15th inst. (nine days from that date). Seeing a man dressed in an unusual garb, running with great haste towards them, they expressed surprise, but thought, as a matter of course, the man must be one belonging to the Investigator, chased probably by a bear or a pack of wolves. On a closer inspection they thought he must be an Esquimaux; but although laboring under this impression, Captain MClure naturally called out (in English), In the name of God, who are you? The effect of the answer, I am Licut. Pim of the Resolute (Captain Kellett), now at Melville Island, may, or rather must be conceived; for as I am aware I could not describe it, I do no intend attempting it. Whilst this little scene was being enacted, a man from the deck saw Licut. Pim, and indistinctly caught his answer. Rushing below he roused all hands, by call- ing out, heres a stranger alongside from some ship. The effect was astounding; the sick vied with the healthy in activity to get on deck. All was haste and confusion; ~in a moment the lower deck was cleared, the carpenters had dropped their tools (they were making their first coffin), and even the men on shore, digging a grave, seeing that something unusual had occurred, hurried off to share in the astonishment and delight of their excited shipmates. Mr. MDougall thus tells how the news of the rescue reached the Resolute Tuesday, April, 19thDay remarkably fine. Refraction very great. At 10 A. M. several dark spots, unlike the shade thrown by hummocks, were observed to the west- ward about Cape Bounty. By noon the dark objects proved to be a body of men advancing towards the ship, and great anxi- ety prevailed until we learnt the news from Banks Land. About 5 r. M. a party of men were dis- patched to assist in bringing in the sledges, and most of the officers walked out to meet Domville, who was recognized through a telescope, somewhat in advance of the main body. As we grasped him by the hand (which, as well as his face, was as black as the ace of spades), his words the Inves- tigator is found, and MClure is close behind overpowered us with surprise, and the poor fellow was overwhelmed with a thousand questions, ere time was allowed to answer one. hurrying on, with some of my brother officers I had the pleasure of adding my welcome and congratulations to Captain MClure and Mr. Court (second master); the latter had been an old schoolfellow, and afterwards a messmate of mine in H. M. brig Ranger. This was our first meeting after a lapse of elven years. Poor fellows a few words sufficed to inform us of the mis- erable state from which we had rescued them, and their hearts overflowed with grat- itude towards those who (by the blessing of the Almighty) had been chosen as the in- struments of his never-failing mercy. 63

VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE. From The Examiner. The Eventful Voyage of H. M. Discovery Ship Resolute to the Arctic Regions in Search of Sir John Franklin and the missing Qrews of H. M. Discovery Ships Erebus and Terror, 1852, 1853, 1854. To which is added an Ac- count of her being fallen in wi/h by an American Whaler after her abandon- ment in Barrows Straits, and of her Presentation to Queen Victoria by the Gov- ernment of the United States. By George F. MDougall, Master. Longman and Co. ARCTIC literature would have been incom- plete, of course, without a book devoted to the story of the Resolute, and we are very well content that such a book should be supplied, as it is here, from the journals of a sailor who can tell in his own natural way the round, unvarnished tale of his ex- perience, and under whose narrative we feel often the swelling of brave thoughts, and the stir of an emotion that gives power to his words although he has no skill whatever as a writer. The interest in the story of the voyage of the Resolute arises partly out of the perils and escapes of the ship itself, but is more especially fixed upon that portion of the narrative which describes the adventures of the several travelling parties sent out from her when in winter quarters. Of these parties the most important was the one under Lieutenant Bedford Pim, which secured the rescue of the crew of the Investigator, and so joined the story of the Resolute to that of the discovery of the North-west Passage. The public has already read in journals written on board the Investiga- tor that first incident of the rescue which we here quote from another record: Licut. Pim, in the meantime, was cross- ing the Straits, and on the 6th April the Investigator was descried. Running on in advance of the sledge, Pim approached within a few hundred yards without being observed. ~t so happened that Captain MClure and Licut. llaswell were walking to and fro alongside the ship, no doubt discuss- ing the all-engrossing subject of abandoning the vessel, which was to have taken place on the 15th inst. (nine days from that date). Seeing a man dressed in an unusual garb, running with great haste towards them, they expressed surprise, but thought, as a matter of course, the man must be one belonging to the Investigator, chased probably by a bear or a pack of wolves. On a closer inspection they thought he must be an Esquimaux; but although laboring under this impression, Captain MClure naturally called out (in English), In the name of God, who are you? The effect of the answer, I am Licut. Pim of the Resolute (Captain Kellett), now at Melville Island, may, or rather must be conceived; for as I am aware I could not describe it, I do no intend attempting it. Whilst this little scene was being enacted, a man from the deck saw Licut. Pim, and indistinctly caught his answer. Rushing below he roused all hands, by call- ing out, heres a stranger alongside from some ship. The effect was astounding; the sick vied with the healthy in activity to get on deck. All was haste and confusion; ~in a moment the lower deck was cleared, the carpenters had dropped their tools (they were making their first coffin), and even the men on shore, digging a grave, seeing that something unusual had occurred, hurried off to share in the astonishment and delight of their excited shipmates. Mr. MDougall thus tells how the news of the rescue reached the Resolute Tuesday, April, 19thDay remarkably fine. Refraction very great. At 10 A. M. several dark spots, unlike the shade thrown by hummocks, were observed to the west- ward about Cape Bounty. By noon the dark objects proved to be a body of men advancing towards the ship, and great anxi- ety prevailed until we learnt the news from Banks Land. About 5 r. M. a party of men were dis- patched to assist in bringing in the sledges, and most of the officers walked out to meet Domville, who was recognized through a telescope, somewhat in advance of the main body. As we grasped him by the hand (which, as well as his face, was as black as the ace of spades), his words the Inves- tigator is found, and MClure is close behind overpowered us with surprise, and the poor fellow was overwhelmed with a thousand questions, ere time was allowed to answer one. hurrying on, with some of my brother officers I had the pleasure of adding my welcome and congratulations to Captain MClure and Mr. Court (second master); the latter had been an old schoolfellow, and afterwards a messmate of mine in H. M. brig Ranger. This was our first meeting after a lapse of elven years. Poor fellows a few words sufficed to inform us of the mis- erable state from which we had rescued them, and their hearts overflowed with grat- itude towards those who (by the blessing of the Almighty) had been chosen as the in- struments of his never-failing mercy. 63 VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE. Our feelings on this occasion were those of heartfelt thankfulness that our labor had not been in vain, and each member of our little community must have felt his heart glow with honest pride, to reflect that he formed one of the little band whose under- takings in the cause of humanity had been crowned with such signal success. About 6 P. H. we had the before-mentioned officers and seven men on board. Although eager to learn all the news, close questioning was very properly postponed, until their appe- tites had been quite satisfied. The rescued men were nearly all suffering from scurvy: MDonald (the man who was brought over on the sledge) was in a dreadful state; his flesh would retain an impression, if touched with the finger, like dough or putty; his legs were swolen to twice their natural size; whilst his teeth could he moved to and fro in the gums by the slightest movement of the tongue. He, however, re- covered his health. We draw upon Mr. MDougall for an anec- dote very suggestive of the hunger that must have been endured by the recovered crew. Perhaps the smallest quantity of pro- visions ever consumed by a travelling party, where sufficient could have been obtained, occurred in Captain MClures party of eight men, when he first reached Barrows Straits from the westward, and thus estab- lished the existence of the NORTHWEST PAS- SAGE, in October, 1850. The party was away ten days, and con- sumed during that period (exclusive of choc- olate and tea) the following solids only viz. pemecian, 18 lbs; buscuit, 40 lbs. The cause is attributed to the want of water, the quantity of fuel being insufficient to afford the necessary supply. Amongst the numerous anecdotes illus- trative of the biting hunger to which they were subjected, the following are amusing enough to create a smile even amongst the sufferers. Whenever any game was killed, the hunter had the privilege of retaining certain parts of the animal; and in addition a pound of meat was awarded to those who left the ship for the purpose of bringing on board the carcass. This latter service sel- dom fell to the lot of the hunter, if the ani- mal had been shot at any great distance from the vessel, as in most cases he was glad to rest awhile after his exertions. On one occasion an officer volunteered to go for the carcass of a deer. Certainly, replied the Commander, you of course will obtain your pound oi~ meat. The officer cx- pressed his satisfaction and was turnin away, when the Captain, seized with a sudden fit of generosity, addedAnd Mr. ,if you leave early to-morrow morning say four oclockI shall allow you to have two ounces and a half of oatmeal in addition! the officer looked his thanks, but was unable to express his gratitude in words. Report adds, the vision of such a splendid breakfast in perspective caused him a very restless night. Of experiences during the voyage of the Resolute we will now glean from Mr. MDougalls pages a few notes. ESQUJMAUX AT CAPE YORK. The so-called village consisted of three seal-skin tents erected on the inner slope of Cape York, close beside a huge glacier. The inhabitants consisted of two old women, who might have been belles in their younger days; if so, their present personal appear- ance would tend to prove beyon4 a doubt that beauty is but fleeeting. Three younger and more comely women, each with a child at her back, were presumed to be the wives of the only three men we observed. Besides these there were nine children of different ages, all as healthy as they were dirty. The appearance of the interior of the tents was quite in keeping with their per- sons. The skins strewn around were any thing but inviting, and although not very fastidious, it would take a considerable time time to reconcile one to the thoughts of seeking repose amongst so much filth. Strewn around on the outside of the tents were bones of birds and seals, besides a quantity of putrid seal flesh and intestines, sending forth an offensive smell, We of course considered this to be the refuse, on which probably the dogs were fed, but were soon enlightened by seeing one of the ancient ladies take a portion of the entrails, and swallow a quantity of it as Italians do macaroni. Being however a few yards in length, she was unable to swallow the whole, and therefore contented herself with a foot or two, which was severed with a knife. This feat, completed our disgust, and after the captain had distributed a few presents, we retraced our steps towards the boats, pitying in our inmost hearts the sad lot of these poor wretches, whose only means Qf subsistence must be very precari- ous; for having no boats, they are neces~i- tated to trust to killing their prey between the cracks in the ice. And here it may not be unworthy of remark, that no other com- munity in the knowR world, frequenting sea coasts, are without some description of vessel. 54 VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE. PARRYS THEATRE RE-OPENED. Nov. 23rd. 1852.All has been hurry and bustle for the last fortnight, in prepar- ing scenes, decorations, dresses, & c., for the theatre. In addition to being a committee man, I was obliged to take on myself the responsible offices of scene-painter and dress- maker; the former was sufficiently difficult in consequence of the want of proper ma- terials; to remedy which we were obliged to have recourse to soot, blacking, chalk, & c. The dress-making business was, indeed, extremely puzzling, particularly in the ladies department; but success attended our enterprising efforts, and although much criticised, elicited warm expressions of admir- tion. The skirts and polka jackets had been brought from England. A stiff duck petti- coat made a capital substitute for a hair ditto; this, with the addition of a comforter stuffed with oakum, made the after part of the dress resemble a miniature St Pauls dame. This evening the Theatre Royal, Mel- ville Island, was re-opened after a lapse of thirty-two years. Indeed, no dramatic corps had visited the Island since the breaking up of the first establishment under the manage- ment of Captain Parry, in 1820. On the curtain rising, the following prologue (which I had written for the occa- sion) was spoken by Dr. Domville, in char- acter, as The flyperborean King: Tis now some two and thirty years ago, This region of eternal ice and snow Was first discovered by one Edward Parry, Who near this spot eleven months did tarry; Ice-hound as you are now,like you in hope Next seasons summers sun the ice might ope, & c. & c. READING THERMOMETERS BY LAMPLIGHT. Adies thermometer, supplied from Kew Observatory, may be considered the standard for and below the freezing point of mercury, but the colorless fluid and faint graduations are highly objectionable, particularly in such a climate as is experienced within the Arctic Circle; the difficulty of reading off is much increased, and in many cases the registration was worse than useless; for by the time the observer had succeeded in detecting the whereabouts of the fluid, and the correspond- ing degree, the radiation of the heat from the lamp, which was necessarily held close, had affected the temperature of the immediate atmosphere, which has been proved to be as much as 2 degrees in half a minute. I should therefore suggest that ther- mometers containing colored (red) fluid, with the graduations marked in a legible manner, should be supplied to vessels winter- ing in these regions. 55 RETURN OF THE ARCTIC SUN. Saturday, Feb. bth.For the last few days the suns near approach to the horizon had been proclaimed by an extended arch of light, with a few small crimson clouds float- ing in a golden sea. 0! with what pleasure did we all look forward to his actual pres- ence. Refraction ,corrections of all descrip- tions,not forgetting the dip from the top of Dealy Island, 160 feet high,were worked out minutely, and the result of our calcula- tions led us to expect he might possibly be seen for the space of a few minutes at noon on the 4th. The weather on that day, however, was unfavorable; a cold, sharp wind, with mist, prevailed. But the 5th was a glorious day, clear, cloudless, and cold. During the forenoon officers and men might have been observed stopping occasion- ally during their monotonous walk on the floe, and contemplating with feelings of quiet rapture the .southern horizon, as the ai~ch gradually increased in extent and brilliancy. Officers,aye, and sedate ones too, on most occasions, might have been observed jumping as high as the weight of their clothes permitted, fondly hoping to be the first to welcome the glorious source of light and warmth to these inhospitable shores. At length, at 11.30 A.M., the flag on Dealy Island was hoisted, announcing to the little world below the fact of the sun being visible from that elevation. The ensigns on board both vessels were immediately hoisted, in honor of the prodigals return, after an absence of ninety-three days. A few minutes only elapsed, when the rays of his upper enlightened limb dazzled the eyes of those who were anxiously gazing from the floe. Every eye-lid drooped before the novel glare, hut the features of all bore an expression indicative of happiness. The very dogs appeared more animated, and seemed to have an innate sense that better days were coming. Giving an additional cock to their tails and ears, they gambolled with each other, and looked, in truth, a set of merry dogs. THE LEMMING. Several amusing anecdotes are told of this little creature by the officers of the various travelling parties. Lient. Mecham observes, that on one occasion, Buffer (an Esquimaux dog) was trudging along, nose to the ground, quite unconscious of danger, when a lemming, suddenly starting from its cavern, seized poor Buffer by the nose, in- flicting a severe wound. The dog, astounded at such an unexpected assault, gave a dismal howl, and at length shook the enemy off; 56 after which he became the attacking party, and in less than a minute the imprudent lemming disappeared between the jaws of the Tartar he had attempted to catch. My own experience of those industrious little warriors tended to prove they possessed a strange combination of sociality and com- bativeness. Industrious they most certainly are, as is proved by the complicated excava- tion of their subterranean cities: besides which, every feather and hair, of bird and animal, found in the vicinity of their dwell- ings is made to contribute its iota of warmth and comfort to the interior of their winter quarters. I had many opportunities of watching their movements during my detention in Winter Harbor. My tent happened to be pitched immediately over one of their large towns, causing its inhabitants to issue forth from its thousand gates to catch a view of the strangers. Frequently, on waking, we have found the little animals, rolled up in a ball-like form, snugly ensconced within the folds of our blanket bags; nor would they be expelled from such a warm and desirable position without showing fight. On several occasions I observed Naps (the dog) fast asleep, with one or two lemmings huddled away between his legs, like so many pups. Mr. MDougall says that, thanks to Cap- tain Kellett and his officers, the Resolute under all rigors of the Pole perfectly main- VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE. tamed the character it had obtained during her first voyage in 1850 under Captain Austin as a happy ship. Throughout this volume we feel that the Master is quite right in his opinion, and we perceive that, although he never magnifies an office of his own, he contributed his full share of good work and good feeling towards making the ship a happy one. We close our notice with this sketch of the crew of the Resolute towards the conclusion of its second winter in the frozen deep. I think I have never yet observed such a studious body of men as are now on board the Resolute. I have frequently walked round the deck of an evening for the express purpose of ascertaining their occupations, and have as frequently been gratified to find all employed; most of them reading or writing (for many keep journals), whilst the minority are repairing clothes, and listening to one of their messmates, reading aloud from a library book, stumbling over the hard words, or leaving them out altogether to be filled up by the imagination of his bearers. Navigation, music, and even drawing, have their votaries, and it would indeed be diffi- cult to recognize, in the studious features of our ships company, the British sailor of the present day with that described by Dibdin, or imitated by the T. P. Cooke school. THE OLD HUNDREDTH TUNEA good his- tory of congregational singing would be very interesting and amusing. About the close of the seventeenth century there were great doubts as to the propriety of singing in divine worship en the Lords day, to clear up which Benj. Keach wrote his book called The Breach Re- paired; or Singing an Holy Ordinance In my boyish days it was never questioned that the Old Hundredth was a composition of Lu- thers : now this is denied; but it is certain this tune was used by the Reformers from his time. The first printed copy of it, ia my pos- session, is in the French-German Psalter the preface to which says Touchant la melodie, ii a sembl6 le meil- leur, quelle fust moderde, en la sorte que nous lavons mise, pour emporter peids et majestd convenable au sujet: Et mesme pour estre pro- pre h chanter en lEglise, selon quil a estd dit. Be Genebe, ce 10 de Juin, 1543. This preface was written by Calvin. See Marshs Works2e The Old Hundredth is put SE In the royal patent to print this Psalter in France granted 19 Oct. 1561, to Antoine Vincent of Lyons it is described as having bonne musique comme a estd bien vue et cognue par gens doctes to Psalm cxxxzzri, and so continued in subse- quent editions, of which I have those of Cres- pin, 1555; Vincent, 1562; Le Bas, 1567, and Estienne, 1567 and 1568. In the early Scotch Service books, Ediab. 1615 and 1635; Aberdeen, 1633, the Old Hundredth is placed to the 100th psalm, All people that on earth do dwell, & c. It will also he so found appended to the early Genevan English Bibles from 1576, and to the Jubilate (Ps. 100) in th t printed at Geneva by Crespin, 1568, with apt notes to sing withall. [The Marlowe and Keach controversy touch- ing Psalm-singing is of all curiosities the most remarkable. It runs through about thirty little volumes. The arguments of Hanserd Knollys and Isaac Marlowe took this course: The church (Baptist) never sang until Mr. Keach came among us, There is no such thing in the Old Testament that the Church of God, minister and people, men and women, did ever vocally sing together in church worship. Richard Allen came out in defence of Keach, and his Singing of Psalms a Christian Duty deserves to be reprinted.]Notes and Queries. en lart do musique. There is no mention of the composers.

56 after which he became the attacking party, and in less than a minute the imprudent lemming disappeared between the jaws of the Tartar he had attempted to catch. My own experience of those industrious little warriors tended to prove they possessed a strange combination of sociality and com- bativeness. Industrious they most certainly are, as is proved by the complicated excava- tion of their subterranean cities: besides which, every feather and hair, of bird and animal, found in the vicinity of their dwell- ings is made to contribute its iota of warmth and comfort to the interior of their winter quarters. I had many opportunities of watching their movements during my detention in Winter Harbor. My tent happened to be pitched immediately over one of their large towns, causing its inhabitants to issue forth from its thousand gates to catch a view of the strangers. Frequently, on waking, we have found the little animals, rolled up in a ball-like form, snugly ensconced within the folds of our blanket bags; nor would they be expelled from such a warm and desirable position without showing fight. On several occasions I observed Naps (the dog) fast asleep, with one or two lemmings huddled away between his legs, like so many pups. Mr. MDougall says that, thanks to Cap- tain Kellett and his officers, the Resolute under all rigors of the Pole perfectly main- VOYAGE OF THE RESOLUTE. tamed the character it had obtained during her first voyage in 1850 under Captain Austin as a happy ship. Throughout this volume we feel that the Master is quite right in his opinion, and we perceive that, although he never magnifies an office of his own, he contributed his full share of good work and good feeling towards making the ship a happy one. We close our notice with this sketch of the crew of the Resolute towards the conclusion of its second winter in the frozen deep. I think I have never yet observed such a studious body of men as are now on board the Resolute. I have frequently walked round the deck of an evening for the express purpose of ascertaining their occupations, and have as frequently been gratified to find all employed; most of them reading or writing (for many keep journals), whilst the minority are repairing clothes, and listening to one of their messmates, reading aloud from a library book, stumbling over the hard words, or leaving them out altogether to be filled up by the imagination of his bearers. Navigation, music, and even drawing, have their votaries, and it would indeed be diffi- cult to recognize, in the studious features of our ships company, the British sailor of the present day with that described by Dibdin, or imitated by the T. P. Cooke school. THE OLD HUNDREDTH TUNEA good his- tory of congregational singing would be very interesting and amusing. About the close of the seventeenth century there were great doubts as to the propriety of singing in divine worship en the Lords day, to clear up which Benj. Keach wrote his book called The Breach Re- paired; or Singing an Holy Ordinance In my boyish days it was never questioned that the Old Hundredth was a composition of Lu- thers : now this is denied; but it is certain this tune was used by the Reformers from his time. The first printed copy of it, ia my pos- session, is in the French-German Psalter the preface to which says Touchant la melodie, ii a sembl6 le meil- leur, quelle fust moderde, en la sorte que nous lavons mise, pour emporter peids et majestd convenable au sujet: Et mesme pour estre pro- pre h chanter en lEglise, selon quil a estd dit. Be Genebe, ce 10 de Juin, 1543. This preface was written by Calvin. See Marshs Works2e The Old Hundredth is put SE In the royal patent to print this Psalter in France granted 19 Oct. 1561, to Antoine Vincent of Lyons it is described as having bonne musique comme a estd bien vue et cognue par gens doctes to Psalm cxxxzzri, and so continued in subse- quent editions, of which I have those of Cres- pin, 1555; Vincent, 1562; Le Bas, 1567, and Estienne, 1567 and 1568. In the early Scotch Service books, Ediab. 1615 and 1635; Aberdeen, 1633, the Old Hundredth is placed to the 100th psalm, All people that on earth do dwell, & c. It will also he so found appended to the early Genevan English Bibles from 1576, and to the Jubilate (Ps. 100) in th t printed at Geneva by Crespin, 1568, with apt notes to sing withall. [The Marlowe and Keach controversy touch- ing Psalm-singing is of all curiosities the most remarkable. It runs through about thirty little volumes. The arguments of Hanserd Knollys and Isaac Marlowe took this course: The church (Baptist) never sang until Mr. Keach came among us, There is no such thing in the Old Testament that the Church of God, minister and people, men and women, did ever vocally sing together in church worship. Richard Allen came out in defence of Keach, and his Singing of Psalms a Christian Duty deserves to be reprinted.]Notes and Queries. en lart do musique. There is no mention of the composers. JOHN WILSON CROKEIL. 57 Erom The Press, August 15. I tremely difficult, in the presence of his un- Tnn Right lion. John Wilson Croker died buried remains, to offcr a strict examination & t Sir William Wightmans villa, St. of Mr. Crokers stormy literary career. To Albans-bank, Hampton, at ten oclock on use a favorite illustration of his own, Mr. Monday night. The right hon. gentleman Croker was the foul weather Jack of had been in declining health for some periodical literature. He was bitter and months past, and had removed from Ken- boisterous in his galling derision of an ad- sington Palace to Judge Wightmans villa versary; rapid and unceremonious in attack, within the last ~veek to see if change of air if a rejoinder were offered he always showed and scene would have any beneficial effect a determination to have the last word. He on his health. The deceased was son of was more of a pamphleteer than of a public Mr. John Croker, Surveyor-General of Ire- censormore of a reviewer than of a critic land, and was born in December, 1780, in or essayistand issore of a debater than an County Gaiway, Ireland. He was educated orator. There was a certain malign asperity at Trinity College, Dublin, where he greatly of mind and fierce propensity to energetic distinguished himself, and in 1802 called to disparagement of individuals in Mr. Croker the Irish bar. Mr. Croker entered the which raised him a swarm of enemies. lie House of Commons in 1807, for Down- left upon numbers the impression that he patrick. He sat in eight successive Parlia- was one of the paxnphleteers of the eighteenth ments, having represented the University of century who came into the world fifty years Dublin, Yarmouth, Athlone, and Bodmin in too late. He had a vast stock of personal the Lower House of the Legislature. Mr. and defamatory gossip, more or less an- Croker retired after the election of 1832, thentic; he had a prodigious command of when he sat with the Marquis of Douro damaging personal allusions; he had an (now Duke of Wellington) for the disfran- innate propensity to sarcasm, accompanied chised borough of Aldebrough, Suffolk. It with literary finish in forging his truculent will be remembered that Mr. Croker was, discharges; he had fluent lips, a mordant from his introduction into public life, a tongue, and a front of brass. To put hum great friend of the Duke of York, In 1809, down was out of the question; he existed he was appointed Secretary of the Admiralty, in being attacked; he liked having a public which appointment he held until 1830, quarrel on his hands; and he had justifiable having in June, 1828, been made a Privy confidence in his unfailing stock of vitupera- Councillor. lIe was a Fellow of the Royal tion, and corrosive virulence of reply. In Society (1810), D.C.L., LL.D., a Fellow of literature his best performance was an ad- the Asiatic Society, and of other learned in- mirably penned Sketch of IrelandPast stitutions. By his death a pension of 1,- and PresentiSOS), which was acute and 500 on the Consolidated Fund ceases, which clear in thinking, and curiously neat in its the right hon. gentleman had enjoyed ever elaborate imitation of Tacitus. But we since his retirement from the Admiralty in think his highest and worthiest mental 1830. The deceased gentleman married, in efforts were in the debate on the Reform Bill 1806, Miss Pennell, daughter of Mr. Win. in 1831 and 1832, when, after many years Pennell, for many years Qonsul-General at of comparative Parliamentary inactivity, he the Brazils, who survives her husband. shone forth a brilliant debater, eloquent in The, death of the late Right Honorable statement, and ready in reply. It can John Wilson Croker has come without sur- said with truth that neither his political prise. For the last few years Mr. Croker friends nor foes anticipated the extent of labored under a singular complication of Mr. Crokers Parliamentary resources until bodily infirmities, and it was a wonder he he appeared in Opposition. During his lived so long. Born at Galway in 1780, long tenure of the Secretaryship of the Ad- Mr. Croker early came before the public, miralty he had been looked upon as only one and in activity of work he was second to of the subalterns of the old Tory party, and none amongst the literary men of his gene- as not being well fitted for playing a leading ration. About the value of his writings, part in the House of Commons. The ques- and upon the estimate of his character, tion on which he had been used to speak in opinions (even amongst Conservatives) are early years was Catholic Emancipation, various and opposite, and it would be cx- and it was said (we cannot say with what

JOHN WILSON CROKEIL. 57 Erom The Press, August 15. I tremely difficult, in the presence of his un- Tnn Right lion. John Wilson Croker died buried remains, to offcr a strict examination & t Sir William Wightmans villa, St. of Mr. Crokers stormy literary career. To Albans-bank, Hampton, at ten oclock on use a favorite illustration of his own, Mr. Monday night. The right hon. gentleman Croker was the foul weather Jack of had been in declining health for some periodical literature. He was bitter and months past, and had removed from Ken- boisterous in his galling derision of an ad- sington Palace to Judge Wightmans villa versary; rapid and unceremonious in attack, within the last ~veek to see if change of air if a rejoinder were offered he always showed and scene would have any beneficial effect a determination to have the last word. He on his health. The deceased was son of was more of a pamphleteer than of a public Mr. John Croker, Surveyor-General of Ire- censormore of a reviewer than of a critic land, and was born in December, 1780, in or essayistand issore of a debater than an County Gaiway, Ireland. He was educated orator. There was a certain malign asperity at Trinity College, Dublin, where he greatly of mind and fierce propensity to energetic distinguished himself, and in 1802 called to disparagement of individuals in Mr. Croker the Irish bar. Mr. Croker entered the which raised him a swarm of enemies. lie House of Commons in 1807, for Down- left upon numbers the impression that he patrick. He sat in eight successive Parlia- was one of the paxnphleteers of the eighteenth ments, having represented the University of century who came into the world fifty years Dublin, Yarmouth, Athlone, and Bodmin in too late. He had a vast stock of personal the Lower House of the Legislature. Mr. and defamatory gossip, more or less an- Croker retired after the election of 1832, thentic; he had a prodigious command of when he sat with the Marquis of Douro damaging personal allusions; he had an (now Duke of Wellington) for the disfran- innate propensity to sarcasm, accompanied chised borough of Aldebrough, Suffolk. It with literary finish in forging his truculent will be remembered that Mr. Croker was, discharges; he had fluent lips, a mordant from his introduction into public life, a tongue, and a front of brass. To put hum great friend of the Duke of York, In 1809, down was out of the question; he existed he was appointed Secretary of the Admiralty, in being attacked; he liked having a public which appointment he held until 1830, quarrel on his hands; and he had justifiable having in June, 1828, been made a Privy confidence in his unfailing stock of vitupera- Councillor. lIe was a Fellow of the Royal tion, and corrosive virulence of reply. In Society (1810), D.C.L., LL.D., a Fellow of literature his best performance was an ad- the Asiatic Society, and of other learned in- mirably penned Sketch of IrelandPast stitutions. By his death a pension of 1,- and PresentiSOS), which was acute and 500 on the Consolidated Fund ceases, which clear in thinking, and curiously neat in its the right hon. gentleman had enjoyed ever elaborate imitation of Tacitus. But we since his retirement from the Admiralty in think his highest and worthiest mental 1830. The deceased gentleman married, in efforts were in the debate on the Reform Bill 1806, Miss Pennell, daughter of Mr. Win. in 1831 and 1832, when, after many years Pennell, for many years Qonsul-General at of comparative Parliamentary inactivity, he the Brazils, who survives her husband. shone forth a brilliant debater, eloquent in The, death of the late Right Honorable statement, and ready in reply. It can John Wilson Croker has come without sur- said with truth that neither his political prise. For the last few years Mr. Croker friends nor foes anticipated the extent of labored under a singular complication of Mr. Crokers Parliamentary resources until bodily infirmities, and it was a wonder he he appeared in Opposition. During his lived so long. Born at Galway in 1780, long tenure of the Secretaryship of the Ad- Mr. Croker early came before the public, miralty he had been looked upon as only one and in activity of work he was second to of the subalterns of the old Tory party, and none amongst the literary men of his gene- as not being well fitted for playing a leading ration. About the value of his writings, part in the House of Commons. The ques- and upon the estimate of his character, tion on which he had been used to speak in opinions (even amongst Conservatives) are early years was Catholic Emancipation, various and opposite, and it would be cx- and it was said (we cannot say with what 58 accuracy) that the Chief of the Tory party did not wish that Mr. Croker should put himself forward too much in debate. In those times etiquette was stricter than now about official subordinates not often appear- ing on their legs. Mr. Croker was never a popular man at any time in his con- nection. He was too habitually censorious, and he did not comport himself with suffi- cient respect towards his rivals, or his allies. His conception of a critic was that of a literary lictor. Authors of the opposite party, occasionally of the weaker sex, were tied up by him; and Mr. Croker was never happier than when (figuratively) he broke his bundle of rods on the blistered backs of his tortured victims. He, himself, seemed callous to ridicule and reproof. If he was knocked down in argument, he got up again with the temperament of an Irishman at a fair, who thinks that bumps and blows are only compliments to be returned. We fear that in criticism (as the literary pam- phleteering of the quarterly organs was called) Mr. Croker gave more needless pain to individuals than any reviewer that could be named. If he had the pleasure, he had also the pains of a controversialist. As a political writer he was surpassed by some of his contemporaries. His style had a fatal mannerism, which was happily ridiculed in the remark that his articles seemed drawn up from the briefs of an Old Bailey attor- ney. On the French Revolution Mr. Croker set up for being especially strong, but his mockery of the supposition that a Napoleon dynasty could ever stand, or be accepted by the French, was not very dis- criminative; and, on the whole, even on English affairs, he cannot be praised for practical sagacity or clear foresight. The gloomy view which he always took of the national prospects was described by the late Marquis Wellesley as emanating from a spirit of sanguine despondency. He never discerned the corrective causes which counter- balanced some of the effects of the Reform Bill, and his lugubrious efforts as the Con- servative Cassandra in the Quarterly Review were so monotonous as to invite bad punsters to play upon their writers ominous name. It has always been supposed that Mr. Croker was a careful preserver of all his papers, and that he employed much of his leisure on his Life and Times. His statements must, we fear, be accepted with caution, as he was 3011K WILSON CROKER. a jaundiced observer, and the gall-bladder was too active in his atrabilious composition. Although sarcasm was his favorite weapon, in its employment he was far surpassed by some of his adversaries; and it would be difficult, even for his best friends, to say in what Mr. Croker ever was first-rate Yet, undoubtedly he had a mind of extraordinary activity; he was quick in acquiring knowl- edge, tenacious in retaining it; he was polemical by instinct, and controversial by profession; rarely profound in his views, his standard for measuring right and wrong was purely conventional, but his affectation of aristocratic prejudices, and echoing the fashionable cant of the great and high-born, was ridiculous and out of place. On the whole, Mr. Croker was a literary man whose powers were more active than original, and, even allowing their full force to his acute- ness and prompt command of details, we fear that the defects of his mind counter-balanced his merits. For several years his connection with the Quarterly Review had ceased, and he did not at the close of his career enjoy much of the confidence of many of the Jeaders of the Conservative connection. The heaviest charges against him probably are that he was never chivalrous in dealing with opponents, and that he never helped the rising talents of his own connection. His self-sufficiency, his jealousy, and his spleen were too often apparent. He did not agree well with the literary supporters of the Conservative party, and one of them (now no more) wrote the coarsest and cleverest epigram since the days of Swift upon Mr. Crokers intimate connection with the late Marquis of Iiertford. His biographer (if he have one) will have a most difficult task to perform, and he should be cautious how he Jays himself or his principal open to replies; for, judging by what already has appeared in print, we fear little mercy can be expected from political adversaries towards one who exceeded all living journalists and periodical contributors in the excessive license of dis- paragement which he claimed. But it is only fair to recollect that the times in which Mr. Croker was reared were more passionate than our quieter days, and that the tone of Liberal writers was extremely abusive so that a rose-water school of reviewing would not have been adequate. On the whole, however, it is to be regretted that Mr. Croker did not remain in Parliament. where his ready powers of argument, and his political knowledge, would have been much valued after the Reform Bill. lie might then have gained a higher meed of fame than even the partiality of friendship or com- munity of political feelings can venture to assign him now. CHASOT. From The Athenuum. Chasot. A Contribution to the History of Frederick the Great and his Times [Chasot. Zur Gescichte Friedrichs des Grossen und seiner Zeit]. By Kurd von Schlbzer. (Berlin, hertz; London, Wil- liams & Norgate.) Tnu volume before us is one of the ablest and best written historical inonographies which have come under our notice from Germany. Isaac Francis Egmont, Count de Chasot, the scion of an old and noble French family, originally residing in Burgundy, but later settling itself in Normandy, was born, on the 18th of February, 1716, in the town of Caen. He dedicated himself to a military career, and as early as 1734, when France in order to maintain the succession of Stan- islaus Lescynski to the throne of Poland was waging war with Austria, Prussia, and some other powers of the German Empire, we find him, as a promising young officer, in the suite of the Duke of Berwick, com- inander-in-chief of the French army then beleaguering the fortress of Philippsb~irg, on the Upper Rhine. Here (after the Duke, while inspecting the trenches, had been killed at his side by a cannon-ball,the fortress being taken a month afterwards by the Marquis dAsfeld, Berwicks successor,) Chasot, as it seems, being himself the pro- voked party, was involved in a duel, in which he was unlucky enough to kill his adversary, a relative of the Duke of Bouffiers, one of the most influential persons at the Court of Versailles, and commander of the regiment Bourbonnais, in which Chasot held an appointment. All the young mans prospects of military promotion were thus blighted,and, moreover, a most severe punishment awaited him. To escape this, he resolved on flight. Provided with bril- liant testimonials respecting his bravery signed by almost all the officers of his regi- ment, he rode into the Imperial camp, and placed himself under the protection of the enemys Generalissimo, old Prince Eugene, of Savoy. The veteran received him with kindness,made him a daily guest in his tent and at his table,and, by introducing him to the Crown-Prince of Prussia, after- wards King Frederick the Great (then a student of the art of war under the guidance of the warrior of Blenheim), gave a decisive turn to his whole future. Frederick took a 59 fancy to the buoyant, jovial, and high- spirited young Frenchman,made him his friend and companion,the partaker of .his frolics, his studies, and his battles,and though, after a lapse of eighteen years, their friendly intercourse, by some misunderstand- ing, was interrupted for a considerable length of time, yet in after life it was taken up again; and Frederick, when looking back to the days gone by, was never weary of re- peating, with fond recollection, Chasot, c est le matador de majeunesse. After the military promenade of 1734 we meet Chasot as one of the most con- spicuous members of that gay and witty circle with which Frederick had surrounded himself in his castle of Rheinsberg, that pic- turesque asylum on the border of the Lake of Grienerick, near Nen-Ruppin, where the Crown-Prince, during the last year before his accession, prepared himself, in a retire- ment entirely dedicated to literature, art, and the elegant pleasures of a refined court life, for the struggles that were near at hand for him. The chapter dedicated to the description of these things is one of the most attractive of the book. We see the castle which, when it was bought for Frederick, almost resembled a ruin, rebuilt and deco- rated,we look down from its windows on the quiet mirror of the wood-encircled lake beneath,the park full of vases and statues, invites us to its walks and recesses, lords and ladies gay~ wander about in its shades, hunting parties ride forth into the adjoin- ing forests,balls and masquerades are fol- lowed by theatrical representations,pic- tures of Voltaire are hanging on the walls, while his works, together with those of Racine, Corneille, Diderot, and the other representatives of French literature, are glistening on the shelves of the library, or lying about on tables and couches,and the concerts of Graun and Benda, (and some- times, too, in the stillness of midnight, the rich and me ~ow tones of a solitary flute,) inform us that we are at the court of a prince who, with all his other accomplish- ments, combines an enthusiastic love for music, and is an excellent performer him- self. Chasot, as may be imagined, did not play the least important part in this bril- liant and elevated circle. Young, hand- some, clever, and full of animal spirits, he was one of its first ornaments; and Fred-

CHASOT. From The Athenuum. Chasot. A Contribution to the History of Frederick the Great and his Times [Chasot. Zur Gescichte Friedrichs des Grossen und seiner Zeit]. By Kurd von Schlbzer. (Berlin, hertz; London, Wil- liams & Norgate.) Tnu volume before us is one of the ablest and best written historical inonographies which have come under our notice from Germany. Isaac Francis Egmont, Count de Chasot, the scion of an old and noble French family, originally residing in Burgundy, but later settling itself in Normandy, was born, on the 18th of February, 1716, in the town of Caen. He dedicated himself to a military career, and as early as 1734, when France in order to maintain the succession of Stan- islaus Lescynski to the throne of Poland was waging war with Austria, Prussia, and some other powers of the German Empire, we find him, as a promising young officer, in the suite of the Duke of Berwick, com- inander-in-chief of the French army then beleaguering the fortress of Philippsb~irg, on the Upper Rhine. Here (after the Duke, while inspecting the trenches, had been killed at his side by a cannon-ball,the fortress being taken a month afterwards by the Marquis dAsfeld, Berwicks successor,) Chasot, as it seems, being himself the pro- voked party, was involved in a duel, in which he was unlucky enough to kill his adversary, a relative of the Duke of Bouffiers, one of the most influential persons at the Court of Versailles, and commander of the regiment Bourbonnais, in which Chasot held an appointment. All the young mans prospects of military promotion were thus blighted,and, moreover, a most severe punishment awaited him. To escape this, he resolved on flight. Provided with bril- liant testimonials respecting his bravery signed by almost all the officers of his regi- ment, he rode into the Imperial camp, and placed himself under the protection of the enemys Generalissimo, old Prince Eugene, of Savoy. The veteran received him with kindness,made him a daily guest in his tent and at his table,and, by introducing him to the Crown-Prince of Prussia, after- wards King Frederick the Great (then a student of the art of war under the guidance of the warrior of Blenheim), gave a decisive turn to his whole future. Frederick took a 59 fancy to the buoyant, jovial, and high- spirited young Frenchman,made him his friend and companion,the partaker of .his frolics, his studies, and his battles,and though, after a lapse of eighteen years, their friendly intercourse, by some misunderstand- ing, was interrupted for a considerable length of time, yet in after life it was taken up again; and Frederick, when looking back to the days gone by, was never weary of re- peating, with fond recollection, Chasot, c est le matador de majeunesse. After the military promenade of 1734 we meet Chasot as one of the most con- spicuous members of that gay and witty circle with which Frederick had surrounded himself in his castle of Rheinsberg, that pic- turesque asylum on the border of the Lake of Grienerick, near Nen-Ruppin, where the Crown-Prince, during the last year before his accession, prepared himself, in a retire- ment entirely dedicated to literature, art, and the elegant pleasures of a refined court life, for the struggles that were near at hand for him. The chapter dedicated to the description of these things is one of the most attractive of the book. We see the castle which, when it was bought for Frederick, almost resembled a ruin, rebuilt and deco- rated,we look down from its windows on the quiet mirror of the wood-encircled lake beneath,the park full of vases and statues, invites us to its walks and recesses, lords and ladies gay~ wander about in its shades, hunting parties ride forth into the adjoin- ing forests,balls and masquerades are fol- lowed by theatrical representations,pic- tures of Voltaire are hanging on the walls, while his works, together with those of Racine, Corneille, Diderot, and the other representatives of French literature, are glistening on the shelves of the library, or lying about on tables and couches,and the concerts of Graun and Benda, (and some- times, too, in the stillness of midnight, the rich and me ~ow tones of a solitary flute,) inform us that we are at the court of a prince who, with all his other accomplish- ments, combines an enthusiastic love for music, and is an excellent performer him- self. Chasot, as may be imagined, did not play the least important part in this bril- liant and elevated circle. Young, hand- some, clever, and full of animal spirits, he was one of its first ornaments; and Fred- 00 CILASOT. erick, in his humorous poems to Jordan, f Dreadful forehodings filled his soul, and they Bpeaks more than once of the shining quali- proved to have boded hut too true! By ties and gay ways of Chasot, that fin Nor- Fredericks letter to Suhm, in, which the wand, qui se plait dans Ia chasse et Ic bruit, whole event is minutely narrated, we learn et qui sert par semestre what tragical fate fell to Chasots part. Chasot enrage sdrieusement de cette aven ture; ii es~t obli~ de recopier loriginal. And so it turned out. Poor Chasot had to copy the whole of the translation over again. Ou Diane, ou tant6t Venus, lEt que retiennent en sdquestre, De leurs rem~des tout percius, Les disciples de Saint Comus. At the same time he was one of the knights of Fredericks mysterious order of Bayard, thus showing himself worthy of the Princes confidence also in more serious matters. One thing only, it seems, was not to his taste,viz., to act, now and then, as Fred- ericks literary amanuensis. Once, he had copied, by order of the Prince, the manu- script of a French translation of Wolffs Me taphysik, done for Frederick (in order to facilitate his study of the German phil- osopher) by his friend Suhm, then ambassa- dor of Saxony at the Court of St. Peters- burg. This copy, we are informed, met with a rather fatal accident These halcyon days were not to last. The king, Fredericks father, died in May, 1740; the Emperor Charles the Sixth followed him in October of the same year; and, before the year ended, Frederick, at the head of his army, was on his march to Silesia. In the years of war which now followed, Chasot, who, no doubt, liked better to meet the kings enemies in the field than to copy philosophical manuscripts for the amuse- ment of the kings monkeys,distinguished himself in the most splendid manner. He was present at more than one encounter, saved the life of the king in the battle of Mollwitz,and, in that of Hohenfriedberg, is said to have contributed, by his personal courag~ and exertions, to the kings carrying the day. Here we have the, feat of Moll Frederick sat now for hours in his little turret-study, absorbed entirely in the read- ing of Wolffs work, from which he never witz: rose until the page announced that supper was ready. his favorite monkey, Mimi, Just in this critical moment, when used to be about him when he studied. One Frederick stood surrounded by the wildest evening, at the usual time, the Prince leaves press and tumult of the battle, Chasot found his room for his supper. The monkey re- himself in his immediate presence. Suddenly mains behind, with the candle left burning a cavalry officer of the enemys gallops for- on the writing-table. Near it lies the trans- ward with his people, and calls out lation, copied with so much painstaking. Where is the king? Chasot, understand- Aftor some time the Prince returns to con- ing the full importance of the mouient, with tinue his studies,but what is his terror, ready presence of mind, rides instantly up when, in entering the room, he sees the loose to the Austrian, exclaiming, I am the sheets of the translation burning cheerfully, king! A fierce combat ensues immediately md for the greatest part consumed already between the two. Soon the companions, y the flames. Mimi had profited by his too, of the Austrian press upon Chasot, ~osence to jump on the table and indulge in who, in the mean time, has been cut off from ighting a little bonfire. Thus Frederick his own people. From all sides the swords tescribes the incident himself, and declares of the enemy flash upon him; blows are o have been left in uncertainty only about ringing right and left round his head, which me thing: whether knowledge-thirsty Mimi the dexterous swordsmon tries to evade. iad had the intention to devote himself to There nowthe stroke of a heavy broad- ohilosophical studies ;or whether, per- sword hits his forehead; but at the very ~aps, Lange, the fierce opponent of Wolffs moment his people, who had long tried in work, had bribed the monkey for the de- vain to break through the enemy and to join ~tructisn of the same ;or whether, lastly, their valiant leader, rush to his rescue. At the cunning animal had not been prompted their approach the enemy disperse hurriedly. by a desire to take his revenge on Wolff, for Chasot is led away covered with blood ; the putting the race of monkeys so provokingly blow has cut deep into his head, but his far below that of men. However this might king is saved. Full of gratitude and emo- be, the translation was destroyed, and the tion, the king receives his heroic friend: he whole court laughed heartily at Mimis has won the lasting esteem of all his com- tricks. There was only one who did not rades; and, in the enthusiastic recollection feel disposed to laugh. This was Chasot. of this magnificent act of bravery and devo CHASOT. 61 tion, Voltaire, at a later period, addresses at Lubeck,became father of two sons, who him with these well-known words, afterwards entered the army of Frederick, Il me souvient encore de ce jour memorable, and, after having outlived the royal frend of Oii lillustre Chasot, ce guerrier formidable, his youth by eleven years, died in 1707, in Sauva par sa valeur le plus grand de nos the eighty-second year of his age. It is rois, o Prusse! 6l~ve un temple ~t ses fameux pleasant to find that his misunderstandings exploits! with the king were followed, in 1760, by a Services like these were not left unre- lasting reconciliation. It appears that warded. More and more the fiery young Chasot, in his position at Luheck, found Frenchman was distinguished by the favor many opportunities of rendering important and the confidence of the king. lie had services to Frederick. Thus the old cordial arrived at the summit of his fortune; and intercourse was renewed, and kept up, by even the unhappy issue of a duel, in which correspondence as well as by some visits of he had once more the misfortune to kill a Chasot to Berlin, until the death of Frederick fellow-offlcer,a rude and overbearing Pole, separated the veteran friends. The last whom Frederick, it would seem, liked for his years of Chasots life, with those startling dashing prowess, could only for a short while events in his own countrythe Revolution, alienate from him the friendship and good- the execution of a Bourbon, and the Republic will of his royal master. must have thrown strange and dismal However, a rupture with the king followed shadows on the soul of the old man. It nevertheless. After a few years partly spent was on the borders of an entirely new time in garrison, at Treptow, on the Tollensee, that his rich and full life came to a close. partly at the Art-loving court of Mecklen- Herr von Schl6zer, in giving us a doscrip- burg-Strelitz,partly at the splendid carni- tion of this life, has acquitted himself of vals and carousals of the Prussian capital, his task ia a masterly way. We hardly and partly ia political negotiations with know which to admire most: the indefati- which the king had intrusted him, gable industry with which he has brought prompted by reasons which have never been together, from dusty records, mouldy cor- fully known, but which most likely origin- respondences, and the little that is left of ated in the rather too great susceptibility of Chasots memoirs, the materials for his work, his character, Chasot suddenly left the or the skill of composition, with which he Prussian service, and took up his residence, has combined them into a picture so fresh in 1752, in the old free Ilanse-town of and lively as that before us. We recommend Lubeck. Here he lived for the next seven his book to all lovers of history. It is one years, in a sort of dignified retirement, cul- of the most genuine and valubale contribu- tivating his garden, and watering his flowers, tions towards the knowledge of Frederick the while Frederick fought at Prague and Collin, Great we have ever met with; and we do not at Rossbach and Leuthen, at Zorndorf, at hesitate to rank it with those cit efs-dc3uvre llochkirch and Kunersdorf. In 1759 he was of historical biography from the pen of appointed by the Senate to the post of mili- Varnhager von Ense,with the Lives of tary commander of Lubeck,married, in Keith, and of Seydlitz, of Winterfeldt, of 1760, the beautiful daughter of Stefano Schwerin, and of Blucher. Torelli, an Italian artist living at that time DAItKNE55 AT MID-DAY.A phenomenon of points assumed a lurid yellow appearance, as this extraordinary nature occurred at Bolton- though from conflagrations a few miles distant ic-Moors and the neighborhood, about noon on within a quarter of an hour from this time the Mondt~y, March 23, 1857. The wind during darkness was dispelled; but such was the alarm the morning had been north-east, with a little caused by the phenomenon, that many persons snow; at twelve oclock the air became quite supposed the world at an end, not a few were still, and a deep gloom overspread the heavens, made ill by intense nervous excitement, and all increasing so rapidly, that in ten minutes it was were more or less impressed with a feeling of not possible to read, or distinguish the features awe. Poultry went to roost, instinct being of any person a few yards off. This was the stronger than habit. Can any of your corres.. more singular from there being no fog at the pondents explain the cause of this phenomenon, time, though snow in very minute particles was or record any similar occurrences ?.TV~otes and falling. The extreme darkness continued about ~2ueries. eight minutes, when the horizon at two or three

CHASOT. 61 tion, Voltaire, at a later period, addresses at Lubeck,became father of two sons, who him with these well-known words, afterwards entered the army of Frederick, Il me souvient encore de ce jour memorable, and, after having outlived the royal frend of Oii lillustre Chasot, ce guerrier formidable, his youth by eleven years, died in 1707, in Sauva par sa valeur le plus grand de nos the eighty-second year of his age. It is rois, o Prusse! 6l~ve un temple ~t ses fameux pleasant to find that his misunderstandings exploits! with the king were followed, in 1760, by a Services like these were not left unre- lasting reconciliation. It appears that warded. More and more the fiery young Chasot, in his position at Luheck, found Frenchman was distinguished by the favor many opportunities of rendering important and the confidence of the king. lie had services to Frederick. Thus the old cordial arrived at the summit of his fortune; and intercourse was renewed, and kept up, by even the unhappy issue of a duel, in which correspondence as well as by some visits of he had once more the misfortune to kill a Chasot to Berlin, until the death of Frederick fellow-offlcer,a rude and overbearing Pole, separated the veteran friends. The last whom Frederick, it would seem, liked for his years of Chasots life, with those startling dashing prowess, could only for a short while events in his own countrythe Revolution, alienate from him the friendship and good- the execution of a Bourbon, and the Republic will of his royal master. must have thrown strange and dismal However, a rupture with the king followed shadows on the soul of the old man. It nevertheless. After a few years partly spent was on the borders of an entirely new time in garrison, at Treptow, on the Tollensee, that his rich and full life came to a close. partly at the Art-loving court of Mecklen- Herr von Schl6zer, in giving us a doscrip- burg-Strelitz,partly at the splendid carni- tion of this life, has acquitted himself of vals and carousals of the Prussian capital, his task ia a masterly way. We hardly and partly ia political negotiations with know which to admire most: the indefati- which the king had intrusted him, gable industry with which he has brought prompted by reasons which have never been together, from dusty records, mouldy cor- fully known, but which most likely origin- respondences, and the little that is left of ated in the rather too great susceptibility of Chasots memoirs, the materials for his work, his character, Chasot suddenly left the or the skill of composition, with which he Prussian service, and took up his residence, has combined them into a picture so fresh in 1752, in the old free Ilanse-town of and lively as that before us. We recommend Lubeck. Here he lived for the next seven his book to all lovers of history. It is one years, in a sort of dignified retirement, cul- of the most genuine and valubale contribu- tivating his garden, and watering his flowers, tions towards the knowledge of Frederick the while Frederick fought at Prague and Collin, Great we have ever met with; and we do not at Rossbach and Leuthen, at Zorndorf, at hesitate to rank it with those cit efs-dc3uvre llochkirch and Kunersdorf. In 1759 he was of historical biography from the pen of appointed by the Senate to the post of mili- Varnhager von Ense,with the Lives of tary commander of Lubeck,married, in Keith, and of Seydlitz, of Winterfeldt, of 1760, the beautiful daughter of Stefano Schwerin, and of Blucher. Torelli, an Italian artist living at that time DAItKNE55 AT MID-DAY.A phenomenon of points assumed a lurid yellow appearance, as this extraordinary nature occurred at Bolton- though from conflagrations a few miles distant ic-Moors and the neighborhood, about noon on within a quarter of an hour from this time the Mondt~y, March 23, 1857. The wind during darkness was dispelled; but such was the alarm the morning had been north-east, with a little caused by the phenomenon, that many persons snow; at twelve oclock the air became quite supposed the world at an end, not a few were still, and a deep gloom overspread the heavens, made ill by intense nervous excitement, and all increasing so rapidly, that in ten minutes it was were more or less impressed with a feeling of not possible to read, or distinguish the features awe. Poultry went to roost, instinct being of any person a few yards off. This was the stronger than habit. Can any of your corres.. more singular from there being no fog at the pondents explain the cause of this phenomenon, time, though snow in very minute particles was or record any similar occurrences ?.TV~otes and falling. The extreme darkness continued about ~2ueries. eight minutes, when the horizon at two or three DAVID CHARLES BADHAM. DAVID CHARLES BADHAM. IN MEMORIAM. FRASERS MAGAZINE has this month to deplore the loss of one of its most valued contributors. The Rev. David Badham, M.D., whose contributions have for some years past formed a prominent feature of this Magazine, was released on the 14th ult., in the fifty-second year of his age, from his earthly sufferings, which he had long borne with patience and resignation. lie was too remarkable a man to be allowed to pass from among us without some record, how- ever unworthyan accomplished scholar, a learned antiquary, a good naturalist, an ex- perienced traveller, and a man endeared to his friends by his gentle, affectionate nature. Dr. Badham came of a family of scholars. His father was Professor of Medicine in the University of Glasgow, and author of a spirited translation of Juvenal, published in Valpys Classical Library; his brother, Dr. Charles Badham, is well known to all who take an interest in such matters as one of the best Greek scholars of our time, and especially for his remarkable skill in re- storing the corrupt, text of Plato. To Eton belongs the honor of implanting in David ]3adham that love for the classical writers which, refined into familiar acquaintance, the readers of this Magazine have had many opportunities of appreciating. From Eton he went to Oxford, and was appointed, after taking his degree, one of the Travelling Fellows of that University. In due time he became a Fellow of the College of Phy- sicians. Health and taste alike induced him to lengthen that residence abroad which his appointment had in the first instance rendered necessary. He remained for some years at Rome, where he is still well remem- bered, and afterwards at Paris, pursuing his practice as physician. He also travelled for some time as medical adviser and friend to Mr. Thomas Barrett Lennard, who preceded him to the home appointed for all living by a few months only. In 1845 he returned to England, permanently to reside here, and never left this country afterwards. Soon after his return he married a daughter of the late Mr. Deacon Hume, of the Board of Trade, who will long be remembered with honor as one of the originators of the Free Trade policy afterward carried into effect by Sir Robert Peel. About the same period Dr. Badham was admitted into holy orders~ at Norwich by the late Bishop Stanley, with whom a community of tastes and strong sympathy on subjects which interested them bothas natural history and the condition of the poorsoon produced an intimacy: and the good Bishop was, we believe, never better pleased than when he received Dr. Badham as a guest at his hospitabk palace. But although there was this mental sym- pathy, no two men could physically be more different. The bishop was all life, and fire, and energy, whilst poor Dr. Badhams health was never equal to more than slight bodily exertion. His career as a clergyman was most exemplary. His piety was un- affected, and his own convictions were so sincere that he knew how to tolerate those of others. The mature age which he had reached when he was ordained enabled him to enter into the sorrows and sufferings of his parishioners in a manner which is simply impossible for a young man fresh from col- lege, and ignorant as yet of the real diffi- culties of life. He was at first curate of Wymondham in Norfolk, and afterwards of East Bergholt in Suffolk, where he lapored for some years more severely than was con- sistent with his delicate organization. Upon him rested the whole charge of a large and widely scattered parishfor the rector, al- though resident, was a man of very advanced ageand there he ministered to the spiritual and bodily wants of the people. All whose means were too limited to enable them to secure the aid of the resident medical prac- titioner, were able to command, night or day, the accomplished skill of the physician- curate. Deeply will his loss be felt in the neighborhood which will know him no more; and many, we feel sure, were the sighs of earnest regret which accompanied his mortal remains to their last earthly home. For many years Dr. Badham was a regular contributor to the pages of our contempo- rary, Blackwood; and the aid of his graceful pen was transferred to Frasers Magazine only when one whom he honored with his friendship became connected with its manage- ment. His contributions to Fraser, in ad- dition to the series of papers since collected into a volume under the title of Ancient and Modern Fish Tattle, and published with his name, included three papers on Ancient 62

DAVID CHARLES BADHAM. DAVID CHARLES BADHAM. IN MEMORIAM. FRASERS MAGAZINE has this month to deplore the loss of one of its most valued contributors. The Rev. David Badham, M.D., whose contributions have for some years past formed a prominent feature of this Magazine, was released on the 14th ult., in the fifty-second year of his age, from his earthly sufferings, which he had long borne with patience and resignation. lie was too remarkable a man to be allowed to pass from among us without some record, how- ever unworthyan accomplished scholar, a learned antiquary, a good naturalist, an ex- perienced traveller, and a man endeared to his friends by his gentle, affectionate nature. Dr. Badham came of a family of scholars. His father was Professor of Medicine in the University of Glasgow, and author of a spirited translation of Juvenal, published in Valpys Classical Library; his brother, Dr. Charles Badham, is well known to all who take an interest in such matters as one of the best Greek scholars of our time, and especially for his remarkable skill in re- storing the corrupt, text of Plato. To Eton belongs the honor of implanting in David ]3adham that love for the classical writers which, refined into familiar acquaintance, the readers of this Magazine have had many opportunities of appreciating. From Eton he went to Oxford, and was appointed, after taking his degree, one of the Travelling Fellows of that University. In due time he became a Fellow of the College of Phy- sicians. Health and taste alike induced him to lengthen that residence abroad which his appointment had in the first instance rendered necessary. He remained for some years at Rome, where he is still well remem- bered, and afterwards at Paris, pursuing his practice as physician. He also travelled for some time as medical adviser and friend to Mr. Thomas Barrett Lennard, who preceded him to the home appointed for all living by a few months only. In 1845 he returned to England, permanently to reside here, and never left this country afterwards. Soon after his return he married a daughter of the late Mr. Deacon Hume, of the Board of Trade, who will long be remembered with honor as one of the originators of the Free Trade policy afterward carried into effect by Sir Robert Peel. About the same period Dr. Badham was admitted into holy orders~ at Norwich by the late Bishop Stanley, with whom a community of tastes and strong sympathy on subjects which interested them bothas natural history and the condition of the poorsoon produced an intimacy: and the good Bishop was, we believe, never better pleased than when he received Dr. Badham as a guest at his hospitabk palace. But although there was this mental sym- pathy, no two men could physically be more different. The bishop was all life, and fire, and energy, whilst poor Dr. Badhams health was never equal to more than slight bodily exertion. His career as a clergyman was most exemplary. His piety was un- affected, and his own convictions were so sincere that he knew how to tolerate those of others. The mature age which he had reached when he was ordained enabled him to enter into the sorrows and sufferings of his parishioners in a manner which is simply impossible for a young man fresh from col- lege, and ignorant as yet of the real diffi- culties of life. He was at first curate of Wymondham in Norfolk, and afterwards of East Bergholt in Suffolk, where he lapored for some years more severely than was con- sistent with his delicate organization. Upon him rested the whole charge of a large and widely scattered parishfor the rector, al- though resident, was a man of very advanced ageand there he ministered to the spiritual and bodily wants of the people. All whose means were too limited to enable them to secure the aid of the resident medical prac- titioner, were able to command, night or day, the accomplished skill of the physician- curate. Deeply will his loss be felt in the neighborhood which will know him no more; and many, we feel sure, were the sighs of earnest regret which accompanied his mortal remains to their last earthly home. For many years Dr. Badham was a regular contributor to the pages of our contempo- rary, Blackwood; and the aid of his graceful pen was transferred to Frasers Magazine only when one whom he honored with his friendship became connected with its manage- ment. His contributions to Fraser, in ad- dition to the series of papers since collected into a volume under the title of Ancient and Modern Fish Tattle, and published with his name, included three papers on Ancient 62 DAVID CHARLES BADHAM. Rings, on account of Felixstow in Suffolk, and two articles on Gems, part of a series which his illness prevented him from com- pleting. All these papers had his initials appended, so that the anonymous system, by which the names of so many who instruct and delight the public are prevented from being known was not wholly preserved in his case. Dr. Badham was also the author of two other worksInsect LWe, published by Messrs. Blackwood, of Edinburgh, in 184.5; and a large and handsomely-illustrated volume, entitled The Esculent Funguses of England,* which described many species of mushrooms hitherto unrecognized as edible amongst us, although in common use as articles of food on the Continent. We have reason to believe that, in spite of the preju- dices which were aroused by this novelty in the culinary art, as novelty everywhere is met, this book has led to a greatly increased consumption of these delicious additions. The lives of such men as the friend of whom we have been endeavoring to give a sketch, are not fruitful in external events. ~5 London: Lovell Reeve. 1847. They do not accumulate great fortunes, or push forward into dignified positions. Doc- tor Badham would never have been either physician to the Queen or one of the epis- copal bench. But they belong to a very valuable classtheir influence lives after them; insensibly they soften and refine and render more hopeful and more truthful all with whom they happen to be brought into contact. The even course of their lives rolls on like that of some gentle, tranquil river toward the sea, fertilizing the plains through which it passes, and carrying ever with it health and peace. It did not require much acquaintance with Dr. Badham to learn that he was a good man, without cant or pretence; and what a man is, is both to himself and the world of much more import- ance, if we could see the world aright, than what he knows; but, besides this, his varied information made him a charming com- panionevery subject of conversation which arose he illustrated from his stores of knowl- edgeand there are few men of whom it can be said with equal truth, Nihil tetigit quod non ornavit. AUTOGRAPHS.The following extract from a communication to the Court Gazette, by Cath- erine Hutton, will exactly,~meet the wishes of your correspondent: Sir Richard Phillips claims to be the first collector of autographs, and it is certain that he was in possession of reams of these precious relics, each arranged by the alphabetical name of the writer. He was so well aware of their value, at a time when they were little thought of by others, that he has been heard to say he would as soon part with a tooth as a letter of Colley Cibbers; and that he. expected a grant of land in America for a manuscript of Wash- ingtons. William Upcott has been styled the empe- ror of autographs, and his labors have been ex- ecuted in a truly imperial style. He has had printed for distribution among his friends, and for public bodies a magnificent catalogue on royal 4to., containing thirty-two thousand items of autographs. The greater number of these are bound in volumes, and he has spared no ex- pense in the binding, or in the portraits by which they are illustrated. This collection is wholly autograph; but, at the same time, it contains much that is curious and original in antiquity, history, topography, and state affairs. Thomas Thorpe, bookseller, of Piccadilly, has been the merchant of autographs, the pur- chaser of ancient and valuable manuscripts for sale. From time to time he sends out cata logues, in which each article has its marked price and date; and history and biography have been ransacked for a short elucidation of each. From 1833 to 1836 (both inclusive) he sent me fifteen catalogues of autographs, four of old and scarce books, and one of drawings and prints. The autographs collectively amounted to 25,222; the books to 7402; and the drawings and prints to 2167; the prices annexed to the articles in one catalogue only of the manuscripts amounted to 8929 12s. The mania for auto- graphs has reached Francebut can France equal this? Collections of autographs had their origin in Germany about the middle of the sixteenth cen- tury, where travellers carried with them white- paper books, to obtain the signatures of emi- nent persons, or of new acquaintance. Such a book was called an Album, Hortus .lmicorum, or Thesaurus Amicorum. The oldest in the British Museum is dated 1578 (MS. Sloan. 851.), and appears to have belonged to a lady. The first English work in which a series of fac- similes of autographs appeared was Sir John Fenns Original Letters from the Archives of the Paston Family, 1787. For further partic- ulars on the subject, see the Penny Cyclopce- dia, art. AUTOGRAPH; DIsraelis Curiosities of Literature, vol. It. pp. 209214., and the preface to J. G. Nichols .flutographs of Per- sons conspicuous in English History, Lend. 1829.Notes and Queries. 63

DAVID CHARLES BADHAM. Rings, on account of Felixstow in Suffolk, and two articles on Gems, part of a series which his illness prevented him from com- pleting. All these papers had his initials appended, so that the anonymous system, by which the names of so many who instruct and delight the public are prevented from being known was not wholly preserved in his case. Dr. Badham was also the author of two other worksInsect LWe, published by Messrs. Blackwood, of Edinburgh, in 184.5; and a large and handsomely-illustrated volume, entitled The Esculent Funguses of England,* which described many species of mushrooms hitherto unrecognized as edible amongst us, although in common use as articles of food on the Continent. We have reason to believe that, in spite of the preju- dices which were aroused by this novelty in the culinary art, as novelty everywhere is met, this book has led to a greatly increased consumption of these delicious additions. The lives of such men as the friend of whom we have been endeavoring to give a sketch, are not fruitful in external events. ~5 London: Lovell Reeve. 1847. They do not accumulate great fortunes, or push forward into dignified positions. Doc- tor Badham would never have been either physician to the Queen or one of the epis- copal bench. But they belong to a very valuable classtheir influence lives after them; insensibly they soften and refine and render more hopeful and more truthful all with whom they happen to be brought into contact. The even course of their lives rolls on like that of some gentle, tranquil river toward the sea, fertilizing the plains through which it passes, and carrying ever with it health and peace. It did not require much acquaintance with Dr. Badham to learn that he was a good man, without cant or pretence; and what a man is, is both to himself and the world of much more import- ance, if we could see the world aright, than what he knows; but, besides this, his varied information made him a charming com- panionevery subject of conversation which arose he illustrated from his stores of knowl- edgeand there are few men of whom it can be said with equal truth, Nihil tetigit quod non ornavit. AUTOGRAPHS.The following extract from a communication to the Court Gazette, by Cath- erine Hutton, will exactly,~meet the wishes of your correspondent: Sir Richard Phillips claims to be the first collector of autographs, and it is certain that he was in possession of reams of these precious relics, each arranged by the alphabetical name of the writer. He was so well aware of their value, at a time when they were little thought of by others, that he has been heard to say he would as soon part with a tooth as a letter of Colley Cibbers; and that he. expected a grant of land in America for a manuscript of Wash- ingtons. William Upcott has been styled the empe- ror of autographs, and his labors have been ex- ecuted in a truly imperial style. He has had printed for distribution among his friends, and for public bodies a magnificent catalogue on royal 4to., containing thirty-two thousand items of autographs. The greater number of these are bound in volumes, and he has spared no ex- pense in the binding, or in the portraits by which they are illustrated. This collection is wholly autograph; but, at the same time, it contains much that is curious and original in antiquity, history, topography, and state affairs. Thomas Thorpe, bookseller, of Piccadilly, has been the merchant of autographs, the pur- chaser of ancient and valuable manuscripts for sale. From time to time he sends out cata logues, in which each article has its marked price and date; and history and biography have been ransacked for a short elucidation of each. From 1833 to 1836 (both inclusive) he sent me fifteen catalogues of autographs, four of old and scarce books, and one of drawings and prints. The autographs collectively amounted to 25,222; the books to 7402; and the drawings and prints to 2167; the prices annexed to the articles in one catalogue only of the manuscripts amounted to 8929 12s. The mania for auto- graphs has reached Francebut can France equal this? Collections of autographs had their origin in Germany about the middle of the sixteenth cen- tury, where travellers carried with them white- paper books, to obtain the signatures of emi- nent persons, or of new acquaintance. Such a book was called an Album, Hortus .lmicorum, or Thesaurus Amicorum. The oldest in the British Museum is dated 1578 (MS. Sloan. 851.), and appears to have belonged to a lady. The first English work in which a series of fac- similes of autographs appeared was Sir John Fenns Original Letters from the Archives of the Paston Family, 1787. For further partic- ulars on the subject, see the Penny Cyclopce- dia, art. AUTOGRAPH; DIsraelis Curiosities of Literature, vol. It. pp. 209214., and the preface to J. G. Nichols .flutographs of Per- sons conspicuous in English History, Lend. 1829.Notes and Queries. 63 0 64 FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.SLEUP. DREAMINGS. SOFTLY the light fills under the eaves, Dancing and flickering over the leaves; And the little birds from their leafy bowers, Hover oer and amid the sunny flowers; Sunlight is streaming oer river and tree, Bright are the visions that linger with me. There rises before me a lovely scene, That seemed while it passed, but a charming dream Of a beautiful stream, where waving trees Murmured sweet words to the summer breeze, Where a youth and maiden sat side by side, And she blushed as he called her his would- be bride. And she laid her hand on his open brow, And smiled as she murmured the loving vow; And he, as he tossed b ck his waving curls, Wished for diamonds and snow-white pearls: To deck the brow he thought so fair, And the pretty stream smiled on the happy pair. And another scene, of a cold, wet night, When the maid was trembling with fright; And the tears were resting on her cheeks, At the words her handsome lover speaks: Tis the last last time for many years, But still, to those hearts come no doubting fears. But the vision is bright, which now I see, And the thought will come, of what may be; Of the little brown church, and the waving trees, That again shall dance in the summer breeze; Of the solemn rite that there is done, A few tears falland the twain are one! Thus dream we on, through the cares of life, O ! happy are they who forget its strife; And happy the heart that thus can rove, Secure in the thought of anothers love; Happy the maiden, and happy the youth, That thus can trust in each others truth; And so trust on till their race is run, The goal be reached and Heaven won G. T. J. THE FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLAN TIC TELEGRAPH. (smornE.) Poou World! that in wickedness liest Enthralld by the powers of ill, And, groaning and travailing sighest For better and happier still Lo ! here is a chance For helping the right, And forcing advance In the enemys sight, By godly confession and brotherly love; By owning on Whom thou reliest, Aud openly trusting the Ruler above; By bidding the very first thrill On the nerve of this telegraph wire Benothing of science, or profit and loss; But, flashing electrical deeper and higher, World, let the first heart-stirring message across (0 Message ! rejoice, as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest! Peace upon earth and Goodwill ! (ANrzsTaorusE.) Ay, Man ! who with energy triest To conquer by strength or by skill, Resolved, though in body thou diest, In spirit to wrestle up-hill, Lo ! here is a gain To be won by a word, If under the main The first that is heard Be brotherly kindness and heavenly prai~e If, while thou in courage defiest The winds and the waves and all peril always, Enslaving those giants, until They meekly obey thy desire, If thus, the first whisper that proves thee tl~ir lord, Their master and gaoler by fetters of fire, Be thisthe sublimest and happiest word. (0 iViessage ! rejoice as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest, Peace upon Earth and Goodwill ! MAnTlE F. Turrna. Aanuav, Guzaroar,, July 27, 1757. SLEEP. When in the silvery moonlight The lengthened shadows fall, And the silence of night is dropping Like the gentle dew on all. When the rivers tranquil murmur Doth lulling cadence keep, And blossoms close their weary eyes, He giveth all things sleep. From the little bud of the daisy, And the young bird in the nest, To the humble bed of the pleasant child All share that quiet rest. It comes to the poor mans garret, And the captives lonely cell, On the sick mans tossing feverish couch It lays a blessed spell. And the Holy One who sends it down For a healing and a balm, Doth bless it with a mighty power Of peacefulness and calm. He counts the buds that fade and drop, And marks all those who weep; And closes weary, aching eyes With the holy kiss of sleep, The truest comfort He has given For all earths pain and woe, Until that glorious life beyond Nor tears nor sleep shall know. Airs. Broderick.

0 64 FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.SLEUP. DREAMINGS. SOFTLY the light fills under the eaves, Dancing and flickering over the leaves; And the little birds from their leafy bowers, Hover oer and amid the sunny flowers; Sunlight is streaming oer river and tree, Bright are the visions that linger with me. There rises before me a lovely scene, That seemed while it passed, but a charming dream Of a beautiful stream, where waving trees Murmured sweet words to the summer breeze, Where a youth and maiden sat side by side, And she blushed as he called her his would- be bride. And she laid her hand on his open brow, And smiled as she murmured the loving vow; And he, as he tossed b ck his waving curls, Wished for diamonds and snow-white pearls: To deck the brow he thought so fair, And the pretty stream smiled on the happy pair. And another scene, of a cold, wet night, When the maid was trembling with fright; And the tears were resting on her cheeks, At the words her handsome lover speaks: Tis the last last time for many years, But still, to those hearts come no doubting fears. But the vision is bright, which now I see, And the thought will come, of what may be; Of the little brown church, and the waving trees, That again shall dance in the summer breeze; Of the solemn rite that there is done, A few tears falland the twain are one! Thus dream we on, through the cares of life, O ! happy are they who forget its strife; And happy the heart that thus can rove, Secure in the thought of anothers love; Happy the maiden, and happy the youth, That thus can trust in each others truth; And so trust on till their race is run, The goal be reached and Heaven won G. T. J. THE FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLAN TIC TELEGRAPH. (smornE.) Poou World! that in wickedness liest Enthralld by the powers of ill, And, groaning and travailing sighest For better and happier still Lo ! here is a chance For helping the right, And forcing advance In the enemys sight, By godly confession and brotherly love; By owning on Whom thou reliest, Aud openly trusting the Ruler above; By bidding the very first thrill On the nerve of this telegraph wire Benothing of science, or profit and loss; But, flashing electrical deeper and higher, World, let the first heart-stirring message across (0 Message ! rejoice, as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest! Peace upon earth and Goodwill ! (ANrzsTaorusE.) Ay, Man ! who with energy triest To conquer by strength or by skill, Resolved, though in body thou diest, In spirit to wrestle up-hill, Lo ! here is a gain To be won by a word, If under the main The first that is heard Be brotherly kindness and heavenly prai~e If, while thou in courage defiest The winds and the waves and all peril always, Enslaving those giants, until They meekly obey thy desire, If thus, the first whisper that proves thee tl~ir lord, Their master and gaoler by fetters of fire, Be thisthe sublimest and happiest word. (0 iViessage ! rejoice as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest, Peace upon Earth and Goodwill ! MAnTlE F. Turrna. Aanuav, Guzaroar,, July 27, 1757. SLEEP. When in the silvery moonlight The lengthened shadows fall, And the silence of night is dropping Like the gentle dew on all. When the rivers tranquil murmur Doth lulling cadence keep, And blossoms close their weary eyes, He giveth all things sleep. From the little bud of the daisy, And the young bird in the nest, To the humble bed of the pleasant child All share that quiet rest. It comes to the poor mans garret, And the captives lonely cell, On the sick mans tossing feverish couch It lays a blessed spell. And the Holy One who sends it down For a healing and a balm, Doth bless it with a mighty power Of peacefulness and calm. He counts the buds that fade and drop, And marks all those who weep; And closes weary, aching eyes With the holy kiss of sleep, The truest comfort He has given For all earths pain and woe, Until that glorious life beyond Nor tears nor sleep shall know. Airs. Broderick.

0 64 FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.SLEUP. DREAMINGS. SOFTLY the light fills under the eaves, Dancing and flickering over the leaves; And the little birds from their leafy bowers, Hover oer and amid the sunny flowers; Sunlight is streaming oer river and tree, Bright are the visions that linger with me. There rises before me a lovely scene, That seemed while it passed, but a charming dream Of a beautiful stream, where waving trees Murmured sweet words to the summer breeze, Where a youth and maiden sat side by side, And she blushed as he called her his would- be bride. And she laid her hand on his open brow, And smiled as she murmured the loving vow; And he, as he tossed b ck his waving curls, Wished for diamonds and snow-white pearls: To deck the brow he thought so fair, And the pretty stream smiled on the happy pair. And another scene, of a cold, wet night, When the maid was trembling with fright; And the tears were resting on her cheeks, At the words her handsome lover speaks: Tis the last last time for many years, But still, to those hearts come no doubting fears. But the vision is bright, which now I see, And the thought will come, of what may be; Of the little brown church, and the waving trees, That again shall dance in the summer breeze; Of the solemn rite that there is done, A few tears falland the twain are one! Thus dream we on, through the cares of life, O ! happy are they who forget its strife; And happy the heart that thus can rove, Secure in the thought of anothers love; Happy the maiden, and happy the youth, That thus can trust in each others truth; And so trust on till their race is run, The goal be reached and Heaven won G. T. J. THE FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLAN TIC TELEGRAPH. (smornE.) Poou World! that in wickedness liest Enthralld by the powers of ill, And, groaning and travailing sighest For better and happier still Lo ! here is a chance For helping the right, And forcing advance In the enemys sight, By godly confession and brotherly love; By owning on Whom thou reliest, Aud openly trusting the Ruler above; By bidding the very first thrill On the nerve of this telegraph wire Benothing of science, or profit and loss; But, flashing electrical deeper and higher, World, let the first heart-stirring message across (0 Message ! rejoice, as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest! Peace upon earth and Goodwill ! (ANrzsTaorusE.) Ay, Man ! who with energy triest To conquer by strength or by skill, Resolved, though in body thou diest, In spirit to wrestle up-hill, Lo ! here is a gain To be won by a word, If under the main The first that is heard Be brotherly kindness and heavenly prai~e If, while thou in courage defiest The winds and the waves and all peril always, Enslaving those giants, until They meekly obey thy desire, If thus, the first whisper that proves thee tl~ir lord, Their master and gaoler by fetters of fire, Be thisthe sublimest and happiest word. (0 iViessage ! rejoice as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest, Peace upon Earth and Goodwill ! MAnTlE F. Turrna. Aanuav, Guzaroar,, July 27, 1757. SLEEP. When in the silvery moonlight The lengthened shadows fall, And the silence of night is dropping Like the gentle dew on all. When the rivers tranquil murmur Doth lulling cadence keep, And blossoms close their weary eyes, He giveth all things sleep. From the little bud of the daisy, And the young bird in the nest, To the humble bed of the pleasant child All share that quiet rest. It comes to the poor mans garret, And the captives lonely cell, On the sick mans tossing feverish couch It lays a blessed spell. And the Holy One who sends it down For a healing and a balm, Doth bless it with a mighty power Of peacefulness and calm. He counts the buds that fade and drop, And marks all those who weep; And closes weary, aching eyes With the holy kiss of sleep, The truest comfort He has given For all earths pain and woe, Until that glorious life beyond Nor tears nor sleep shall know. Airs. Broderick.

0 64 FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.SLEUP. DREAMINGS. SOFTLY the light fills under the eaves, Dancing and flickering over the leaves; And the little birds from their leafy bowers, Hover oer and amid the sunny flowers; Sunlight is streaming oer river and tree, Bright are the visions that linger with me. There rises before me a lovely scene, That seemed while it passed, but a charming dream Of a beautiful stream, where waving trees Murmured sweet words to the summer breeze, Where a youth and maiden sat side by side, And she blushed as he called her his would- be bride. And she laid her hand on his open brow, And smiled as she murmured the loving vow; And he, as he tossed b ck his waving curls, Wished for diamonds and snow-white pearls: To deck the brow he thought so fair, And the pretty stream smiled on the happy pair. And another scene, of a cold, wet night, When the maid was trembling with fright; And the tears were resting on her cheeks, At the words her handsome lover speaks: Tis the last last time for many years, But still, to those hearts come no doubting fears. But the vision is bright, which now I see, And the thought will come, of what may be; Of the little brown church, and the waving trees, That again shall dance in the summer breeze; Of the solemn rite that there is done, A few tears falland the twain are one! Thus dream we on, through the cares of life, O ! happy are they who forget its strife; And happy the heart that thus can rove, Secure in the thought of anothers love; Happy the maiden, and happy the youth, That thus can trust in each others truth; And so trust on till their race is run, The goal be reached and Heaven won G. T. J. THE FIRST MESSAGE FOR THE ATLAN TIC TELEGRAPH. (smornE.) Poou World! that in wickedness liest Enthralld by the powers of ill, And, groaning and travailing sighest For better and happier still Lo ! here is a chance For helping the right, And forcing advance In the enemys sight, By godly confession and brotherly love; By owning on Whom thou reliest, Aud openly trusting the Ruler above; By bidding the very first thrill On the nerve of this telegraph wire Benothing of science, or profit and loss; But, flashing electrical deeper and higher, World, let the first heart-stirring message across (0 Message ! rejoice, as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest! Peace upon earth and Goodwill ! (ANrzsTaorusE.) Ay, Man ! who with energy triest To conquer by strength or by skill, Resolved, though in body thou diest, In spirit to wrestle up-hill, Lo ! here is a gain To be won by a word, If under the main The first that is heard Be brotherly kindness and heavenly prai~e If, while thou in courage defiest The winds and the waves and all peril always, Enslaving those giants, until They meekly obey thy desire, If thus, the first whisper that proves thee tl~ir lord, Their master and gaoler by fetters of fire, Be thisthe sublimest and happiest word. (0 iViessage ! rejoice as thou fliest, All saints and all angels who fill Infinity farthest and nighest) Be Glory to God in the Highest, Peace upon Earth and Goodwill ! MAnTlE F. Turrna. Aanuav, Guzaroar,, July 27, 1757. SLEEP. When in the silvery moonlight The lengthened shadows fall, And the silence of night is dropping Like the gentle dew on all. When the rivers tranquil murmur Doth lulling cadence keep, And blossoms close their weary eyes, He giveth all things sleep. From the little bud of the daisy, And the young bird in the nest, To the humble bed of the pleasant child All share that quiet rest. It comes to the poor mans garret, And the captives lonely cell, On the sick mans tossing feverish couch It lays a blessed spell. And the Holy One who sends it down For a healing and a balm, Doth bless it with a mighty power Of peacefulness and calm. He counts the buds that fade and drop, And marks all those who weep; And closes weary, aching eyes With the holy kiss of sleep, The truest comfort He has given For all earths pain and woe, Until that glorious life beyond Nor tears nor sleep shall know. Airs. Broderick.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.-No. 698.b OCTOBER, 1857. From The North American Medico-Ohirurgical Review. ON THE INFLUENCE OF ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DIS- EASE. BY S. LITTELL, M.D. SURGEOR To [ILLS HOSPITAL FOR TIlE DISEASES OF THE EYE ARD LIMB, PHILADELPHIA. THE immediate occasion of the present Paperwhich in much both of form and substance has already been made public was information from the late editor of the Medical Examiner, that he had received from Mr. Craig, of Ayr, in Scotland, a letter allud- ing to an article published by me in that Journal, expressing his concurrence in the views which it contained, and referring to an accompanying pamphlet, in which his own opinions were more fully detailed. His com- munication furnished opportunity and pretext for bringing the whole matter before the Society; and I have condensed my several papers into one, thinking that my humble essay, thus supported, would be better re- ceived, and more thoroughly considered, than it was likely to be under other circum- stances. What I have thought and written may not produce in other minds the convic- tion which has been wrought in mine; but an independent observer, regarding the subject from a different position, may supply facts and reasoning which I have omitted, and thus give to it greater interest and authority. I have not yet read the pamphlet alluded to, and am entirely unacquainted, therefore, with the ground it covers, or the argument which it contains; but the gentleman to whom it was addressed, will, before our adjournment, either read the whole, or such extracts from it, as may be necessary to place it fully before the Society. In no department of medicine is there more crude and unfounded theory than in that which treats of the etiology of disease. Theories framed in the infancy of science, and transmitted unquestioned from one genera- tion to another, are still blindly adopted and implicitly followed; though their inconsist- ency with facts of daily occurrence, can hardly have escaped the observation of the intelligent and reflecting. The opinions generally prevalent on this subject are, DCXCVIII. LIVING AGE. VOb. XIX. 5 indeed, hardly creditable to us as members of a learned profession, because they prove that we have not been guided in our reason- ing by sound principles of philosophy. It is a maxim in science to assign no more causes than may be necessary to produce the effect; but we have disregarded this obvious restric- tion in a department of knowledge where it should have been more especially observed, and instead of taking a comprehensive survey of the action of morbific agents on the human systeta as a whole, have limited our attention too exclusively to the various pathological results, and needlessly invented a different cause for almost every aberration from the healthy state. Simplicity is found to be an attribute of the Almighty in all the opera- tions of His hand; we are amazed at the number and diversity of the effects produced by the combinations of a few simple ele- ments; and have reason to believe that as our knowledge increases, this characteristic will be still more apparent. Why should not the same be true also of the animal economy P It is a complex and intricate organism, com- posed of many different tissues, but all sub- jected to the control of a central powerthe brain,from any change in the action of which, innumberable deviations from a nor- mal condition might, a priori, be anticipated. How much more philosophical then, to recog- nize a single principle capable of producing such change, than unnecessarily to multiply causes, and invoke the interposition of as many agencies as there are diseases in the nosology! We have imaginary miasms,~ many of them supposed to be cotemporary in their existence,for the several exanthe- mata, for influenza, for cholera, for dysentry, for each of many different kinds of fever, for hooping-cough, parotitis, & c. & c. In ac- counting for the phlegmasive, it is true, we are contented to veil our ignorance and flatter our vanity, under the convenient and comprehensive phrase of taking cold; an expression, however, to which we attach no definite ideas, and which, in its literal sense, the commonest observation shows to be in- correct. An etiology so manifold cannot be true; 66 ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF ]IISEASE. and if the abnormal manifestations may, in very many cases, be more satisfactorily ex- plained through the instrumentality of a single principle, it must be abandoned. The analogy existing between the nervous force and electricity, first observed by Galvani, has been abundantly demonstrated by Dr. Philip, Majendie, and other physiolog- ists, in their experiments on animals. Their actual identity, indeed, has been rendered not improbable; for nervous communication having been interrupted, the processes of digestion, respiration, and circulation are, for a time, performed as usual under the influ- ence of electricity. It was, moreover, soon ascertained to have the power of exciting muscular contraction in bodies recently dead; while its remedial agency in certain com- plaints, especially those of a neuralgic char- acter, has long been known; and with these facts to provoke and guide inquiry, it is sur- prising that the possible pathological conse- quences resulting from its deficiency in the atmosphere, or its rapid abstraction from the system, have not been more generally sus- pected and investigated. The arguments adduced by some physiologists to disprove its identity with the nervous force, and to establish instead, a state of correlation, are far from being conclusive; and even if this were admitted, it would not militate against the view I propose, which only requires such an affinito, or relation, that one shall be influ- enced by changes in the quantity of the other. Caloric, light, and electricity, are now regarded as probable modifications of the same element, and there is no reason why, under another modification, that element should not constitute the vis nervosa also. A strong presumption of their substantial same- ness, is afforded by the existence of several species of fishes with electrical organs; the action of which is dependent upon their con- nection with nervous centres, varies in inten- sity with the extent of that connection and the health of the animal, is under the control of the will, and by a continual series of discharges is capable of exhausting the nerv- ous energy to a degree sufficient, in some cases, to occasion death. The electrical fluid is the grand agent in the production of many of the phenomena of nature. In her inorganic domain it is the probable cause of all chemical change, while in the vegetable kingdom it performs still more important functions; not only produc- ing, in conjunction with its kindred agencies of light and heat, conditions favorable to the germination and growth of plants, but quick- ening them into life, and thus becoming the efficient cause of their development. Its intense and rapid passageas in the li0ht- ning strokeimmediately kills the largest tree, and a very small shock sent through cer- tain plants, will speedily cause their leaves to droop, and as certainly, though more slowly, extinguish their vitality. The approach of an electrified conductor to the mimosa pudica, or sensitive plant, produces no sensi- ble effect, but if sparks be taken from it, the leaflets will shrink and close, as they do from mechanical contact. Its more steady and quiet operation is equally remarkable. An electrical circle has been formed by wires running under the beds of a garden, and the result has been greater vigor and rapidity of growth in the plants which they contained. It evidently performs the part of a general stimulant; whicb, when in moderate quantity, is salutary in its effect on vegetable life. May not the folding of the leaves of certain plants, as the mimosa, trifolium repens, & c., at the approach of evening, be owing to the abstraction of electricity which takes place at that time from the increased conducting power of the air? A fluid so analogous to the nervous force, so subtle, fluctuating, and so universally diffused, might, a priori, be supposed to exert a very manifest influence over the higher organization of the animal economy. Its presence in a certain degree, seems indeed to be necessary for the healthy performance of all the functions. The conducting power of the nerves has been shown by the physio- logical experiments alluded to, and the anatomical structure of the brain, with all the phenomena of nervous function and action, would naturally lead us to regard the whole nervous system as an apparatus, through the medium of whieb, electricity, modified and restrained by certain laws, is made subservient to the purposes of exist- ence. In other words, as a vital electrical machine, by means of which that fluid is both separated and distributed in accordance with the wants of animal life. What we should thus suppose is found to be true in fact; electricity when preseht in excess, exciting the functions and exalting vitality, ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. while a contrary effect is produced by its substraction or deficiency. In a state of health and mature existence, when all the functions are vigorously performed, and the power of resisting noxious agencies is greatest, the disturbing influence of such fluctuafons is comparatively slight; but under other circumstances they become a frequent and potential cause of disease. We have all experienced the feeling of energy and elasticity which is imparted by what we call bracing weather, when the air is clear, dry, and cold; and more strongly still, the sensations of chilliness and discomfort, when the atmosphere, loaded with moisture, has acquired an active conducting power, and its injurious operation is further increased by the agency of cold; which, under such circum- stances, has a depressing, instead of a stimu- lating effect. The nervous system of some susceptible individuals is thrown into commo- tion by an approaching storm; and I have a patient, for many years the victim of an annual catarrh, whose sufferings were always greatly aggravated by the occurrence of thunder at any time during the paroxysm. Rheumatic, neuralgic, and paralytic persons, and those who have recently suffered from sprained or fractured limbs, can predict with unerring certainty, an impending atmospher- ical change; * and the evening exacerbations which we observe in fever and other com- plaints are owing to the same cause: the sys- tem in its disturbed or debilitated condition being unable to bear, without suffering, elec- trical changes which would have little or no perceptible influence in a state of health. The pain of rheumatism, neuralgia, and the uncomfortable sensations accompanying ca- tarrb, are in like manner, and for the same reason, all aggravated by the approach of evening. It is these changes, moreover, consequent upon the withdrawal of the suns rays, by which the dew is precipitated, and the con- ducting power of the air increased, which render exposure at this time so dangerous in certain districts of country, in the early autumnal months; and not as has been sup- posed, the greater prevalence on such occa- sions of miasmatic exhalations. At a later * It is worthy of remark that these effects are chiefly produced in the elemental changes which precede a etorm; when the snow or rain hegins to fall, the electri- cal equilibrium is restored, and, if the vascular system has not become involved, neuralgic pains and uncomfort- able sensations subside. 67 period of the evening, when the dew has actually fallen, the atmosphere being drier, is less penetrating, and exposure, consequently, less injurious. The early morning air, though charged with the ascending dew, is less dele- terious, because, among other reasons, it acts upon a body in some measure invigorated and refreshed by sleep; but its influence, in debil- itated states of the system more particularly, is nevertheless prejuidcial; and hence the recommendation to avoid exposure on an empty stomach, the prescription of bitters, & c., which act by imparting temporary energy to the frame. The extreme sensibility to electrical fluctuations, of the affections which are purely nervous, is a subject of common observation. Every physician must have ob- served the greater frequency of asthmatic attacks before a change of weather. The epileptic paroxysm occurs most frequently in the night; and while this may, perhaps be explained in part, by the temporary suspen- sion of the will, and congestion of the brain in sleep, it is not irrational to attribute it in some degree, to the electrical changes which occur at that period; especially as we know that some persons subject to this malady, are only affected at the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, when these changes are greater than at other times. Rheumatism and neu- ralgia, hardly excepted, there is not a disease in the whole catalogue, the phenomena of which are in more obvious harmony with the electrical theory than those of epilepsy. The periodical accumulation of excitability, and its exhaustion by the paroxysm, forcibly recall the circumstances attending the charge of the Leyden Jar. The familiar expression of taking cold, which is supposed to account so satisfactorily for many of the ills to which flesh is heir, may be mentioned as another exismple of such influence. This is owing, not to varia- tions of temperature, as generally believed; but to disturbances of the electrical equilib- rium, of which these variations are the effects or accompaniments. It is not unusual for in- dividuals, especially those of tender age, to retire in apparent health to rest, in a comfor- table room and bed, and to awaken after some hours, with a sore throat, or a parox- ysm of croup; and we have all known per- sons to be attacked with these and other com- plaints, said to arise from cold, who have been closely confined for days or weeks to 68 LECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF ])ISEASF.~ apartments, the air of which has been stead- ily maintained at an elevated temperature. They could only have been affected, therefore, by changes in the electrical constitution of the atmosphere without, and these would be felt with the instantaneousness of thought however the individual might be situated and protected. The effect on the gravid female of certain atmospherical conditions, has long been ob- served: cold, rainy weather, and low, damp, miasmatic localities, says Professor Gilman, have been recognized since the days of Hip- pocrates, as disturbing pregnancy and caus- ing abortion. To the influence of the atmos- phere is to be attributed the frequency of abortion, or other mishap in pregnancy by which some years are signalized. The prob- able explanation is, that the expenditure of the nervous energy in the reproductive pro- cess, renders the system more liable to be affected by electrical changes; which again are increased by the greater conducting power of the atmosphere in the places and seasons mentioned. Insane persons, on the other hand, have always been in a remarka- ble degree insensible to atmospherical vicissi- tudes, as well as free from epidemical influ- ences; and this exemption is due to the liabitual exaltation of cerebral action in their ease. These, and a host of similar facts may be adduced to prove that there is nothing im- probable in the hypothesis, that under cir- cumstances of predisposing, or concomitant influence, general in their operation, or af- fecting the individual only, pathological con- sequences of far greater gravity, variety, and extent, may be occasioned from the exhaus- tion of nervous energy by the substraction of electricity through changes in the distribu- tion of that fluid; and that the exhaustion thus induced, may be the proximate cause, not only of the exanthemata, and of most other forms of fever, congestive or otherwise; but also of cholera, influenza, hooping-cough erysipelas, disentery, parotitis, the idiopathic, phIegmasia~, & c. & c. Among the circum- stances alluded to, as affecting individuals, and thereby giving efficiency to electrical fluctuation, may be enumerated, fatigue, fast- ing, loss of sleep, the depressing passions, and whatever tends to debilitate the frame, and exhaust or diminish nervous power. To my mind the conclusion is irresistible, that an element which thus pervades all nature, and plays a part so important in all her operations; which is so analogous to the nervous force that it may even be substi- tuted for it in the performance of its appro- priate functions; wbich, when in usual quan- tity, maintains the organism in healthy action, and stimulates or destroys according to the degree of its excess; must by its deficiency, or subduction, especially in debilitated states of the system, and when aided by any cause tending of itself to depress cerebral action, exert a far more potential influence for evil. The long continuance, in various degrees and combinations, of heat, cold, drought, and humidity, or the marked predominance of any of these conditions, will create predispo- sitions which determine the character Qf the prevailing diseases. A hot and dry summer, for instance, will be nosologically distinguished by affections of the alimentary canal. A higher grade and longer continuance of heat, producing a greater degree of exhaustion, and occasioning a strong tendency to inflam- mation of the stomach, liver, and other organs, is the predisposing cause of yellow fever. In the early autumnal months, the stimulus of light and caloric being lessened, while the system, exhausted by the previous heat, remains weak and impressible, and, therefore, easily affected by electrical changes, which are promoted by various meteoro- logical circumstances, as cold, humidity, & c., intermittent and remittent fevers, in which the pathological condition is rather con- gestive than otherwise, chiefly abound. The cerebral functions are impaired, innervation is lessened, vascular congestion takes place, and reaction following, the usual febrile phe- nomena are developed, which assume an in- termittent, remittent, continued, or typhoid form, according to the intensity of the cause, or the degree of the pre-existing debility. A peculiarly raw and searching atmosphere pre- cedes and accompanies influenza, a disease which is characterized by excessive nervous disturbance and debility; while an open, wet, and variable state of the weather, such as we frequently see in November, is favorable to the production of the exanthemata, typhoid fever, erysypelas, & c. The r~aetion occa- sioned by a higher degree of iold, the air ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. being dry, and having, therefore, little or no conducting power, is salutary and invigo- rating. In our reasoning on this subject, the effect of the diminished light and heat occasioned by the suns southern declination, must not be overlooked. If this diminution be suffi- cient to susl)end vegetable life, and convert the beauty of earth into the gloom and sever- ity of winter, it is surely no unreasonable supposition that it must also exert an influ- ence injurious to animal existence; which would he more sensihly felt, but for the re- action it calls forth, and the power of accom- modation which the organism possesses. The illuminating and heating rays of the solar beam are those which exercise the greatest apparent power over the human frame. They act in their intensity as pow- erful stimuli, exciting the circulation, and ex- hausting the vital force in a remarkable de- gree; and according to a well-known law, their withdrawal, or considerable diminution, must necessarily be followed by a depression corresponding to the previous exaltation.* The view which I have taken of this sub- ject is not wholly speculative. The diminu- tion of magnetic power during the prevalence of cholera, has been ascertained by direct experiment. Mr. Mather, of South Sbields, England, states that in 1849, when choicra of a very fatal character was epidemic in his neighborhood, he found, as the result of nu- merous observations carefully made, that a magnet which ordinarily carried two pounds and ten ounces, would, when the atmospheri- cal indications were nearly at their worst, the air being saturated with moisture,sus- tam only one pound and ten ounces; the de- gree of its attraction varying with, and being in inverse proportion to, the virulence of the disease. The same year the number of deaths in Paris, from this pestilence, rapidly increased until the eighth of June, when they amounted to six hundred and twenty-three. On the evening of that day there occurred a thun- der-storm of unusual severity, and the cholera immediately began to decrease; by the eighteenth of the month there was a daily rel)ort of one hundred only; and at its close, * From the sevenfold nature of the sunbeam, we should reasonably infer the possession by each ray, of a different virtue or property. That of four of them has been already ascertainedthe lighting, the heating, the chemical, and the phosphorogenic property. the mortality had fallen to thirty. Similar observations have been recorded by others - and from the consideration of all the circum- stances attending this disease, with its pref- erence for the great water-courses of a coun- try, & c., its dependence upon a state of defi- cient electricity may be regarded as pretty certainly established. Whether operations going on in the interior of the earth, do not influence the electrical condition of its sur- face, is a subject which may demand investi- gation.* The prevalence of cholera during the past year in Sicily, Madeira, and Central America,all of them volcanic countries, would seem to give some plausibility to the conjecture. The air of the Pontine marshes, near Rome, so fatal to those within its influ- ence, is deficient in electricity, and possibly from the same cause. But it may be re- marked, in passing, that the air of marshes, and still waters generally, is more prejudicial than that of rivers or running streams; partly for the reason, that the air, saturated with moisture, undisturbed by atmospherical currents, and possessing, therefore, more ac- tive conducting power, lingers upon them in unbroken mass, long impervious to the rays of the sun; and partly, because, in the lat- ter case, the motion of the particles among themselves, and their friction against the hills, trees, & c., when driven by the winds, is itself a principal cause of atmospherical electricity. It is probably in both of these ways, that the agitation of the air, by the frequent passage of a steamboatitself a most active, hydro-electric machine,in- creases the salubrity of places in its vicinity, or restores it when lost; as, for instance, in the case of the Schuylkill above the dam at Fairmount. The meteorological constitution in which influenza appears, would incline us to predict with confidence the origin of that complaint in defective electricity; and most of the diseases to which I have before alluded are notoriously most frequent in seasons of the year when electrical currents and changes are greatest, and their injurious operation ag- gravated by moisture and other auxiliary in- fluences. There are many facts, moreover, irreconcilable with the commonly received notion of the malarious production of fever; and without absolutely denying the deleteri * The proximity of such operations to the surface of the earth and the nature of its crust influencing its conducting power, would, of course, render some places more bable to be affected than others. 69 70 ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. ous action on the animal economy, of exhala- tions from decaying vegetable matter, I am fully convinced that these are not the gen- eral cause of the disease, and that a part far too prominent and exclusive, has been attrib- uted to their agency. The theory afforded a plausible solution of many things hard to be understood, and being supported by a multitude of seeming facts, has been too hastily received and adopted by the profes- sion. The complaints supposed to be thus engendered, prevail at a season when electri- cal vicissitudes are greatest, and the body, debilitated and otherwise disordered by the protracted heat of summer, is most sensible to their impression; they are often observed where there is no reason to suspect the oper- ation of malaria; are notoriously reproduced by other causes after they have once occurred; and are promptly cured by means which eliminate no poison, but merely restore the lost tone of the system,frequently, indeed, hy mental impression alone. Were it true that intermittent and remit- tent fevers owe their origin to paludal exhala- tions, or to malaria, however generated, we should naturally expect to find them most a omposition is prevalent when veoetable dec greatest; but a moments reflection will show that the reverse is true. In the Middle and Western States, and perhaps throughout our country, September is the sickliest of the autumnal months; and yet vegetable life still flourishes, often in almost undiminished vigor; the foliage preserves its verdure and. freshness, and nature exhibits few symptoms of her approaching decay. The days more- over, have become considerably shorter, the weather cooler, and it is evident, therefore, not only that material for decomposition is not supplied in greater abundance, but that the causes which concur in that process, are really less active than they were in the pre- ceding months. Those seasons, moreover, which are characterized by an unusually late fallvegetation being fostered by timely rains, and long unchecked by frost,are pre- cisely those in which autumnal fevers l)revail more extensively, though owing to the sys- tem being less exhausted by heat, of a milder type, than under other circumstances. The year 1565 may he adduced in illustra- tion. Summer and autumn were both marked by cool, ~vet, and variable weather; the country, perhaps, never preserved its freshness to so late a period; and yet, inter- mittent and remittent fevers were more than ordinarily frequent, not only in localities where they are usually met with, but also on elevated grounds celebrated for their salu- brity, and even in the very heart of the city. Circumstances like these, cannot be accounted for on the theory of malarious exhalation, but receive an easy solution from the agency of humidity in increasing the conducting power of the atmosphere, and thus giving greater effect to electrical changes. That intermittent and remittent fevers prevail epidemically in the fall, and occur only in sporadic cases during the spring, is owing to the circumstance, that in the for- mer case, the system, unduly stimulated by the heat of summer, and left in a state of exhaustion and debility by its withdrawal, is less able to resist the electrical fluctuations which are the efficient cause of their produc- tion. Seasons in which the warm weather has been unusually protracted, and the win- ter uncommonly mild and open, are precisely those in which the most desolating epidemics have occurred; for the reason that the sys- tem, uninvigorated by cold, falls a ready prey to the action of the cause which I have sug- gested. In some climates, as in that of Guayaquil, this is the invariable state of things. The winter is the period of almost incessant rain for six months duration, and the mortality is, consequently, very great. The human frame possesses a great power of accommodation to external agencies, es- pecially when these are uniform and con- stant in their action. The air of the sea, and generally of places in its vicinity, though saturated with moisture, is healthy for this reason; for this moisture being general and invarial)le, tends to maintain the electrical equilibrium, though perhaps at a lower range; while the system being less enfeebled and disordered by heat, the atmosphere purer and denser, and the nights cooler and more refreshing, such fluctuations as do oc- cur are less sensibly felt. Hence also it is, that in a very rainy season, localities which have been the immemorial haunts of fever, become comparatively healthy; while upland districts rarely visited hy it, suffer in their turn. A striking instance of a country in which every circumstance of climate, soil, and at- mosphere, might be supposed to unite in the ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. production on a grand scale of paludal exhal- ation, is mentioned by Dr. Hooker in his Himalayan Journals. The delta of Soormali extends for a distance of eighty miles along the old bed of the Burrampooter, a river five miles broad; and forms an immense still and narrow sheet of deep~ clear water, called the Jheels. The area drained by the Soor- mah is scarcely raised above the level of the sea, and contains about ten thousand square miles. In the dry season the Jheels are marshy, but during the rains, which are ex- cessive on the neighboring mountains, they are entirely overflowed; the water rising to within a few inches of the huts which are built along the borders of the rivers that traverse it. The soil, sandy along the Bur- rampooter, is more muddy and claycy in the centre of the Jheels, with immense accumu- lations of vegetable matter in the marshes, consisting chiefly of decomposed grass-roots and leaves. The climate of Chattuc, says the Doctor, speaking of one of the villages, is exce~sivelv damp and hot throughout the year, but though sunk amid intermii~able swamps, the place is perfectly healthy. Such indeed, is the character of the climate throughout the Jheels, where fever and ague are rare; and though no situations can ap- pear more malarious than Silpat and Cachar, they are in fact, eminently salubrious. These facts, he continues, admit of no explana- tion in the present state of our knowledge of endemic diseases. Much may be attributed to the great amount and purity of the water, the equability of the climate, the absence of forests, and of sudden changes from wet to dry; l)ut such facts afford no satisfactory ex- planation. Undoubtedly they do not, on the sul)l)osition that malaria is necessarily concerned in the production of such com- plaints; but discard that hypothesis, and they receive obvious elucidation on the theory of their electrical origin. Ilumidity alone, when universal and constant, tends, as I have said, to preserve the electrical equilibrium; and the great extent of their surface gives to the Jheels the character of an inland sea; the steady warmth of the weather sustains the vital actions; while the circumstances mentioned by Dr. Hooker, must render elec- trical vicissitudes slight and infrequent; and hence their exemption from the so-called miasmatic diseases. There is no circumstance indeed, connected with our autumnal fevers; their erdemic, and occasional epidemic prevalence, the in- fluence of moisture, the comparative exemp- tion of large cities, the agency of winds, & c., which cannot be more scientifically explained on the electrical, than on the miasmatic hypothesis; and the former has the additional advantage of substituting an adequate, exist- ing, and recognizable cause, for one which rests on no certain foundation, eludes all chemical scrutiny, and is to a very great extent, if not altogether, imaginary. The objection to this view, that disturbances of the electrical equilibrium are of continual occurrence without being followed by such effects as are here attributed to them, is more specious than sound. It fails in not appreci- ating the consequences of the prolonged heat of summer, which, exhausting the nervous energy, leaves the system, in the early autumnal months, weak, susceptible, and pre- disposed to disease; and it is moreover, not altogether true in fact, for intermittent and remittent fevers are observed, though, of course, much less frequently, at other seasons of the year. As winter approaches, the in- vigorating influence of cold is felt in the in- crease of nervous energy; oxygen is breathed in greater quantity with a denser atmosphere; reaction follows the l)revious depression; and the predisposition changes to other forms of morbid action. It is to this circumstance, and not to the destruction by frost of malari- ous exhalation, that the cessation of our autumnal fevers should be ascribed. I do not deny that the foul emanations arising from the decomposition of animal and vegetable matter, which vitiate the atmos- phere of our large cities, are a concurrent cause of disease. They are often present in a degree sensibly offensive, and cannot be otherwise than extremely prejudicial to health. Such vitiation, aud the impression of excessive and long-continued heatthe latter being absolutely necessary to its pro- duction,are the great predisposing causes of yellow fever; and only require an atmos- phere negatively electrical to give full effect to their injurious agency. The increased conducting power of the air when loaded with moisture, and its greater contamination from the embouchure of sewers, & c., account for the first appearance of the disease in the immediate vicinity of a river, or of the sea, upon which, places subject to it are situate.4 71 ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. Yellow fever, as I have elsewhere observed, is an inflammatory affection, which expends its force generally and principally on the stomach and collatitious viscera, but may be compli- cated also with inflammation of other parts predisposed to increased action. It runs its course with great rapidity; and derives its fatality both from its involving vital organs, and from its being engrafted upon an ex- hausted state of the system. The crews of vessels who have continued in good health while at sea, are often attacked by yellow fever, on arriving at ports where the circumstances which give rise to that disease, exist in high degreethough it may not previously have appeared among the in- habitants who have been in some measure accustomed to their influence,and are un- justly charged with having brought it from whence they sailed. After a voyage, in which, from the constant impression of a moist atmosphere, the vital forces are rather depressed below, than elevated above their par condition, they not only exchange a healthy air for one rarifled and impure, but their duties generally become more laborious and exhausting; and the system thus predis- posed, with its energies perhaps further im- paired by excesses of various kinds, is more readily affected by the electrical fluctuations which are engendered by the action of the sun upon the land. The earth, as we all know, receives and radiates far more heat than the water, and evaporation, with all the circumstances connected with electrical fluctu- ation and change, is more active along the line of separation. That such diversity of effect should be pro- duced by the same morbific agent, constitutes, as has been seen, no valid objection to the hypothesis which I advocate. Man, in his ignorance, is fond of multiplying causes, but science is daily demonstrating the simplicity of truth. In the present instance there is no necessity for a multifarious agency. The human frame is so constituted, that whatever impairs the energy of its controlling organ the brain,diminishes, of course, the supply of nervous power to all parts of the body; and this defective innervation may give rise to aberrations as various as there are tissues and organs to be acted upon. Its most common result is dilatation and congestion of the capillaries, with all the phenomena of inflammation. Thus, in the dermoid tissue, we may have derangement of the capillary circulation, or of the exhalants, or of its secretory apparatus; constituting respectively, scarlet fever, measles, and small-pox; or we may have cholera from the same cause directed to the mucous membrane of the stomach and bowels; or any one of the phlegmasim, according as the development of latent imperfection, or accidental causes may determine. To those, therefore, who consider the complicated organism of the human system, it will not appear strange that results apparently so different, and yet in reality essentially the same, should be produced through the instrumentality of a single prin- ciple, directed in its morbid manifestations by predispositions arising from a variety of cir- cumstances, existing in countless combina- tions, and involving whole communities, or affecting individuals only. The manner in which morbid action is produced by the abstraction of electricity from the system is sufficiently indicated by what has been already said; but it may per- haps he made still clearer by one or two additional examples ; the scarlet fever, as being in its uncomplicated form, a familiar instance of a general inflammatory affection, will furnish an opposite illustration. This disease, thou0h occasionally observed in every season of the year, prevails most extensively in autumn and spring,periods during which electrical fluctuations are greatest, and their influence is promoted by the various metor- ological circumstances so often mcntioned before; and, as might be expected, is chiefly confined to children, whose power of resist- ing hurtful impressions, is less than that of persons of mature age and vigor. Th~ action of the brain and nervous system being depressed, or otherwise disturbed by the rapid abstraction of seasonal energy, and their control over the capillaries lessened, these consequently become dilated; the cir- culation through them is retarded, and a state of things is induced, closely bordering on inflammation. This, though general in all the tissues, is more particularly observed in the mucous membrane of the di0estive system, and in the skin; as evinced in the former by the redness of the throat, and the projecting papilla~ of the tongue,sometimcs also by the occurrence of nausea or diarrh~a, and in the latter by the scarlet efflores- cence and other symptoms of increased 72 action,the predominance of which, in this tissue, commonly indicates a tractable form of the complaint. Meanwhile, the brain re- acting against the morbific agency, separates and transmits the nervous energy as before; but there is now a demand for a greater supply, in order to restore the impaired tonicity of the capillaries; * this restoration is accomplished through the exaltation of its functions occasioned by the febrile move- ment,an action of salutary tendency when it does not transcend the required limits, and after a commotion of greater or less severity, occupying necessarily a nearly defi- nite period, the system reverts to a state of convalescence. Such is the order of things in scarlatina simplex. In the anginose variety, the pathological alterations proceed one step further. The circulation through a portion of the capillaries is not only retarded, but absolutely arrested; congestion follows, and inflammation is set up in the fauces, where, from the laxity of the parts, and the exposed condition of the vessels, we should naturally expect to find it. In still more aggravated grades of the malady, whether owing to the intensity of the cause, feebleness of constitution, or some other circumstance affecting the individual, the powers of life are prostrated, in many instances beyond the capability of re-action; the brain being deprived of its nervous energy, delirum, or coma ensues; and after a struggle of varying duration, death generally closes the scene often supervening in a very few hours. The year which has just passed, presented meterological conditions favorable to the production of this disease; and it has conse- quently prevailed very extensively. The winter was excessively severe, and the cold was protracted throughout the spring. The early part of the summer was very warm, with the coolest August that had been known for a long period of time. The autumn was open and variable; and the mortality towards its close amounted to more than forty cases a week. A few consecutive days of clear, cold, ~d dry weather, occurred in the early part of December, and were followed by a marked diminution of the disease,the number of deaths for the week following being only thirty. It subsequently became chilly, wet, * It is this demand requiring all the ability of the sys- tem to sustain, which renders depletion, and other meas- tires producing still further exhaustion, so dangerous in ~lie tre~tment of this disease. 73 and variable, and the mortality again in- creased beyond any previous example. The whole mortality for the year from this cause alone, was nearly or quite one thousand. In New York, it amounted to more than twelve hundred. The origin of measles may be explained in like manner. The difference being that in scarlet fever, the morbific influence exerts its force chiefly on the capillary circulation; whereas in measles, while it implicates the pulmonary, rather than the gastro-mucous tissue, it receives from some pre-disposing cause,perhaps a somewhat greater degree of cold, or the same degree acting upon a system less debilitated, as in the springa determination to a different part of the skin; probably its exhalant vessels. In small-pox another, and more secretory portion of this composite structure is affected, and hence its contagious character. The application of the same mode of rea- soning to the phlegmasive is sufficiently obvi- ous. An individual, from exposure in a raw and damp state of weather,the physical powers being perhaps depressed by fasting, fatigue, or some other predisposing cause, becomes unwell, and is said, in common par- lance, to have taken cold. More correctly speaking, the seasonal energy has been ab- stracted from the system more rapidly than it could be generated without disturbance of the cerebral functions; the effect is felt in the diminished innervation of some organ, liable from congenital or acquired predisposition, to fall into diseased action; and as a conse- quence, inflammation takes place either in its parenchyma, or investing membrane, as circumstances may determine. The exanthemata prevail chiefly in early life, when the nervous system is not only pre- dominant and impressible, but there is, more- over, from their greater functional activity, a natural tendency to affections of the dermoid and mucous tissues; the predisposition inclin- ing, in after years, rather to affections of the contents of the great cavities. The exemp- tion from a second attack, though by no means so general as is commonly supposed, increases with the more confirmed and vigor- ous action of the brain; and these diseases, therefore, unless there be a strong constitu- tional tendency or the predisposing causo exists in a high degree, rarely affect adults. When the meteorological conditions aro ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. 74 ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. favorable to the production of small-pox, even vaccination will confer no immunity. That it appears to afford protection under any circumstances, is owing partly to the more confirmed vitality and different morbid predispositions of later life, and partly, also, to the fact that the conditions alluded to, combined with other depressing causes, as insufficiency of food and clothing, imperfect ventilation, neglect of cleanliness, & c., which so greatly facilitate their action, are rarely seen in this country. For the professional expression of this opinion, Mr. President, notwithstanding my avowed practical conformity, I have been publicly arraigned by an intelligent and respectable member of this Society, as pro- mulgating new and doubtful doctrines, calcu- lated to cause misgivings as to the virtue of a widely-adopted and long-cherished bless- ing, in w~ch he has the temerity to say that medie~l confidence is still undiminished; though it is known to the veriest tyro, that its advocates, driven from the ground of per- fect immunity, have been obliged to resort to a modified protection,creating a varioloid disea~c to explain a degree of mildness which is owiog to improved modes of living and more rational treatment,and are, moreover, divided among themselves as to the necessity of the repeated, and even septennial employ- ment of their supposed prophylactic! I am far from supposing that electrical fluctuation is the sole cause of morbid action. Disease once induced, has, in some instances, the power of self-propagation, and often originates, moreover, from other causes, operating as well within as without the in- dividual; but when it prevails epidemically, or in sporadic bases of complaints sometimes epidemic where there has been no exposure to contagion, and on all occasions when it is said to arise from cold, its etiogoly I be- lieve to be as I have described. Whatever, indeed, impairs the nervous energy may operate in the same manner, and produce, under similar predisposing influences, the same results. I have seen cases of scarlet fever and variola arising, as I supposed, from fatigue alone; and I observe that Evelyn states in his Diary, that one of the Princes of the Royal Family was attacked by small-pox of a confluent and fatal character, after exces- sive dancing. When the predisposition is wanting, even contagion will be sometimes nearly, or alto- gether inoperative, and people are often ex- posed to it with perfect immunity. Yariola itself, under such circumstances, will not always spread beyond the individual affected; and may even give rise to disease of a different kind. I have seen cases of fatal congestive fever without the characteristic eruption, mani- festly caused by attendance on the confluent variety of that disease. The subject opens a wide field for observa- tion and reflection, and will require on very many topics, an entire reconstruction of medical sentiment. Several complaints now attributed to contagion, will be found to spring from a cause which no isolation could evade; demon- strating thus the inutility and folly, as well as the mischief of quarantine rca ulations. Not only malaria, but the whole tribe of atmos- pherical miasms, with vaccination, and several other widely-adopted and long-cherished opinions, are destined to fall before the more rational theory which it inculcates; while it cannot fail to exercise also, a beneficial effect upon practice, in making the preservation and restoration of nervous energy a prominent object of regard both in health and disease. It is not to be supposed that an hypothesis which allows of no divided empire, but seeks to exalt itself upon the ruins of what com- poses so large a part of medical literature, supplies so much of medical phraseology, and has exercised an influence so controlling over medical opinion, will be received without strong opposition. A host of prejudices will start up in arms against it, and may deprive it in many minds of the edusideration which it merits. These should not be permitted to interpose obstacles to the pursuit of truth. I ask for it only a candid and thorough in- vestigation. If it be true, as I firmly believe, it will ultimately triumph; and if otherwise, it should be refuted and rejected. It has been held by me with increasing conviction for more than twenty years; and from the clear insight which it gives into much that without it would be dark and contradictory, I should be happy to impart the confidence which I feel, in equal degree to others. The doctrine is fruitful in its practical ap- plications, and involves whatever may protect the system against the fluctuations of this potent and all-pervading principle. It sup- plies us with an intelligible reason why, in the selection of a residence, we should .avoid ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. localities the air of which is habitually charged with moisture, and its conducting power thereby increased, whether from the nature of the soil, or the vicinity of water. It teaches us, for a similar reason, to avoid exposure, in feeble states of health, to the early morning and evening air of the country, when intermittent and remittent fevers are rife; and when such exposure is unavoidable, points out the propriety of sustaining the vital powers by a previous meal, and the ex- hibition of some ~ tonic or stimulant. It explains how it happens that in certain sea- sons, and during the prevalence of certain winds, situations ordinarily salubrious become unhealthy. It instructs us, moreover, during the existence of any epidemic, to abstain from everything which may depress or exhaust the nervous energy, and to maintain the action of the brain in its accustomed, or even in increased vigor, as well by the stimulus of hope and confidence, as by the use of means which exert their influence more especially upon that organ; affording thus the probable rationale of the action of belladona and other prophylactics. Whatever, indeed, sustains and exalts the nervous power, must necessarily tend to avert disease; and in the autumnal season more particularly, when the system, before its reaction under the influence of cold, is left in a condition not unlike that of an inebriate from whom his accustomed stimulus has been withdrawn, the general prescription of some appropriate tonic might be expected to prove especially useful. In the late ex- pedition up the Niger, a river so often fatal to previous explorers, the health of the crew was preserved in a remarkable manner by the exhibition of quinine, morning and even- ing, with other hygienic precautions; and the same course might be advantageously adopted by vessels arriving at our ports during the prevalence of yellow fever. It guides us, furthermore, to a right practice in many affections now somewhat empirically treated; warning us to abstain from depletory, and other disturbing measures, in scarlet, typhoid, and other fevers, where the nervous energy is already impaired through the debilitating nature of the cause, and the subsequent reaction is merely an effort of the vis medica- trix to restore the lost balance of the system. A want of due innervation being a primary deviation in the train of morbid action, it holds out a reasonable hope of subverting 75 certain complaints in their incipient stage, by the administration of tonics, as quinine, in large doses, before the vascular system has become implicated; and forbids a resort to the lancet, at least until such implication has taken place, and reaction, permanently secured, threatens, by its excess, to endanger some important organ. It abates, in many instances, as in scarlatina and rubeola, the dread of contagion; and relieves us from the supposed necessity of purifying the blood by the elimination of an imaginary materies morbi. It suggests the necessity of adequate clothing of appropriate quality, that is, of non-conducting materials, as woollen or silk,and other precautionary measures, in the management of children; and finally, admonishes us of the importance, at all times, of preserving the vital forces in their best possible condition, and thereby of affording to the vis medicatrix full opportunity of ac- complishing its recuperative tendencies. It might perhaps be supposed, on first im- pression, that disorders originating in a tem- porary abstraction of electricity, ought to be cured by the artificial supply of that fluid; and this supposition would not be unreasona- ble if our bodies, instead of being living systems, were inanimate machines. In the actual constitution of things, however, other morbid actions speedily follow the tempo- rary relaxation of cerebral or nervous con- trol; various complications ensue; and effects are produced which can only be obviated or repaired in accordance with the laws which govern the animal economy alike in health and disease. I have not found electricity of much value in the treatment of disease, until the system had been brought, by other mea- sures, nearly or quite to its par condition, and the suspended function only required an ap- propriate stimulus to call it into activity. In what has been said, the substantial iden- tity of the vis nervosa and the electrical fluid has been assumed; but as before ob- served, this is not necessary for the truth of the theory which I have advanced. It is sufficient that there should be such a recipro- cal relation between them that fluctuations in the one, will produce a corresponding change in the otherthe morbid alterations being accounted for with equal clearness on either supposition,and thus much, I pre- sume, will b& conceded by all physiologists. The theme is a prolific one, and the ide~ 76 ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. thus imperfectly expressed, far from exhaust- ing the subject, must be regarded as little more than suggestive. They are not wholly original; for the electrical origin of several diseases has by some physicians long been suspected, and as respects one of them Asiatic cholerawell-nigh established; but am not aware that the hypothesis has ever been so fully developed, or received so ex- tended an application as I have given to it. To my mind it harmonizes and elucidates many discordant and otherwise inexplicable phenomena; inculcates a rational and con- servative practice; and while by its adoption we substitute a simple, intelligible and effective etsology, for one complex, contradictory, and inadequate, we get rid of much of the fanci- ful theory and unfounded reasoning, which have so long bewildered and disgraced our profession. It is certainly more philosophical, and more in accordance with the operations of the divine Author of nature, who produces effects the most diverse and wonderful, by the agency of a few simple elements, to as- cribe the causation of the diseases we have been considering, to a single instrumentality, capable, from its potent, fluctuating, and all- pervading nature, of accomplishing, through the governing organ of the animal economy, all that is thus attributed to it; then, like the heathen of the olden time, to create a deity for every effect, and people the invisible realms of medicine with as many miasms as there are maladies incident to the human frame. The general predisposition, individ- ual tendency, similarity of constitution and circumstance, the negatively electrical condi- tion of the air of apartments vitiated by res- piration, and other depressing influences, will satisfactorily account for much that in many diseases has been attributed to contagion. The fiction, that there are floating in the atmosphere, miasms which enter into the cir- culation by respiration or otherwise, acting as a poison to the blood, and severally pro- ducing scarlet fever, measles, small-pox, & c., for these diseases often prevail in the same neighborhood, or household, and, two of them at least, sometimes in the same person, might he very well for the age in which it was invented; but in the light of modern sci- ence, is, in my judgment, as absurd, as I believe it to be unfounded. It is grati1~ing to perceive that the medi cal mind, so long held in the leading-strings of authority, is beginning to break the flimsy fetters which have bound it, and to assert its prerogative of independent thought. I have conversed, of late years more especially, with intelligent physicians from various parts of our country, and have found in many of them a strong feeling of dissatisfaction with the opinions prevalent on this subject, though they knew not what better to substitute in their stead. Contradicted by facts of familiar observation and occurrence, they are evi- dently losing their hold on the inquisitive and reflecting; and must, crc long, aive place to views more in accordance with the dictates of a sounder philosophy. I impute no fault, and cast no discredit on those who have gone before, and from whom they have been derived to us. They lived before the era of modern discovery, when electricity as a science did not exist; when its probable identity with light and caloric was unsuspected; when its action upon the ani- mal system, and the marvels of the telegraph were unknown; and the theories which they invented to reconcile and explain the phe- nomena before them, were not behind the philosophy of their age; indeed, they may be said to have been far in advance of it, for their authority has remained unchallenged al- most until now. The demerit is all our own, in that, enamored of their antiquated lore, we have stereotyped their errors, and cling to them as pertinaciously, as though they were rigid deductions drawn amidst the brighter revelations in physical knowledge, which it is our privilege to enjoy. Surely the discovery of electricity, its capa- bility of being temporarily substituted for nervous power in the process of digestion, & ., its action in producing muscular contrac- tion in bodies recently dead, and its instanta- neous transmission along the telegraph wires, manifesting thus a striking analogy to the nervous force or energy, might have been ex- pected to awaken inquiry, and exert a modi- fying influence on opinions formed long ante- rior to that period. The nerves, being themselves tracts of medullary matter, do not act as conductors merely, but separate or secrete the energy which they transmit, and probably govern the capillary system in some measure independently of the brain. Electrical fluctuation, as already intimated, has been conjecturally assigned, with more or ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. less confidence, as the cause of several com- plaints; but few attempts have heen made to show hy argument the grounds upon which such conjecture reposed. iDr. Wood, in his Practice of Medicine, states that Sir James Murray, so long ago as 1844, maintained, in an article, published in the Dublin press of that year, that the true malarious agents are electro-galvanic currents and accumulations, which produce disease by disturhing the elec- trical equilibrium of the body; an opinion identical with that, which, with wider exten- sion, I have advocated in the present essay: though by what reasoning it is supported by him, I am entirely ignorant, for I have neither seen his paper, nor any other on the suhject; and what I have written, therefore, is the ex- clusive result of my own observation and re- flection. I have even abstained from reading the monograph of Mr. Craig, in order that the matter might he brought before this learned body, as the elaborated conclusion of two isolated and independent minds, em- ployed unknown to, and uninfluenced by, each other, in the solution of the same problem. I have not aimed at demonstration; but I hope, Sir, that I have succeeded in creating such a presumption of the truth of the the- ory which I have advocated, as gives it a fair claim to attention, and I commend it accord- ingly to the consideration of the Profession. INFLUENCE OF VARIATIONS OF ELECTRIC TENSION AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. By Wil- Ziam Craig, Surgeon, Ayr.The monograph of Mr. Craig alluded to in the communica- tion of Df. Littell, as having been addressed to Dr. Hollingsworth, the late editor of the Examiner, was accompanied also by a letter from that gentleman, in which he expresses his surprise, That men whose every-day pursuit is in the field of medical science, continually in contact with vital operations, and who are characterized as lovers of matter of fact, are content, in such an important matter as the remote cause of endemic and epidemic scourges which periodically devas- tate the human race, to believe in the agency of miasm, which miasm has never been idea- 77 tric theory will yet be recognized as the true one, and that the researches in this direction will ultimately lead to the most satisfactory results. The American Continent is a much better field for making observations con- nected with endemic and epidemic diseases than the little island which constitutes Great Britain. Here we are confined to a small portion of the earths surface, with a com- paratively uniform temperature, and can see the operations of nature only in a very lim- ited form. The small swamps in the fenny counties of England, exhibit the endemic phenomena in a very circumscribed degree, and on this account strike the mind of ob- servers less forcibly than might be the case in situations where there is a large exposure of swamp under the influence of a nearly vertical sun. His own paper, which was originally pub- lished in the London Medical Gazette for June, 1851, extends in double columns through some eighteen pages of that periodi- cal, and its reprint entire would therefore oc- cupy more space than we could conveniently spare; but inasmuch as it relates to a subject at once important, interesting, and novel, and is moreover strikingly confirmatory of the views put forth by Dr. Littell, we have thought that an abstract of it would not be unacceptable to the readers of the Review. It is entitled, On the Influence of Varia- tions of Electric Tension as a Cause of Disease; and sets out with the opinion that such variations on the various parts of the earth, act prejudicially on those animals which are placed on the portions of the earth thus affected. It is assumed as postulata, that heat ~and electricity are identical and convertible, that every atom of ponderable matter is surrounded by a little atmosphere of heat, and that it is through the agency or this element that attraction, and cohesion be- tween the primary constituents of bodies are maintained. The gaseous bodies, whether in their ~eriform state, as in the atmosphere, or solidified, as in vegetable combination, pos- sess a great amount of latent heat, which is evolved in the new combinations formed in the animal economy, and is the source of tified, and appears to be a mere phantom of warmth to the system. The electricity so the brain. I am very glad, he continues, constantly and so liberally supplied by the that on your side of the Atlantic, other various decomposing processes of respiration views begin to be entertained, and I am digestion, and assimilation cannot, however, stiongly under the conviction that the elec- be intended merely for the support of animal 78 temperature, but must have some other im- portant work to perform, and what more likely than to minister to the vital operations in corporeal existence? The analogy, if not the identity of electricity and the nervous power is maintained, on the ground that the action of the one, can be successfully substi- tuted for the other. Experiments showing, in the language of an able physiologist, that a current of electricity sent along the referent nerves produces effects precisely an- alogous to those which are consequent on the transit of nervous forces. If it be sent along a motor nerve, muscular action is the result; along sensitive ones we affect the sensation peculiar to that nerve. Thus by means of a simple galvanic current passed through the eye, we produce the effect of light; through the auditory nerve, that of sound; and the nerves of smell and taste may be similarly acted upon. Dr. Wilson Philip has asserted that he can produce the secretion of the gas- tric juice by sending a current along the di- vided pneumogastrics. This view is further confirmed by the structure and distribution of the nerves, as developed by the microscopical researches of Nfl. Prevost and iDumas, and the conviction is confidently expressed, not only that elec- tricity evolved during respiration and assimi- lation is that which supplies nervous power but that the structure of the nervous system favors the conclusion that the nervous forces are effected on the principle of a galvanic ar- rangement. Admitting the truth of this principle, it will follow that suspension or de- rangement of those provisions which nature has furnished for preserving a continual sup- ply of vital electricity, cannot fail to affect the system prejudicially, in proportion to the amount of its abstraction. The phenomena of disease prove that the first morbid impression is made upon the nervous system. The tumultuous form of nervous action which constitutes a rigor, con- veys to those who are the subjects of it, the sensation as of a sudden abstraction of heat coincident with which, there is a general de- rangement of the secretions, and a sudden failure of muscular power. Considering then that electricity and nervous force are identi- cal, that the electricity evolved during the processes of respiration and assimilation is that which supplies the vital electricity to the nervous system, and that any cause which ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A ~CAUSE OF DISEASE. hinders the supply, or suddenly and to a great extent withdraws it after being supplied must necessarily be mischievous, we have an intelligible combination of causes which will injuriously affect the system, without resort- ing to an imaginary miasm, which is not known as anything tangible, or appreciable by any of the senses, and which has eluded all search into its reality. Taking cold will thus be an easily compre~. hensible idea. The escape of heatthat is the withdrawal of electricity from the body is understood to be taking cold. The ab- straction of vital electricity from a person whose nervous system has none to spare, will cause derangements that will be developed in some form of disease, the nervous currents in such circumstances, acting on a secreting gland, may be insufficient to elaborate from the blood those constituents which are re- quired to form the various secretions; and in this manner the secretion may be imperfectly eliminated, the depuration of the blood in- completely effected; and the retention of those elements which ought to have been given off, will give rise to diseases which re- sult from the vitiation of the fluids of the body. Water in assuming the form of vapor ab- sorbs a large quantity of electricity, and dur- ing this process portions of the earth, and the objects upon it are deprived of their due share. It is thus that injurious influences are exerted, especially on the predisposed, as are sufficient to cause epidemic and wide-spread disease. In tropical conntries the rain falls in greater quantity, and evaporation, which is effected by the radiation of solar heat, is con- sequently more active carrying off the electri- cal fluid from the earth, and leaving it in a state of negative ulectricity. So constantly is humidity associated with the existence of endemic and epidemic diseases, that their extent and virulence, as a general rule, will be in proportion to the amount and rapidity of evaporation in any given situation. The rainy season, or the period immediately after it, when radiation and evaporation are great- est, is consequently the most sickly in tropical climates. The insalubrity of places in hot countries, where the sea-coast and rivulets are covered with mangrove vegeta- tion, has been particularly observed, and is attributed to the peculiar nature of those ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. bushes in growth and decay, absorbing mois- ture and facilitating evaporation. A con- stant drain of the electric fluid is thus kept up; and the electrical conditions of the animals being always positive, they suffer loss from the tendency of this fluid to maintain an equilibrium. In open and inland coun- tries, destitute of marshes and jungle, the humidity is only occasional and of short con- tinuance, and the insalubrity, therefore, is casual and temporary. The unhealthfulness of marshes is in proportion to the warmth of their position, and the consequent evapor- ation. On this principle it ought to follow that ague and other diseases which occur near marshes, should be mild or severe, just in proportion to the amount of evaporation. When the water scarcely covers the earth, the soil and plants become much more heated; and radiation and evaporation are consequently greater than when the ground is entirely overflown. There might be cited from many writers on pestilential diseases in tropical climates, ex- amples of wide-spread deadly disease, and at the same time an absence of every other apparent instrumentality. There was no vegetable or animal decomposition, or any other source of insalubrious effluvia, on mere sandy plains, but the speedy evaporation of the recently fallen rains, and the presence of a severe pestilential scourge. Besides the effect of evaporation, there may be some occult influence in operation on the mineral strata that constitute the crust of the earth, of good-conducting power, which may disturb the regularity of the distribution, and unsettle the equilibrium of the electric fluid, withdrawing it probably into more cen- tral regions, and leaving the surface in a highly negative condition. In this way may be produced those occasional and epidemic attacks of pestilential disease, which cannot be attributed even to the existence of those circumstances which are generally looked upon as remote causes. That this is not mere hypothesis, is proved by the observa- tions of M. Andrand, during the prevalence of cholera in Paris in 1849. They were made with a very powerful machine; and in a communication to the French Academy, dated on the 10th of July, of that year, he Bays: I have remarked that since the inva- sion of cholera, I have not been able to pro- duce, on any occasion, the same effect. Be- 79 fore its appearance, in ordinary weather, after two or three turns of the wheel, bril- liant sparks of fire, of six centimetres in length, were given out. During the months of April and May, the sparks obtained, by great trouble, have never exceeded two or three centimetres, and their variations ac- corded very nearly with the variations of cholera. This was already for me a strong pre- sumption that I was on the trace of the im- portant fact I was endeavoring to find. Nevertheless, I was not quite convinced; be- cause one might attribute the fact to the moisture that was in the air, or to the irregu- larities of the electric machine. Thus I waited with patience the arrival of fine weather, and heat, to continue my observa- tions with more certainty. At last fine weather; and, to my astonishment the machine, frequently consulted, far from show- ing, as it ought to have done, an augmenta- tion of electricity, has given signs less and less sensible, to such a degree, that during the days of the 4th, 5th, and 6th of June, it was impossible to obtain any thing but slight cracklings without sparks. On the 7th of June the machine remained qmte dumb. This new decrease of the electric fluid has perfectly accorded with the renewed violence of the cholera, as is only too well known. For my own part, I was not more alarmed than astonished; my conviction was complete. At last, on the morning of the 8th, some feeble sparks re-appeared, and from that hour the intensity decreased. Towards even- ing, a storm announced, at Paris, that the electricity had re-entered its domain; to my eyes, it was the cholera that disappeared with the cause which produced it. The next day I continued my observations; the ma- chine, at the least touch, rendered with facility some lively sparks. Experiments, with the same result, were carefully made in Glasgow, during the winter of 1840, when that city suffered from a simi- lar visitation; and these facts, Mr. Craig regards as very conclusive in favor of the theory which he advocates. They distinctly indicate that the electric condition of the mineral strata and superincumbent mineral debris on which Paris and Glasgow :est, were, at the period when cholera raged, in a nega.. tive or low state of electric tension. Besides these particular and occasional in- 80 ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. fluences which operate on a large scale to produce epidemic and severe pestilential dis- eases, the occurrence of special and individ- ual cases may be accounted for on the same principle. A person in impaired health, or declining years, is exposed to a shower of rain, and sits inactive until his clothes dry upon him. With just sufficient elimination of vital electricity to supply nervous currents, and none to spare in radiation to convert the water in his clothes to vapor, every particle of heat thus abstracted will be injurious. Similar exposure in a more vigorous state of health after severe exhaustion. would be followed by the same consequences, especially if the individual, in a state of perspiration, should imprudently sit or lie upon the groundthe greater conducting power of which would rapidly convey the electricity from the system. The external covering provided for pre- serving the warmth of the inferior animals, gives further countenance to this theory. The hair, skin, and adipose tissue of quadru- peds, and the feathers which adorn and pro- tect the fowls, are all good non-conductors of electricity. Man, less carefully guarded by nature is endowed with faculties which teach him to protect himself; and non-con- ducting materials, as wool, hair, silk, & c., have always heen selected as a defence from cold, apart from all philosophical considera- tions. The barbarous inhabitants of the torrid zone,who can endure no other cov- ering, besmear themselves with oil or grease for the same reason. During the prevalence of a very fatal fever at Bomhay, it was observed that the natives employed in an oil estahlishment, whose bodies were always thus repulsively coated, continued in perfect health, thou h hundreds not so protected were dying all around them. In tropical regions, more especially, vessels at sea are often attacked with severe and dangerous disease; and as this evidently cannot proceed from miasms or emanations from the soil, its origin must he sought for in some circumstances connected with the ship itself. The wood of which it is composed, is a good non-conductor, and the crew are therehy nearly insulated. But evaporation from frequent washings of the deck, or dampness from leakage or other cause, by which electricity is withdrawn from the sys- tem, furnishes a ready solution of the prob lem. Ships have suffered severely from yel- low fever, while the decks were deluged with water several times a day, whereas others in which attention was given to keep every thing dry, have been comparatively healthy. The magnetic hills of the southern penin.- sula of India, especially those of Tavachy- malle, are mentioned as a remarkable exam- ple of the irregularity and inequality or electric tension. There is nothing in their appearance to account for their unhealthfub ness, and the cause can only he found in the character of the soil. This consists in a large proportion of ferruginous hornblende, which hecomes highly magnetic; and it is supposed that the diminished amount of latent electria- ity in the disintegrated rocks, gives them a capacity of absorbing it from every object which comes in contact with them; and hence their insalubrity. The passage is cu- rious, and will not easily admit of condensa- tion or abridgment. As an example of the irregularity and inequality of electric tension, I may cite a cu- rious account of fever that is endemical on the hills of the Southern Peninsula of India. The communication is made by Dr. ileyne, in the tenth number of the Madras Medical Journal. lie states That the hills where the fever is found to prevail appear, at first sight, quite harmless. They contain besides quartz, felspar, and mica, a great proportion of ferruginous horablende, which, by its dis- integration or separation from the rock be- comes highly magnetic; and in which, I sup- pose, the cause resides which produces the fever, besides a great variety of other dis- eases. A most remarkable incident illustrative of these facts, and my deductions from them, I found at Zupetoor, which lies in a valley close to a large table-land, the rock of which is sandstone. I asked there a respectable native, whether any such disorders are fre- quent in the country, and received for an- swer: No, thank God! not within ten miles of this place; but at Tavachymalle, a hilly part, where no man can live two days with- out getting it. To this place a peon was despatched, with the simple request to bring two or three stones from the rock of the hill, and some sand as may be found on the road. The man returned, and brought pieces of rock composed of felspar, quartz, and plenty ELECTRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. of ferrugin ous hornblende; and the sand of the rock consisted entirely of magnetic sand and particles of felspar. In that range of these hills the rocks vary much in their form- ation; and wherever the iron-granite occurs, the malignant peculiarity is uniformly con- nected with them. Hornblende in trap con- tains nearly as much iron as that of the granite ; the iron, also, in other minerals~ as in the magnetic ore and the carbonated iron ore of that country, possesses as much mag- netism in its active state, yet do they not prove themselves in the least hurtful to the constitution. Dr, Heyne very correctly, in my opinion, attributes the insalubrity of these iron-gran- ite hills to the magnetic condition of the rocks composing them, but does not mention the manner in which the magnetism is sup- posed to act so prejudicially on the human body. The readiness with which the iron- granite becomes disintegrated depends, in my opinion, on a want of latent electricity, the binding principle in all matter; and in this way cohesion is disturbed, and the atoms fall asunder. According to the principles here advanced, the unfavorable agency may be produced in the following manner: The diminished amount of latent electricity in these magnetic minerals, may cause them to have a large capacity of absorbing it from every object that may come in contact with them. The animal bodies being always pos- itive, in consequence of continually acquiring latent electricity from the air during respira- tion, and from the food during digestion, will readily give off their electricity; and if such a quantity be withdrawn as will leave less behind than is necessary for supplying power for supporting the vital operations, there will be produced diseases depending on the im- perfectly performed assimilation, secretion, and excretion. There are here none of the usual conditions for creating malarious eman- ationsneither decomposing vegetable or animal matter; and moisture seems to pro- tect rather than be injurious, as, whilst the rain is falling, it is observed that the malig- nant peculiarity is arrested. The ameliorat- in~ influence which rain may exercise on the insalubrity of this region, may be produced in the following manner: The electric fluid which is drained from the earth by evapora- tion, will be retained in the clouds; and if Dcxcviii. LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 6 81 not giv9a off in such a concentrated condition as to come forth in the form of lightning, it will come down to the earth diffused amongst the rain; and this rocky region, which is be- fore in a highly negative condition, will, by the supply thus communicated, become con- verted into much more positive circumstances, till the electricity is again drawn off by re- newed evaporation. After some practical observations respect- ing clothing, the construction of houses, the selections of sites for building, & c., the bear- ing of the theory on the subject of contagion is next adverted to; and while the injurious effects of the concentrated emanations from the bodies of patients laboring under fever, are not denied, the belief is expressed that they are less influential than is commonly imagined, and that the diseases supposed to be produced by them, are more usually de- pendent on the altered electric relations of the body. Vegetable life is maintained on the same principle as animal life, but in a less vigor- ous and more modified form; and the dis- eases which appear in this portion of the organized structures, are produced in a some- what similar manner. There is this differ- ence, however, in the case of vegetable life, that free electricity is indispensible to its existence; whilst animal life would be sup- ported quite independently of it. We cannot follow Mr. Craig in all his rea- sonings and illustrations,inferesting. and ingenious as they are. They strongly cor- roborate in many particulars the views set forth in the kindred essay of Dr. Littell; and the double witness thus borne by two separate observers, certainly strengthens the claim of the theory which they advance to the attentive consideration of the profession. We subjoin the recapitulation with which the pamphlet concludes. 1st. That heat and electricity are identi- cal, as the one can be converted into the other. 2d. That a large volume of electricity surrounds every primary constituent of matter, especially that form of matter which consti- tutes the gaseous bodies. 3d. That animal heat is supported by the electricity liberated from the primary constituents of matter during the processes of respiration, digestion and assimilation. 4th. That electricity is evolved during 82 ELECThRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. these processes on the same principle as that which is evolved during the action of a gal- vanic arrangement. 5th. That electricity and nervous power are analagous, if not identical; as the action of the one can be successfully substituted for the other. 6th. That the majority of diseases nrc caused either by the sudden abstraction, or slow subduction of electricity from the body. 7th. That a low state of electric tension on the surface of the earth, produced either by the operation of evaporation, or some occult movement in the great internal cur- rents of the earth, is the remote cause of epi- demic and pestilential diseases. 8th. That occasional and ordinary diseases are produced by the sudden abstraction or slow subduction of electricity from the body, or its undue elimination during the vital pro- cesses. 9th. That since electricity is so essential to the integrity of the vital operations, it is indispensible that measures be taken to promote its evolution and prevent over-radia- tion. 10th. That el~tricity is the source of vi- tality in vegetable life. 11th. That electricity is attracted by the fibres of the roots of plants; and by the instrumentality of the electric fluid does the plant extract ~ts constituents from the soil. 12th. That vegetables of rapid growth require a large supply of electricity to secure their perfection and completion; and the po- tato is a plant of this kind. 13th. That the disease in the potato was produced by want of nutrition. 14th. That the want of nutrition arose from defective electrical agency. 13th. That the cause of the deficiency of of this agency, was those abstracting agencies which produce low tension of electricity. THE FIRsT ENGLIsH ACTREssEsAllow me to suggest that, interesting as the communications of your correspondents have been on the above subject, they have hardly allowed the memories of their reading to go far enough back. Anne of Denmark, wife of James I., although not an Englishwoman, was the first woman who acted a dramatic part in England, by playing in a pastoral at court. But her 1~1ajesty was not a professional actress ; the first professional actresses in this country were, however, for- eigners. At Michaelmas, 1629, there was a Iday at Blackfriars~ in which French actresses appeared, and this was much resorted to. The fashion seems to have been imported from France, for Genest thus quotes Freshwater as writing from Paris, in the very year just re- corded Yet the women are the best actors; they play their own parts, a thing much desired in England. Prynne styles the novelty of French actresses at Blackfaiars an impudent, shameful, unwomanish, graceless, if not more than whorish attempt. The novelty must have been speedily followed by Englishwomen, for in 1632 the Court Lady was acted at the Cackpit, and in the last act Lady Strangeglove says, If you have a short speech or two, the boys a pretty actor; and his mother can play her part. The women now are in great request. In the following year (1633) Prynne wrath- fully recorded that they have now their female players in Italy and other foreign parts. At first there was probably no complete French company at any English theatre. In 1661 Davenant had permission, by patent, to engage a number of actresses for his theatre in Lin- eelne Inn Fields, on the ground that the em- ployment of men in acting female characters had given great offence. This first licensed troupe consisted of Mrs. Saunderson, Mrs, Davenport, Mrs. Davies, Mrs. Long, Mrs. Gibbs, Mrs. Norris, Mrs. ilolden, and Mrs. Jennings. The first four, as I have already noticed in Knights and their Days, were Sir Williams principal actresses, and these were boarded in the knights own dwelling-house. Their title of Mistress does not necessarily imply that they were married ladies, but rather that they were old enough to be so. Mrs. Saunderson, who was the Janthe recorded by Pepys, and who subsequently married Better- ton, is said to have been the first regularly en- gaged actress who opened her lips on the Eng- lish stage. But there were wandering irregular female stars thirty years before her time. JVbtes and Queries. TRUE BLUE True blue has always been the Tory color in Suffolk. Fifty years ago, when party spirit ran high, the predominant opinion of constancy implied by it was embodied in a fugitive verse which deserves to he rescued from oblivion True Blue will never stain; Yellow will with a drop of rain T G for ever. The attachment to this color thus pervaded all ranks. A very old woman at Ipswich used to boast, Whenever I die, I shall die Church and King; Church and King, wonderful ! Accordingly, when that event happened, it was found that she had directed her coffin to be lined with true blue, which was actually done, and she was buried in her favorite color. Notes and Queries. T. C.

82 ELECThRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. these processes on the same principle as that which is evolved during the action of a gal- vanic arrangement. 5th. That electricity and nervous power are analagous, if not identical; as the action of the one can be successfully substituted for the other. 6th. That the majority of diseases nrc caused either by the sudden abstraction, or slow subduction of electricity from the body. 7th. That a low state of electric tension on the surface of the earth, produced either by the operation of evaporation, or some occult movement in the great internal cur- rents of the earth, is the remote cause of epi- demic and pestilential diseases. 8th. That occasional and ordinary diseases are produced by the sudden abstraction or slow subduction of electricity from the body, or its undue elimination during the vital pro- cesses. 9th. That since electricity is so essential to the integrity of the vital operations, it is indispensible that measures be taken to promote its evolution and prevent over-radia- tion. 10th. That el~tricity is the source of vi- tality in vegetable life. 11th. That electricity is attracted by the fibres of the roots of plants; and by the instrumentality of the electric fluid does the plant extract ~ts constituents from the soil. 12th. That vegetables of rapid growth require a large supply of electricity to secure their perfection and completion; and the po- tato is a plant of this kind. 13th. That the disease in the potato was produced by want of nutrition. 14th. That the want of nutrition arose from defective electrical agency. 13th. That the cause of the deficiency of of this agency, was those abstracting agencies which produce low tension of electricity. THE FIRsT ENGLIsH ACTREssEsAllow me to suggest that, interesting as the communications of your correspondents have been on the above subject, they have hardly allowed the memories of their reading to go far enough back. Anne of Denmark, wife of James I., although not an Englishwoman, was the first woman who acted a dramatic part in England, by playing in a pastoral at court. But her 1~1ajesty was not a professional actress ; the first professional actresses in this country were, however, for- eigners. At Michaelmas, 1629, there was a Iday at Blackfriars~ in which French actresses appeared, and this was much resorted to. The fashion seems to have been imported from France, for Genest thus quotes Freshwater as writing from Paris, in the very year just re- corded Yet the women are the best actors; they play their own parts, a thing much desired in England. Prynne styles the novelty of French actresses at Blackfaiars an impudent, shameful, unwomanish, graceless, if not more than whorish attempt. The novelty must have been speedily followed by Englishwomen, for in 1632 the Court Lady was acted at the Cackpit, and in the last act Lady Strangeglove says, If you have a short speech or two, the boys a pretty actor; and his mother can play her part. The women now are in great request. In the following year (1633) Prynne wrath- fully recorded that they have now their female players in Italy and other foreign parts. At first there was probably no complete French company at any English theatre. In 1661 Davenant had permission, by patent, to engage a number of actresses for his theatre in Lin- eelne Inn Fields, on the ground that the em- ployment of men in acting female characters had given great offence. This first licensed troupe consisted of Mrs. Saunderson, Mrs, Davenport, Mrs. Davies, Mrs. Long, Mrs. Gibbs, Mrs. Norris, Mrs. ilolden, and Mrs. Jennings. The first four, as I have already noticed in Knights and their Days, were Sir Williams principal actresses, and these were boarded in the knights own dwelling-house. Their title of Mistress does not necessarily imply that they were married ladies, but rather that they were old enough to be so. Mrs. Saunderson, who was the Janthe recorded by Pepys, and who subsequently married Better- ton, is said to have been the first regularly en- gaged actress who opened her lips on the Eng- lish stage. But there were wandering irregular female stars thirty years before her time. JVbtes and Queries. TRUE BLUE True blue has always been the Tory color in Suffolk. Fifty years ago, when party spirit ran high, the predominant opinion of constancy implied by it was embodied in a fugitive verse which deserves to he rescued from oblivion True Blue will never stain; Yellow will with a drop of rain T G for ever. The attachment to this color thus pervaded all ranks. A very old woman at Ipswich used to boast, Whenever I die, I shall die Church and King; Church and King, wonderful ! Accordingly, when that event happened, it was found that she had directed her coffin to be lined with true blue, which was actually done, and she was buried in her favorite color. Notes and Queries. T. C.

82 ELECThRICAL FLUCTUATIONS AS A CAUSE OF DISEASE. these processes on the same principle as that which is evolved during the action of a gal- vanic arrangement. 5th. That electricity and nervous power are analagous, if not identical; as the action of the one can be successfully substituted for the other. 6th. That the majority of diseases nrc caused either by the sudden abstraction, or slow subduction of electricity from the body. 7th. That a low state of electric tension on the surface of the earth, produced either by the operation of evaporation, or some occult movement in the great internal cur- rents of the earth, is the remote cause of epi- demic and pestilential diseases. 8th. That occasional and ordinary diseases are produced by the sudden abstraction or slow subduction of electricity from the body, or its undue elimination during the vital pro- cesses. 9th. That since electricity is so essential to the integrity of the vital operations, it is indispensible that measures be taken to promote its evolution and prevent over-radia- tion. 10th. That el~tricity is the source of vi- tality in vegetable life. 11th. That electricity is attracted by the fibres of the roots of plants; and by the instrumentality of the electric fluid does the plant extract ~ts constituents from the soil. 12th. That vegetables of rapid growth require a large supply of electricity to secure their perfection and completion; and the po- tato is a plant of this kind. 13th. That the disease in the potato was produced by want of nutrition. 14th. That the want of nutrition arose from defective electrical agency. 13th. That the cause of the deficiency of of this agency, was those abstracting agencies which produce low tension of electricity. THE FIRsT ENGLIsH ACTREssEsAllow me to suggest that, interesting as the communications of your correspondents have been on the above subject, they have hardly allowed the memories of their reading to go far enough back. Anne of Denmark, wife of James I., although not an Englishwoman, was the first woman who acted a dramatic part in England, by playing in a pastoral at court. But her 1~1ajesty was not a professional actress ; the first professional actresses in this country were, however, for- eigners. At Michaelmas, 1629, there was a Iday at Blackfriars~ in which French actresses appeared, and this was much resorted to. The fashion seems to have been imported from France, for Genest thus quotes Freshwater as writing from Paris, in the very year just re- corded Yet the women are the best actors; they play their own parts, a thing much desired in England. Prynne styles the novelty of French actresses at Blackfaiars an impudent, shameful, unwomanish, graceless, if not more than whorish attempt. The novelty must have been speedily followed by Englishwomen, for in 1632 the Court Lady was acted at the Cackpit, and in the last act Lady Strangeglove says, If you have a short speech or two, the boys a pretty actor; and his mother can play her part. The women now are in great request. In the following year (1633) Prynne wrath- fully recorded that they have now their female players in Italy and other foreign parts. At first there was probably no complete French company at any English theatre. In 1661 Davenant had permission, by patent, to engage a number of actresses for his theatre in Lin- eelne Inn Fields, on the ground that the em- ployment of men in acting female characters had given great offence. This first licensed troupe consisted of Mrs. Saunderson, Mrs, Davenport, Mrs. Davies, Mrs. Long, Mrs. Gibbs, Mrs. Norris, Mrs. ilolden, and Mrs. Jennings. The first four, as I have already noticed in Knights and their Days, were Sir Williams principal actresses, and these were boarded in the knights own dwelling-house. Their title of Mistress does not necessarily imply that they were married ladies, but rather that they were old enough to be so. Mrs. Saunderson, who was the Janthe recorded by Pepys, and who subsequently married Better- ton, is said to have been the first regularly en- gaged actress who opened her lips on the Eng- lish stage. But there were wandering irregular female stars thirty years before her time. JVbtes and Queries. TRUE BLUE True blue has always been the Tory color in Suffolk. Fifty years ago, when party spirit ran high, the predominant opinion of constancy implied by it was embodied in a fugitive verse which deserves to he rescued from oblivion True Blue will never stain; Yellow will with a drop of rain T G for ever. The attachment to this color thus pervaded all ranks. A very old woman at Ipswich used to boast, Whenever I die, I shall die Church and King; Church and King, wonderful ! Accordingly, when that event happened, it was found that she had directed her coffin to be lined with true blue, which was actually done, and she was buried in her favorite color. Notes and Queries. T. C. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LUTFULLAIL. From The Spectator. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LUTFULLAH.* THIS autobiography of a Mahometan native of India is a curious s~ork in itself. It possesses a good deal of extrinsic interest at the present time, from frequently indicating the sentiments of an experienced, self-culti- vated, and, as certificates tell us, an able and superior Indian. There are also to be found in it unconscious intimations of what manner of men those Indians be who are now in open revolt against our authority. We must con- fess we have no great liking for one part of the Mohamedan Gentlemans character; no great dread of the other, as regards native strength, though distance, space, cli- mate, and numbers, are all elements of ap- prehension. With every allowance for differ- ence of country, creed, and manners, the hero of this book must be pronounced an adventurer, with very few scruples as to his means of employment and advancement, and with a conscience that enables him to see what is right rather than a courage to do it. During his early career, he falls in with a Thug; and having, by hypocrisy and taking an oath of secrecy, acquired a knowledge of the villain, he betrays him, from confusion of mind and loss of breath through his flight, without even the merit of giving up a crimi- nal to justice. On another occasion, he em- barks in a scheme which involves running way, as we may call it, from his mother and friends. Instead of the heroes he expected to have joined, he finds he has fallen into the hands of a gang of robbers; and with them he remained for some time, though he had ample opportunity to escape, by the mode he had to adopt at last. According to Lut- fullahs account, he never joined in their robberies and murders, but only acted as a kind of accountant in dividing the spoil. In what refers to the intellectual character rather than to morals or conduct, we are not more favorably impressed. As the descend- ant of a Mahometan saint, and himself a stanch Mahometan, it is but natural that he should adhere to his own creed and prefer its practices. Neither is his evident dislike of Europeans in general to be censured as wrong. The points for disapproval are, the * Autobiography of Lutfullah, a Mohamedan Gentle- man; an4 his Transactions with his Fello -creatures: terspersed with Remarks on the Habits, Customs, and Character of the People with whom he had to deal. Edited by Edward 13. Eastwick, F.It.S., FAA. Published by Smith and Elder. 83 conceit with which he pronounces judgment on their practicessuch as their permitting women to mix in society, and the spirit of adulation which animates his praises when nothing at least is to be lost by praise, and his somewhat malignant censure of those who displease him. All these things are found in the spirit. The style is mild enough, the language measured. Something of childishness and a feminine weakness is visible throughout. It is as if the mind had only been developed up to a certain point and then stopped. This is a common characteristic with Orientals writing in Eng- lish, and two allowances have to be made: they are writing in a foreign tongue, we are trying them by an European standard. In that part of a character which most interests us just now, there is not much to fear, if Lutfullah is to be taken as a repre- sentative of the native Indian. He wants steady persistence and patience to wait for the ripening of events; though he is patient enough when it answers an immediate pur- pose. Change, without any other object than recreation or mere love of change, is one great feature of the life. We do not allude to his early youth, when few people settle down; but there is a continual shifting of employment, with the usual result, it seems, of the rolling stone. His most decided instance of perseverance was his acquiring the English language without any assistance other than Dr. Gilebrists work and what he could pick up. One of his methods was not to go to bed until he had learned ten words. He has mastered the language sufficiently to write this book himself. As an autobiography the book is very curious. It bears the strongest resemblance to Gil Bias of anything we have ever read, whether we regard the incidents or the character of the hero. ILike the Spaniard, Lutfullah passes through a variety of adven- tures; that with the robbers, for instance, being almost a general counterpart of Gil BIas, and the Mahometan actually does take service with an Oriental Sangrado. He also rises to a respectable position as interpreter in the Anglo-Indian service, through having taught languages to the officers; he rose somewhat higher in the employment of Native grandees; though he does not attain to the closet confidence of a prime minister, or to some of the delicate employments of

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LUTFULLAIL. From The Spectator. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LUTFULLAH.* THIS autobiography of a Mahometan native of India is a curious s~ork in itself. It possesses a good deal of extrinsic interest at the present time, from frequently indicating the sentiments of an experienced, self-culti- vated, and, as certificates tell us, an able and superior Indian. There are also to be found in it unconscious intimations of what manner of men those Indians be who are now in open revolt against our authority. We must con- fess we have no great liking for one part of the Mohamedan Gentlemans character; no great dread of the other, as regards native strength, though distance, space, cli- mate, and numbers, are all elements of ap- prehension. With every allowance for differ- ence of country, creed, and manners, the hero of this book must be pronounced an adventurer, with very few scruples as to his means of employment and advancement, and with a conscience that enables him to see what is right rather than a courage to do it. During his early career, he falls in with a Thug; and having, by hypocrisy and taking an oath of secrecy, acquired a knowledge of the villain, he betrays him, from confusion of mind and loss of breath through his flight, without even the merit of giving up a crimi- nal to justice. On another occasion, he em- barks in a scheme which involves running way, as we may call it, from his mother and friends. Instead of the heroes he expected to have joined, he finds he has fallen into the hands of a gang of robbers; and with them he remained for some time, though he had ample opportunity to escape, by the mode he had to adopt at last. According to Lut- fullahs account, he never joined in their robberies and murders, but only acted as a kind of accountant in dividing the spoil. In what refers to the intellectual character rather than to morals or conduct, we are not more favorably impressed. As the descend- ant of a Mahometan saint, and himself a stanch Mahometan, it is but natural that he should adhere to his own creed and prefer its practices. Neither is his evident dislike of Europeans in general to be censured as wrong. The points for disapproval are, the * Autobiography of Lutfullah, a Mohamedan Gentle- man; an4 his Transactions with his Fello -creatures: terspersed with Remarks on the Habits, Customs, and Character of the People with whom he had to deal. Edited by Edward 13. Eastwick, F.It.S., FAA. Published by Smith and Elder. 83 conceit with which he pronounces judgment on their practicessuch as their permitting women to mix in society, and the spirit of adulation which animates his praises when nothing at least is to be lost by praise, and his somewhat malignant censure of those who displease him. All these things are found in the spirit. The style is mild enough, the language measured. Something of childishness and a feminine weakness is visible throughout. It is as if the mind had only been developed up to a certain point and then stopped. This is a common characteristic with Orientals writing in Eng- lish, and two allowances have to be made: they are writing in a foreign tongue, we are trying them by an European standard. In that part of a character which most interests us just now, there is not much to fear, if Lutfullah is to be taken as a repre- sentative of the native Indian. He wants steady persistence and patience to wait for the ripening of events; though he is patient enough when it answers an immediate pur- pose. Change, without any other object than recreation or mere love of change, is one great feature of the life. We do not allude to his early youth, when few people settle down; but there is a continual shifting of employment, with the usual result, it seems, of the rolling stone. His most decided instance of perseverance was his acquiring the English language without any assistance other than Dr. Gilebrists work and what he could pick up. One of his methods was not to go to bed until he had learned ten words. He has mastered the language sufficiently to write this book himself. As an autobiography the book is very curious. It bears the strongest resemblance to Gil Bias of anything we have ever read, whether we regard the incidents or the character of the hero. ILike the Spaniard, Lutfullah passes through a variety of adven- tures; that with the robbers, for instance, being almost a general counterpart of Gil BIas, and the Mahometan actually does take service with an Oriental Sangrado. He also rises to a respectable position as interpreter in the Anglo-Indian service, through having taught languages to the officers; he rose somewhat higher in the employment of Native grandees; though he does not attain to the closet confidence of a prime minister, or to some of the delicate employments of AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LUTFULLAIT. Gil BIas at court. There is a good deal more of minuteness in the autobiography than in the novel, especially in the boyish; scenes: the latter part of the life, when the hero gets mixed up with public business Indian and European, wants the rich satire of Gil Bias, though the bare truth does something in this way. Lutfullaliwhich name being interpreted means the favor of God was born in the ancient city of Dhitr~ngar in Malwa, in 1802. He was the descendant of a great Moslem saint of the fifteenth century, and for many generations the family lived on a grant of land. When the Mabrattas conquered the province, they confiscated the greater part of the property, and the descendants of Shah Kamaluddin had little to subsist upon. By the time our hero had reached his fourth year, this little was lessened; for on the death of his father his paternal relations tried to get possession of the income. The difficulties springing out of this dispute drove his mother from her late husbands house, to take refuge with her brother; and by event- ually throwing the hoy upon the world to get on as he could, made him the man he is, and produced this autobiography. Of his precocious childhood, his aptitude for learn- ing, the various adventures he passed through while feeling his way in life, and his more settled pursuits as teacher of languages and in the civil service, he gives minute accounts, often mingled with reflections. The whole, from the first page to the last, is very charac- teristic of Indian and Anglo-Indian life, or of the autobiographer himself. Our extracts will be limited to the topic of current interest the ideas and feelings of the Natives to- wards the conquerors, and how those feelings may be affected by the conduct of those in authority. There are, too, some pictures of the general insecurity under Native rule, and here is one of them when the author was a little boy, some fifty years ago. Two or three times a year accounts will reach us of the approach of large bodies of IPindarees, who had been committing havoc in the surrounding districts; or of an intended attack by some neighboring potentate, for the purpose of levying contributions on the city. rJ7hen the hearts of the inhabitants were filled with terror and dismay; and forth- with jewels, money, and articles of value, were buried in the earth or otherwise secreted. When the atjack did take place, the situation of the inhabitants was truly pitiable. Ihey were then literally between two fires, froni both of which they suffered nearly equal injury; the cannon-balls from the citadel, instead of reaching the enemy for whose special destruction they were in- tended, generally falling short of their mark, and causing fearful loss of life and property within the walls of the city. This, of itself, was dreadful enough, even when the enemy failed in their ol~ject; when victory declared on their side, such of the citizens as had sur- vived the onslaught became the victims of the most refined cruelty, in order to discover the places where their treasure was concealed. Numerous modes of torture were had recourse to for this purpose, amongst which the three following generally proved the most effectual. First, the victim was pinioned and exposed bareheaded to the burning rays of the sun, while his ears were pounded or pinched be- tween the lock of a gun; secondly, after being pinioned, as above, he was made to stand in the sun, with a stone of enormous weight on his head, first inserting a gravel stone of the size and shape of a small grape, which gradually forced its way through the skull to the brain; thirdly, a horses grain-bag, half filled with ashes and red pepper in powder, was tied over the sufferers face, so as to in- clude his mouth and nose, the consequence of which was, at first, a most violent fit of sneezing, and if protracted to a quarter of an hour, a horrible death by suffocation. These reports of the Feringees refer to about the same period in the hook, but we suspect were partly traditions, or at least re- ports of the elders. Strange things were said regarding this wonderful people, who, it was affirmed, had no skin, but a thin membrane covering their body, which made them appear abominably white. They were perfect in magical art, which made them successful in all their un- dertakings. They did not believe in our blessed Prophet, and they called themselves Christians; but would not act upon the laws of the sacred Anjil, which holy book they had changed in several places to serve their worldly purposes. Most of them still wor- shipped images; and t.hey ate everything, and particularly things forbidden by the holy Mo- ses, and this in spite of the order of the sacred Anjil (St. Matthew, v., 18 and 19); nay, they did not spare human flesh when driven to extremity. They made three Gods for themselves, instead of onethe only Om~ nipotent Supreme Beingcontrary to their first commandment; and, most absurd ot all; they attributed to the Almighty God the having wife and children; and by the same token they called their Prophet and them 84 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP LUTFIJLLAII. selves Son and children of God. Such re- ports were the topic of almost all conversa- tions; and many other things were said against them, and only one in their favor that they were not unjust; hut in the admin- istration of justice, they never deviated from the sacred book of the ancient law of Solo- mon the Son of David, & c Byron notes the unmoved countenance of the Mussulman, well skilled to hide All but unconquerable pride, This pride in Lutfullah and his uncle was so great, that when they heard of the Feringees their wish was to question them on their erroneous religion. Some years later, the youthful doctor first saw Englishmen, at Ba- roda; and he gives this account of his im- pressions of them. One morning as I was walking in the city to divert myself, I saw four men, two of them on horseback, and the other two walking along with them; to my great curiosity I found their complexion corresponding with what we had heard. I heard them talking among themselves, and their jargon sounded narsh and wi