THE LTVTNG AG~E. No. 723.3 April, 1858.Elliarged Series, No. 1. CONTENTS. 1. New Books received this week 2. Enlarged Series of The Living Age 3. The Insanity of William Cowper 4. Difficulties of Railway Engineering 5. Which? or, Eddies round the Rectory, 6. The Mistress of St. Johns 7. Dugald Stewarts Collected Works 8. Poetical Works of William Collins 9. Princesses in Captivity to Circassians 10. Draysons Sporting Scenes among the Kaffirs, 11. The New-York Publishers to the Public, American Journal of Insanity, Quarterly Review, Titan, Ladies Companion, Literary Gazette, .Atleeneuin, Spectator, At1tena~um, PoEmY.Requiescat, 36. The Winters, 36. Two hands upon the breast, 36. SHORT ARTIcLEs,Scene of Grays Elegy, 19. Origin of the name Pin, 19. Literatu e of American Aboriginal Languages, 67. Death of a Scholar, 67. A German Kitchen, 74. Atchafalaya Currency, 77. A Russian and an English Regiment, 79. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAy BY LITTELL SON & Co., Bofton; and STANFORD & DELISSER, 637 Broadway, Ncw-York. For Six Dollars a year, resnitted directly to either of the Puhlishers, the Living Age will be punctually forwarded, free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand- somely bound, packed in neatboxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. ANT VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBER may be had for 12 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purch re to complete any o~oken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance theirvalue. PAOE. 2 3 20 37 58 68 72 1) 78 80 Publishers in all parts of the country are requested to send early copies to the Editor in Bos- ton for insertion in the weekly list of NEW BOOKS. THE CITY OF THE GREAT KING: or Jeru- salem as it was, as it is, and as it is to be. By J. T. Barclay, M. I)., Missionary to Je- rusalem. Published by Stanford & Delisser, New York, 1858. A few weeks ago we cut from a newspa- per, for the Living Age, a very interesting extract from this large octavo, which we now see for the first time. The name of Dr. Barclaya resident Missionary in Jerusalem for three years and a half is now favorably known, both in Eu- rope and in this country, for the valuable discoveries he has made in the Temple En- closure and other sacred localities, to which he was admitted by special firman, and for the aids he has furnished to many distin- guished tourists, in the Holy Land, which have been in all their recent works, repeat- edly acknowledged. Every page of this work, says the publish- ers, shows the extent and accuracy of his labors; and his Map of Jerusalem, now be- fore the public, is justly esteemed the only reliable one known. His close observation of facts and conscientious adherence to truth, together with his long and patient labors in the prosecution of his task, cannot fail to recommend this book to the confidence of the public. The publishers give a portrait of the Au- thor who returns soon to Palestine, probably, they say, to return no more. It is very beautifully done. The volume is profusely illustrated with Steel Engravings, Illuminations, Lithographs and Engravings on Wood,and is destined to a place in Ten Thousand Libraries. THE BRITISH POET5.SIR WALTER SCoTT. In continuation of their beautiful editions of the British Poets, Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., of Boston, have issued a more complete collection than has ever been printed before, of the Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. They fill nine volumes, and are reprinted from the standard edition of Cadell, Edin- burgh, 1831. The smaller pieces, dispersed through several volumes in that edition, are here, with the Imitations of the Ancient Ballad, from the Border Minstrelsy, ar- ranged continuously; and in compliance with a demand for completeness, the Ed4or has inserted immediately after these, various trifles printed in Lockharts Biography. and not generally received into the collections, to~,ether with the poetry of th Waverly Novels. A memoir of the Author has been ex- tracted from an edition of Scotts poetry, by Adam & Charles Black, Edinburgh, 1853. It is is a l)leasure to look through volumes so well printed, and on such fine, substantial paper. They do credit to the press of H. 0. Houghton & Company, Cambrid~e. Vol. 1. Lay of the Last Minstrel. 2. Marmion. 3. Lady of the Lake. 4. Rokeby: Don Roderick. 5. Lord of the Isles. 6. Imitations of the Ancient Ballads: Ballads, translated, or imitated, from the German; Songs. 7. Miscellaneous Poems; Poems printed in Lockharts Biography; Lyrical Pieces. Mottoes, & e., from the Waverly Novels. 8. Bridal of rfriermail). Harold the Dauntless; Field of Waterloo; Halidon Hill; Macduffs Cross; 9. Doom of Devorgoil; The Ayrshire Tragedy; House of Aspen; Goet~ of Berlichingen Copying these titles carries us back to the old world; to the era preceding the first light of the Waverly Novels. THE PITTS STREET LEcTuREs.Published by John P. Jewett & Co., Boston. These Lectures were delivered in Boston by Cler- gymen of six different Denominations, during the winter of 1868. The Motto and Table of Contents explains the object. Be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you. Lecture 1. By the Rev. William iR. Clark: Why am I a Methodist? 2. Rev. Thomas B. Thayer: Why are you a Universalist? 3. Rev. James N. Sykes: Why I a~ a Baptist. 4. Rev. Nehesniab Adams, D. D.: Why I am a Trinitarian Con- gregationalist. 5. Rev. George M. Randall, D. IX: Why I am a Churchman. 6. Rev. Orville Dewey, D. D.: Why I am a Unitarian. 7. Rev. Thomas Starr King: Spirit- ual Christianity. ENLARGED SERIES OF LITTELLS LIVING AGE. IN announcing a greatly improved series of the Living Age we address ourselves not only to the subscribers to the work, but also to the public generally, among whom this number will be largely distributed. It is expedient therefore, to enter into a degree of detail as to its plan and character, which would be un- necessary to regular readers. At the end of the First Series we announc- ed a Second, to contain sixteen additional pages. This was an increase of matter, but not exactly in proportion to the number of pages. for the forty-eight pages of the First Series were of larger size. And now, having completed twenty volumes of the Second Series, and so secured the friendship of our sul)scribers that they have adhered to us through the financial crisis now passing away, we have made an alliance with the emi- nent 1sublishing house, Stanford ~ Delisser of New York, by whose strength of capital and extensive business connections in all parts of the country, we are enabled and encouraged to announce the ENLARGED SERIES, of which this is the first number; to contain eighty pages a week instead of sixty-four; to be printed in a superior manner; and upon a quality of paper much better than has lately been used. To give some idea of the quantity of read- ing matter, which in these eighty double pages is now offered, we may state that each number (price only 12 1-2 cents) would con- tain al)Out two-thirds of one of the large Reviews, such as the Edinburgh, Quarterly, Westminster, or North British; or, to take for comparison another ~vell known work, it would contain a large I)roportion of a whole number of Blackwoods Magazine. So that in a year we shall give, for the small sum of Six Dollars, more than is contained in all the above works put together. And besides the best articles from the aforesaid excellent periodicals, from which we draw very largely, we copy the choicest pieces from all the following works, some of which are even superior in ability: QUARTERLIES: British Quarterly Review, Christian Remembrancer, Church of England Quarterly Review, Edinburgh Philosophical Journal, Encyclopedia Britannica, Irish Quarterly Review, Journal of Sacred Literature, London Quarterly Review, [This is not the same work a, The Quarterly Review the old rival of The Edinburgh.] National Review, New Quarterly Review, Journal of Psychological Medicine. [Of these, we think the British Quarterly Review, The Christian aememhrai~cer, and The National Review, are of a higher order than The North British Review, or Tb. Westminster Review.] MONTHLIES: Blackwoods Magazine, Prasers Magazine, Dublin University Magazine, New Monthly Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, United Service Magazine, Bentleys Miscellany, Titan, Christian Observer, Eclectic Review, Sharpes Magazine, Taits Magazine, Art Journal, Law Journal, Nautical Magazine, Sporting Magazine, Phalosophical Magazine, West of Scotland Magazine, Bents Advertiser, Critic. WEEKLIES: Political and Literary. Literary. Examiner, Atheneum, Spectator, Literary Gazette, Economist, Chambers Journal, Press, Household Words, Punch, London Journal, Saturday Review, Notes and Queries, and Illustrated News, The Lancet, and other Leader, Medical Journals, NEWSPAPERS: The Times, Daily News, Indian Mail, Court Journal, & c., & c., & c. Beside these we have standing orders in London for every ne~v 1)ublication likely to be useful for the more full carrying out of our plan ; - and we pass in review the whole American Press. It will be seen that our field is the World. Before beginning the Living Age, Mr. Lit- ,tell had published and edited Littelis Muse- um of Foreign Literature, of which forty-five volumes were issued. After this work of twenty years, he started anew with the Living Age, of the same price as the Museum, but three times as large. Of the First Series of the Living Age, thirty-six volumes were i~ 4 ENLARGED SERIES OF THE LIVING AGE. sued; of the Second Series, twenty volumes. he computed. Testimonials have heen re- So that the publishers feel confident in the ceived from very many men, not undistin- well-established character of the Living Age. guished in society, that their tastes had been Made up of the best matter in all other pen- formed and their minds enlarged, hy this pe odicals, it is certainly riodical, under its former and present title; The Best Magazine in the World. so that gradually the editor has come to mag- To all professional men, to cleigymen, nify his office, and to feel that his labor was lawyers, physicians, as well as to merchants paid, not only by what money profit he could and mechanics, who desire to keep up with get, but by a sense that it has not been with- the Tide of Time, this work is indispensable, out the usefulness which gives dignity to toil. It is not possible for them to wade through Soon after the Second Series began, the the great mass of current literature; a labor New York Times, in an article written by which tasks to the uttermost the days and the editor, Mr. Raymond, (since Lieut. Gov- nights of the experienced editor, with all the ernor,) welcomed it as follows: helps by which his long knowledge of the The veteran LITTELL! whole field enables him to economise labor. Age cannot wither, nor custom stale And if it were possible for each one of these his infinite variety. classes to do this, he would turn from it as a We have him once more remodeling and renew- weariness of the flesh and of the soul. He ing the Living Age for a fresh campaign and would recoil with disgust from the heavy still higher claims upon popular favor. The lightness, the serious vanity, the vapid wit, size, for one thing, has been changed from a the stupid pomposity through which we have large to a medium octavo; a decided amend- meat. The number of pages has been increased to grope after something better. We say to sixty-four; which, it is needless to say, will nothing of reading twenty good reviews of always be filled with the choicest selections, so the same subject, in order to select the two long as Mr. LITTELL prepares copy. Prose and verse; fact and fiction; opinion and specula- or three best out of them. If he had done tion; the best things in all those periodicals this, even in some superficial way, for a year, whose portraits decorate the cover: the note- he would be ready to exclaim: Who will worthy leaders of the foreign and domestic news show us any good! and would be qualified press; and indeed, a fair rdsumd of the litera- ture and creed of the time, will crowd eaTh to judge of the value of the Living A~e a as a weekly number. With a programme so cx- lahor-saving machine, tended, and the undoubted good faith wherewith It requires the stimulus of professional all its ennanemeuts are made, there can be no duty, and the inexorable force of necessity, to question about the value and popularity of th~ keep a man in the traces. Added to these, magazine. It cannot have more of the latter commodity than it merits. we are sure that the editor draws courage from the success of his labors, and the appro- Before publication, the work was com- bation which has been freely bestowed by mended to the public, in letters for which we the ~vise and good. are ever grateful, from ,JPstice Story, Chan- But the greatest value of this work is not cetloi~ Kent, Prqfessor Sparks, and Prescott in its convenience and usefulness to the well- and Bancroft, the historians. The Hon. educated man,to the statesman and philoso- George Ticknor soon followed in praise of pher, whose mind is already matured,but to the actual work. the family circle, to which it may be a most We add below the comprehensive and sug- important auxiliary in education. To the gestive lines which President Adams found large class of young men who are educating time to write in the engrossing labors ai~d themselves, it is a treasure which can hardly responsibilities of the post in which he died. WASHINGTOn, 27 DEc., 1845. OF all the Periodical Journals devoted to literature and science which abound in Europe and in this country, this has appeared to me to be the most useful. It contains indeed the ex- position only of the current literature of the En,,lish langua~,e, but this by its immense ex- tent and comprehension includes a portraiture of the human mind in the utmost expansion of the present age. J. Q. ADAMS. THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. From The American Journal of Insanity. Edited by the Medical Officers of the INew York State Lunatic Asylum. 5 despair. For nearly a year lie was in this condition. Change of scene was recoin- mended. He went with some friends to Southampton, and then it was, he tells us, as if another sun had been kindled that instant in the heavens, on purpose to dispel sorrow and vexation of spirit; I felt the weight of all my sorrow taken off; my heart became light and joyful in a moment; I could have wept with transport had I been alone. However the sufferer himself might afterwards interpret that long period of gloom, and that instantaneous restoration of light and joyit seems impossible for us to doubt that the depression and the relief were alike due to causes and conditions of a physi- cal nature. For several years after this recovery his life appears to have been easy, and far from unhappy. He amused himself with literary pursuits. He associated with men of wit, and learning, and fame. In the elegant and friendly circle of his own family connections, the social requirements of his affectionate nature were fully met. To one of his cousins an accomplished and elegant womanhe became deeply attached. The affection was mutual,but the father refused consent. There can be no doubt, that the disappoint- ment was a great one to him; but there is no evidence, as some have asserted, that his grief on this account assumed a morbid form, or had any connection with his subsequent attacks of melancholy. Sonthey goes farther, and asserts that melancholy madness, which in woman so often originates in love, or takes its type from it, is seldom found to proceed from that passion, or to assume its character in man. We are told that at this time he was fond of moving about. But this seems to have been the restlessnes, of a highly sen- sitive nature, rather than the activity of a healthy one. He had a physical restlessness, which, till he was more than thirty years old, made it almost essential to his comfort to be THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. IN the entire annals of mental disease there is no case so widely known, or which has excited so deep an interest as the insanity of Cowper. Nor can we wonder at this. As a Poet he is known to all who speak the Eng- lish tongue. His delightful letters have made us perfectly familiar with the man. It is impossible to read his story or his writings, without emotions of admiration, of pity and love. We propose to give briefly, but connect- edly, the history of his mental derangement. Of hereditary taint in his case we have no evidence. His infancy was delicate in no common degree, and he very early manifested a morbid tendency to diffidence and melan- choly. When only six years old, he lost that tender mother, whose praise will live forever in his grateful verse. After this he was sent away to school, and for two years his tender spirit was subjected to the tyrannous treat- ment of older boys, under that system which was so long the disgrace of English schools. For a boy of his temperament, the regimen was peculiarly unfavorable. He was after- wards placed at Westminster School, where he seems to have been happy enough. It was at this period that he took up for a while with the strange notion that he was immor- tal. Surveying my activity and strength, and observing the evenness of my pulse, I began to entertain, xvitli no small compla- cency, a notion, that perhaps I might never die. Such was his own statement long afterward. But the strange notion did not last long. I was soon after struck with a lowness of spirits, uncommon at that age, and had frequent intimations of a consump- tive habit. At the a~ e of 18, he left ~restminster for the study of the law. Three years afterward he took chambers in the Temple. Soon after he began thus to live alone, the malady perpetually in motion. appeared which afterwards darkened so much As he did no business, he had no means of of his life. la his own sad memoir he thus support beyond the small patrimony left him describes it. I was struck, not long after at his fathers death. This he had been my settlement in the Temple, with such a gradually using up. It could not last a great dejection of spirits, as none but they who deal longer. That the prospect of approach- have felt the same, can have the least con- ing poverty began seriously to affect his ception of. Day and night I was upon the spirits, is more than probable. It so hap- rack, laying down in horror, and rising up in pened that the clerkship of the Journals of THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. the House of Lords was in the gift of Major Cowper, as were also the joint offices of read- ing clerk, and clerk of the committees. All of them became vacant about the same time, and Major C. offered the two most valuable places to his kinsman. For him it was a splendid offer, and he accepted it at once, without reflecting on his inability to execute a business of so public a nature. But he soon repented, and after a week of misery wrote to his friend, begging that he might resign the places given him, and take, in- stead, the less lucrative post. The change was made, but it did not bring the relief which he expected. The clerkship of the journals, which had seemed so easy and so desirable, now became an awful terror to his mind. lIe was bid to expect an examination at the bar of the House, touching his suffi- dency. To his sensitive nature the idea of such an ordeal was appalling. Still he made an effort to qualify himself, and for many months went daily to the office, in order to learn its routine. It was a vain attempt. His mind was not in a condition to seek or to receive knowledge. He was distracted with a perpetual fear that he was about to disgrace himself, and injure his benefactor. His mind was the prey of horrible thounhts. Conscious that something about him must be wrong, he applied to the celebrated IDr. Heberden. He was put upon a course of medicine. He made some efforts of a devo- tional kind. Still he found no relief. I now, he says, began to look upon madness as the only chance remaining. I had a strong foreboding t.hat so it would fare with me, and I wished for it earnestly, and looked forward to it with impatient expectation ! Such forebodings, says one of his biogra- phers, were indications of the actual dis- ease. The prior and the subsequent mani- festations of the disorder prove that it was inherent in his constitution. Of the way in which it was fir t openly developed, we have his own interesting account. In that narra- tive, written when he was supposed to be perfectly sane, he evidently had no just idea of the nature of his disorder, or of the time when his mind became incapable of rational and responsible action. He ascribes to demoniac agency all his despairing thoughts and suicidal purposes. The day for his ap- pearance at the bar of the House of Lords was drawing nigh. Now cameo says he, the grand temptation; the point to which Satan had all the while been driving me; the dark and hellish purpose of self-murder. I grew more sullen and reserved, fled from all society, even from my most intimate friends, and shut myself up in my chambers. Being reconciled to th~ apprehension of madness, I began to be reconciled to the apprehension of death. He gives a graphie account of the various attempts which he made by laudanum, by drowning, by a knife, and by han ,ing, to put an end to his life. By one means or another he was baffled in them all,thongh in one instance he seems to have come very near the accomplishment of his fatal design. After this failure, he be- came, he says, afraid of death, and deeply convinced of his guilt. A few days after this, his madness suddenly assumed a shape in which it was manifest to all. He thus describes the access. While I traversed the apartment in the most horrid dismay of soul, * * a strange and horrible darkness fell upon me. If it were possible that a heavy blow could li~ht on the brain, without touching the skull, such was the sen- sation I felt. I clapped my hand to my fore- a pain it head, and cried aloud throuTh the gave me. At every stroke my thoughts and expressions became more wild and indistinet; all that remained clear was the sense of sin, and the expectation of punishment. These kept undisturbed possession all through my illness, without interruption or abatement. He was now sent to St. Albansabout twenty miles from Londonand placed under the care of Dr. Cotton,* who kept what would ~t NATHANIEL COTTON, born about 1707, after studying at Leyden, under the far-famed Boer- haave, returned to England, to enga0e in general practice. Just then a Dr. Crawley, who had a private establishment at Dunstablo for the treat- ment of insane patients, retired from his labors, and resigned his place to Dr. Cotton. He had al- ready given much attention to the varieties of mental disease. To knowled~e and skill he added a kind heart, and the most winning manners. From Dunstable he soon removed to St. Albans. His success was greathis fame spread widely and a great number of persons were entrusted to his care. His asylum was called The College. In this calm retreat, and thus beneficially em- ployed, he spent the remainder of a long life. He also made himself known as an author. In 1749, he published Observations on a particular kind of scarlet fever that lately prevailed in and about St. Albans. His Visions in Verse, appeared not long after. These have been often republished, and have found a place in some of the collections of British Poets. They breathe in every line a sjsirit of benevolence and piety. Among the dis 0 THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. now be called a private asylum for the in- sane. At that period the treatment of this dass of sufferers was often most injudicious atid injurious. It was fortunate indeed for Cowper that he was placed with a man so skillful and so kind as Dr. Cotton. When he had been about five months at St. Albans, he be~an to seem more cheerful. Three months later his brother John, who was a Fellow at Cambridge, came to see him. The visit was beneficial to the sufferer. his com- pany and his cheering conversation served Bays William, to put to flight a thousand deliriums and delusions, which I still labored under, and the next morning I found myself a new creature. Soon afterwards he hap- pened to open a Bible, when his eye fell on the 2,5th verse of the third chapter of Romans. Truly affecting is his warm-hearted account of what followed. Immediately I received strength to believe, and the full beams of the Sun of Righteousness shone upon me. I saw the sufficiency of the atonement he had made, my pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fullness and completeness of his justifica- tion. In a moment I believed, and received the gospel. * * Unless the Almighty arm had been under me, I think I should have died with gratitude and joy. For such a deliverance from so long and so deep a despair, well might his heart flow out in thankfulness and praise. In Dr. Cotton, at this important juncture, he found more than a physician. I was not only treated by him with the greatest tenderness while I was ill, and attended with the utmost diligence, but when my reason was restored to me, and I had so much need of a religious friend to converse with, to whom I could open my mind on the subject without reserve, I could hardly have found a fitter person for the purpose.~~ He remained at St. Albans a year and a half. As he could not bear the thought of returning to London, a home was found for him at lluntingdon. To this damp spot, among the fens of the stagnant Ouse, he retired, taking with him the servant who had been his faithful attendant at St. Albans. tinguished correspondents, were Doctors Young and Doddridge. To the accident, which made Cowper his patient more than to any thing else, he owes prohably the preservation of his fame. It is to he regretted that he left no account of his systemif system he hadin the treatment of the insane. 7 Here he soon became a boarder in the family of the Unwin,. iDuring the two years of his abode in Huntingdon he seems to have en- j oyed uninterrupted happiness. rflie sudden death of Mr. Unwin, in the summer of t767, broke up the establishment. It became neces- sary to find another residence. About that time the family became acquainted with the Rev. John Newton, who had been a slave trader, but was then the pious curate of Gluey. Mr. Newton found a house for them near the vicarage which he occupied. To this homely village of poor lace-weavers, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin removed, influenced, mainly l)y their desire to be under the pas- toral care of Mr. Newton. A sincerer friend, says Southey, Cowper could not have found. He minbt have found a more discreet one. We think the biographer is right. It was not, it could not be well for a man of Cowpers inborn and invincible shyness and trembling sensibilities, to be put upon such labor as Mr. Newton at once marked out for him and worked him up to. In that large and needy parish he was em- ployed in almost constant attendance on the sick, the afflicted, and the dying. Nor was this the worst; Mr. Newton had prayer- meetings in his parish, and Cowper was re- quired to take an active part at the meetings. He acknowledged to his friend Greatheed that hours of mental agitation always pre- ceded the meetings in which he was expected to take the lead. Of the danner to which he was thus subjecting his friend, Mr. Newton, whose nerves were of an iron temper, seems to have been wholly unconscious. ilis posi- tion, in other respects, was not favorable for one of his peculiar temperament. In that rude village, Mrs. Unwin, Mr. and Mrs. Newton were the only persons with whom he could associate. He no longer corresponded with intelligent and pleasant friends. Walk- ing, which had become an important habit of his life, could hardly be enjoyed at Olney, so soft and muddy were its roads for two-thirds of the year. There were few books within his reach, and his narrow means would not allow him to purchase such a luxury. In a little more than two years after he settled in Olney, he lost, by death, his brother John. lie was with this dear relative during his last illness, and wrote an account of it, which was not published until after the poets 8 death, more than thirty years later. That account, and letters written at the time, show how deeply he was interested in this brother, and especially in the change on religious subjects that took place in his views and feel- in0s just before he died. But this event, however consolitory in some of its aspects, appears to have exerted an unfavorable influ- ence on the mind of the survivor. His melancholy ten dencies increased. Mr. New- ton, ~)erhaps in part as a remedy, urged him to compose hymns ; hence the Olney collec- tionthe joint work of the two friendsa collection from which the hymn hooks of our day still derive some of their choicest trea- sures. Whether his clerical friend was judi- c~ous in the kind of employment thus fur- nished is a point on which the biographers differ. His increasing gloom at length deep- ened into decided insanity. This became manifest to all, in January, 1773. For some time be refused to enter Mr. Newtons house; then, havin0 been persuaded to go there for a single nihht, he could not be induced to leave it. With our light the proper course seems very clear. He should have been re- moved at once to St. Albans. So far from this, it was five months after the attack be- fore Mr. Newton visited iDr. Cotton to ask his advice. Dr. Cotton advised that he should be bled, and that the apothecary of Olney should transmit to him an accurate account of the state of the patients blood, and such other observations as he could make. his was done; and Dr. Cotton, on the strength of Mr. Newtons description and the apothecarys observations, prescribed certain me licines. X Te are not told what they were. After he had been taking these for twelve days, Mr. Newton says of them, They agree well with him. He eats better and sleeps no worse. A little later be writes, The medicine evidently agrees with him. He says but little, but goes on prun- ing our trees, & c. Three weeks later he says, KDr. Cottons medicine has greatly strengthened his body, but the repeated use seemed at length to have an inconvenient effect upon his spirits. He said they made him worse, and for several days when the hour of taking them returned, it put him in an agony. Upon his urgent and earnest entreaties he has left them off for a season, and has been better sinceI mean more quiet and composed. What the medicines THE INSANITY OF WILLiAM COWPER. were does not appear. Mr. Newton soon after says, I believe the medicines he took, though they seemed to agree with his heaLth, rather inflamed his complaint. About this time his malady re-assumed its suicidal type. For several months his con- dition required constant watchfulness on the part of his friends. Mr. Newton, who am pears to have looked upon insanity as a sort of demoniacal possession, could find in the fatal delusion of his friend, a new proof of his religious and submissive spirit. It was, says he, solely owing to the power the enemy had of impressing upon his dis- turbed imagination that it was the will of God he should, after the example of Abra- ham, perform an expiative act of obedience, and offer not a son, but himself. This, says Southey, was the peculiar impression that fastened upon him at that time, and from which he never seems to have been per- fectly relieved, even in his longest and best intervals. He believed that when the will of Heaven was made known to him, power ;o accOml)liSh the act of obedience bad at the same time been given ; but ~iaving failed to use it, he had been sentenced to a state of desertion and perpetual misery, of a kind peculiar to himself. He had sunk into a state of utter hopelessness an unalterable persuasion, says Mr. Greatheed, that the Lord, after having renewed him in holiness, had doomed him to everlasting perdition. Though firmly convinced of the doctrine of perseverance as a gen~ral truth, he supposed himself to be the only person who had ever believed with the heart unto righteousness, and yet was excluded from salvation. Be- lieving, under this view of the case, that for him to implore mercy would be opposing the determinate counsel of God, he, with a sin- gular and sad consistency, gave up attend- ance on public and domestic worship, and desisted from every attempt at private prayer. A singular in. tance of the extent to which he carried this feeling, was related to a friend of ours by the IRev. Mr. Bull, of Newport Pagnel. The father of Mr. Bull was a friend of Cowper, used often to visit him, and som& - times took with him his son, then a mere lad. Mr. Bull well remembered that while his father asked a blessing at table, Cowper signified his non-concurrence by a low whistle. In May, 1774, we find him still at Mr. Newtons, and resolved not to leave. His THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. health, says Mr. N., is better; he works almost incessantly in the garden, and while employed is tolerably easy; but as soon as he leaves off, he is instantly swallowed up by the most gloomy apprehensions; though in anything that does not concern his own peace, he is as sensible, and discovers as quick a judgment as ever. A fortnight later, as he was feeding the chickens, some little incident called forth a smilethe first which had been seen upon his face for more than sixteen months. About the same time he returned willingly to his own house. His power of attendin~ to other objects than his own hopeless state, gradually returned. Though the fati impression was still on his mind, it began in some degree to recover its natural tone. lie found pleasure neither in company nor hooks, but he continued to employ himself in gardenino; and under- standing his own case well enough to per- ceive that anything which should enga0 e his attention without fatiguing it must be salu- tary, he amused himself with some leverets. For twelve years these little creatures en- joyed his tender care, and helped to solace many a weary hour. He immortalized them in Latin and in English, in verse and in prose. They have been represented in prints. They have been cut upon seals. His account of them was such an account as only a person of exquisite genius, sensibility, and observation, could have given. But who is not familiar widi the history, the character, the habits, of Puss, Tiny, and Bess? I kept him for his humors sake, Fo~r he could oft beguile My heart of thoughts th t made it ache, And force me to a smile. Of his condition during this second at- tack of his malady, Cowper several years afterwards gave the following interesting account to his cousin, Lady Hesketh. Know then, that in the year 1773, the same scene that was acted at St. Albans, opened upon me again at Gluey, only covered ~vith a still deeper shade of melanchol;, and ordained to be of much lo~ ger duration. I was suddenly reduced from my wonted rate of understand- ing to an almost childish imbecility. I did not, indeed, lose my senses, but I lost the power to exercise them. I could return a rational answer even to a difficult question; but a question was necessary, or I never spoke at all. This state of mind wa aecom 9 panied, as I suppose it to be in most in- stances of the kind, with misapprehensions of things and persons, that made me a very untractable patient. I believed that every- body hated me, and that Mrs. Unwin hated mc most of all :was convinced that all my food was poisoned, together with ten thou- sand other megrims of the same stamp. Dr. Cotton was consulted. lie replied that he could do no more for me than might be done at Gluey, but recommended particular vigi- lance lest I should attempt my lifea cau- tion for which there was the greatest occa- sion. At the same time that I was convinced of Mrs. Unwins aversion to me, I could en- dure no other companion. The whole man- agement of me consequently devolved upon her, and a terrible task she had. About two years after his return to his own house he began again to correspond with some of his old friends. In this way we learn that his love of literature had revived. His never-failing friend, Hill, occa- sionally sent him books, which he read with avidity and keen discrimination. In 1779, Mr. Newton, despairing of success among the people of Olney, a large majority of whom appear to have been irreclaimably ig- norant and perverse, removed to London. From a letter to his friend Thornton written shortly before he left, it seems that Cowpers derangement was not the only case in his parish. I believe, he writes, that my name is up about the country for preaching the people mad, for whether it is owing to the sedentary life the women live here, por- ing over their pillows for ten or twelve hours every day, and breathing confined air in their crowded little rooms, or whatever may be the immediate cause, I suppose we have near a dozen, in different degrees, disordered in their heads, and most of them, I believe, truly gracious people. He closes with say- ing, I trust there is nothing in my preach- ing that tends to cast those down who ought to be comforted. Cowper must have sorely missed this intelligent, constant, and devoted friend. And yet in his peculiar condition it was perhaps well for him that the separation took place. Mr. Newton was a good rca- soner,l)ut did not know how to reason with an insane man. Nay, more, had he re- mained in Olney, it may be doubted whether the poet would ever have been developed in Cowper. From what afterwards occurred 10 we know that the good vicar would never have encouraged those literary efforts which furnished to this poor sufferer years of tran- quilizing employment,and which placed his name in the foremost rank of those who have pleased, instructed, and hiessed the world. About this time we find him getting up a small-green house and pinery, which he glazed with his own hands. For a while also he amused himself with drawing. Occa- sionally he wrote verses. The report of an adjudged casein which Nose and Eyes con- tend about the spectaclesa piece which has been familiar to every schoolboy for the last seventy years, was written at this time. Mrs. Unwin perceiving that this exercise was ben- eficial to him, urged him to undertake some larger and more important work. She even suggested a topic. He took her advice. In the course of four months he wrote as many short poems. These, under the titles of Truth, Table Talk, Expostulation, and the Progress of Error, with several smaller pieces, were published in the autumn of 1781. Thus, at the ripe age of fifty, this melancholy and most interesting recluse made his first appearance hefore the world. The reception of his book was sufficiently favorable to encourage his labors, and a sec- ond volume was soon under way. Although praise from the wise and good was far from being unwelcome to him, he thus explains to Mr. Newton his primary object in these ef- forts. At this season of the year, and in this gloomy climate, it is no easy matter to the owner of a mind like mine, to divert it from sad subj ects, and fix it upon such as may administer to its amusement. Poetry, above all things, is useful to me in this re- spect. While I am held in pursuit of petty images, or a pretty way of expressing them, I forget everything that is irksome, and, like a boy that plays truant, determine to avail myself of the present opportunity to be nmused, and to put by the disagreeable re- collection that I must, after all, go home and be whipped again. In the summer of this year he accidentally made a new acquaintance, too influential in its results to be omitted in our narrative. The widow of an English baronet, who had been living for some time in France, came to visit a sister then in Olney. Lady Austen, as Cowper described her at that time to Mr. Newton, was a lively, agreeable woman, THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. who has seen much of the world, and ac- counts it a great simpletonas it is. She laughs, and makes laugh; and keeps up a conversation without seeming to labor at it. To Mr. Unwin, he wrote, A person who has seen much of the world, and understands it well, has high spirits, a lively fancy, and great readiness of conversation, introduces a sprightliness into such a scene as this, which, if it was peaceful before, is not the worse for being a little enlivened. It was indeed, just what that scene required, and while this bright spirit continued to cheer it, the effect on Cowper was evidently happy. She knew how to interest and amuse him. She gave direction to his thoughts, and suggested top- ics for his pen. had it not been for Mrs Unwin, says Southey, lie would probably never have appeared in his own person as an author; had it not been for Lady Austen, he would never have been a popular one. For a while, Lady Austens conversation had as happy an effect upon the melancholy spirit of Cowper as the harp of David upon Saul. Whenever the cloud seemed to bo comiug over him, her sprightly powers were exerted to dispel it. One aftern?on, finding him more than usually depressed, she told him the story of John Gilpin. It was a tale which she had heard in her childhood, and it amused him highly. The next morning he informed her that for thinking and laughing at the story he had been unable to sleep, and that lie had turned it into a ballad. That ballad soon became famous. Who has not read it? Who has not laughed over it? Alluding to it in one of his letters, sometime afterwards, he said, If I trifle, and merely trifle, it is because I am reduced to it by nec- essity; a melancholy that nothing else so effectually disperses, engages me sometimes in the arduous task of being merry by force. And strange as it may seem, the most ludi- crous lines I ever wrote, have l)een written In the saddest mood, and but for that saddest mood, perhaps, had never been written at all. The experience of Cowper in this re- gard does not stand alone, as the history of literature abundantly shows. Lady Austen was fond of blank verse, and often urged Cowper to try his hand at it. At length he promised compliance if she would give him a theme. That, she replied, you can never want. You can write upon any; write upon the sofa. So began The THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. Task, a work which made him the most popular poet of his ane; and raised him to a rank in English poetry from which no revo- lution of taste can detrude him. Thanks to the sprightly and accomplished woman, who gave a momentary brightness to that sad and lonely home! Thanks, especially to her, who inspired a song that has delighted and in- structed millions! Unfortunately this aus- picious influence was not of long duration. Lady Austen was, perhaps, somewhat exact- ing, and Mrs. Unwin had no disposition to surrender any of her undouhted rights. Be- tween his new friend, however charming, and her whose devotion had so long been tested, the poet could not for a moment hesitate. The task which she had set, was not vet finished, when Lady Austen left the scene, in which she appears no more. The iRev. Thomas Scott, whose Commen- tary on the Bible has made his name famous both in England and America, succeeded Mr. Newton in the vicarage of Olney. But as he was far from heing the genial and lovable man his predecessor was, and as Cowper was no longer an attendant at church, the poet seems to have had but little intercourse with the vicar. There was, however, at that time, in the adjoining town of Newport Pagnal, a dissenting clergymanthe iRev. William Bull. Mr. Newton when leaving Olney, had, with thoughtful kindness, introduced Mr. Bull to his afflicted friend. Twice a month this good-hearted man made it a point of duty to visit Cowper. They soon learned to respect and tu value each other. In a letter from the l)oet to his cousin, Lady Hesketh, written soon after Lady Austens departure, he says, And now, except the Bull that I spoke of, we have seldom any company at all. This mna after Cowpers own heart the latter some- times addressed in his el)istles as, Garissirne Taurorurn. Writing to William Unwin, he thus beautifully depicts him A dissenter, hut a liberal one; a man of letters and of genius; a master of a fine imagination, or rather not master of itan imagination which, when he finds himself in the company he loves, and can confide in, runs away with him into such fields of speculation as amuse and enliven every other imagination that has the happiness to he of the party. At other times he has a tender and delicate sort of melancholy in his disposition, not less agree- able in its way. No men are better qualified 11 for companions in such a world as this, than men of such a temperament. Every scene of life has two sidesa clark and a bright one; and the mind that has an equal mix- ture of melancholy and vivacity, is best of all qualified for the contemplation of either. He can be lively without levity, and pensive without dejection. Such a man is Mr. Bull. Buthe smokes tobacco! Nothing is per- fect! To Mr. Bull we owe Cowpers translations from the French of Madam Guion. He was an admirer of that amiable pietist, and on doubt felt that he rendered the poet a service ~hen he gave him something to do. That Cowper could treat in verse subjects which he dreaded to attempt in prose, he thus explained to Mr. Newton: There is a dif- ference. The search after poetical expres- sion, the rhyme, and the numbers, are all affairs of some difficulty. They arrive, in- deed, but are not to be attained without study, and engross perhaps a larger share of the attention than the subject itself. Persons fond of music will sometimes find pleasure in the tune, when the words afford them none. It seems also to have been an effect of his disease, that he could often translate the language of others, when he could not write his own. In this instance he couP transfer to beautiful English the devotiona1 ardors of the French mystic, when it would have seemed to him an impious act to write a single stanza of the sort in his own proper l)erson. When, several years later, Mr. BuU asked him to compose a hymn for some occa- sion, he declined, and gave his reasons. He was willing, however, to alter and adapt one of the translations of Madame Guion, if that would do. I have no objection, he added, to givHg the graces of the foreigner an English dress, but insuperable ones to all false pretences, and affected exhibitions of what I do not feel. The Task, and its avant courier, John Gilpin, have now made their author famous. Modest, conscientious, despairing as he was, he was far from being indifferent to the voice of praise. But fame and money, though welcome, were not so welcome or so useful to him as the old friendships which were now renewed, and the new ones which were formed. Allusion has already been made to the object of his early loveTheodora Jane Cowper. Her sister, the wife of Sir Thoma& THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM GOWPER. 12 Hesketh, was, in those days, his steadfast every day consequently added something to friend. After he left London she corres- the work, till at last I hegan to reflect thus: ponded with him awhile. But for many The Iliad and the Odyssey together years previous to the period we write of, all consist of ahout forty thousand verses. To intercourse hetween these cousins had ceased. translate these forty thousand verses will From a long ahsence ahroad, Lady Hesketh furnish me with occupation for a considerahle had ust returned, a widow, to find her once time. J beloved kinsmanthe poor, self-banished, To the same friend, who had evidently ex- half-crazy recluse of Olney, suddenly become pressed fears lest Cowper, by laboring on a the most popular poet of the day. She profane author, or by associating with profane wrote to him, and received an immediate and men, should suffer in his spiritual interests, most affectionate reply. In a second letter he wrote in May, 1786. Though others she offered him pecuniary aid, which was said he, have suffered desertion, yet few, I gratefully accepted. From this time he believe, for so long a time, and perhaps none failed not to enjoy the cordial and efficient a desertion accompanied by such experiences. kindness of Lady Hesketh, so lung as he was But they have this belonging to them; that capable of enjoying any thing. as they are not fit for recital, being made up Convinced as he had now become that merely of infernal iugredients, so neither are nothing was so beneficial to him as constant they susceptihle of it; for I know no lan- literary employment, and that verse-writing guage in which they could be expressed. was the best form of it for him, he had rihey are as truly things which it is not possi- hardly dispatched his second volume to the ble for man to utter, as those were which Paul printer when he began to make a translation heard and saw in the third heaven. If the of Homer. Forty lines a day was his set ladder of Christian experience reaches, as I task, from which he never excused himself suppose it does, to the very presence of God, when it was possible to perform it. In the it has nevertheless its foot in the abyss. evening he transcribed what he had written And if Paul stood, as no doubt he did, on in the morning. Between both, said he, the topmost round of it, I have been stand- my morning and evening are most part ing, and still stand, on the lowest, in this completely enga0ed. Unwilling to raise ex- thirteenth year that has passed since I de- p ectations which he might disappoint, he scended. In such a state of mind, encom- made no general announcement of his new passed by the midnight of absolute despair, undertaking until it was already far ad- and a thousand times filled with un~peakable vanced. Writing to his friend Newton, Dec., horror, I first commenced author. * I am 1786, he gave the following account of the not indeed so perfectly hopeless as I was; manner in which he had, by seeming acci- but I am equally in need of an occupation, dent, been led to engage in a labor so ardu- being often as much, and sometimes even ous. Employment, and with the pen, is, more worried than ever. I cannot amuse my- through h~ bit, become essential to my well- self, as I once could, with carpenters or with being; and to produce always original gardeners tools, or with squirrels and guinea poems, especially of considerabl length, is pigs. At that time I was a child. But not so easy. For some weeks after I had since it has pleased God, whatever else he finished The Task, I was, through neces- withholds, to restore to me a mans mind, I sity,idle, and suffered not a little in my spirits have put away childish things. He then for being so. One day, being in such distress tells his friend and reprover, that he regards of mind as was hardly supportable, I took not only his occupation, but the associations up the Iliad; and merely to divert atten- also into which it had led him, as being tion, and with no more preconception of what entirely Providential, as well s perfectly in- I was then entering upon, than I have at nocent. this moment of what I shall he doing this For several years Cowper had been tron- day twenty years hence, translated the first bled with indigestion. Urged by Lady Hes- twelve lines of it. The same necessity press- keth, he at length consulted IDr. Kerr a phy- ing me again, I had recourse to the same cx- sician of note in the neighboring town of pedient, and translated more. Every day Northampton. his prescriptions for a time bringing its occasion for employment ~xith it, seemed to have a good effect. Somewhat THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. later Cowper thus writes to Lady Hesketh, I have not sent for Kerr, for Kerr can do nothing hut send me to Bath, and to Bath I cannot go, for a thousand reasons. The summer ~vill set me up again. I grow fat every day, and shall be as big as Gog and Magog, or both put together, before you ar- rive. Again he tells her that he had just had a voluntary visit from Kerr. Were I sick, his cheerful, friendly manner would al- most restore me. Air and exercise are his theme; these he recommends as the best physic for me, and in all weathers. Sensi- ble iDr. Kerr! Cowper did not always fall into so good bands. In the summer of 1786, he was gladdened by a visit from Lady Hesketh. It had been long promised and anxiously expected. She took rooms in that very vicarage, which had once been the home of the good John New- ton, and still later, of the charming Anne Austen. This kind and judicious relative no sooner found where and how Cowper was living, than she went to work to improve his condi- tion. She engaged for his future residence, a commodious house at Weston Underwood, about a mile from Olney, and on the estate of the Throckmortons. Greatly to the cheer and comfort of these two invalids, she re- mained at Obey until late in the autumn. She left them, but promised them an annual visit. The removal to Weston was made almost immediately after. It was indeed high time. How they survived so long a residence in Obey, is not easy to be under- stood. IRead the poets own account of the two places, written just before the removal! The change, will, I hope, prove advanta- geous both to your mother and me, in all respects. Here we have no neighborhood; there we shall have most agreeable neighbors in the Throckmortons. Here we have a bad air in winter, impregnated with the fishy- smelling fumes of the marsh miasma; there we shall breathe in an atmosphere untainted. Here we are confined from September to March, and sometimes longer; there we shall be upon the very verge of pleasure grounds in which we can always ramble, and shall not wade through almost impassable dirt to get at them. Both your mothers constitution and mine have suffered materi- ally by such close and long confinement; and it is high time, unless we intend to retreat 13 into the grave, that we should seek out a more wholesome residence. To Mr. New- ton, on the same topic, he wrote, Long confinement in the winter, and for the most part in the autumn, too, has hurt us both. A gravel walk thirty yards long affords but indifferent scope to the locomotive faculty; yet it is all that we have had to move in for eight months in the year, during thirteen years that I have been a prisoner. * * A fever, of the slow and spirit-oppressing kind, seems to belong to all, except the natives, who have dwelt in Obey many years; and the natives have putrid fevers. Both they and we, I believe, are immediately indebted for our respective maladies to an atmosphere encumbered with raw vapors issuing from flooded meadows; and we in particular, per- haps, have fared the worse, for sitting so of- ten, and sometimes for months, over a cellar filled with water. Scarcely were they settled in their new abode, ere affliction came in the death of Mrs. Unwins only son,Cowpers dearest friend. Grievous it was to him, yet he bore the loss with more composure than his friends expected. But the month of Janu- ary was at handa month which he had always dreaded, as the period of his previous attacks. It seems, this time, to have begun in what he called a nervous fever, depriving him of sleep, attended with great dejection of spirits, and unfitting him for work. Very soon his malady returned in full force, and continued unabated for six months. All that we know of this attack is derived from his own account after it was over. My indis- position he wrote to Mr. Newton, could not be of a worse kind. The sight of any face except Mrs. Unwins, was to me an in- sul)portable grievance; and when it has hap- pened that by forcing himself into my hid- ing-place, some friend has found me out, he has had no great cause to exult in his suc- cess. From this dreadful condition of mind, I emerged suddenly; so suddenly that Mrs. Unwin, having no notice of such a change herself, could give none to anybody; and when it obtained, how long it might last, or how far it might be depended on, was a mat- ter of the greatest uncertainty. To a recent- ly-acquired young friend, Samuel Rose, he wrote Aug. 27; My health and spirits are considerably improved, and I once more as- sociate with my neighbors. My head, how- 114 ever, has been the worst part of me, and still continues so; is subject to giddiness and pain, maladies very unfavorable to poetical employment; but a preparation of the bark, which I take regularly, has so far been of service to me in those respects as to encour- age in me a hope that by perseverance in the use of it, I may possibly find myself qualified to resume the translation of Homer. To Lady Hesketh, ~vho had cautioned him in regard to using his pen too much, he wrote, Sept. 8: Those jarrings that made my ~kull feel like a broken egg-shell, and those twirls that I spoke of, have been removed by an infusion of the bark, which I have of late constantly applied to. I was blooded indeed hut to no purpose; for the whole complaint was owing to relaxation. But the apotheca- ry recommended phlebotomy, in order to ascertain that matter; wisely suggesting that if I found no relief from bleeding, it would be a sufficient proof that weakness must nec- essarily be the cause. It is well when the head is chargeable with no weakness, but what may be cured by an astringent. On reading the above who is not tempted to ex- claim, Admirable apothecary! most sapient Leech! Cowpers next letter to his cousin Hesketh ends thus: I have a perl)etual din in my head, and though I am not deaf, hear nothing ari0ht, neither my own voice, nor that of others. I am under a tub, from which tub accept my best love. Yours, W. C. A few days afterwards we find him thus addressing Mr. Newton: My dear friend, after a long but necessary interruption of our correspondence I return to it again, in one respect at least better qualified for it than before; I mean by a belief of your identity, which for thirteen years I did not believe. The acquisition of this light, if light it may be called which leaves me as much in the dark as ever on the most interesting subjects, releases me, however, from the disagreeable suspicion that I am addressing myself to you as the friend whom I loved and valued so highly in my better days, while in fact you are not that friend, but a stranger. I can now write to you without seeming to act a part, and without having any need to charge myself with dissimulation,a charge from which, in that state of mind, I kne~v not how to exculpate myself, and which, as you will easily conceive, not seldom made my corres THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. pondence with you a burden. In regard to this singular delusion, Mr. Soutbey expresses a doubt whether it really existed during the long period named, or had arisen during the last occurrence of his disease, and was like one of those dreams which perplex us with the semblance of some imperfectly-re- membered reality. The question thus raised is curious. The fact that Cowper had never mentioned this strange notion of his during all those thirteen years of intimacy with Newton, may seem to favor Soutbeys view of the case,though it is by no means conclu- sive. In some respects his memory seems to have been uncommonly exact and tenacious; yet his correspondence about this time shows that it was, in one instance at least, singularly at fault. In a letter to Lady Hesketh, Nov. 9, 1785, he informs her that he began to translate Homer on the 12th of November, 1784. This was only a few days after ho finished the manuscript for his second volume. In his letter to Newton, above cited, (Dec., 1785,) he alludes to this interval as lastin~ a some weeks. A year later, (Jan. 13, 1787,) in a letter to the same, he says: After having written a volume, in general with great ease to myself, I found it impossible to write another page. * * A whole year I waited, and waited in circumstances of mind that made a state of non-employment pecu- liarly irksome to me. Extreme distress of spirit at last drove me, as if I mistake not I told you sometime since, to lay Homer be- fore me and translate for amusement. Here the brief interval of a week is magnified into a year. In view of it, Southeys conjecture seems less improbable. He was now so far restored as to be abh~ to return to Homer. Cautioned by his friend Hill not to work too hard at his translation, he said, I can invent for myself no employ- ment that does not exhaust my spirits more. I will not pretend to account for this. I have even found that those plaything avoca tions, which one may execute almost without any attention, fatigue and wear me away, while such as engage me much, and attach me closely, are rather serviceable to me than otherwise. Nearly seven years elapsed between his recovery from the attack just mentioned and the final return of his malady in January, 1794. During this period, or at least during the first five years he seems to have been THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. comparatively happy. Besides numerous minor pieces of great beauty, he finished and published the Iliad and Odyssey; and it is worthy of remark that the most intense am- bition for literary fame never urged an author to greater industry, or more solicitous care, than were bestowed by Cowper on this labori- ous workundertaken only because work of some sort was essential to his comfort. He was now enjoying a wide and ~vell-established fame. lie had a commodious and pleasant home, which was often enlivened by the presence of dear friends. his accomplished neighbors of the Hall were as kind as possible. Many old, and many new friends cheered him with their correspondence, and the easy, spri~htly letters which he wrote in return, are still read with delight as the most perfect models in their kind. From these epistles (excepting those which he wrote to Mr. Newton), we might almost deem him one of the happiest of men. He had scarcely done with Homer, ere he consented to edit a new and splendid edition of Milton. He was to correct the text, to supply notes, and translate the Latin and Italian poems. It was for him no difficult labor, and he was allowed ample time. But it proved an unfortunate engagement. The idea of a task, which must be accomplished within a set period, however long, began to weigh upon his conscience and his spirits, and made labor on that, and on all other things, impracticable. In December, 1791, Mrs. Un~via had a j~aralvtic attack, followed by another more severe, a few months afterward. From that time she became almost helpless, and de- manded for herself the attention which she had so long bestowed on her afflicted com- l)aninn. His close confinement and deep anxiety on her behalf, could not but affect him unfavorably. For twenty years he had not been more than a dozen miles from Olney; he had declined countless invita- tions to visit his friends in other places, as something that was impossible for him. Yet now, in the hope that it would benefit Mrs. LJnwin, he journeyed more than a hundred miles, and spent six weeks at Eastham in Sussex, the home of his friend Hayley. About this time his nervous fever~ returned, and is repeatedly mentioned in his letters. To counteract it he used bark, and laudanum, and James powder. In the meantime, poor 16 Mrs. Unwin was gradually sinking into a mental imbecility which made her extremely exacting and unreasonable. The strange illusions which haunted him the mental terrorsthe increasing dejectionhis own incessant, but ineffectual resistanceare de- picted in his letters, with great minuteness and wonderful power, and cannot even now be read without painful and sympathizing interest. In the attack of 1794, his former idea of self-sacrifice seems to have been softened into that of penance required. Six days, we are told, he sate, still and silent as death, and took no other food during that time than a small piece of bread dipped in wine and water. From this severity he relaxed, but only partially. Nothing could dispel or lighten the settled gloom by which he was oppressed. His dearest friends, Johnson, Hesketh, Hayley, were unnoticed by him. A letter came announcing that the King had bestowed on him a pension of three hundred pounds. But he could not even be apprised of its purport. Lord Thurlow com- mended the poets case to Dr. Willis, who had then become famous for his treatment of the insane, and Lads Hesketh left her in- teresting charge to consult the Doctor. Re- ferring to the visit, she wrote as follows to Cowpers friend Rowley: Whether even his skill will be able to restore this unhappy man, at this distance I cannot at present say; but earnestly hope it may, as I fear Mrs. Unwin will not consent to his removal there; though from the little I saw of the house, and the manner in which the patients are treated, as well as the liberty they seem to enjoy, I am convinced it would be the very best place he could be in, and the one in the which he would he most likely to be restored. Dr. Willis, finding that his prescription had no good effect, afterwards visited the patient at Weston. It appears to have been his opinion, that more might be hoped from change of air, scene, and circumstances, than from any mode of treatment that could be pursued. The greatest difficulty at this time in doing anything effectual for Cowper, seems to have been the unreasonable and unman- ageable will of poor, broken-down Mrs. Unwin. On many accounts it became necessary, at length, that the establishment at Weston should be broken up. This was accomplished THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. 16 in the summer of 1795, through the energetic upon and illustrate Cowpers mental disor- kindness of Cowpers young relative, John ders. Of these, indeed, we have given only Johnson. From that time, Cowper and Mrs. a part. In no other instance within our Unwin, as long as they lived, were under Mr. knowledge, has the life-long history of a dis- Johnsons care. His home was at East eased mind, heen so minutely, so graphically, Dereham, in Norfolk, and there, after trying so powerfully told, as was this of Cowpers, two or three other places, the interesting in- in his admirable narrative and inimitable let. valid was settled. His delusions and his ters. When to this we add the facta fact gloom continued. Now and then he wrote inexplicable and even perplexing whenever a short letter to Lady Hesketh, full of sorrow, met withthat a delusion so entire and dis- terror, and despair. His kinsman spared no tressing could take and keep possession of an effort to relieve, to rouse, to entertain him. intellect, in other respects remarkably bright, The only relief which he seemed to experi- and sportive, and clear; when we consideit ence was in listening to works of fiction; his high reputation as a writer both of prose these still retained their charm. To these, and verse; his manly, English common volume after volume, he would listen, sad and sense; the purity and excellence of his char silent. acter; the tenderness of his spirit, and th~ At the close of the year 1796, his faithful sweetness of his affectionsqualities which and beloved Mary quietly departed. It is attracted to him in his hermitage so many not easy to read, unmoved, the story of his living friends, and which have endeared his deportment on that occasion! We cannot name and memory to uncounted thousands, stop to describe the absurd attempt of Hay- who have known him only through his writ- ley to convince Cowper that he ought not to ingswe have perhaps sug~ ested a sufficient think so ill of himself, by getting testimonials justification for the length and minuteness of from some of the greatest men in the realm, our narrative. to the effect that the poet had done good But there are other considerations which service to the cause of morals and religion, give interest to the insanity of Cowper. Bi- Thurlow, in his letter to Lord Ketiyon, not ographers and critics have discussed, with unaptly said, I have been pressed by one wide diversity of opinion, its character and mad poet to ask of you for another, a favor causes. The melancholy which ushered in which savors of the malady of both. his first ~tttack assumed a religious form. From the commencement of this attack From that attack he passed into a state of he had been living under the constant appre- high religious enjoyment, which continued hension of being instantly and bodily hurried for several years without a cloud, and then away into misery which awaited him. This he became the victim of religious doubts, or idea was sufficient to deter him from all rather of a settled conviction that he was attempts at literary labor. At length (Sep- rejected of God. At St. Albans, under the tember 1797,) he so far yielded to persuasion, guidance of Dr. Cotton, and afterwards under as to resume the revision of his Homer. To that of Mr. Newton, he adopted and ever this employment, for nearly two years more after firmly held the Calvanistic faith. That of his sorrowful old age, he devoted himself this faith gave shape and color to the imagi- with unwearied assiduity, and did not stop nations which haunted him in later years, is until he had completed the task, and written more than probable. But there is not tho a preface for his new edition. A few days slightest reason for supposing that his insan- after this, he wrote The Castaway,a ity, as some have intimated, was due to any piece, which considering the circumstances, such cause. We have seen that predisposing has always seemed to us one of the most tendencies to mental disease appeared even remarkable, as well as one of the most beau- in his childhood, and we know under what tiful and affecting poems ever penned. He circumstances of anxiety and appreiension9 survived a year longer, struggling constantly those tendencies were at length developed against the pressure of mental disease, but into madness. Had the affair of the clerk- with no sensible relief from it powers. He ship never occurred, Cowper might never died April, 1800, at the age of sixty-nine, have become insane. But the probabilities In this brief sketch we have endeavored are otherwise. Some other trouble,some to confine ourselves to the facts which bear other excitementwas sure to come, and THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. 17 there, in his brain or blood, ever ready to patient as soon as possible to some well-con- quicken, were the seeds of disease. ducted asylum for the insane? A year or two since, the Rev. Dr. Cheever Southey thought it was injudicious in published a volume entitled Lectures on the Cowpers friends to encourage in him the Life, Genius, and Insanity of Co wper. IDr. idea that his cure at St. Albans was some- Cheever is greatly dissatisfied with Southeys thing supernatural. Cheever thinks that biogra I)hy of the l)oet, and thinks he has only spiritual blindness prevented the bin- done injustice both to Cowper and Newton. grapher from taking the same view that the While we are far from regarding Mr. Southey poet took. In regard to this belief of Cowper, as a faultless biographer, or as beyond the he remarks: Yet in the l)urest nnd serenest reach of misconception and prejudice, we are light, both of reason and of faith, Cowper decidedly unwilling to accept the reverend himself was so fully persuaded that his re- doctors version of Cowpers mental troubles. covery at St. Albans, and his happiness after- We can not perceive that he understands any ward, had come from God and hisa acehe better than did Mr. Newton and Mrs. Unwin knew this with such l)erfect assurance, by the the nature of that derangement. To des- spirit of God be~ ring witness with his own cribe as machinations of the devil, the man- spiritthat even in a subsequent access of ifest effects of cerebral disorder, seems to us his malady, ai~d under the depths of what no less mischievous than it is absurd. This seemed the darkness of absolute despair, he idea he repeatedly advances. For instance: declared that it was not in the power of the Now this delusion of Cowper, that he was arch-enemy himself to deprive him of that cut off foseves from Gods mercy, was cer- conviction. Did the doctor, while writing tainly from below, not from above; the work the above forget, that with equally perfect of an Enemy, not of a Friend; yet even the assurance, Cowper also knew that the same practical power of that delusion, and the God had afterwards imposed on him the duty result on which Satan had relied, could be of self-murder, and that for his sin in not prevented by the omnipotence of Gods in- obeying the mandate i~ hen it was in hL visible grace. And again: Under this cx- power, he was consigned to endless perdi- treme severity of discipline, permitted as tion? Cowper was to be sifted as wheat by Satan, We have already mentioned the fact that ~ * to be distracted with frightful dreams in Cowpers willin0ness to destroy himself ,in the night time, & c. And this: We do conformity with what he regarded as a divine not wonder that Newton and Mrs. Unwin, behest, was regarded by Newton as an evi- and his stronnest-minded and most religious dence of l)iOuS submissiona mark and proof friends SliOke of it, and renarded it as the of divine grace in his oul. We are sur- power of the enemy. With the New Testa- prised to find that the reverend doctor re- ment before them, what could seem a more peats and endorses this strange opinion. palpable and 0raphic renewal of those mnli~,- That Cowper was a Christian, humble sin- nant, inferni possessions, which diew the cere, and true, it is impossible to doubt. comliassion of our Saviour, and required the But the evidence of this consoling fact rests exercise of his omnipotence? * * Justly did on other grounds than these delusions of a they reason and believe that somethin more disordered brain. than a natural power was here t woik and To the affair with Teedon the doctor de- that only a supernatural interposition could votes a short chapter. lIe is indignant that effect a cure. Acting on this just reasoning and belief Southey should speak so lightly of poor Teedons intercessions. After makin~ a num- Mrs. Unwia and Mr. Newton, after Cowpers her of hits at the Church of England and at severe attack in .1773, n%lected, foi sc~ esal Lord Mahon, and after a short anecdote months, all remedial measures,appasently respecting Archbishop Usher, lie concludes deemina it wrong even to consult Di. Cotton thus: We can see no reason why Mr. Were a similar case to he thrown upon the Teedon might not offer as earnest and ac- hands of Dr. Cheever, would he attempt, at ceptable prayer for Cowper, as Mr. Talbot home, to exorcise the demon by argument for Archbishop Secker. And if the arch- and prayer? or would he send the poor bishop needed such prayer when dying, and THI D SERIES. LIYING AGE. 2 18 THE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. was not insane in asking for it, the poet also could fill many pages. One iemarkable in- might have ueed of it living; and his seeking stance of the delusion under which Cowper for it was not necessarily a proof of insanity, labored we must not omit. This was a belief but the reverse. that in the stillness of his chamber he often Briefly, the story of Teedon is as follows, beard words aud sentences audibly spoken.. He was a poor schoolmaster, living in Obey, Thus, in his own early narrative, he states and dependent on charity, which he received that in his first attempt at suicide, while he through the agency of Cowper. From some was actually banging by his garter from tb~ slight n~tices in Cowpers earlier letters, we top of the door, he distinctly heard a voice infer that he was a weak, conceited, but well- say three times, Tis ocer! Though I am meaning body, whose pompous speeches sure of the fact, and was so at the time, yet sometimes amused the quick-sighted bard. it did not at all alarm me, or affect my reso- But at a later periodafter Mr. Unwins lution. During the period ef the Teedon death, and after his mothers faculties began cOrresl)Ondence, he seems to have heard to failCowper, with her consent and aid, voices almost daily, and he regularly com- began to consult Teedon, as a person whom municated the sentences or phrases which the Lord was pleased to answer in prayer. thus came iuto his head, with an evident con As Southey represents the matter, there is no viction of their supernatural origin. A speci- suspicion of knavery on the part of the men or two must suffice Dear sir; I simple-hearted creature. But he had been awoke this morning with these words, relat- accustomed to regard Cowper and Mrs. ing to my work, loudly and distiuctly spoken: Unwin as greatly his superiors ; and when Apply assistance in my ease, indigent and he found them disposed to pay such defer- neceasitons. And about three mornings ence to his spiritual gifts and power, neither since with these: It will not be by common his vanity nor his modesty would allow him and ordinary means. It seems better, to question their discernment. He was first therefore, that I shall wait till it shall please consulted in regard to the question of God to set my wheels in motion, than make Cowpers undertaking the edition of Milton another beginning only to be obliterated like not, as Mrs. Unwin wrote to him, because the two former. I have also heard these the poet apprehended any difficulty in the words on the same subject : Jiifeantiine raise performance, hut to ascertain whether he an expectation and desire of it among the were providentially called to it or not. As people. to the result, she tells him that Mr. Cowper At another time he wrote thus: At four is now clearly persuaded, by Mr. Teedons this morning I started out of a dream, in experiences and gracious notices, that he is which I seemed sitting before the fire, and called to it, and is therefore perfectly easy. very close to it, in great trouble; when, sud- From this time until the last access of his denly stamping with my foot, and springing malady, he continued to consult reedonnot suddenly from my seat, I awoke and heard only as to every proposed movement and these words : I hope tlse Lord will carry engagement, but in reference to his hopes me through it. This needs no interpreta- and fears, and all his dreaming and waking tion. It is plainly a forewarning of woe to delusions. The oracular responses which he come. On New Years day, 1793, he wrote received in return he carefully recorded, until to Teedon, This morning I am in rather a he had filled volumes. The record shoxvs more cheerful frame of mind than usual, that though he was constantly receiving en- having had two notices of a more comfortable couragement from rfeedon assurances of re- cast than the 0enerality of mine. I waked, lief soon to be vouchsafedand thou~h his saying, I shall perish, which was immedi- faith in the man, as a favored recipient of ately answered by a vision of a wine-glass, communications from Heaven, appears to and these words, A whole glass; in allusion, have remained firm, still he derived but little no doubt, to the famous story of Mrs. honey- comfort from the schoolmasters revelations, wood. For that story, see Fullers account, With the statements of his experience, his as quoted by Southey. We add one of his dreams, and his illusions, sent by this great dreams. In less than a week, he says to man to poor Teedon, and proving, as we are Teedon, I was visited with a horrible told, not his insanity, but the reverse, we dream, in which I seemed to be taking a final TIlE INSANITY OF WILLIAM COWPER. 19 leave of my dwelling, and every object with circumstances would fill me. Such were which I have been most familiar, on the even- the visions, tbe fancied monitions, the vaga ing before my execution. I felt the tenderest ries of a diseased ima~ination, which he regret at the separation, and looked about transmitted to Teedon, in the hope that for somethin ~ durable to carry with me as a through his prevailing intercessions, they memorial. The iron basp of the garden might be explained or counteracted, and in door presenting itself, I was on the point of regard to which Teedon undertook, and taking that; but recollecting that the heat of actually pretended to furnish, the results of the fire, in which I was going to be tormented, his own special communications from above. would fuse the metal, and that it would Whether the judgment of Southey, or that therefore only serve to increase my insup- of Dr. Cheever, in regard to the Teed on portable misery, I left it. I then awoke in business, is the wiser one, may easily be all the honoi ~xith which the reality of such settled. SCENE OF GRA~ 5 ELEGI-.I should feel tree, which, from the circumstances I have had much obli ed if on would do me the favor of related to me by my old friend, appears to have insectino- in the columns of she Athena?um the stood at the elbow of the poet,and the farm substance of the statement which I now beg to close byand the ivy-covered tower,and the communicate to von Not long since, in the curfew (meaning the eight oclock cathedral- course of a convei~ation in which I was en- bell) added to the picturesque churchyard, gaged wiils a physician of the city of Canter- are all closely identified with the imagery so bury, lately ictued from practice, it was men- beautifully displayed by Gray.Snch are the tionecl b~ him thvst the country cli urchiyard reasons, grounded, as you see, on internal as well to wInch Gray was indel)ted for the imagery as external testimony, which my correspondent which lie has introduced into his beautiful alheges in support of liii opinion on this sub- Elegy is iiot Stoke 1ogis,as it has been ject. Whether they wihh appear to be probable so generally supposed,bnt that of Thaning- ones to yourself, is, I think, a doubtful matter; ton, which lies on the sloping banlc of the river whilst I am sure that they will be pronotinced Scour, abouc one mile and a half above the aVigesher improbable by that large class of the city of Canterbucy. On my writing to him community which has assigned this contested afterwards on the same subject, I was favored honor to Stoke Pagis. I should athd, that the with a rerly wherein lie states his reasons, scenery adjacent to Thanington Churchyard, and ~retty much as follows, for believing Thaning- many of its rural circumstances, are very much ton Churchyard to be the scene of the as my correspondent has described them,and, Elegy: In reply to your letter, , I further, that I think the epithet neglected can only repeat what I receiyed from the lips of for reasons that I need not now explainmust my 01(1 friend spontaneously in the course of have been far more applicable to it a hundred conversation, as I was seated at liar window, in years ago than to a churchyard like that of St. Georges Place, to witness the return of Sir Stoke Pogis, placed as it is, in the midst of E. Knatchibull from Barhiam Downs, after his a park, and very near a large house then occa- election for the county in 1835. She then pied by Viscountess Cobbam, and, moreover affirmed that she was well acquainted with the only distant four miles from Windsor Castle. author of the Elegy, Mr. Gray, who was an Atbeamum. occasional yisitor to Mr. Drew, a medical man of this cityand that the spot which gave rise Pmx.--Tlie on in of this familiar term is to tho poem was Thanington Churchyard. evidently, the French epiagie, which, like the Mrs. Lukyn could have had no other objec.t in Italian spiNe, is supposed to come from spinula. giving me this information than that of afford- I, howevcu, regard rather spicuiumn-a as the ing a pleasure to me, as a long-known friend of root, the a being inserted in the French word, as liar and her family,for both she and her sister ex. yr. in coacombre, from cucamis. This inser- had long been patients of my father, and were tion of a is to be found in many languages, as well acquainted with me vhen a child. The 2uci~n, lingo, & c. ; it is particularly frequent in old lady died in the spring of 1835, at the age Spanish, as trenza, tress; poozona, poison. It of eighty-three. She was thin last surviving would not be easy, I apprehend, to give a clea~ child of the Rev. Ant. Lukyn, late Rector of example of the insertion of g except in our own St. Mildreds, Canterbury, and Vicar of iRe- impregnable, from the French imprenable; and culver, who died in 1778, as appears from thin it has ahivays been a puzzle to me to devise how obituary of the Geatlemaiss Magazine. Mrs. it could have come there. Some other cases Lukyns memory, therefore, which seems to have which occur in the English language are owing been fully impressed with thin fact, may well have to the nasals in thin French words whence they been carried back to the period when Gray visited are derived. The c in Sclaconian may also be Canterbury. I feel assured, then, that the yew- noticedNotes and Queries. DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. From The Quarterly Review. 1. Transactions of the Institution of Civil Engineers, 1836 to 1842 3 vols, 4to., Plates, 1842. 2. ]JIiinutes ~f Proceedings of the Institu- tion of Civil Engineers, 1837 to 1857. Svo., Plates. Edited by Charles Manby, F.R.S., C.E., Secretary of the Institu- tion~ 3. Account of the Formation of the Bail- way over Chat Moss, 1826-30. By John Dixon, C.E. (MS.) TILE traveller by railway sees compara- tively little of the formidable character of the works along ~vhich he is carried. His object is merely to pass over a given space in the shortest Ume and with the greatest comfort. He scarcely bestows a thought upon the amount of hard work that has been done, the anxieties that have been borne, the skill and contrivance that have been exercised, and the difficulties that have beea overcome, in providing for him a smooth road through the country, across valleys, under hills, upon bogs, over rivers, or even arms of the ca. Yet for boldness of desi~n, science of con- struction, and successful completion, the gigantic engineering works executed in con- nexion with our railways greatly surpass, in point of magnitude as well as utility, those of any former age ; and it will not, we be- lieve, be without interest if we pass rapidly in review a few of the more remarkable diffi- culties with which the engineers of our day have found it neces ary to grapple. It is a remarkable proof of the practical ability of the English people, that the great- est engineering works of the last century have been designed and executed for the most part by self-educated men. Down to quite a recent date, there was no college or school for engineers in this country; and some of the most eminent practitioners had not even the benefit of ordinary day-school instruction. Briadley was first a day-laborer, afterwards a working millwright; Telford, a working mason; John Rennie, a farmers son ap1)renticed to a millwright ; George Stephenson, a brakesman and engineman. Probably no training would have made them greater than they were. Endowed with abundant genius and perseverence, their best education was habitual encounter with difficulties. It is also worthy of note, that although the English have latterly eclipsed all other nations in engineering, it was the last of the practical sciences to which they ap~)lied themselves. Down to the middle of last century, England had not produced a single engineer of note; and we depended for our engineering, even more than we did for our pictures and our music, upon foreigners. Great Britain had then indeed made small progress in material industry compared with continental nations. There was little demand for engineering works of any kind; and when any project of importance was set on foot, it was found necessary to call to our aid some distinguished Dutchman or Frenchman. Thus, the first en nine set up in England for supplying houses with water through leaden pipes, was erected on the Thames at London Bridge, by Peter Morris, a Dutchman; and when the embankment of the Great Bedford Level was determined on, Cornelius Ver- muyden, another Dutch engineer, was em- ployed to conduct the works. The first ex- tensive bridge erected in England, of superior scientific construction, was West- minster Bridge; and it was erected by M. Labelye, a French engineer. The only Eng- lishman who had at all distinguished him- self down to the middle of the century was one John Perry, who successfully stopped an alarming breach of the Thames in the l)a- genham Embankment; but his abilitie~ found so little scope at home that he emi- grated to Russia, and entered into the ser- vice of Peter the Great, then engaged, with his army, in cutting a canal between the Neva and the Volga. Perry styled himself Adventurer, which was the term then ap- plied to those who undertook hazardous en- gineering enterprises; and the word is still in use amongst the Cornisli miners. The first English engineer, properly so called, was James Brindley, the great canal- maker. Although canals had long been em- ployed for commercial purposes in nearly every country in Europe, no work of the kind was commenced in England until 1755, when the Sankeybrook Canal in Lancashire was authori ed. This formed the beginning of a new era. It was about this time that the Duke of Bridgewater detected the genius of Brindley, and withdrew him from his oc- cupation of a millwright for the purpose of constructing his celebrated canal from Wors- ley to Manchester. While Brindley was thus employed upon his first canal, Smeaton 20 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERiNG. was en0 aged in constructing that marvel of masonry and architecturethe Eddystone Lighthouse. James Brindley was much the same to canal that George Stephenson hecame after- wards to railway engineering. Like Stephen- son he was a genius Of mother wit, and wise without the schools. His scheme for carrying a navigable water- road over the Irwell upon a viaduct thirty- nine feet above the surface of the river, was received with the same hoot of incredulity as Stephensons proposal to form a line of rail- way across Chat Moss. The practical men of the day spoke of it as a castle in the air, and the duke, who was considered as mad as Brindley, could not even get his bill discounted for 300. But he had full confi- dence in his engineer. He cut down his personal expenses to 400 a year, that he might be enabled to l)rovide the requisite capital to carry on the works; and Brindley, at the same time that he laid for his em- ployer the foundations of one of the most princely fortunes in England, initiated a series of national works which exercised a most important influence upon its industrial progress. The success of the Dukes canal was so decided, that numerous similar schemes were I)rojected, and a canal mania set in, of which the railway mania of subsequent times was hut a counterl)art. The remainder of Brind- leys life was employed in excavating his great arterial lines, by means of which an in- ternal water-communication was opened up hetween the Thames, the Humber, the Sev- ern, and the Mersey. The ports of London, Hull, Bristol, and Liverpool, were thus united by canals passing through the richest and most industrial districts of England. Brind- icys conceptions were of the holdest kind. He carried his canals over rivers, across val- leys, and along formidable viaducts; and he hewed out long tunnels for them through hills where locks were impracticable. It was said of him, when cutting the Grand Trunk Canal in 1767, Brindley handles rocks as easily as you would plum pies; yet he is as plain a looking man as one of the hoors of the Peak. At an early period of his career, whilst the belief in the superiority of foreign engineer- ing still prevailed, some of Brindleys friends urged him to go to France for the purpose of visiting the Great Canal of Languedoc. No, no, was his reply, I will have no journies to other countries, unless for the purpose of being employed to surpass all that has already been done. Although he himself did not live to repay the debt which his country owed to continental nations for the engineering skill with which they assisted us in former times, his successors have dis charged it with interest. English pumping- en0ines have drained the lake of Ilaarlem; English bridges have been erected over the Danube at Pestb, over the Yssel in Holland, and over the Isere in Savoy; English en- gineers supplied the dock gates for Sebasto- pol; the princil)al towns and cities of the continent are lit by gas manufactured by English macbin cry; English steamboats ply in every sea and navigable river of the con- tinent; and English locomotives run upon railways designed and constructed by Eng- lish 0ineers in almost every country in Europe. Brindley and Smeaton were followed by a number of able engineers in rapid succes- sion. From a cattle and corn farm, England by the end of last century, had also become a magazine of trade and commerce. Then the engine invented by James Watt, and first brought into operation ai)out the year 1773, shortly rendered this country a great work- shop of steam-power. From a land of bridle-tracks it had advanced to one of wbeel-.roads and navigable canals. Time bad become more precious, and to econmize time new high-roads and bridges, superior to all which bad l)receded them, were con- structed by Telford, whose suspension-bridge over the Menai Straits was re0arded as a worlds wonder. Shipping crowded the Eng- lisli ports, and docks now became necessary. The London Docks, by Rennie, completed in 1805, was the first great work of this kind; and was succeeded by others constructed by Teiford, Walker, and Palmer. Several noble bridges were thrown across the Thames to facilitate the communication between the two sides of the river. The Waterloo Bridge, characterized by Dupin as a colossal menu- meat worthy of Sesostris and the Cmsars and the Southwark Bridge, and the New Lon- don Bridgeall by Renniewere built within a period of twenty years, at an expenditure of about four millions sterling. Engineers had now acquired importance 21 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. as a profession; and as the number of those who followed it increased, and the demand for their services extended, they gradually formed themselves into an association. Mr. Palmer hrought together a few young men who were the nucleus of the Institution of Civil Engineers. This Society struggled on for several years, and when i\Ir. Telford ac- cepted the office of President in 1818, it en- tered upon a career of distinguished useful- ness and prosperity. It was incorporated hy Royal Charter in 1828. English engineering had now arrived at the commencement of its grandest era. Trade, commerce, end manufactures had rapidly expanded ~h all directions, and the public requirements had outgrown the ac- commodation provided hy turnpike-roads and canals. Raw cotton lay upon the canal wharves at Liverpool, and manufactured cot- ton upon those at Manchester, for weeks to- gether, while operatives and mills were standing idle for want of the material to work up. As at Balaclava, the few miles of inland transport were more difficult to overcome than the thousands of miles of ocean. The contrivance of the railway solved the difficulty. The chief object of the railway engineer was to reduce his roads as nearly as possible to a level. The Romans, formerly the great inadmakeis of the world, disregarded levels; in undulating countries their high- ways stretched from hill-top to hill-top, and on these hills their watch-towers were placed. Their principal object was necessarily to keep to a straight line, for they do not seem to have discovered the moveable joint by which the two first wheels of a four-wheeled vehicle are enabled to turn a corner. When Tel- ford and Macadam took up the work, they cut do~vn the roads and metalled them; and they had almost reached perfection, when they were superseded by the new invention of the iron highway. In the construction of canals, where a continuous level could not be secured, the lock was adopted, and thus a series of levels, with sudden drops, was ob- tained. In a railway no such contrivance was applicable. high grounds had to be cut down and embankments formed across the lower lands. When a ridge of country in- tervened, in which an open cutting through- out was impracticable, the expedient of a tunnel was adopted. When a deep valley lay in the way, and an earth embankment was found not to be feasible, then a viaduct was adopted, and even where an arm of the sea, such as the Menai Strait, had to be over- leaped, the work was accomplished by means of iron tubes suspended in mid-air. Of the 863~ miles of railway now constructed in Britain, about 70 miles pass through tunnels, and more than ~0 miles over viaducts ; whilst of railway bridges there have been built some 30,000, or far more than all the bridges pre- viously existing in England. It is difficult to form an adequate idea of the immense quantity of earth, rock, and clay, that has been picked, blasted, shovelled and wheeled into embnnkments by English navvies during the last thirty years. On the South-Western Railway alone the earth re- moved amounted to sixteen millions of cubic yardsa mass of material sufficient to form a pyramid a thousand feet high with a base of one hundred and fifty thousand square yards. Mr. Robert Stephenson has esti- mated the total amount on all the railways of England as at least five hundred and fifty millions of cubic yards! And what does this represent? We are accustomei, he says, to renard St. Pauls as a test for height and space; but by the side of the pyramid of earth these works would rear, St. Pauls would be but as a pigmy to a giant. Imag- ine a mountain half a mile in diameter at its base, and soariun into the clouds one mile and a half in height, that would be the size of the mountain of earth which these earth- works would form; while St. James Park, from the Horse Guards to Buckiugham Pal- ace, would scarcely afford space for its base. All this vast mass has been removed by English navviesperhaps the hardest work- ers in the world. Many of the best men originally came from Lincolnshire, where they had been accustomed to the cutting of drains and the const,ruction of embankmeats for the recovery of overflowed land, as we~ as in the excavation of canals for the pur- poses of inland navigation; hence the name of Lincolnshire Bobs and Navigators, by which they were first known. Mr. Robert Stephenson supposes the original navvies to have been the descendents of Dutch labor- ers, numbers of whom were employed by Dutch Adventurers in embanking lands from the sea, and afterwards settled in the country. The remarkable Dutch build of many of the laboring people in some 22 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. parts of Lincolnshire and Cambridgees- pecially between the South Holland drain of the one county and the great Vermuyden drain of the othercertainly tends to con- firm the supposition. These old practitioners formed tie nucleus of a skilled manipulation and aptitude, which rendered them of indis- pensable utility in the immense undertakin 0s of the period. Their expertness in all sorts of earthwork, in embankinn, boring, and well-sinkingtheir practical knowledge of the nature of soils and rocks, the tenacity of clays, the porosity of certain stratifications was very 0reat; and rough-looking as they were, many of them were as important in their own department as the contractor or the ennineer. During the railway-making period the navvy wandered about from one public work to another, apparently belonging to no coun- try and having no home. He usually wore a white felt-hat, the brim turned up all rounda head-dress since become fashiona- ablea velveteen or jean squaretailed coat, a scarlet plush waistcoat with little black spots, and a bright-colored handkerchief round his Herculean neck, when, as gener- ally happened, it was not left entirely bare. His corduroy breeches were retained in posi- tion by a leather strap round the waist, and tied and buttoned at the knee, displaying be- neath a solid calf and a foot firmly encased in strong high-laced hoots. Joining to- gether in a butty gang, some ten or twelve of them would take a contract to cut out and remove so much dirt so they denominated eartheuttingfixing their price according to the character of the stuff, and the distance to which it had to be wheeled and tipped. The contract taken every man put himself to his mettle. If any one was found skulkin~, or not exerting his full-working power, he was ejected from the gang. In times of ener~ency they would work for twelve and even sixteen hours, with only short intervals for meals. The quantity of flesh-meat which they consumed was something enormous: it was to their bones and muscles what coke is to the locomotive the means of keeping up the steam. Contractors were well aware of this fact. A shrewd Yorkshireman, when work became slack and a portion of his laborers had to he sacked, went round amongst the men whilst at their dinners, and observed what was on their platters. The men of small appetites were discharged. Navvies in ordinary times, with an average good contract, could earn as much as eight shillings a-day. The butty men had modes of saving labor, which, however, often involved them in great peril, and led to fre- quent fatal accidents; but they recoiled from no difficulty, and were ready to undertake the most dangerous tasks without hesitation. In excavating a deep cutting, they would work it as much as possible in lifts or benches, by which the ground was so un- dermined at the bottom as to produce a large fall of earth. The last operation was called knoekino the legs from under it; and if the earth did not readily fall, sharp- ened iron piles and bars were driven in from above to force down the ground. From ten to fifty tons would thus be bro%ht away at a time; but not unfrequently with one or more men buried under the mass. The English navvy would continuously run out a barrow containing from three to four hundredweight of stuff, whereas a French laborer was con- tent with half the load. When an English contractor undertook the works of the Paris and Ronen Railway, he sent over the requi- site plant, amongst which were a quantity of the usual English navvy wheelbarrows. The French laborers tried them, and struck work. The result was a dangerous emeute, which rendered it necessary call in the aid of the military; and eventually the only workmen who used the bin harrows were the English navvies. The consequence was, that the English laborer received five francs a-day, while the wages of the ordinary French la- borer was only about two francs and a half; and even then the En n lish workman was considered the cheapest of the two. Such was the valuaLe class of laborers who constructed the great works of the Eng- lish Railway Era. The contractorsmany of them sprung from the navvy ranks, and passing through the stages of under-ganger and ~ nger to that of contractorwere the men who employed, organixed, and directed them. In the great engineering works of former days, the functions of engineer and contractor were usually united, and the engi- neer, as we have stated, was called an Ad- venturer. Now the functions are distinct, and the contractor alone undertakes the risk of the adventure. He binds himzelf to 23 24 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. do certain works at a certain price, upon a about twelve square miles in extent. In specification carefully prepared by the engi- most places it is so soft that it is incapable neer. He brings together the plantthe of supporting a man or a horse, and if an horses, waggons, and steam-enginesand iron rod be placed perpendicularly on its arranges the labor. Like the enaineer he surface, it sinks by its own weight to a depth must be prepared for all manner of difficul- of some thirty feet. Unlike the swamps of tiesfor irruptions of water in tunnels, for Cambridge and Lincolnshire, which consist surface floodin~s, for slips of treacherous principally of soft mud or silt, Chat Moss is soil, for advances of wages and strikes of a mass of spongy vegetable pulp, the growth workmen; and not unfrequently he is and decay of ages. The Spbagni, or bog- broken up by one or other of these con- mosses, cover the entire area. One years tingencies; but never till he has ventured growth rises over another,the older growths his last penny in the struggle to maintain his not entirely decaying, but remaining partially character. When the Ilarentin Viaduct fell, preserved by the antiseptic properties pecu- on the Rouen and Havre line, and it was liar to peat. Hence the remarkable fact doubtful whether the law would compel the that although a semifluid mass, the surface contractor to rebuild it, he stoutly declared, of Chat Moss rises above the level of the he had undertaken to make and maintain surrounding country. Like a turtles back, the road, and no law should prevent Thomas it declines from the summit in every direc- Brassey from being as good as his word. tion, having from thirty to forty feet gradual The sum required for the purpose was 30,- slope to the solid land around. From the 000 and Thomas Brassey paid it. remains of trees, chiefly alder and birch, The railway engineer, it is needless to say, which have been dug out, and which must must be no ordinary man. First of all, he have previously flourished upon the soil be- must act as a surveyor in laying out a practi- low, it is probable that the sand and clay cable road, exercising his judgment as a base on which the bog rests, is saucer- geologist in determining the lie of the strata shaped, and by this means retains the entire and the materials to be penetrated, testing mass in its position. In rainy weather it them by careful borings with a view to the sensibly swells with the water, and rises in prelimiiiary estimates, and the letting of the those parts where the moss is the deepest,the works. After standing the test of the parlia- capillary attraction of the fibres of the sub- mentary crucible, and satisfying Committees merged mass, which is from twenty to thirty in the face of cross-questioiiings by learned feet in depth, causing the retention of the counsel, he must then enter upon the most moisture, whilst the growing plants eflectu- anxious part of his laborsthe actual con- ally check evaporation from the surface. struction of the railway. This peculiar character of the moss has pre The first, and even to this day, one of the sented an insuperable difficulty to any sys- most remarkable works was the making the tern of wholesale drainagesuch as by sink- road over Chat Mossan enterprise which ing shafts in its substance, and pumping up the engineers of the old school treated with the water by steam-power. A shaft of thirty derision and declared to be impossible. feet deep, Mr. Dixon has calculated, would George Stephenson himself published no only be effectual for draining a circle of one account* of the manner in which he executed hundred yardsthe water runiiing down an this or any other of his celebrated works; incline of about five to one. It was found but we are enabled, with the aid of Mr. John that a ditch three feet in depth only served Dixon, Civil Engineer, who superintended to drain five yards on either side, and two the formation of that part of the Liverpool ditches of this depth, ten feet apart, left a and Manchester line which crossed Chat portion of the moss between them carcely Moss, to furnish a more complete history of affected by the outlet. this remarkable achievement than has yet It was doubtless a hold thing for George been published. Stephenson to entertain the idea of carry- Chat Moss is an immense peat bog of ing a railway over such a dismal swamp. One experienced civil eii~ineer declared be- The only remarks ~hic1i he puh~ished on the fore the Parliamentary Committee, that no snhject of the works on Chat Moss appeared in The Companion to the Almanac for 182930. road could possibly he formed across the moss on which a carria ~e could stand short I of the bottom, except by takin0 out all the soft stuff and filling in the cavity with solid soil; and a Manchester builder, who was examined, could not imagine the feat possible, unless by archin0 over the moss in the man- ner of a viaduct from one side to the other. it was the old story of nothing like leather. When the survey of the line was made, only the edges of the moss could be entered upon, and that with difficulty. One gentleman, of considerable weight and rotundity, when endeavoring to obtain a stand for his theodo- lite, found himself suddenly sinking. He immediately threw himself down, and rolled over and over until he reached the firm ground, in a sorry mess. Other attempts which where subsequently made to enter Ul)Ofl the moss for the same purpose, ere abandoned for the same reasonthe want of a sufficiently solid stand for the theodo- lite. The act authorizing the construction of the Liverpool and Manchestes Railway was no sooner obtained, than Mr. Stephenson began to do the impossible thing. The three resident engineers selected by Mr. Stephenson to superintend the construction of the line were, Mr. Locke (now M.P.), Mr. Alleard, and Mr. Dixon. The last was appointed to that portion which included the proposenl road across the moss, and the other two were by no means desirous of exchanging posts with him. On Mr. Dixons arrival, Mr. Locke proceeded to show him over the length he was to take charge of; and to instal him in office. rI~he line had already been staked out and the levels taken in detail by the aid of planks laid upon the bog. The drains along each side of the proposed road had also been commenced; hut the soft pulpy stuff had up to this time flowed into the drains and filled them up as fast as they were cut. Proceeding across the moss, on the first days inspection, the new resident slipped off the plank on which lie walked, and sank to his knees. Struggling sent him deeper, and there was a probability of his disappear- in~ altogether, when some workmen, upon planks, hastened to his assistance and rescued him from his perilous position. His brother residents endeavored to comfort him by the assurance that he might in future avoid similar perils, by walking with boards fas- tened to 1/ic soles of his feet, which distribu 25 ted the weight over a greater surfacea con- trivance adopted by them elves when taking the levels, and by the workmen when en- gaged in making drains in the softest parts of the moss. But the puzzling l)roblem re- mained how a road was to be constructed for a heavy locomotive with a train of passengers or goods, upon a bog which was incapable of supporting the weight of a solitary indi- vidual. Mr. Stephensons idea was, that such a road might be made to float nipon the bog, simply by means of a sufficient extension of the bearing surface. As s 5lnp capable of sustaining heavy loads, floated in water, so, in his opinion, might a light road be floated upon a bog which was of considerably greater consistency than water. Long before the railway was thou0ht of; Mr. Roscoc, of Liver ~ had adopted the expedient of fitting his plough-horses with flat wooden soles, to enable them to walk upon the moss-land which he had brought into cultivation. The foot of an ordinary farm-horse presents a base of about five inches diameter; but if this be enlarged to seven inches, the slight extension of the base, since the circles are to each other as the squares of the diameters, will furnish a footing of nearly double the area, and con- sequently the pressure of the foot upon every unit of ground upon which the horse stands will be reduced one-half In fact, this con- trivance has an effect tantamount to setting the horse upon eight feet instead of four. Apply the same reasoning to the locomo- tive, and even such a pondorous machine may be made to stand upon a bog by means of a similar extension of the bearin~ surface. Suppose the engine to be twenty feet long and five feet wide, thus covering a surfbce of a hundred square feet. Then, by extending the bearing by means of cross-sleepers, sup- ported upon a matting of heath and branches of trees strewed with a few inches of gravel, the pressure of an engine of twenty tons will be diminished to about three pounds p~ inch over the whole surface on which it stands. Such was George Stephensons idea in con- triving his floating road. The first thing done was, to form a foot- path of hing or heather along the proposed road, on which a man might walk across without risk of sinking. single line of tem~)orary railway was then laid down. Along this way ran the waggons in which DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGiNEERING. 26 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. were conveyed the materials requisite to road was to be formed. But it turned out form the permai~ent road. The waggons here as at other parts of the moss, that the carried about a ton each; they were pro- deeper the cutting the more rapid was the pelled by boys running behind them on one flow of fluid bog into the drain, the bottom of the narrow bars of iron which constituted rising up almost as fast as it was removed. the rail; and they became so expert that To meet this emergency, a number of empty they would run the four miles across at the tar-barrels were brought from Liverpool, and rate of seven or eight miles an hour without as soon as a few yards of drain were dug, missing a ste1). Had they slipped off their the barrels were laid dowa end to end, firmly diminutive causeway they would have sunk fixed to each other by strong slabs laid over in many places up to their middle. The the joints and nailed. They were afterwards slight extension of the bearing surface covered over with clay, and were simply an through the cross -sleepers to which the rails underground sewer formed of wood instead were fastened at intervals of three feet, en- of bricks. The expedient succeeded, and abled the bog to uphold this temporary line, the road across the centre of the moss was and the circamstance w~s a source of in- rendered firm and sure. creased confidence to the engineer in the The embankment upon the edge of the formation of the permanent road~ bog at the Manchester end proved less com- The digging of drains had for some time pl)ing. Moss, as dry as it could be cut, was been proceeding along each side of the in- brought up in small wag0ons; but the bank tended railway; but they filled up almost as had not been raised to three or four feet in oon as made, the sides flowing in and the height before the material, light as it was, bottom rising up; and it was only in some of broke through the heathery surface of the the drier parts of the bog that a depth of bog and sunk. More moss was emptied in, three or four feet could be reached. The with no better result; and for many weeks surface between the drains was merely spread the process was continued without any visible with branches of trees and hedge-cuttings, embankment having been made. It was the except that in the softest places rude gates duty of the resident engineer, when he drew or hurdles, some eight or nine feet long by the wages for the workmen employed under four feet wide, interwoven with heather, were him, to color up, on a section suspended laid in double thicknesses, their ends over- against the wall of the directors room, the lapping each other. Upon this floating bed amount of excavations, embankments, & c., was placed a thin layer of gravel, on which which had been executed. But on many of the sleepers, chairs, and rails were laid in these occasions Mr. Dixon had no progress the usual manner. Such was the mode in whatever to show. Sometimes, indeed, the which the road was formed upon the moss. visible work done was less than it had ap- It was found, however, after the permanent peared a fortnight or a month before! road had been thus laid, that there was a The directors became seriously alarmed; tendency to sinking at ome parts where the the resident engineer was called upon to bog was the softest. In ordinary cases where supply them with an estimate of the cost both a bank subsides, the sleepers are packed up of filling up the moss with solid stuff from with ballast or gravel; but in this case, the the bottom and of pilin0 the roadway. The ballast was dug away in order to lighten the latter plan was in effect to construct a four road, and the sleepers were packed instead mile viaduct of timber across the moss from with cakes of dry turf or bundles of heath. twenty to thirty feet high. The expense By these expedients the subsided parts were appalled the directors, and the question then a~ain floated up to the level. But the most arose, whether the work was to be proceeded formidable difficulties were encountered at with or abandoned? The Worslcy and the centre and towards the edge of the moss. Trafford men, who lived near the moss and The moss, as has already been observed, was plumed themselves upon their practical highest in the centre, and there presented a knowled0e of moss work, declared the com- sort of hunchback, with a rising and falling pletion of the road to be utterly impractica- gradient. At that point it was found neces- ble. If you knew as much about Chat sary to cut deeper drains in order to consoli- Moss as we do, they said, you would never date the moss between them on which the have entered on so rash an undertaking; DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. and depend upon it, all you have done and are doing will prove abortive. You must give up altogether the idea of a floation rail- way, and either fill the moss up with hard material from the bottom, or else deviate the line so as to avoid it alto~ ether. Such were the conclusions of science and experience. In the midst of all these alarms and pro- phecies of failure, Mr. Stephenson never lost heart, but held to his purpose. His motto was Persevere ! You must go on fill- ing, he said ; there is no other help for it. The stuff emptied in is doing its work out of sight, and if you will but have patience, it will soon begin to show. And so the filling went on the moss was skinned for many thousand yards round for the l)nrl)ose, until at length, as the stuff rested upon the bot- tom, the embankment gradually stood above the surface. In the course of its formation, the pressure of the moss tipped out of the waggo us caused a copious stream of bog water to flow from the end of the embank- ment, in color resembling Barclays double stout, and when coml)leted, the bank looked like along ridge of lightly-pressed tobacco- leaf. The compression of the moss was such, that 670,000 cubic yards of raw moss was reduced to 277,000 cubic yards at the com- pletion of the work. The embankment was found in no way liable to slips, like London or Oxford clay, and now forms one of the best parts of the road. The road across Chat Moss was finished by the 1st of January, 1830, when the first experimental train of passengers passed over it, drawn by the Rocket; and instead of being the most expensive part of the line it proved nearly the cheapest, its cost being only about 7000 per mile, which is consid- erably under the average. It also proved to he one of the pleasantest portions of the railway. Being a floating road, it was easy to run upon. There is a springiness in it such as is felt when passing over a suspended bridge; and those who looked along the moss as a train went over it, said they could ob- serve a bend, like that which precedes and follows a skater upon ice. Similar difficulties have since been encoun- tered by engineers in carryin0 earth em- bankiucats across low grounds, which, under a fair green surface, concealed the remains of ancient bogs, sometimes of great depth. Thus, on the Leeds and Bradford Extension, 27 about six hundred tons of stone and earth were daily cast into an embankment near Bingley, and each morning the stuff thrown in on the preceding day was found to have disappeared. This went on for many weeks, the bank however a radu ally advancing and forcing up on either side a spongy black ridge of moss. On the South-WesLrn Rail- way a heavy embankment, about fifty feet high, crossed a piece of ground near Newn- ham, the surface of which seeme(l to he per- fectly sound and firm. Twenty feet, how- ever, beneath the surface an old bog lay con- cealed ; and the ground giving way, the fluid, pressed from beneath the embankment, raised the adjacent meadows in all directions like waves of the sea. A culvert, which per- mitted the flow of a brook under the bank, was forced down, the passage of the water entirely stopped, and several thousand acres of the finest land in Hampshire would have been flooded but for the exertions of the en- gineer, who completed a new culvert just as the other had become completely closed. The Newton-Green embankment, on the Sheffield and Manchester line, gave way in like manner, and to such an extent as to spread out to t~vo or three times its original width. In this case it was found necessary to carry the line across the parts which yielded upon strong timber shores. On the Dundalk and Enniskillen line a heavy em- bankment, twenty feet high, suddenly disap~ peared one ni0 ht in the bog of Meghernakill, nearly adjoinin0 the river Fane. The bed of the river was forced up, the flow of the water for the time was stopl)ed, and the sur- rounding country heavily flooded. A con- cealed bog of even greater extent, on the Durham and Sunderland Railway, near Aycliff, was crossed by means of a double- planked road, about two miles in length. A few weeks after the line had been opened part of the road sank one night entirely out of sight. The defect was made good merely by extending the floating surface of the road at this portion of the hoe. The work of forming an ordinary embank- meat, no matter how extensive, is mainly a question of money, time, and labor. The principal difficulty arises from the tendency of particular materials to slip. Thus, Lon- don clay and certain kinds of shale, when ex- posed to the air, absorb moisture so rapidly, that they shortly acquire the consistency of DIFFICULTIES OF RAiLWAY ENGINEERiNG. soap, and the bank runs away. A heavy shower upon a bank tip, where the material is ciayey, will imme cliately stop the work, and involve the contractor in serinus loss. To prevent the slipping of the embankment on one part of the South-Western line, it was found necessary to burn the slopes of the embankment for the purpose of converting the clay into brick. The sides of cuttings through treacherous stuff have the same ten- dency to glide downwards, as any traveller to the Crystal Palace may have observed a little south of New-Cross station, where, in the winter of 1841-2, about three hundred thousand cubic yards of clay slipped and buried the rails for a length of nearly four hundred feet. It took close upon three month for gangs of navvies, working day ~nd night, to remove the obstruction. Con- tractors have often suffered serious losses from si ~ilar mishaps. Thus, in forming a cutting near Amber~ate, on the Midland Railway, a seam of shale was cut across ly- ing at an inclination of about 6 to 1. Shortly afterwards the whole mass of earth along the hill above began to move down upon the line of excavation, completely upsetting the esti- mates of the contractor, who, instead of fifty thousand, found he had about five hundred thousand cubic yards of stuff to take away, and that the work would occupy about fifteen months instead of two. The cutting out of the stuff necessary to reduce the ground to a level is often attended with great labor. The pick and the spade, wielded by powerful and willing hands, are sufficient for the l)urpose, where only earth or sand have to be removed, and we have known as much as three thousand tons of stuff emptied into one tip, as the end of the embankment is called, in nine hours. But where rock, shale, or even stiff clay occurs, hand-labor is too slow as well as ex- pensive, and the more powerful aid of gun- powder and gun-cotton are put in requisition. More gunpowder has thus been expended on railway works than has been blown away in many a great European war. The first for- midable stone-cutting was that made through Olive Mount near Liverpool, on the Liver- pool and Manchester Railway. It extended for a distance of about two miles through red sand-stone, and in some places the cutting is more than a hundred feet deep. Not less than four hundred and eighty thousand cubic yards of stone were removed from it. It is indeed a ravine cut in the solid rock. But it has since been thrown into the shade by much more formidable works of the same kind. The Blisworth cutting, on the London and Birmingham line, is one of the most formidable grooves ever ploughed in the solid earth. It is a mile and a half long, in some places sixty-four feet deep, and passes through earth, stiff clay, and hard rock. Not less than a million cubic yards of these materials were dug, quarried, and blasted out of it. One-third of the cutting was stone, and beneath the stone lay a thick bed of clay, under which were found beds of loose shale so full of water that almost con- stant pumping was necessary at many points to enable the works to 1)roceed. For a year and a half the contractor went on fruitlessly contending with these difficulties, and at last he was compelled to abandon the adventure. The engineer then took the works in hand for the company. Steam-engines were set to work to pump out the water two locomo- tives were put on, one at either end of the cutting, to drag away the excavated rock and clay; and eight hundred men and boys, besides a large number of horses, were em- ployed along the work. Some idea of the extent of the blasting operations may he formed from the fact, that twenty-five barrels of gunpowder were exploded weekly, and the total quantity used was about three thou- sand barrels. Considerable difficulty was ex- perienced in supporting the bed of rock xxhich oveilaid the clay and shale along either side of the cutting. It was found necessary to hold it up by strong retaining walls to prevent the clay bed from bulging out, and these walls were further supported by a strong arch placed in an inverted position under the road, and which thus hound to- gether the walls on 1)0th sides. in the course of constructing the railway x~ orks in Scotlanda country so rugged and mountainous, that the national motto of Nemo me impune lacessit might serve as a salutary warning to railway ~)rqjectors blasting operations of the most formidable description have had to be encountered. One of the earliest and most difficult feats of this kind was a four-mile blasting of from twenty-five to sixty f et dee1), through the Whinstone dyke of Winehburg Hill, on the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway. The walls 28 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGiNEERING. of whinstone, or molten lava, rose up directly across the line of the works in large slices, like enormous sandwiches interlaid with thick beds of freestone and shale. The whole was hlown away by gunpowder, and taken out from above. About the middle of this tre- mendous cutting occurs the Winchburgh Tunnel, passing through similarly difficult material. And, as the Scotch proverb has it, For every height thercs a howe, so, in railway works, for every hill that is cut down there is a valley to be filled up. Hence a monster eml)ankment is found close at hand, extending across the Almond valley an embankment a mile and a half in length, in- creasing in height to sixty feet on either side of a half-mile viaduct, itself from sixty to eighty feet high, and under which flows the Almond river. From this artificial eminence a view of marvellous beauty is obtained of the valley of the Forth, with its magnificent background of the Highland hills in the dis- tance. IBut the mightiest of gunpowder hlasts in connexion with railway works, if not the very greatest blast ever exploded, was that by which Sir William Cuhitt blew away, with one charge of nineteen thousand pounds of gunpowder, the entire mass of the Round Down Cliff, which rose to the height of 3~O feet above the level of the sea within a few miles of Dover. This monster blast, fired by galvanic electricity at several points in- stantaneously, at once heaved off from the cliffs a mass of more than a million tons of chalk, which rolled down upon the beach the dislodged stuff covering a space of more than fifteen acres, which may still be seen by the traveller along the South-Eastern Rail- way, stretching towards the s~a near the western base of the well-known Shakspeares Cliff. By means of a similar blast on the Londonderry and Coleraine Railway a hill was thrown into the sea by a charge of three thousand pounds of gunpowder, and thirty thousand tons of material were thus instan- taneously removed from the line of the works. Railways are often placed in great peril from waterwater on the surface or water underground. indeed the art and science of engineering in a great measure consists in a skilful encounter with the powers of water. The first engineers fought against the sea, in endeavoring to secure the land against its ravages, by means of strong embankments. The highest ingenuity of Smeaton was ex- erted in contriving a form of stone building which should successfully resist the weight and force of the heaviest ocean-waves, and the result was his Eddystone lighthouse. Brindley compelled the water to obey him, and to flow in the channels which he cut for it. When asked on one occasion for what object rivers were created, his reply was To feed navigable canals. But to railway engineers water has proved an invariable enemy. It is the great difficulty to be over- come by themin bogs, in cuttinbs, and es- pecially in tunnels. It has to be spanned by bridges and viaducts, and in laying their foundations water has to be vigorously fought against. Even when a railway has been built and finished, water is still the great enemy to be dreaded. The works oi the North British Railway were scarcely completed in October, 1546, before a tre mendous storm swept over the district. Five rubble bridges were washed awayone of them at Linton, on the Tyne, two lion- dreci feet in length, the swab river carrying down large trees, masses of earth, and other materials, which pressed heavily against the piers, and ultimately sxvept them away, bringin0 down the whole superstructure. But the force of the flood displayed itself in the most remarkable manner at another part of the line, near Cockburnspath, where a heavy embankment had been constructed. This bank crossed a deep ravine, and formed an immense mound of earth, fifty feet broad at its base, and a hundred and thirty-five feet in hei~ht. A small arch of twenty-five feet span was constructed under the em- bankment to permit the flow of a small stream; almost dry in summer, but in win- ter swolo to a torrent. When the flood swept down from the Lammermuir hills, with its accompanying trees aiid rubbish, the narrow arch became choked up. The water accumulated in the upper part of the glen for about half a mile above the embankment, and stood in some places more than a bun- died feet deep. This enormous mass of water, pressing against the mound, soon be- gan to tell. Gradually bulging outward, the soil at length gave way, and the flood break- ing through, swept away the greater part of the embankment with resistless force to- wards the sea. 29 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. 30 But the railway emhankments most diffi- Another formidable work of a similar kind, cult to maintain are those exposed to the occurs on the Chester and Holyhead Rail- force of the sea-waves. Among the exposed way, immediately under the steep slol)e of works of this description is that portion of Penmaen Mawr, where a sea embankment the South Devon Railway which extends from the mouth of the Exe to Teignmouth. Here the line runs for the most ~)art side by side with the waves of the English Channel, the railway embankment being protected by a strong sea-wall. Although a beautiful object in fine summer weather, the sea is a very uncomfortable neighbor during the equinoctial bales. In some places the irreg- ular sandstone cliff, of great height~, has been blasted off to the perpendicular, seeming to overhang the terrace on which the line is formed. A heavy, south-westerly gale in October, 1840, first tried the solidity of the works. The breakwater at Langston cliff bein~ built on the sand, failed to resist the force of the waves, and was washed clean away, leaving scarcely a fragment to mark where it had stood. Eight bseaches in all were made in the sea-wall, and the railway embankment on the laudward side also suf- fered severely. One of the old salts ~ of the coast, while surveying the wreck, de- clared, in the hearing of the engineer, that it had blown only half a gale. This, said he, was but Neptunes youngest son; next time he will send his eldest; and if that will not do, next time he will come himself and sweep your road away. It was, he consid- ered a tempting of Providence, to bring such works so near to the ocean as if in defi- ance of His power. Mr. Brunel replaced the breakwater where it had been carried away, by a massive wall of Babbicombe limestone, with a back filling of layers of fag- got and sandstone. in the following month the sea again broke over the line with great fury; further gaps were made in the sea- wall; and in some places the road, with its atmospheric tubes, longitudinal timbers, rails, and ballast, was washed away. In the Exe a vessel was driven on shore ; its bowsprit was thrown directly across the line, in the way of an advancing train, and the locomo- tive wheels, passing over it, cut the bow- split asunder. Since then the works have stood remarkably well: the prediction of the old salt has not been fulfilled; and Mr. Bin- nel has been left at leisure to apply his great engineering genius to new and still more formidable difficulties. and wall extending for about a mile and a quarter in length were rendered necessary by the peculiarly difficult character of the ground. The road is partly cut out of the cliff, and it lies so close under the steel) hill, that. it was felt necessary to ~)rotect it against possible accidents from falling stones, by means of a covered way. That portion of the wall which lies on the western side of the rocky headland (which is penetrated by a tunnel) is exposed to the full force of the sea; and its strength was severely tried by one of tile strong northerly gales which blew in October, 1846, with a spring-tide of seventeen feet, while the work was yet un- completed. On the following morning, it was found that a large portion of the rubble ~vas irreparably injured, and two hundred yards of the wall were accordingly con- clemned, and replaced by an open viaduct, with the piers placed edgeways to the force of the sea, Mr. Robert Stephenson, the principal engineer of tile railway, candidly stated his opinion on this occasion, that if a lon~ tun a nel had been made in the first instance, even through the solid rock of Peomnen Mawr, a saving of from 26,000 to 30,000 would have been effected, and that he had ar- rived at the conclusion that in railway works engineers should endeavor as far as possible to avoid any necessity of contending with the sea. The simple fact that in a heavy storm the force of impact of the waves is from one and a ha~J to two tos s per square foot,* must necessarily dictate the greatest possible caution in approaching so dangerous an element. Undeterred nevertheless by these formi dable perils, Mr. Brulees has recently com pleted a railway embankment across the head of Morecambe Bay, which is regarded as one of the most interesting works of its kind. This hay extends about seventeen miles inland from its point of embouchure in the Irish Sea, and is of an average width of about twelve miles. Towards the head of the bay the waters shoal very much, and an ~ Mr. C. Stevenson re~istered a force of three tons per square foot at Skerryvore during a~ gale in the Atlantic, when the waves were supposed to be twenty feet high DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. immense extent of sand and alluvial mud is left high and dry at low water. In this state it had long been a sort of desert high- way for vehicles and foot-passengers. Lord Burlington, whose residence of Ilolkar House lies on the Cumberlanci side of the bay, in lookin0 into some of the correspon- dence of his predecessors, found that when the family moved from London to the north there was no possibility of reaching Ilolkar within a reasonable time excel)t across the sands, and preparations used to be made a fortnight or three weeks before the journey commenced, several trusty men being com- missioned to meet the coach at Lancaster and conduct it safely on the way. Down to the past summer, indeed, a stage-coach l)liedl across the sands from Lancaster to Ulver- stonaow superseded by the rail, and many are the hairbreadth escapes that occurred in the crossing. Nor did the travellers always escape the perils of the journey. The reg- isters of the parish of Cartmell show that not fewer than a hundred l)~~5O~5 have been huried in its churchyard who were drowned in attemptin0 to pass over the sands. This is independent of the similar burials in other churchyards in adjacent l)arishes on both sides of the bay. Only in the course of last spring a party of ten or twelve young men and women, proceeding to the hiring mar- ket at Lancaster, were overt~ ken by the ad- vancing tide, when every one of them per- ished. The principal danger arose from the treacherous nature of the sands, and their constant hifting during the freshets which occurred in the rivers flowing into the head of the bay. As early as the year 1837 Mr. George Stephenson recommended the construction of a railway from Poulton, near Lancaster, to Humphrey Head, on the opposite coast, as past of a west coast line to Scotland. He proposed to carry the road across the sands in a segment o a circle of five miles radius. 1-us design was to drive in piles for the whole length, and for~~ a solid fence of stone blocks on the land side of the piles, for the purpose of retaining the sand and silt brought down by the rivers from the interior. It was calculated that the value of the forty thousand acres of rich alluvial land thus re- calimed from the hay would have more than covered the cost of forming the embankment. But the scheme was not prosecuted; and 31 though afterw~ rds taken up by Mr. hague, and su~)ported by Mr. I{astrick, it slept for many years, until recently a hue has been carried across Morecambe Bay, though in a greatly modified form, by the Ulverstone and Lan- caster Railway Company. Mr. Brogden, wealthy railway contractor, was the soul of the revived undertaking ; and, had lie been hotter suh)l)orted, it was his intention to have taken the line straight across the bay, some- what after Mr. Stephensons 1)1011. It was, however, eventually determined to reduce the extent of the sea-works, and to carry the railway nearer to the land, across the estuaries of the rivers 1(ent and Leven. The peol)le of the neighborhood regarded the scheme as one of the wildest that had ever lieca heard of. rho idea of forming a solidi road across about eight miles of sands, which from time immemorial had been to them the type of every thing that was shift- ing and unstable, appeared to be even more, wild and absurd than that of the foolish mars in the parable, who built his house 0l)Ofl a similarly treacherous foundation. The l)roph ecies that were ventured upon the subject were only paralleledi by those which pm dieted that a road coull never be made across Chat Moss. Besides the washing of the railway embankment on the landi side by the rivers flowing into the sea, there was the washin0 of the sea-waves 00 the other side to be provided against. rho world during its progress was a daily encounter with dif- ficulties, occurring at every flux and reflux of the tide; and when to the flow of the water was added the force of a southwesterly storm, the temporary havoc made in the em- bankments was calculated greatly to discour- age the projectors of the undertaking. The l)rincipal obstacle, were encountered in crossin~ the estuary of the Leven. In making the borings nothing but sand was found to a depth of thirty feet. In one case the boring was carried seventy feet down, and still there was nothing but sand. It was necessary, in the first place, to confine the channel of the river to a a fixed bed, which was accomplished by means of weirs formed of quarry rid. No small difficulty was ex- perienced in getting these weirs run out in the right line, in consequence of the eddies produced by the tide at its flux and reflux washing deep holes in the sand on either side To prevent these eddies undermining ti,e 32 DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY RNGJNEERING. foundations of the work, toes of loose stones ground would be too steep to be econornieabv were run out, with lateral win0s thrown off worked by the locomotive. Tbe tunnel usu- from tbeir ends, which bad the effect of keep- ally occurs where a line crosses from the in0 the boles made by the tide out of the bead of one valley into the bead of another, line of the embankment or main weir, which as from the Yorkshire into the Lancashire was then carried steadily forward. When valleys, under the rocky mountain-ridgc the current had at length been fixed, a via- known as the backbone of England. No less duct of fifty spans of thirty feet each was than three tunnels have been constructed thrown over the channel, and in the viaduct under this high ground: at Woodhoad, on was placed a drawbridge to permit the pas- the Manchester and Sheffield Railway; at sage of sailing vessels. To protect the foun- Stanedge (formerly a canal tunnel), on the dations of the piers of this viaduct, as well as Huddersfield and Manchester; and at Little- the railwry embankment, weirs were also a on the Manchester and Lecds line. formed parallel with the current of the The usual mode of executing a tunnel is as stream, which had the further effect of re- follows. A careful preliminary exa~ ination tainin~ the silt inland, and thus enabling is made of the ~ cologic al strata, so far as large tracts of valuable land to be reclaimed, these can be discerned from the external The crossing of the Kent estuary was ac- features of the country; and levels or sound- complished in a similar manner, by means of ings are taken, from which a profile of the weirs and embankments, over ground where surface of the ground to be passed under may the borings showed the sand to be of the be formed. To test the character of the depth of from fourteen to twenty-one feet; a underground strata, before letting the works viaduct of similar dimensions to that across to contractors, vertical borings are made the Leven, providing for the outfall of the throu0h the site of the proposed tunnel, or river. The land reclaimed behind the em- trial shafts are sunk with the same object. hankments at this point is now under cultiva- No matter how thorough this preliminary tion, where only a short time since firhing- examination may be, the nature of the strata boats were accurtomed to ply their trade. throughout cannot be ascertained with per- The chief difficulty which the engineer had to feet accuracy; and it may so happen, as in encounter was in findin~ a solid foundation the ease of the Rushy Tunnel, that the most b amidst the shiftin~ sands for the piers of the dangerous part of the ground may not be extensive viaducts across the mouths of the disclosed. In some cases, where the tunnel two rivers. The details of the plan he adopted is of no great extent, a driftway is dug for sinking iron piles would be too technical through its whole length. But this cannnot to be e~ tered upon here. It is sufficient to be done when the work is extensive; and say that the entire work has been satisfactori- then the tunnel is commenced at various ly achieved, and must be regarded as another points, by means of vertical working shafts triumph of English en0ineering over that sunk from the surface down to the base of element which usually tests their highest the tunnel. When this is reached, excavat- sIdill. ing, followed by building in of the brick or But greater obstacles than all that we have stone work of the tunnel, proceeds abreast yet described have been encountered in the each way, the excavated stuff b~in~ dr a awn up underground work of tunnelling. At a public the shaft by means of a horse gin, or by dinner at Jorwich, during the railway mania, steam-power. The tunnel is usually worked it was facetiously suggested that directors in lengths of about twenty feet, and arched al says liked perfect fiats to work upon. with brick or stone from eighteen inches to But few English counties are so fiat as the two feet in thickness. By this method a Eastern, and.there are not many lines of any large number of short tunnels are formed, extent in this country where it has been which in the course of the work are ultimately found practicable to dispense altogether with united into one, and a vart body of men can tunnelling. The undulating nature of the be employed without confusion at the same soil renders it necessary to bore where an time. The precision with which the survey is open road cannot be cut, where a detour to taken, and the line of the tunnel struck fioin avoid the high ground would be too circuitous, the shaft heads, is such that the various or where an inclined road over the high lengths, when completed, often meet each other to an inch-breadth, or less. Mistakes have, however, happened, when the lines have heen struck by inexperienced surveyors, as in the ease of a tunnel on a northern line, when the workmen in different lengths found on one occasion, from the noise made hy the underground blasting, that they were work- ing pest each other. The error, which was rel)aired at considerable cost, had been oc- casioned by the curve at the bottom of one of the shafts having heen accidentally laid out in the wrong direction. One of the most delicate pieces of tunnel surveying and underground building was ex- ecuted at Glas0 ow, on the short branch rail- way connecting the Garnkirk Railway with the Buchanan Street Terminus of the Cale- donian Railway. It was found necessary to pass, by means of a tunnel 400 feet in length, under the Monkland Canal, and over the Tunnel of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway. There was barely space for the purpose, the floor of the one tunnel being only ten feet above the roof of the other. But to prevent the upper erection from rest- ing heavily upon the lower one, arches of seventy feet span were constructed, on which the walls of the upper tunnel were supported so that the entire weight was borne by the solid ground on either side. The arch of the tunnel was elliptical, and formed of bricks composed of a mixture of common and fire clay; and in order to give additional strength an inverted arch of the same materials was turned below the rails. All this work was performed underground; and, during its progress, the difficulty of execution was in- creased by the breaking in of the waters from the canal above. But this too was successfully mastered, and the two tunnels iiow stand secure tier above tier, under the bed of the Monkland Canal. A similarly delicate l)iece of work was executed on the North Midland Railway at Bullbridge, in Derbyshire, where the line at the same point passed over a bridge which here spanned the river Amber, and under the bed of the Cromford Canal. Water, bridge, railway, and canal, were thus piled one above the other four stories high. Such another curi- ous complication does not probably exist. In order to llrevent the possibility of the waters of the canal breaking in upon the works of the railroad, the engineer, (Mr. George Ste- phenson,) had an iron tank made 150 feet Till D SERIES. LIVING AGE. 3 33 long, of the width of the canal, and exactly fitting the bottom. It was brought to the spot in three pieces, which were welded firm- ly together. The trough was floated into its place and sunk, and the railway works un- derneath were then proceeded with in safety. The difficulties we have been enumerating, have, nevertheless, been surl)assed by those which have occurred in forming tunnels of great magnitude, such as the Box Tunnel on the Great Western Railway, the Woodhead Tunnel on the Sheffield and Manchester Railway, and the Kilsby Tunnel on the Lon- don and North Western Railway. In exca- vating the Box Tunnel, great quantities of water were met with. At one place heavy rains occasioned an immense influx, which drowned out the workmen, and not only filled the tunnel, but rose to a height of 56 feet in the shaft. The engineers had to go on pumping for months, though as much as 32,000 hogsheads were thrown out in the course of the twenty-four hours. Any one who casts his eye upon a map of the county of Chester will observe a narrow tongue of land at its easternmost corner, ex- tending towards Yorkshire, between the counties of Derby and Lancaster. At this al)proximation of the four counties the Woodhead tunnel penetrates the mountain ridge for a length of about three miles under a dreary, barren moor, undisturbed save by the sportsmans gun. The usual shafts were sunk over the line of the tunnel down to- wards its base. The average depth of the shafts was about 600 feet; but it was long indeed before the workmen could reach the bottom level. The sinking, blasting, and winding went on so slowly that the tunnel was six years in progress. This was caused partly by the hardness of the material, and partly by the immense quantity of water which flowed into the shafts. The pumping continued for five years, during which time the engines threw up not less than eight million tons of water. At two of the shafts where continuous pumping went on, not an inch was gained during nine months. In another it took eleven months to sink four- teen yards, the workmen coffering out the water as they descended with ashlar stone- work bedded in one-inch boards. But the enemy was never fairly mastered until the under-drift was blasted through the line of the tunnel, whereby the upper springs were DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. 34 tap~)ed, and the water flowed out of the open end of the tunnel by its own gravity. The blasting-work of this tunnel was so enor- mous that not less than three thousand five hundred barrels of gunpowder, weighing about one hundred and sixty tons, were used in its formation. The average number of men employed was about a thousand; and during the six years the works were in pro- gress twenty-six men were killed, of whom sixteen were miners. One fell down an air- shaft into the lower gallery when getting out of the way of a blast, his candle having gone out; three were killed by a discharge of gun- powder, in consequence of their stemming the blast-hole with rock instead of shale or other soft material; another had the stem- mer blown clean through his head, while looking over another miners shoulder, who was carelessly ramming down the powder with the head of his drill; another returned to the blasting-place before one of the shots had exploded, and was killed on the spot. There were about four hundred minor acci- dents, many of them attended with loss of limb, and the sum total of the casualties, in proportion to the men employed, was great- er, according to Mr. Edwin Chadwick, than -was suffered by the British army in the bat- ties of Talavera, Salamanca, Vittoria, and Waterloo. The lives of workmen have occasionally been lost in other tunnels by sudden irrup- tions of water, the enemy most dreaded by miners. In excavating the tunnel of the Edinburgh and Granton Railway, directly tinder the New Town of Edinburgh, the driftway, about six feet square, which had been driven from both ends, was completed, with the exception of a barrier of earth about the middle of the work. The tunnel was on a heavy incline, and it was known that a con- siderable quantity of water had accumulated in the upper excavation. It appeared, how- ever, that the drift had not been driven true, and that the southern and northern portions passed each other at the point where they should have met. The men in the lower drift were working by double-shifts that is, nightand dayand one morning, about six, when the night-shift was about to come - cuff, a flood of water burst in upon them and drowned the two miners, with the ganger or foreman, and the brother of one of the con- tractos s, who had gone to ascertain the prog DIFFICIJLTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. ress of the work. A boy, who had be n sent down the shaft in I)ublin-street, about seventy yards below where the barrier was, suddenly heard the fearful rumbling noise like thunder, and, fearing that the waters had burst, he instantly gave the signal to be pulled up. It was just in time; for he had no sooner been drawn out titan the water came rushing up the shaft, which was about sixty feet deep, struck off the roof of the wooden shed which covered the opening, and rushed down Dublin-street in a torrent. Another water-difficulty occurred in con- structing the Kilsby Tunnel of the London and North-Western Railway. The railway was forced in the direction of Kilsby by the opposition of powerful landowners in the coun- ties of Northampton and Buckingham, who had not yet discovered the advantages of rail- ways. A tunnel two thousand four hundred yards long, passing one hundred and sixty feet below the surface, was thus rendered neces- sary. The ridge under which it runs is of considerable extent, the famous battle of Naseby having been fought upon one of its spurs some seven miles to the eastward. Previous to the letting of the work to the contractors, the character of the underground soil was tested by trial-shafts, which indicated that it consisted of shale of the lower oolite. But scarcely had the job been commenced when it was discovered that, at an interval between the trial-shafts which had been sunk about two hundred yards from the south end of the tunnel, there existed an extensive quicksand under a bed of clay forty feet thick, which the borers had just missed. The excavation and building of the tunnel were proceeding at the bottom of one of these shafts, when a place in the roof sud- denly gave way, a deluge of water burst in, and the party of workmen with the utmost difficulty escaped with their lives. They were only saved by means of a raft, on which they were towed by one of the engineers swimmin0, with the rope in his mouth, to tb. lower end of the shaft, out of which they were safely lifted to terra firma. Pumping- engines were erected for the purpose of drawing off the water; but for a long time the water prevailed, and sometimes even rose in the shafts. It was then thought ex- pedient to run a drift which might act as a drain along the heading from the south end of the tunnel. The drift had nearly reached DIFFICULTIES OF RAILWAY ENGINEERING. 35 the sand-bed when, one clay that the engineer, Even with the enormous pumping power his assistants, and the workmen, were clus- employed, it often happened that the bricks tered ahout its entrance, they heard a sudden were scarcely covered with cement before roar as of distant thunder. It was hoped they were washed clean by the streams of that the water had hurst infor all the work- water which poured down overhead. The men were out of the driftand that the sand workmen were accordingly under the neces- bed would now drain itself in a natural way. shy of holding over their work large whisks Very little water, however, made its appear- of straw and other appliances to protect the ance, and it was found that the loud noise bricks and cement at the moment of setting. had been caused by the sudden discharge of The quantity of water thrown out of the an immense mass of sand which had corn- sand-bed during the eight months of incessant pletely choked up the passage. No other pumping, averaged two thousand gallons per plan was now left than to have recourse to minute, raised from an average depth of 120 numerous additional shafts and pumping- feet. It is difficult to form an adequate idea engines placed over the line of the tunnel of the bulk of the water thus raised; but it where it crossed the quicksand, which in- may be stated that, if allowed to flow for volved a large additional expenditure. As three hours only, it would fill a lake one acre for the contractor, he gave up the work in square to the depth of one foot; and if al- despair, and died shoals aftei, killed, it was lowed to flow for one entire day, it would fill said, by the anxiety he had suffered. The the lake to over eight feet in depth, or suffi- directors, in this perplexity, called to their cient to float vessels of a hundred tons aid certain engineers of the highest eminence burthen. The water puml)ed out of the at that day, who advised the abandonment tunnel during the entire period of the works of the work, while Mr. Robert Stephenson, would be equivalent to the contents of the the Companys chief engineer, strongly urged Thames between London Bridbe and Wool- its prosecution. Ilis plan was at length wich. Notwithstanding the quantity of water adopted by a majority of the directors. A raised, the level of the surface in the tunnel line of pumping-engines, having an aggre- was only lowered about two and a half to gate power of 160 horses, was erected at three inches p~ week, proving the vast short intervals; shafts were simultaneously extent of the quicksand, which probably ex- sunk down through the sand, and the pump- tended along the entire ridge of land under ing went on for eight continuous months which the railway l)assed. until the tunnel at that part was completed. Such are only a few of the more prominent It was found that the water with which the instances of the difficulties encountered in the bed of sand, extending over many miles, was formation of British railways. We have charged was to a certain extent held back by scarcely so much as alluded to the construe- the particles of the sand itself, and that it tion of viaducts and bridges, in which our could only percolate through it at a certain engineers have also displayed the very high- average rate. Hence the distribution of the est skill in overcoming the obstacles inter- pumping power at short intervals along the posed by nature. But the stupendous magni- line of the tunnel had a much greater effect tude of these works is perhaps less remark- than the concentration of that power at any able than the rapidity of their execution, the one spot. The workmen, protected by the amount of capital which they have absorbed, pumps, which cleared a space for their opera- and the still greater amount of capital they tions in the midst of two walls of water and have created. Taken as a whole, they bear sand, proceeded with the tunnel at numerous stamped upon them an impress of power points. Every exertion was used to build unequalled by the structures of any other era along the dangerous part as quickly as possi- and nation; and future generations may ble, the excavators and bricklayers working point to them as eminently chart~cteristic of night and day until the whole was finished, the iron age of England, 36 REQUIESCAT. THY step is drear, thou dark New Yeartheres blood upou thy brow; And though thou tellst of victory, we cannot hail it now. One passing bell above the strife flings out its awful voice; If hride can smile on bridegrooms bier, then England may rejoice. In conquesfs brightest, proudest hour, all glo- rious though it be, Our hearts grow cold as thine to think, dead Ilavelock, on thee. Oh, sorest blow our stricken land has borne from Arm 1)ivine; Oh, bitterest drop in that red cup, that drink of deadly wine! Oh, martyr chief; whose steadfast strength, mid danger and dismay, Poured on our gloom the golden light of Plassy and Assaye. Bethink ye of that hour when close the foemans legions drew, The countless on the dauntless came, the trait- ors on the true When gallant eyes grew dim with tears, and hope was faint and low, And gentle hearts were breaking in the leanur of Lucknow; Right through the accursed host he swept, right onward to the mark, As leaps the life-boat through the waves that whelm a drifting barque. His requiem be the benisons in fainting accents showered, His monument our heroes saved, our maidens nadeflowered. Bethink ye, while for crumbling power in blind and fated pride, The cold Iscariots of our land betrayed the cru- cified, Mid wavring hearts and faltering lips he never bleached to own To Paynim fierce, or Christian false, the God he feared alone. And when upon the gory sod, beneath the tor- rid zone, The victor laid him down to die, say not his work was done: his work is doing evermore, when warrior hearts shall turn The might of undespairin~ strength from his proud tale to learn; His work is doing evermore, wben herald hands shall wave The banner of the Cross he loved above its champions grave. The Press. THE WINTERS. BY FRANCES BROWNE. WE did not fear them oncethe dull, gray mornings No cheerless burden on our spirits laid; The long night-watches did not bring us am- ings REQUIESCAT.THE WINTERS. That we were tenants of a house decayed The early snows like dreams to us descended The frost did fairy-work on pave and bough; Beauty, and power, and wonder have not ended how is it that we fear the winters now l Their house-fires fall as bright on earth and chambers Their northern starlight shines as coldly clear; The woods still keep their holly for I)ecember; The world a welcome yet for the new yaer And far away in old remembered places The snow-drop rises and the robin sings; The sun and moon look out with loving faces Why have our days foruot such goodly things Is it now that north winds finds us shaken By tempests fiercer than its bitter blast, WInch fair beliefs and friendships, too, have taken Away like summer foliage as they passed, And made life leafless in its pleasant valleys, Waning the light of promise from our day, Fell mists meet even in the inward palace A dimness not like theirs to pass away l It was not thus when dreams of love and laurels Gave sunshine to the winters of our youth, Before its hopes had fallen in fortunes quar- rels, Or time had bowed them with his heavy truth Ere yet the twilights found us strange and lonely, With shadows coming when the fire burns low, To tell of distant graves and losses only The past that cannot change and will not go. Alas! dear friends, the winter is within us, Hard is the ice that grows about the heart; For petty cares and vain re~ rets have won us From lifes true heritage and better part. Seasons, and skies rejoice, yea, worship rather; But nations toil and tremble even as we Hoping for harvest they will never gather, Fearing the winters which they may not see. Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past. Russian Preverb. Two bands upon the breast, And labors done, Two pale feet crossed in rest, The race is won. Two eyes with coin-weights shut, And all tears cease; Two lips where grief is mute, And wrath at peace. So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot God in His kindness, answereth not. Two bands to work addressed, Aye for His praise; Two feet that never rest Walking His ways. Two eyes that look above Still through all tears, Two lips that breath but love, Never more fears. So cry we afterward, low at our knees, Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these. EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. 37 From Titan. WHJCHP OR, EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. CHAPTER I. I could wish no surer index of character, and his wife will call, and entertain them too, especially a womans, than to read a letter from her pen: not morl)id sensibilities, in a romantic hich will he l)leasant for our girls; in this effusion from one young lady to another, or way, at least, they are quite a godsend. The from one everyday acquaintance to another; party coml)rises the Rev. IDr. Wyadham, his but domestic delineations, in the genuine out- wife, two grown-up daughters, and two little pourings of affectionate hearts, from sister to ones, about the sizes of the Simpsons. I sister, or sister to brother, mother to dauu~hter, or daughter to mother. Some of these have cannot think what this parish wanted with more than once chanced to see, and can safely more girls; dear me, we have enough al- say no volume of feminine experience ever ready; a few young men would he more printed could be compared with tbem . Notes acceptable. But I suppose we have all our Qn Men and Manners in the Old Country. trials to l)ear, and I cannot help this one, or Letter from Mrs. Burleigh. ~f Burleiqh Priory, to J would. They were all in church yesterday her Daughter, Airs. Browa of Ba~ ~ for the first time. iDr. Yorkshire. Wyadham preached a very good sermon, and his daughters wore LANDERIS, May, 12, 18. bonnets; of decidedly pretty straw talking M~ DEAR JANE, Time flies away so which brings me near home. I have oudered rapidly here, that with all my exertions, ris- bonnets at Miss Manlys for Sarah and ing early, and going to bed late, I can never Fidelia, of pink crape, with little curly feath- get through a third of the business I have er s at the sides, to be made after a Paris to do, to say nothing of letter-writing, which l)attern. Vastly pretty they will he, 1 have I confess absorbs much time. no doubt, and so becoming, especially to You can well understand all the trials and Sarah. I have got my green silk dress anxieties which must daily fall to the lot of turned, and it looks wonderfully well. the female head in every family. I am a You ask about the Herberts. John is still slave to mine, and some day the world will in India, and Vernon somewhere on the Con- know it. If I were gone, it is hard to say tinent, I do not know where. Old Newton what the house would come to. I declare to is the only one at Landeris, and you can well you, what with Henrys extravagance, your imagine the amount of information she would fathers obstinacy about the farm, as well as give. She is twenty times crosser than ever. about everything else, the difficulty of mak- Would you believe it? the nasty old creature ing a proper show where the girls are con- would not let me cut a few sprays ofjaponica cerned, and managing the house on the small off the wall one day last week, when Sarah means I have at my commaiud, it is wonder- was in such distress for sonue to put on her ful I am alive and as active as I am, though dress and in her hair when going to Oak- indeed I am gone to a skeleton, fit for my lands. Of Vernon Herbert I always thought, shroud. and ever will, too, that he could not endure There has heen a famine of news here all this neighborhood since your marriage. I the spring; the weather and the crops are shall never forget the look he had the first dull to talk of for ever. But lucre I may as time I saw him afterwards; he was the well tell you, that, after ail I said, your father most awfully-cut-up man ever was seen. put turnips in the large field (serve him well Mrs. Selwyn has decided on living in the vil- if they turn out badly); but this is a digres- lage, and she has moved into the little cot- sion. We have now plenty of conversation; tage on the Feraley Road. What a fool for the new clergyman and his family are that woman has proved herself all her life! arrived at the Rectory. Of course, the world I Dear heart, if I were a widow, I would live EDDIES ROUND THE RECTO2Y. at a wateriflg-~)laCetherO would be some fun thereinstead of in this dull old town. iDr. Price has bought a new phaeton. Now what can he want with it? I am sure the old one was good enough for a single man, though the new one is a very genteel and pretty turn-out. I am sorry to hear little Pattys eyes continue so weak: camomile tea and a green veil are considered excellent re- medies. How did Johunies socks fit? It would be foolish to knit any more if he has outgrown that size; do not forget this when you next write: you had best send me one of those he wears for a pattern. I have kept my letter open to the last moment, hoping that the girls would be home, that I might ask them the name of the place those Wyndhams come from, for I forget it. You know I never could recollect names of places. It is some large manufacturing town, I know but no matter, I can tell you again; and will now close, substituting kisses for yourself and the children from your affectionate mother, PATRICIA BURLEIGH. P. S.Did you know the brown horse was sold? not in as flourishing a condition as she seems to expect. As for papa, it is difficult to say what peculiar bias his recreations take; farming I think will carry the present day at least. He is out-of-doors all day long, and as I write, I can see him sauntering up the garden, in what we used in Ousely long ago to call the country-parson style; namely, the hat drooping over the back of the head, often indeed almost touching the coat-collar behind. Frances and I are particularly busy fitting up our own bedroom to fancy. Your book-shelves were the first article put in its place. And very well they look, only Frances has a bad habit of rearranging the books incessantly, which I am obliged to dis- courage, and very often to administer a reprimand. Do not be uneasy about her; she is very composed, and tolerably cheerful, and, though we all know she feels strongly, much does not appear. I give her plenty of employment, and do not allow too long for saddening reflections. So cheer up, dear Edward, to-morrow must come one day, and be assured, when it comes, there will be ANOTHER LETTER. no mistake about its being the right one. This oae from Margaret Wyssdhom to her Cousin You must soon try to get leave of absence Edward ce.lhrsdge, to come and see us, and then you can better LANDERiS, May 12, 18. understand all about this place, of which in MY DEAR EDWARD, As we are now a the meantime I must try to give you some little settled here, I am able to give you idea. some account of ourselves and our doings. It was perfectly charming in point of sce- I know Frances has written you several nery; of society I can say nothing, for times; yet, remembering of an old propen- though there are a good many gentlemens sity she had to treating of the inner life to seats dotted over the country, as yet we have the exclusion of the outer, it remains for me had no visitors. to give you some idea of us as we are to be Now for our house, which is picturesque, seen and beard of in Landeris Rectory day grey, and, old. and daily. We are all very happy, and quite Across its antique portico contented, generally rather idle, the kind of Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw. idleness Willis writes of; you remember it It is almost a house with seven gables, only begins, the rain is playing its soft pleasant for one wino which has been added in mod- a tune fitfully on the skylight. We enjoy our em times, with larger windows and loftier complete change of life extremelybeing 50 ceilings. The older portion has funny wains- much separated during late years has made coated rooms, with out-of-the-way doors, us only value each others society the more. leading into out-of-the-way passages, or up We pass the days according to individual steep stairs into bedrooms full of corners and taste: mammas employments during her queer presses, some of the rooms having leisure moments are, first, feeding a flock of sloping roofs, some without, some with nar- chickens she found it incumbent on her to row casement windo~vs, and others (in the purchase at once on her arrival, and, sec- newer part) large and bayed. I must not ondly, cutting innumerable slips of l)lants, forget the view from our own window; it is and setting them in most extraordinary perfectly enchanting. First peep down into localities; but truth must be told they are our gardenflower-beds and fruit-trees are 38 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. sloping down to a river which divides our grounds from those helonging to a very fine house on the other side, Landeris Hall, the manor-house of this parish. Behind the dwelling stretch old woods for many miles; farther, blue mountains; and hehind them, though out of sight, still within a days journey, is the sea. Our house might have served as a model for one of those in Mrs. Sherwoods childish story-books, and as to the Hall, it is the perfection of a story- house. At this moment there is exactly the orthodox amount of blue smoke curling out of one chimney, for the house is almost uninhabited, the family living abroad. If contemplation of the beautiful improves and cultivates the taste (as Ruskin affirms,) it is well for us, for we do require some com- pensation for the loss of the cousin tutor of our town-life. We miss you sadly one nnd all; at meals, papa becomes decidedly pa- thetic, and mamma as dolorous as need be; to this add Frances, and not unfrequently gouttes deau from Rose and Lucy, and you will see how much I have to do, to keep them all moderately cheerful at those times when your shadow comes across us all. I hear the trotting of the post-boys pony, so must conclude, with the best and kindest love of, dear Edward, your ever affectionate cousin, MARGARET WYNDIIAM. CHAPTER 11.MORNING VISITORS AT THE RECTORY. I was in company with men and women, And heard small talk Of little things, Of poor pursuits, And narrow feelings And narrow views, Of narrow minds. SWEDIsH TRANS. F. BREMER. Whose house is that I see I No, not the county members with the vane; Up higher, with the yew-tree by it, and half A score of gables I James. Thats Sir Edward Heads, But hes abroad.TENNYsO~. THE last letter was hut finished, the ink of the signature was still wet, when a little head appeared at the door. Margaret and Frances, mamma sent me fin you. There is a lady in the drawing- room von are to come and see, Who is she, Lucy. I do not know; a visiter, I suppose. She asked for you. And we were so snug here; it is too ~)rovoking. Where are the envelopes, Mar- garet? Please do not he long in going, said Lucy; mamma looked in a hurry. Mar- garet, I can fold and seal your letter for you. What do you mean hy mamma looking in a hurry? The lady talked so fast, and so loud. I am sure you are wanted to help poor mam- ma; that is the loudest woman I ever heard. Did you hear her name? I think mamma read Miss Jones off a card, but I am not sure. She must live very near this, for she talked of the church, and of seeing papa going every day to the post- office. She is not pretty, and has a dried- up face like Aunt Marys. I wish she had put off her visit till a lit- tle later, said Frances, rising to go down- stairs, for I had another letter to finish. Some old maid, of course, coming to inspect us all. I wonder if ever there was such a thing as a village without one or more old maids in it? Take care, said Margaret; you do not know what I may come to he. No reflec- tions on old maids. Be a l)leasant one, then, and do not pay visits when you are not wantedbefore peo- ple are well into a new house. Social duties, as papa saysvisitors and visiting. My daughters, Miss Jones, said Mrs. Wyndham, as they entered the drawing- room. Indeed. was the ladys reply as she sprung from her seat, and dashing across the room, extended a hand to each young lady. She was an old maid, no mistaking one of the genus; not one of the quiet unobtrusive class, whose presence is like a cool shadow on a hot summer day, hut one of those tire- some, forward, fussy bodies, who push them- selves in everywhere, and who love above all things to hear themselves talk. How do you do, Miss Wyndhams both? I am so happy to make your acquaintance. Such a pleasure; was so afraid you might he out; and heard you were early walkers; wanted so much to introduce myself to you 39 40 all: am quite determined we shall be all the greatest friends possible, in the shortest l)OS- sible time. Indeed, yes, indeed, you cannot think how I have been looking forward to tbis day for ever so long a time back. Allow me to express my heartfelt gratification, Miss Wvndham. All of this delivered in a most rapid, ener- getic manner, caused the voluble lady to pause for breath, and leave a space for Mar- garet to give in return a kind of indistinct murmur; which, being of a sanguine temper- ament, Miss Jones interl)reted as a recipro- catory sentiment; and quite pleased, she dashed on as follows Just as you came iu, Miss Wyndham, I had been telling your mamma how delighted every one here was to bear our new rector had a family, (Mr. Cooper, our late one, was a bachelor;) they would be such a delightful addition to our little social circle here, quite an acquision, for we Landerisonians (if I may use the expression) are such social people tea parties, walking parties, working p~~- ties, picnic l)arties, visiting parties, all suc- ceeding each other the whole year round; one never can he dull here, so animated, so cheerful, such perfect unanimity as exists. Indeed, the l)lace might have served to give the idea-of Rasselas to Dr. Johnson, only I did not know it in his time, and I could not venture to say if it was as 1)leasant in those days; all I know is, that nothing could be more like now; only there is no foolish young man wanting over the mountainthey have rather too much sense for that. You see it is so different from a large town, where no one cares what becomes of you; every one is so wrapped up in their own concerns, they have no sympathies to spare for the children of one common parent, as some one says, I forget now who it was. But I would like to tell you an anecdote, to illus- trate this; quite a true one, I can assure you for I was the principal on the occasion my- self. It is not like a great many cal)ital sto- ries one hears told by such dreadfully com- mon-place people, as if such nonentities ever could have met with such an adventure, the absurdity, while if they had made themselves out the actor in some more moderate tale, probably half the company would be taken in; hut what I am going to tell you really happened. I was once on a visit at Leeds, and I had taken with me such a pet of a lit- EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. tIe King Charles dog. What a beauty he was, Remus, as I called him; you never saw a greater love than he was; but one day he got out of the door somehow, and ran down the street, and how it happened, of course no one can say: whether the poor dear was bewildered by the noise in the streets, and run down, or picked ul), or milled into sausa- ges, or what, I cannot say; all I know is, that from that day to the present I never saw or beard anything more of him ; and such a love of a collar as he had on too. Ill never look upon his like again.(Query dog or collar.) What began Margaret. Oh, interrupted Miss Jones, that is not all; the worst is still to come. A lady who lived in the next house had met him turning the first corner, and did not take the trouble of even turning him towards home, and actually never told me until a week after, when I had spent half-a-guinea in advertis- ing. Ilow distressin n! said good Mrs. Wynd- ham, in a sympatbising tone of voice; whether alluding to the dog, the lady, or the half- guinea, history saith not. It would have been so different here, re- sumed Miss Jones, pathetically; every gen- tleman in the country would have been up about my darling little Remus. That odious Leeds, I never can bear the name of it since- It has given me a coml)lCtC prejudice against large towns, and indeed, I may say against the inhabitants too, so cold, so selfish, so un- feeling. I think living in one quite enough to destroy all kindly feelings towards ones fellow-creatures, and deaden all sociability, indeed I. But I beg your pardon, Miss Wyndbam; after all I have said, how stupid to forget that I heard you bad lived in a town all your life. Pray excuse meyou will think I was deliberately insulting you. But am I correctly informed? Did you live in a large town? Sometimes in town, sometimes in coun- try; always in one or other, said Frances, with a twinkling eye. I-low unfortunate I was to make such re- marks, hut you know that when strangers meet for the first, knowing nothing of each others previous history, these things often occur. Indeed, I have known duels fought about foolish words. Foolish, indeed, said Margaret; but 1 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. do not think any one justified in taking offence where none is meant, or taking gene- ral opinions as applied to themselves individ- ually. Quite true, Miss Wyndham. Pray may I inquire which of you is Miss Wyndham P which is the elder? I should he very much l)uzzled, when I went home to-day, if any of my friends should ask me whether the young lady with the hright hrown hair and eyes, or the one with the extremely gentle expression of countenance, were she. It is a comfort, I am sure, to our friends, said Frances, that we have these distin- guishing features of hair and eyes. Miss Jones stared at her a moment uncer- tain whether the J)resent hrightness of those eyes did not l)1oceed from a little love of mischief, of which the owner l)ossessed a good share, or whether the extremely gentle countenance did not express a little, very little, scorn ; at any rate she thou 0i~t it hetter to cease sounding for family information, though she much desired some; trusting to time and chance to unravel the family records. There was a little pause, to consider what course she should next steer, which gave Margaret space to edge in a remark. You think we shall he pleased with this neighhorhood? she said, in rather a stately tone. - Like! hless me, it would he odd indeed if you did not. It is a curious fact, hut nevertheless it is one, that all strangers show reluctance at first to come and reside here, and are sure almost to hreak their hearts at leaving. I ought to know something of it, I have lived here twentyahemI mean my mother has, and I am sure we can 1)0th hear testimony to the happiness we have enjoyed in it. For my part, I often tell mother, it would not he of the slightest use any one making proposals of marriage to me, if they asked me to live elsewhere; that she must get a clause inserted in the settlements that Landeris would still he my place of residence. Now, to give you an idea of the l)leasant kind of society we have here, if the morning he wet, I send Sally (that is our maid) up the street to knock at some friends door, and I slip on my clogs, take an umhrella, and my work-hasket, and run in, and we have such a pleasant morninns chat, sewing and talking in such a nice cosy manner, or, if we have nothing very particular to doI mean workor no engrossing topic of conversa- tion, we have a ruhher of whist, which is very l)leasant; and I am certain, Mrs. Wynd- ham, 1)0 one could see any ohjection to that. Now in that nice hook of Bulwers, My Novel (of course you have read it), Parson Dale and his wife, and the squire and his, made it a regular practice, when they spent an evening together, to have their ruhher, and that, I have often heard said, is a model hook, and all the Peol)le in it characters, which all good 1)eol)le know means they are to he imitated, though not, I daresav, includ- ii)g Mr. Randal Leslie, who was nothing to hoast of in the way of goodness. For my part, I thiijk the very name significant; it was smart of Bulwer to make a Leslie the hlack sheep. Depend upon it, Sir Edward is a smart fellow. I scarcely understand your allusion, said Frances, who had looked much amused while listening to the foregoing programme of morning hours. Dont understand! Why, the Leslies, to he sure. One of the longest things I can rememher, is an old Irishman who used to come to my fathers when I was a child; he always sung one unvarying song, and one line I never forgot Oliver Cromwell and Leslie Foster. You may he quite sure he never was classed with Old Noll for nothing. There is an old saying would assort well with tl)e son~ sh ow me will tell your company, and I you who you are. You mean Cromwell as heing had com- pany? Certainly; there is no mistake as to his crimes, I am certain. You are not one of those, then, who adopt Carlyles view of his character. Not I; I think it is one of the humhugs of the present day. Scarcely confined I would say to the present day; in his own time he had parti- sans, who would have defended him as warmly, though not perhaps with so cool a judgment, or with such talent. It appears to me as if there were a great difference of opin- ion ahout the aforesaid Oliver. That I grant you to a certain extent; hut, as to Carlyle or that school of writers, dont you ever fancy they helieve a word of those extremes they put in print; not they; it is just for opposition sake. It is just the way some emigrant from the Old World goes 41 42 and makes a settlement in the Far West, and founds some new sect, with religious opinions that no one else ever heard of be- foreMormonites, or New Lebanonites, or Jansenists, or Shakers, or some equally ab- surd name ; the same principle that made Horace Walpole attempt the defence of Richard the Third. The thing is preposter- ous. I have no intention of believing what they allege, so I never read their hooks; I do not wish to damage my principles, and I hate those foolish questions that paities 51)lit up about, what they call vital questions, or conscientious scruples. I hi~hly disapprove of party spirit, and I)eoI)le have no business with such irritating ideas. But do you not think, when it comes to a question of right and wrong, which is generally the case when there exists what you call party spirit, that one ought to exercise their reasoning faculties, not take things on trust? Indeed, I go farther: I think any one culpahle who passes by a doubtful point, without trying to obtain a right judgment. Our minds were given us surely for such a purpose. What is not right must he wrong; I hold there is no medium. I am afraid you are prejudiced. I hope not. To avoid that evil, I gener- ally read both sides of a question before making up my mind, it is a kind of test. Besides, if one meets with an adversary in Ol)inion at any time, knowing their ground is half the battle. How warlike you talk. I think people ought to live in peace, and not interfere with each others opinions, but go their own way; l)erl~aps they are as right as you. Live and let live, that is my motto. I am far from wishing to prevent any otie living, said Frances, laughing, but 1 would like to put truth as much in their way as possihle. As to living in peace, I fear it can never be; from Cain and Abel to our time, strife has been and will be sure; if one could only make it the strife for what is right I am back to my first remark: what is not right must be wrong. Certainly one person cannot do much, but that is no release from responsibility. iDo you know Long- fellows lines ? Alt common things, each days events, That with the hour begin and end. Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. We have not wingswe cannot soar; But ~e have feet to scale and climb By slow degreesby more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. My dear Miss Wyndham, pray dont run off with what I have said; really you go quite too fast for me to follow you. Peace and good-will to men is my great text, and I hope I have been given grace enough to live up to it. Poets are no great judges of com- mon everyday matters; they live in an ideal world quite. Leaving out some rather old- fashioned ideas in the New Testament, about having two coats, and that sort of a rather prefer it as my guide, instead of your new lights that have sprung up so recently in the western world, mushroom poets, as Mr. Cooper, our late rector, called them. Take care, Miss Wyndham, yours does not turn out to be one of the poisonous fungi! Hi! hi! hi! Such a man (Mr. Cooper, I mean) for learning, but he loved the poets and writers who had stood the test of centu- ries, dreamed of Chaucer by day, and medi- I tated, I verily believe, on St. Chrysostom at night. They must have been always in his mind, for he quoted more learned old divines in his sermons here than I could enumerate from this until sunset, older, for all I know, than any of the patriarchs. I am glad he is not moved farther away from this, only ten miles. Have you met him yet, Mrs. Wynd- ham? I have not. Dr. Wyadham mentioned having met him when he was first down here looking at the house. I have no doubt you will all be greatly pleased with him: he is so agreeable in com- pany, quite descends like the heathen deities of old to mingle with mortals. Indeed he always suggests to me when I look at him some mythological hero; quite a Roman face, a little, very little of the Brutus expression in it, just sufficient to preserve the character. Some people call him stern, but that is only at first; one loses the idea on a nearer ac- quaintance. You will soon see him, and yo~i can judge for yourselves; he will be over here to call shortly, so will all the rest of the neighborhood: you will have some visitors to-day, if I am not mistaken, and each suc- cessive day, it is probable, for some time. Mrs. Burleigh of the Priory is coming to- day; do you know her by appearance. No, indeed, said Mrs. Wyndham; I EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. do not know one individnal in the parish from another; hut in time I hope we shall. No! then, in that case the very hest thing I can do will be to enlighten you as to the who, and what, of the people you are likely to seeit may smooth the way to het- ter acquaintance. You are very kind. Let me see: I shall hegin with Landeris hall; there it is across the water. Though I am giving it the precedence, I need not, for it may be long enough hefore you see any of that family. They are scattered ahroad on the face of the earth, as we say of the Jews India, Italy, and Canada; no one lives there now hut care-takers. That place is the property of old Mr. Herherts eldest son, who got it after his mothers death, during his fathers lifetime, according to a marriage settlement. The old gentleman, as we style him, though he is not very old, married a daughter of the late Earl Granhy; this pro- perty was hers, and at her death, four or five years ago, Mr. Vernon Herhert got it. There is one other son, John, who holds a government appointment in india. He went out two or three years ago. Since Lady Charlotte Herherts death they have never lived here: the father took some state ap- pointment in Canada, and the owner, Mr. Vernon, only makes flying visits, here to-day and away to-morrow, never giving time for any show of civility towards him. He al- ways calls to see Mrs. Selwyn, hut she never speaks of it till he is gone, and that, you will say, is full late. The young man is rather misanthropical; has a strong dislike to soci- ety; looks as if he spent all his leisure mo- ments reading novels of a dark, mysterious character, fancying himself the hero of them all. But you do not know who Mrs. Selwyn is. I must tell you of her. She was the only daughter of Mr. Harlowe, who held this living previous to Mr. Coopers coming. She married old Jones Selwyn who drank himself to death ahout a year after Mr. Har- lowes. She was left with one little girl; such a sweet, iirnocent creature as Nannie Selwyn is. Her pretty mamma has a good many admirers, hut she looks coldly on them all. I know of her having had several most advanta~ eous offers, hut she is a regular simpleton. Mr. Cooper offered, I know; and admiiing her greatly, he counted on her love for her old home heing an inducement to her to accept him. But rectory and rec- tor she would not hear of, and it is susl)ected that was what made him so anxious for an exchange, to get away from this l)lace. Then there is Doctor Price, who almost hreaks his neck running after her (speaking figuratively of course); hut she looks askance at him too. The doctor is a nice fellow, very good- looking, agreeahle, and gentlemanlike, in a cal)ital practice, drives a good horse, gives you the pleasantest medicine in the world if you are ill, and well or ill, the latest news in hoth town or country. To sum up all the doctor is ahsolutely necessary to our town; I do not know what we would do without him. He would he a capital match for any one. I heard he once admired Miss Julia Beckford, hut her uncle, the colonel, to whom he gave some intimation of his state of mind, was very angry, and swore at pOOr Price for not knowing his place hetter, as if it was any sin to lose his heart to the young lady. But the Beckfords are just eaten up with pride. It would occupy me ten days to tell you of one half their airs and impudences. I mean, when I know Dr. Wyndham a little more, to ask him, whenever he sees the Beckfords in church, to give a touch-up in the sermon ahout pride. There are the father, mother, two daughters (one is away from home just now), and the uncle I spoke of. Now these young ladies are so highly educated, so highly finished, such high ar- tists, such high musicians, and high riders, or rather flyers, and finally, so highly connected, that forsooth, though they honor us with an occasional call, they deem themselves confer- ring a high compliment, and profess intima- cy only with the county families. Pshaw, it makes one sick to think of their proud ways., They are undouhtedly wonderful musicians sing, play, and that sort of thing. But what of that? one could hear as good as theirs in any concert-room in London for a shilling any morning in the week, and no coinpli- ment considered, except on your part for at- tending. They perfectly swear hy Sir Henry and Lady Clare, fall down and worship the whole Granhy family, hunt poor Mr. Ilenry Duckett to the death, sigh and flirt with Sir Stephen Norris and his hrother ;hut I must really tell you of the Norrises; they are the most eligihle people I know of for you, young ladies. They live here almost all the year round, not disappearing annually 43 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. into that aristocracy sink, the Continent, as so many l)eol)le do. They are both bachelors whh independent fortunes! They are what is called their own father and mother, hay- ing no ones consent to ask but the ladys, before perpetrating matrimony. Look out of the window, that end one; there, towards the right, appearing out of the trees, you will see two chimneys ; those are the Norrises. Why do you smile? Of course, I mean the chimneys of their house. It belongs to Sir Stephen; and Mr. Robert, who is the younger, lives with him. Mr. Robert is such a nice young man, so very good-natured and pleasant, always ready to do any thing asked of him, short of popping the question. But I dare say some day or other he will be ready to do that also. He is about the medium height; not what you would call regularly handsome, but very tol- erable in his neneral appearance , his hais is what is called in books Saxon. Now I may not be just the most competent person in the world to give an o ~ not having lived in the time when as that sweet little poem says, In England the Saxons once did sway. I think it a matter for little wonder that their line of kings ceased in England as soon as it did, if they at all resemble their descend- ants, any that I have ever met with. Has it ever struck you, Miss Wyndham, that gentlemen who had these peculiar, flaxen-colored locks were in every instance men of less understanding, less ability, less firmness, and undoubtedly less common sense, than those who were of a darker hue? I am quite convinced of it: even the red- haired Norman is a far more preferable speci- men of the human race. Indeed, Miss Jones, the idea is so new, I cannot venture to give an opinion. I must call over a mental muster roll of all my gen- tlemen acquaintance first; it is such a sweep- ing condemnation, that charity forbids me to acquiesce too hastily. Certainly not! take as long as you will to consider the matter, I never force any one to receive my opinions; but, long or short, you will come round to mine in the end. But I must be moving. Will you present my mothers compliments to iDr. Wyndham, that as we have no gentleman at present at home to call upon him, we hope he will take the will for the deed, and come to see us as often as he can? My mother also desires her compliments to you, Mrs. Wyndham; she regrets extremely her inability to wait upon you herself; but the distance is too great for her to walk, and we have ceased keeping a conveyance. She is so nervous, she cannot endure to be driven by a servant, or at least an ordinary one, so she is quite at the mercy of our acquaintances. Mr. Cooper was so kind; Brocket, his man, was so faithful, so trustworthy; and when Mr. Cooper was not al)le to call for her himself, he used to send Brocket and the phaeton for her; indeed, in that way, Mr. Coopers removal was a sincere loss to her. I know not what we shall do. But I hope you will soon call and see her. My sister desired her apologies ; she is suf- fering from such a bad cold at presentand a cold in summer is so difficult to be got rid of. I miss her so much when she is ill. I have no one to walk with; which reminds me of another peculiarity in this neighbor- hood. It is a species of Noahs ark, for all the people hunt in couples. There are, my sister and myself; the two Miss Beckfords; the two Miss Burleighs; two pairs of Miss Whittlefields; the two Mr. Norrises; and, though last, not least, the two Miss Wynd- hams. how well your flower-beds are look- ing, Mrs. Wyndham, and the monthly roses, too. Good-morning! Mrs. Wyndham; pray dont forget my respects to the doctor. Good-morning! Miss Wyndham. Do you think there is any appearance of rain? Dont stir, I beg; good-morning. And having fired her last volley, Miss Jones departed.. Frances stood for a few seconds, watching her retreating figure ap- pearing and disappearing among the elm-trees down the avenue, till the last glimpse seen, she laughed loud and merrily. Why, Frances, said her mother, inquir- ingly, what amuses you now? Our visitor, mamma; I wonder if she is an ordinary specimen of papas new flock! How she talked, and what she talked! 0 Margaret! if the rest are like her, I foresee we shall have a great deal of amusement in the study of their characters. Were you not sadly inclined to laugh several times at th~ queer things she said? Now, my dear Frances, said her mother, you have a little propensity to satire, I know, and I beg you will not indulge in it at the expense of our new neighbors. The 44 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. world is full of good l)eol)le, if we were not so childishly taken by the outside, that we often forget to look for the kernel. Indeed, from what your papa has told me, the people are inclined to meet him very kindly, and I do say, we owe the world a great deal of for- bearence about peoples failings, if it is for nothing else than to show some little grati- tude for all the blessings we have. Though we are not very rich, we have been permitted to sJ)end another portion of our livcs to- gether, and it is clearly a duty to judge mer- cifully of our neighbors, ft Ibk~. We never deserved so many blessings. Did you see my garden scissors? No, ma; but I am certain I see two young turkeys moving in the long grass. Ah! their legs will be broken before I can reach them; and off went Mrs. Wynd- ham full charge after the turkeys, evidently persuaded in her own mind that these trou- blesome little animals were one of the bless- ings of a country life, and as such, should be duly appreciated. In the meantime, Miss Jones had walked rapidly towards the village, burning with eagerness to discharge her information-guns at every man, woman, and child she met. Had she not been the first to storm the cleri- cal citadel? had she not talked with the gar- rison? could she not give the first informa- tion as to their numbers, and a great deal more besides in little points connected with the inhabitants? Only those who are acquainted with a town like Landeris can understand the excite- ment, the curiosity, the speculation, caused by the advent of a new inhabitant. Only one who has lived in such a town (for their name is legion) can understand how little will suffice to set every tongue in motion. Now the coming of a new clergyman may seem a common, everyday occurrence. Do we ever lift a newspaper, that, under the head of The Church, we do not see that from haW.a-dozen to a dozen clergymen have been promoted to, or resigned, or accepted various posts throughout the kingdom; and it reads as if it were a very little thing in- deed. some eight or ten words contain the whole, and yet it wonld be as impossible to number the stars as to foretell the various thoughts and feelings, producing such various scenes and actions, as may be called forth by the pastors daily, weekly, and hourly minis- trations. One day in every seven the clergy- man becomes the most l)rominent individual the day on which the first con~mandment given to man in Paradise leaves leisure, and the ears open for the receptacle of words which the wise man tells us, when spoken in due season, how good are they; words which, if put rightly, with the right blessing of the Most high, will ring out again, glori- ously and joyfully, not only in t.he next six days toil and trouble, but through age syet unborn. Is it, then, a little thing the coming of one among these people? Is his post so unim- portant, his influence so light, that we should call it a thing of no moment? Oh no; God forbid! In saying all this, I do not mean that this feeling was what l)roduced the commotion in Landeris on this occasion. One or two may have had a few passing thoughts such as these, but the majority were mentally near- sighted; and when that is the case, I am afraid there is no optician in all the world who could supply the want that nature left, and education failed to supply. Every one in the world requires some ob- ject of interest in life, women as well as men and the formation of character depends in no slight degree on what that object may have been during early yearsthe time when (there admits no second opinion) habits of thought and action are most easily formed. Those who have health, wealth, and friends in suj)erfiuity, must find different objects from those who have a scanty supply of any of the three. The first have means at command to procure change of scene and occupation, which prevent them centring all their ideas on one focus. From pure ignorance of the wants of others, this class is more frequently a selfish one than that of a lower social order, whose struggle year after year for life life to be merely sustainedis all their toil can coml)ass; and yet they are unselfish in the midst of all. People who never knew, from the cradle to the grave, one hour of self-gratification, can still find time to stretch out a hand to help some one niore weary than themselves. Feeling be0ets feel- ing; and while each year sees some grow more narrow-hearted, more self-centered, the sphere of interest of others is widening, stretching to hundreds to whom even sym- pathy is grateful. This is a noble class: as 46 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. such I have ever found it; but there is a regard each passing event as important ac- third, or rather a medium one, who are not cording to the food it yields their babbling rich enough to command the occupations and tongues; ~vho live, like the great fishes, by interests of the wealthy, nor poor enough to preying on the smaller fry; and to this make their daily struggle absorbinga num- cormorant class, I am forced to confess, many erous class, who feed the fire of their minds of the Landerisonians belong. & th petty deeds and frivolous words; who CHAPTER 111.A HOME GLIMPSE OF OUR NEW ACQUAINTANCE. Actions, looks, words, steps, form the al- phabet by which you spell characters. LiVATER. Frivolous curiosity about trifles, and labo- rious attention to little objects, which neither require nor deserve a moments thought, lower a man, who from thence is thought (and not unjustly) incapable of greater matters. Car- dinal de iRctz verysagaciouslymarked out Car- dinal ChiA for a little mind, from the moment be told him he had wrote three years with the same pen, and that it was a.n excellent good one still.LoRD CHESTERFIELD. IT was my first intention to have given the reader at once a glimpse of several others of Dr. Wyodhams parishioners who made their first calls at the Rectory that sunny Monday mornin0to introduce them to the public as they were first introduced to the Wynd- bams; leaving each party to speak for them- selves, and thus allow the discerning stranger to draw his own conclusions. This design has, however, been abandoned, it having been deemed atlvisable to follow the steps of Miss Jones, as she wended her way towards tbe villa~e. Good Miss Jones, have you considered where you will go first? This may seem a light matter, one of but slight importance to the world at large; hut if any one would deem it so, it is respectfully insin- uated here that this is not the case ; it was most important. It was necessary that the world she moved in should know that she had been before them and all others in ob- taining information about the new family not alone that she should be first, but that they should know she had been so. On she walks, eagerly and determinedly. First house, Mr. Simpsons (banker). My dear Miss Jones, you need scarcely knock at the door, for Mrs. Simpson has seen your approach from her bed-room window, as she and her very promising young family are preparing for a series of morning calls, among others, on the Wyndhams. So the servant says, Not at home. Oh, short sighted Mrs. Simpson! Miss Jones is often very tiresome, often very cuous, often very intrusive; but what have you not lost to-day? Several volumes of observation, with an en- cyclopa~dia of notesauthoress and arranger, the fair Matilda herself. I know you are a learned ladythat is, as the ladies in this place go; that learning to the amount of a large sum annually had been put into your bead during your youthful years by your ex- ultant parents; and yet, withal, I have h eard you very often complain of the annoyance or meeting strangers they are so hard to talk to; and it would have been a vast re- lief to have heard from your friend what they talked about. But you did not know, and now it is too late. I once heard of a German doctor, who wrote a work in five volumes, to prove that the human mind was so constituted by natural infirmities, that once in every seven days man did one foolish act, and once in every twenty-four hours said one foolish thing. It may be true or not: I am not competent to judge; for if it is, I must be one of those extravagant individuals who are always exceeding their allowance ; and never having read the book, I cannot tell whether the doctor devoted any chapters to this class or not. I believe he says that a portion of common sense is divided among a certain number of peopleunevenly, it is true; but this is necessary, to account for the deficiency in some, and superabun- dance in others; for some one must be in want, if you have more sense than your neighbors. My object, in mentioning the matter here, was to adduce some comfort for poor Mrs. Simpson. Cheer up, good wo- man! At the worst, your deeds are fi-anked for a week, and -tu have nothing to fear from your unruly member for another day and night; that not at home to Miss Jones has done it all. Meanwhile Miss Jones goes, on, until she stops before a pretty cottage. She opens the gate, and walks boldly up to the drawing- room window, which, being open, admits of a clear view of the interior. A young, almost EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. 47 childish-looking lady, in a widows dress, is it forward at once, and after some prelimi- sitting beside a sofa, watching earnestly a nary remarks, went on to say, little child, who is sleeping on it. Sunny- I like the Wyndhams very much. They looking curls were hanging partly over her all seem very agreeable, pleasant people. cheeks, which were burning with two crim- The girls are both in appearance particularly son spots. There was no mistaking how plain; but still they looked nice,they were very ill the child was ; the look on the ladys face alone would have told that. The darkening of the window made her turn round, and on meeting the intruders gaze, she sprang up hastily, with a warning gesture for silence, and hurried to the door, fearing her visitor minht address her through the window, and by her voice disturb the lit- tle sleeper. How do you do, Mrs. Selwyn? How is your little one to-day P Very illno better. The poor mothers eyes were full of tears as she spoke. She has not slept all night, tossing from side to side, so restless and feverish, and moaning inces- santly. I brought her to the sofa, to try if the change would be of any use, and the cool air seems to have soothed her. She is sleep- ing quite soundly. I hope it may do her goodit is so many nights since she has had a good sleep. How many nights it was since she had slept herself she did not say; but how little thought was given to that! Perhaps it may, said Miss Jones. Has Dr. Price seen her to-day? Yes, but he merely shook his head, and said, if I found she wandered at all, to send over for him; and he looked so grave, I had no courage to ask him anything more. Matilda looked rather discomfited. She had called for the purpose of enjoying a lit- tle gossip with the pretty widow, and, even had she had the want of feeling to introduce indifibrent matters at such a time, she saw it would be an appeal to deaf ears. Mrs. Sel- wyns world was in the drawing-room that day. Miss Jones tried a few more conventional remarks on the subject of the child; but they were from the lips, and a spring with such a shallow source must soon cease to flow. Mrs. Selwyns manner, though perfectly well bred, as every innate ladys must be, showed so clearly her impatience to return to the drawin -room that the visitor saw she must either relinquish her first intentions, or intro- duce the subject at once; and the last course being undoubtedly the pleasanter, she brought so well-dressed, and spoke so ~vell. We have become the greatest friends just at once. I am sure they will prove quite an acquisition. They have the house very neat. They seem to have a great quantity Oi books for I saw some great chests in the hall as I went in, and I said to the servant, perhaps I was come too soon, that they were not set- tled enough to see visiters. She said, Oh yes; it was only her masters book~, the young ladies bad not had time to arran0e. Ann could not go with me, so I was alone and I saw Mrs. Wyndham and two grown-up daughters, and two others who will soon be on the hi~h road to promotion. Mrs. Wyadham seems a lady-like person. The doctor was not within, so I missed him; but I likeCl him very much on Sunday. I be- lieve you did not hear him, but I hope you soon will. Oh, he touched ill) hypocrites fa- mously! But did I not tell you before of that? Were you out to-day? No! Then perhaps you will walk with me to the Priory? How stupid I am growing! I should have remembered you could not leave little fairy in-doors. Good morning, Mrs. Selwyn. I may take a few roses, I am sure. My moth- er is so fond of them, she will quite enjoy a few fresh ones. The morning had by this time advanced to mid-day, and was so far on the verge of even tide, that Miss Jones judged it best to turn her steps homeward, where she knew that one inhabitant at least would receive her in- telligence, and devour the particulars, with avidity. I do not mean her mother, for she was one of the n~st placid, dozing nonenti- ties of old ladies ever met with. The ruling passion of her life was the practice of econ- omical housekeeping; and, save a new re- ceipt for some cheap dish, or a rise in the markets, nothing seemed to stir old Mrs. Jones from her easy-chair (mentally as well as corporeally easy), while she allowed her daughters full control over their words and actions. How far this system had produced beneficial results, is left for the readers to form their own judgment. It was to her sister Ann that Matilda looked for sympathy 48 and assistance in minor matters, and to her she hastened, as she sat with her mother at ~vork in their little drawing-room, the win- dows of which commanded a first-rate view of a first-rate shop, and one or two first-rate houses of one or two first-rate people, in a first-rate street of Landeris. It is therefore a matter of small wonder that Miss Jones ConSl(lered herself entitled to the use of the adjective so often ap~)lied above, at all times and seasons, in connection with herself and her family. She entered the room, and untying her bonnet-strings, in order to assist her rapid delivery, literally disgorged the information she had that morning collected, for the edifi- cation of her mother and sister; to sum up all, nothing was left unsaid that could he said in a short space of time, and she finished up with a scream at the old lady. And, ma, I hinted at them taking you out to drive; hut it didnt take; they are every one as dull as there is any need for, not one individual looked as if she understood what I meant to he at. Very likely not; hut, indeed, my dear, I did not expect they would do anything of the kind; Mr. Cooper was quite different. Of course, Matilda, any little civility he ever showed us was on Anns account; this is a totally different matter; and Mrs. Jones knit on, quite unmoved, until a hurst of pas- sion from Ann caused her to suspend her labor, and look inquiringly from one daughter to the other. iDont name him ever with me, if you please, ma; it is really more than I can hear; though I have long since given him over as impracticable, it is enough to rouse Job, to think of all I have done, and all I have gone through, on his account, and, after all, to find the Rock of Gibraltar would be as easy to move; after I had done all in the power of a woman to do, to find myself left here in this odious dull house, with nothing to divert cnes thoughts from the whole affair, but Matilda satirising the whole population, and even their dogs and cats, for her own amusement. In all the world, in every circle of society, there is not, cannot be, a more miserable, despicable creature than a dis- appointed woman, the jest of one sex, ana the scorn of the other, a hatred to herself, nnd a burden to her friends. I never read in any paper of a woman committing suicide, EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. hut the thought comes over my mind at once that canker-worm should be the verdict of the coroners jury; it is that, and nothing else, call it by what name they may. Oh, Ann ! Ann think what you are say- ing. I do think; I have thought of it often enough, and long enough, God knows; and what is more, that odious Mrs. Selwyn is the cause of my failure. How cordially I detest that woman! I hate the sight of her ninny face; I cannot endure the sound of her voice! Oh! if anything or any person could or would take her out of the parish, how thankful I would he. I wish she would marry a knife-grinder, or a Methodist preach- er, or a travelling tinker, any itinerant trade that would remove her hated l)resenee. I declare, Ann, said Mrs. Jones, you are quite beyond my comprehension to-day. What failed? You are a profound problem. What failed? Why, Matilda knows I moved heaven and earth to please Mr. Cooper, I taught in the Sunday School; I gave up dancing, and wore high dresses; I sang in church, and read the responses; I cut out for the Clothing Society; I got all the parish blankets washed, and oversaw the doing of them myself; I cut all the school childrens hair, and banded my own; I got up a me- morial asking for a course of sermons on the Lives of tLe Fathers, because I knew he had a series ready written on hand; II And here, between spite, and passion, and overcharged feelings, all combined, Ann burst into tears, while Mrs. Jones, who hated all scenes on principle, took the opportu- nity to slip unperceived out of the room. During these remarks Matilda walked to the window, and commenced drawing the sun-blind up and down with an earnestness that would have led a looker-on to suppose that her well-being for days to come depended on her success in fixing the tassel in the exact centre of a particular pane of glass, accompanying her labor at intervals with various admonitory and remonstrative re- marks to her sister, who still sobbed hysteri- cally on the sofa. I am sorry I have no taste for private theatricals, Ann; such admirable acting is quite thrown away; your audience is far more select than numerous. There is a certain degree of tragedy that amounts to comedy. Pray, bring out a handful of the bands, and EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. 49 the whole scene will be complete; it is a formation, is in fact necessary to me at pres pity, I grant, that you did not get the den- ent; and, to sum up all, he is amusing; ana cal bands, or the banns either! Ha! ha! you cannot but allow that that in itself would Let me know when you have finished, as I suffice. 1 advised those Miss Wyndhams to have something rational to say. By the way, set their caps at him, telling them how very tbe~e is Annette Holmdon on the other side eligible he was, and all that sort of thing. If of the str~et; she is gone into the Manlys. they but do it, I will be content, perfectly; it Oh, Matilda, how can you talk so, when would be high fun. To tell you the truth (this is under the rose), I do not think we Talk how? I am astonished at your will have much comfort with these people. blind folly; the idea of blaming poor Mrs. One cannot make them out just in one visit, Selwyn for what you did yourself, through hut I mistake greatly if they are not very the lady for whom you designed the honor of stand-off kind of people, that one never would being your sister-in-law. Dont you remem- feel quite intimate with; and any advances I her the day Miss Cooper advised home-knit made towards family inquiries were received Angola stockin0s as the best for winter wear, in a most discouraging way, as if they did and you gave a laughing glance at me? I not choose to give one any information. know she observed you; and 1 thonalit at They are far better suited for the Beckford the time what folly it was of you, when you clique than for ours, though we must prevent knew I wis not in the habit of lettin such that, if we can. We are much nearer them, jokes pass unobs rved. She was not blind, and we will not leave any civility untried. It whatever you may be now; and depend upon is a good thing to have the key of the postern it, she, and no other, was the motive-power gate of Castle Clericus; we have found it against you. useful before this. I was very sorry you Blind I may be, b it dumb I m not. would not come with me to-day; in my opin- I can testify to that. ion, you are keeping up a very unnecessary And I will say you are the most heart- fuss about your wounded feelings. There less, unfeehug sister ever any one had; you were so many things I had intended to say have no more h art than the poker, and you to the Wyadhams, and I only remembered think cv ry on~ else ought to be the same; them on the way home. If now, for instance, you deserve some tim to he made to feel a I had said something about my brother, the deeper l)low than you ever knew before. I artillery officer, that would have sounded wish most sincerely that Dr. Price would go well, or about my sister, Mrs. Compton of and marry Mrs. Selwyn; we should then see Compton Rising, that would have at once what you would do without your chev her conveyed the impresn~on that we were people errant. of some consequence. You are pleased to be even more absurd It would, but we will have other oppor- to-day, Ann, than I ever remember you to tunities. have been in all your life before. Do not We must make the old lady give a party for one moment deceive yourself that I have for them, whenever they make their call. I any latent designs on Monsieur he Physicien; hope that will be soon, for I do like being I hope I have more sense; but he is very first in the field. useful to me; he brings me a world of in- CHAPTER IY.A FEW MORE MORNING VISITORS. It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, Now, Annette, you must tell me who are That maketh wrqtch or happie, rich or ~ the room, ~ncl do everything that is polite poore; For some, that baths abundance at his will, for both of us; you must be more than my ilath not enough, bat wants in greatest eyes to-day. store; I will try, dear grandmamma. And other, that hiathi little, asks no more, I do not think so much about being blind But in that little is both rich and wise~ For wisdome is most richses.SpENsEE. when I have nothing to do out of the usual The extreme pleasure we t~ ke in talking of course of events; but going to see these ourselves, should make us fear that we give strange people tries me not a little. I am very little to tbose who listen to us.LA better amon~ home folks. ROCIIEFOIJCATJLD. THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 4 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. I hope they will soon be home folks to us, that you may get over that feeling. Do not forget we were both determined to like Dr. Wyndham and his family very much; you know we agreed upon that, after we came from church yesterday. I remember it, little woman, and that this visit to-day was my own proposition, too; but when you are as old as I am, you will know what it is to dislike meeting strangers. I pray you may never be helpless as I am; what makes it worse to me, going into any company, I grow quite nervous. We might sit down and rest here for a little. But, grandmamma, you must think of those mild faces I told you of, and not he afraid of them. Ab, child you must not think I complain; but there are times when I feel my blindness very keenly. The old and young ladyseventy and seventeensat on a felled tree in Landeris wood. It was a shorter way to the Rectory from the village, and so much pleasanter: along the road, the May sun was strongly beaming; here in the woods it fell softly through the pleasant green foliage, and the branches Waved their long arms to and fro, And where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapor soft and blac, In long and sloping lines. The bright green moss rpringing under foot was a lovely change from the parched foot- way of the commoner road, and as the birds carolled joyfully overhead, and merry squirrels ~swung themselves from bough to bough, even a blind lady of seventy years of age might be tempted into the belief she had over-reckoned the days of her pilgrimage. Mrs. Holm- donh had been a long one, though not all the days of it so dark as the latter ones had been. Her blindness was of later years; a long illness, the result of attendance on the death-bed of a beloved daughter, had brought her almost to the brink of the grave, and so injured the nerves of the eye, that sight was gone for ever, almost before the physicians had perceived it in danger. With her lived the li0ht, really, not figuratively, of her old ageher grand-daughter, Annette Holmdon, a fresh, joyous, loving girl, who lived but for her ged relatives comfort, and thought no day so well spent, as when some little in- cident in it had given the old lady gratifica- tion. Presently they reached the Rectory, and were shown to the drawing-room. Mrs. Wyndbam and her daughters were there. Dr. Wyndham had called the attention of his wife and daughters to Mrs. Holmdon, the previous day; he had heard of her, and on relating what he knew to his famIly, they were naturally enough prepared to regard the grave, quiet, blind old lady with no small interestthey recognised her at once as she approached the house. Mrs. Ilolmdons nervousness vanished at once under the gentle reception of her hostess, whose quiet tact set all her apprehen- sions at once to rest. Miss Holmdon took her seat beside Miss Wyndhams work-table, and conversation flowed freely on all sides. Did you find it very warm, Miss HoIm- don? you walked all the way from the vil- lage? We did, but we came through the wood, which made the distance shorter, as well as pleasanter. I did not know there was a way through the wood. Not a public one; but the Herberts are good enough to allow grand-mamma to use the path when she chooses, and when the family are from home we often do so. It is a fine wood. You should walk through it,to see its beauties; there are oaks there that were full grown at the time of the Wars of the Roses, besides some trees of a size that might seem fabulous if I mentioned them. Like Walter Scotts woods; I mean those in his novels. Quite. 0, they are royal trees! How much the view we have from our windows owes to the said trees! the green of the pine is so fresh, and the oaks are so luxuriant. Are you fond of the country? Passionately; and where there is such loveliness all round as there is here, it is Paradise. Then you will come to love this place be- fore long. It is a quiet spot, and so retired, that people must learn to look within them- selves for their pleasures, and not be depen- dent on public amusement; of that there is none here, unless you except the usual 0ossip of a country town. We are willing to do without such ex- citement as that, said Frances. If you 50 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. knew the sense of repose that steals over one after the hustle o~ a large town, when down in some quiet nook by the river side, you would know what a luxury peace is. I have hardly be0un to believe it real yet. You will haxe time enough for that. I am very glad you like that sort of life, for there are not many people here who do, and my chief pleasures are found in such quiet- ness as you speak of. Yes, said Mrs. llolmdon, in reply to a remark of Mrs. Wyndbams, I know your house very well; I know every J)oint in the view; except you have changed the forms of the flower-beds, I know them too. I was not always blind; it has been a thing of late years; and God has spared some senses to a most merciful extent, and my memory is unimpaired. I knew this house in Mr. liar- lowes time. His wife had heen an old friend of mine, and I always looked upon her daugh- ter, now Mrs. Selwyn, as an especial charge, after my own children were grown up, and gone out into the world. Does not Mrs. Selwyn live in this neigh- horhood still ? She does; hut her marriage was one I never liked, and though we are good friends, still she is shy ef me and no longer the child she used to he to me. May I ask to whom my grand-daughter is talking just now? To my two daughters. Are they grown up? A genial laugh from the three young ladies, at some brilliant sally from Frances, almost covered the reply, They are. I am so glad to hear Annette laugh in that gay way, it is more suitable to her years than the monastc life she leads with me; hut she persists that she likes it, and I dread any change so much, that I cannot bear to hear it named between us. It must be a great matter to you to have such a companion? Yes; during the illness in which I lost my sight, Annette having heard of my cal- amity came to me, and in spite of remon- strances from uncles and guardians, has been my eyes, hands, and comforter ever since. I thought I was alone in the world, hut God sent my little girl in time to show how wrong my murmurings were. I had sadly neglected her all her life, hut she did not do so by me; and though she might have had a gay and happy home with her uncle, she gave up all for me. God bless her. lie will, said Mrs. Wyndham. She has no companions of her own age here, and I am quite hopeful that meeting with your daughters will be a new source of amusement to her; she wants such society sadly. I may say much the same for my daugh- ters; it will be sometime before we can he otherwise than strangers here. Nevertheless, I think you will like it; the people are very kind and courteous to stran- gers, as well as to each other, with not more than the usual peculiarities of country society. People who live in small villages are pretty nearly the same all over England, Ireland, and Scotland; their idiosyncrasies are directed pretty much by the habits and customs they have been educated in. I daresay, and there is so very little to change these, that in such a place as this the same tone insensibly creeps over a commun- ity: the young inherit it from the old, and where, as in this case, the scene lies out of the commercial track, changes come few and far between. Will you tell Dr. Wyndham how glad I should be to know him? when he has time, if he would look in on me even for a few minutes. I rarely walk so far as this now, I am not young enough for that; but, if you knew how I missed my dear Mr. Harlowe since his death, and how Dr. Wyndham s earnest words and voice brought him before me yesterday, you would understand the longing which l)rought me here to-day, to know something more of you all. The words of his sermon were like a gentle shower on parched ground; you could scarcely know how veiy dearly they came to me. Soon after they took their leave, and silence fell on the little group in the Rectory draw- ing-room. It was abruptly broken by Lucy who called through the window: Mamma, mamma, here is a lady coming up the avenue, and a great many children. Very well, run away, Lucy. It was Mrs. Simpson, with her interesting young family, coming to pay their devoirs. Mrs. Simpson, be it recollected, was a lady mentioned in a former chapter, whom Miss Jones found not at home. She is what all theoretic people would term a fond moth- a genus of which every one forms their 52 own conception, but in the present case it is perhaps as well to say no more about what that is, and at once delineate Mrs. Simpson. Never was there such a restless woman as Mrs. Simpson; never was a woman so over- worked and so undervalued, all through the indefatigable exertions sbe made to bring up her family properly and becomingly, as be- came the children of such parents, as became such children themselves, and as became their position in society. It is not surprising that a mother of such a character should be al- ways encompassed with difficulties, and should be sublect to more than the usual portion of trials allotted to human beings on this terres- trial sphere. Many she had, and ceaselessly they worried her. With regard to these an- noyances, she never allowed concealment, like a worm i the l)ud, feed upon her dam- ask cheek, for they all came candidly forth in conversation with her friends none were withheld. This arose partly from the fact that she never talked of anything else hut her children their health, their education, their habits, their manners, their sayings, their doings, were all the fruitful themes for her discourses; she thought of nothing else herself, and so fancied every one else should be as interested as she was in their peculiari- ties. She bored every one she met with an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes about them, and fancied witticisms, which were the horror of every bachelor, young and old, ny, and many a benedict, too, among the circle of her acquaintance :long stories, in which her auditor generally missed the point entirely (when there was one), and worse still, often laughed convulsively at the preface to the tale, under the false impression that the story had reached a climax, and only brought to a sense of their mistake by the never-failing recurrence of the words, But, Mr. wait until you hear this ;just as if the un- fortunate victim had the slightest chance of making his escape. Far from that: he had just to await his fate as the Turks do, and surrender himself with the best grace possihle to this species of martyrdom, without even the consolation that, after his death, he would be immortalized by George Fox in a good quarto volume, with harrowing prints to match. There was nothing for it but patient resignation; and all that could be gained from it was a little experience to be more cautious on another occasion, and not accept EDDIES ROuND THE RECTORY. any more spiders invitations to walk into the parlor. Mrs. Wyadhams case was not to be an exception to the general rule. Mrs. Simp- son seated herself, and they talked of the weather, and ploughing, and the country, and all the usual etceteras of a mornings visit in the country; but all this did not satisfy Mrs. Simpson. Before many more minutes elapsed, she had reached her favorite theme. Ab, yes, my dear madam, I quite agree with you; this place is very deli0htful; air most salubrious, roads good, provisions cheap; society charming, posts regular, the fashions early, good church, attentive sexton, good town-clock, new weathercock, everything to make us healthful and happy; but I find one very great drawback to living in Landeris, though, in consequence of my husbands busi- ness, we unfortunately have no choice of places of residence. I find it very backward in opportunities for instruction. There is really no possibility of procuring means for the education of young people. Indeed, maam, you will find it very difficult to get teachers here for your younger daughters. They are still so young, said Mrs. Wynd- ham. My dear madam, said Mrs. Simpson, we must always be instructing themfrom their cradles, I may say; children are never too young to be taught somethingsystem, i-f it is nothing else. We have Scripture abundantly for that: Train up a child, etc., and In the morning sow thy seed. Surely that refers to education, Possibly, but to more than that. I take it in a much wider sense; but I am sure you are right about training children early in what is right. Early efforts are, without doubt, the best thing to keep them from the evil. Ab, true indeed! Every Christian mother must know that. It is a troublesome world, Mrs. Wyndham. Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards. Yes, thought Mrs. Wyadham, and the grave is not its goal. I wonder if you would understand me if I said that P But it was quite evident she decided against say- ing it, for she asked immediately, Is this your youngest child, Mrs. Simpson P No, maam; I have two more at home younger than any you see here. But Belinda is pretty well brown for her age. Stand up, Linda, and let Mrs. Wvndham see what EDDIES ROUND TIlE RECTORY. 53 height you are. She is just turned five; do my moih, and London Lawndon, arid yOu think her tall ? gave them such bad habits of all kinds According to the general standing of Then the teaching of musicshe had a sys- children, I should say she was. tern for this (they have each a system for Now what age is your youngest, Mrs. some one thing or the other;) and like an Wyadham? idiot I sent to Daublin, as she termed it She is eight, but she is small. She was for some machine which you screw on the never a very strong child. My other little piano, all made of brass and mahogany, one is nine. which is to teach you quickly; and you get Now, how are you to have them taught? your hands into little places like stocks, only I am sure I cannot advise you in any way, for intended for the fingers, and in this way you I am so badly off myself in that way. I sup- play; and after all the money I paid, I founc~ pose, though, that, coming from a large town, you could not make it play God Save the their education is pretty far advanced. Queen, if you died for it. So there was all Really, said poor Mrs. Wyndham, look- my money, several guineas, thi;own away; ing puzzled, I do not know. Their sisters for the next teacher I got had never even teach them. I have not thought of asking heard of it. Jeannette, do you remember anything about them for a long time. the name? Then you dont superintend their studies Chyroplast, mamma. yourself? Yes, I believe that is it. Well, the next Not I. treasure I got professed to teach languages I always do so with my children; and in- on the Hamiltonian system. So I had to deed it is well I do, for governesses in general spend such a sum on the books for it; and are such a dreadful race, that one requires to her successor told me Hamilton was quite ex- be all alive with them, they do worry one so ploded, that nothing was taught now hut horribly. By the way, could you tell me of Ollendorif. So Ollendorffs were written for, one that would suit me just now? The Eng- and a pretty sum they cost me too; and now lish education of the elder ones is so advanced, they are almost useless, for that one is gone, I am more anxious about accomplishments. and I do not understand the plan myself. I A negative was the answer from Mrs. was educated on De Porquets method. Pray, Wyndham to this query, and the other lady what would you advise me to do? went on: Mrs. Wyadham looked a little puzzled With all my anxiety, and the most inde- how to reply, for Mrs. Simpsons experience fatigable efforts, they do not get on as I seemed so far beyond any thing she had would wish them. Whether it is that there ever personally encountered, that she felt hut are so many in the schoolroom, or the chil- ill qualified to offer any suggestions; so she dren slow, or the governesses want mind, I contented herself by saying, It is a difficult cannot tell. I am greatly inclined to think matter, no doubt. the last has a great deal to do with it. Such Ah yes, replied the afflicted lady; I am trials as I have undergone from them I really miserable about the matter. I assure you I cannot describe to you. I get one after Tose my sleep at night thinking about it. What another, but there is always some fault I am is to become of my seven children who are obliged to part with them for. For instance, old enough for the schoolroom, to say noth- I had one who professed to teach on the Pes- ing of the two in the nursery, who will not talozzian system, and to this day I have not be ready for some years yet for a regular the slightest idea what she meant by it; but course of lesson-books, though I am sure I she corrected the exercises by the keys, and teach them all I can ? T he baby is a very was such an awkward young woman, that I clever child; he can tell all the animals as I vow Jane was becoming quite sheepish. I name them in the illustrated account of the was anxious to counteract this, if possible; Deluge that hangs on the nursery-wall; for and as I heard the Irish were a lively people, instance when I say ass or dog, lie will with rather a sprightly manner, I got over a point towards them, and more than once he Miss ODowd, and I never was badly off until has been heard both to bray and bark. lIe then. Such a low, vulgar wretch, that called knows Sunday morning, too, quite well, and EDDIES ROuND THE RECTORY. makes signs to the nurse to put on his scar- let shoes. Fancy that, and the little dear only ten months old on last Friday! Indeed, said Mrs. Wyndham. But these thiabs will surprise you less when I tell you that he could hiow a tin- trumpet when only six months old, so loud and shrill, too, as on one occasion to awake his three brothers, who slept in an adjoining room. Little Eckworth, his next hrother, is a most remarkable child he is just turned two, hut his knowledge of Scripture history is quite surprising. He can stag0er across the room in such a funny way, to show you the way Balaams ass crushed his masters foot against the wall; but the taste he shows most. strongly developed is for colors; he h~s quite an artists eye for discriminating; for instance, he will call blue blue, and point up to the sky; and when he is out-of-doors, he will say green, and look at us to say fields. A great deal more to the same effect said Mrs. Simpson, which was probably more in- teresting to herself than to either Mrs. Wyndham or the reader; while Frances sat at the other side of the room, trying to get up some conversation with the elder girls. Their morose taciturnity and downright stu- pidity might have daunted any one not de- termined, as Frances was, to make the best and take the most amusement possible out of every incident, untoward or otherwise, that presented itself to her; in the present case, save for occasional monosyllables as re- plies, it was rather a one-sided conversation, such a one as peol)le are driven to with gauche school-girls, whose every intellect has been expended on roots of verbs and ologies. Do you dance? Yes. Are you fond of it ? I am not; with a jerk of her head to- wards her sister, and a strong accent on the first word. Do you like to read?, Perhaps you prefer working P Walking? Drawing P Music P No. And at every No she raised her voice a note in the scale, till having come to a pretty high pitch, she hroke forth Let m~ alone, I say. Frances did so, and turned round to Cor- nelia, the next sister, with rather an amazed look. Cornelia explained, ~vith a toss of the head, Jane only likes to sleep; I like all those things you have mentioned. No, you dont, said Jane. I do, said Cornelia. Dont believe her, said Jane; indeed Miss Wyadham, she talks before strangers that way; it was only this morning she wished she were a ploughmans daughter, that reading and spelling would be consid- ered sufficient. Such folly, was the courteous reply; Miss Wyadham knows better than to be- lieve such a story. You did say it when you missed your Euclid. You missed yours, retorted Cornelia. If I did, I do not care; I do not want to be set up for a blue-stocking. 1)id I say I wanted? No; but you are inferring it. I ama not. Yes, you are. Here Frances interposed with an album, hoping to restore the excited sisters to pacifi- catory measures. But at this juncture Mrs. Simpson, having brou0ht her valuable re- marks to a conclusion, rose to go, bearing with her the olive branches, though the name is only used as being a customary term, and not because the Miss Simpsons dwelt un- der its shado~v. Indeed, we question much whether the cultivation of abstruse learning is one calcu- lated to draw out home affections. An over- educated woman is as bad as an under edu- cated one, as may be partially exemplified in the cases of Miss Jones and the late vis- itors. 54 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. 55 CHAPTER V. COMING EVENTS, OR AN EVENING PARTY FORESHADOWED. 11cr voice was ever soft, Gentle and low; an excellent thing in wo- man.SnAKsPERE. The world is the hook of women; what- ever knowledge they possess is more commonly acquired hy observation than by reading. ROSsEAu. My PEAR MRS. SELWYN, Mamma has inrited Dr. Wyndham and his family to spei~d Thursday evening with us, and they have promised to come. Now, though we all know your retired hahits, we cannot but hope that, on an occasion like the present, you might he induced to break through your rule, and give us the pleasure of your coin- pany; and since little Nannie is so far con- valescent that you could leave her for a few hours without anxiety, there would he noth- ing to detain you at home. Like a good ereature, pray stretch a point for once, to ~lige my mother, and yours most affection ately, MATILDA JONES. Yours most affectionately, Matilda Jones, repeated the widow mechanically, and she pondered a moment as she read to the end of the note. She was not thinking should she go or not; the contingency had not crossed her mind; she was merely con- sidering should she write a note, or call and ~plain her intentions to the kind, old lady, who had more than once stood her friend in trifles. She decided at length on answer- ing the note in a polite manner, and then paying her devoirs to Mrs. Jones, at the hour she knew her daughters generally se- lected as their walking one. So she wrote an apology, and despatched the little maid with it, while she still sat musing hefore the desk. It was not that she wished to go to the party; not that; hut she had a great de- sire to see these Wyadhams. Confined to the house hy her little girls illness, she had never met with them anywhere; and being rather a shy iittle woman in her manners, she did not like to call hefore they knew something of her, in order that she might not feel obliged to throw in little hints as to who she was, & c., which the poor, innocent hody fancied would he quite necessary; and yet she wanted to know them. It was not to her as to many people a mere matter of gossip, seeing and knowing the Wyndhams. There was a tie linking her to them that no others hadmemory; memory of the hap- piest period of her lifechildhoodspent within the walls they now called theirs. Were she to live a hundred years, she could never fail to turn with interest to the old home. Even occupied hy strangers, it was dear to her; every tree, every flower, seemed to have sprung up with her own growth, so interwoven were they with the past, with every glad and happy thounht she had ever had; and always with the mention of the Wyndhams names came a sort of longing to know if they were such as she could look at ~vith pleasure, enjoying the dear old haunts if they would prize them as she had done. As she sat hefore the desk, she thought of its last occupants, how she had hoped for some of the sympathy her own experience of the sacred calling led her to expect when they came, and how bitterly she had been disappointed in them. That dry, stern, tin hending Mr. Cooper, and his still drier, more unbending sister, who never in all her life had ever taken any plea in palliation of an offence from any poor, erring mortal, as if any one is so set heyond sin in this world as to he entitled to hurl the first stone. Mrs. Selwyn had a most unconquerable dread of hoth hrother and sister; the latter, hecause her rule through life always was, to speak the truth at all times, which, though a good theory, requires judiciousness in reducing to practice, for who knows if their truth, as they are pleased to call it, is the same truth held hy others, and that in fancied zeal for the truth you do not in reality become imperti- nent? Mrs. Selwyns dislike extended also to this ladys hrother, though he had paid to her the highest compliment a man can pay a woman. Something in his manner of proffering it utterly completed her sentiments of repugnance, and from that time it had been her quiet study to avoid meeting them as much as possible. He had come to Lan- dens fresh from the classics of a many-yearcd cloister life ; the formality of a college tutor still imbued every thought and word of his present life. True, in his own stiff, cold way, he loved her, but not she him, and is not that a true womans argument? To her even his sermons wanted the glad, joyous tidings that her fathers ever seemed to bring; the change might he in herself, but still she did not like the Coopers; and very glad she was when Mr. Coopers exchange was made, and a course of events arose which ended in Dr. Wyadham being settled in Lan- 56 dens iRectory. From gloomy views of the old home in these peoples time, her mind travelled still farther hack, to the bygone days of her own childhood, when every Sat- urday, through the long summer days, she hushed her doll to sleep under the shade of the weeping-willows, watching her father pac- ing up and down the terraces, hook in hand gathering inspiration from the aWmarvellous works of God. Or she saw him through the open window of the same study (how well she knew that room) reading or writing; the long stream of sunlight lighting on his silvery hair, and the tame sparrows hopping to the window for the crumbs the little girl had been taught to gather each morning for them from the breakfast-table. While the bees hummed as they flew from flower to flower in the gay flower-knots, the light hreeze passing them by carried the murmur of one to break the silence in the room, and the perfume of the flowers to refresh the student within, and finally passing out again, would Turn over tbe leaves of the hymnbook That on the table lay. And all had passed away; and other years, too, without such pleasant, even though mournful, reminiscences, years of married life, few in number, thou~ h man~~ in tribula- tionmany, inasmu~h as she seemed to have lived a life-time, and grown years older in the first few months. In how few words we hear people speak every day of some of their friends sorrows, and how much to the friends was the time those events occurred. For in- stance, their circumstances became very bad, and the daughters had to go out as governesses. Did the daughters find the years glide smoothly on as those few words glided one after another? If you know such you can ask them, or, if not, suppose yourself in their place, and see how you would agree with all the concomitant circumstances. Not well. Be it understood, however, I do not blame the world for mak- ing their remarks in as few words as they please, but I would like them to feel a little more when they utter them. Well, we sup- pose, in the present case of the little widow, that more than one busy tongue had informed the Wyndhams, Mr. Selwyn married his wife when she was little more than a child, and thought she was obeying her only parent to the best of her ability, but suddenly she found herself a woman, with a fair chance of EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. having her heart broken by a most unworthy husband. Poor child, respect for the mem- ory of the dead alone prevented her putting into words the spirit of a resolution often half made in her secret heart: My child shall not marry, if I can prevent it, until she is groxvn up. An hour or two after the despatch of the note, she was sitting with Mrs. Jones, good- humouredly sympathising with the old ladys hopes and fears respecting her comin~ fes- tivity, which was quite an event in the quiet old souls existence. Mrs. Selwyn received her friends thanks for an obliging offer to contribute a loan of any requisite article, should the Jones resources fail short. Sud- denly the visitors eye caught the figures of the girls, as the mother usually denomin- ated them, crossing the street towards their own house, in company with Miss Wyadham and one of her young sisters; and it was evi- dent that a smart summer shower just falling was the cause of all the young ladies seeking the house. Dear me, Miss Wyndham, and little Miss Rose, actually coming in, and ]I had just taken off my clean cap; the girls will be so angry with me. Would you, said Mrs. Selwyn would you, Mrs. Jones, he so good as to introduce me to Miss Wyadham? Oh yes, my dear, certainly; and the ladies entered. The introduction was soon over, and they had taken seats to watch the progress of the rain. A great many people who are physiogno- mists by nature, can discern in a very short space of time the characters of those they meet; people who have never bad access to a volume of Lavater, or given any study to Combe or Spurzheim. There is a some- thing, not just definable by rules or orders, a something that shows an affinity or the con- trary between individuals. Mrs. Selwyn, though not overburdened with clever pene- tration, or having the slightest particle of feminine diplomacy, had still a fund of good sense, and what is a very desirable accom- paniment, good feelina, which stood her in good stead of many more brilliant qualities. She had seen very little of the world; her experiences of character were drawn chiefly from the narrow circle of the Landeris in- habitants, her ideas of perfection were drawn EDDIES ROUND TIlE RECTORY. on a similar scale, and it cannot be much wondered at if she felt a little distrust of her own judgment, when she found any of her ideas in danger of being dethroned, as in the present case, when she felt quite ashamed of the Jones trio, who had joined their forces for the p~~~pose of eliciting as much informa- tion as possible from Miss Wyndham during her visit, by a series of well-directed ques- tions, such as, Were you at the Great Ex- hibition? Were you living near London then ? Where were you living at the time of the last French Revolution P Were you ever on the Continent? To which, and all similar ones, Margaret returned polite but evasive answers. She had no idea of having things wrung from her in that way, though it was only that morning she had chatted over all manner of past scenes in her own and her family s life, with the gentle Mrs. Holmdon and her neice Annette. Put her proud sj)irit rose at the present attack, and she determined not to submit tamely to such social Thuggism. Mrs. Selxvyn sat watching her attentively, her amusement increasing each moment as some homethrust was ingeniously parried by Miss Wyndham, whose color rose with her indig- nation ; the widows eyes sparkled with satis- faction at seeing the assailants almost baffled by the well-directed defence. Each moment, too, Mrs. Selwyns sympathy increased for the young lady, and her respect for her hostesses gradually declined. I wonder, thought she, as she still watched Margarets face, how Matilda can call that face de- cidedly plain. It certainly is not perfect in form, according to classic rules. Some parts are, like my own, a little out of proportion; but I like it muchso much variety in the changing expression, and eyes that one can look a longway through. They do not sparkle as Matildas do, it is true; but what a pleas- ant repose there is in them. Perhaps those are what one hears talked of as spirituelle. They remind one of what Mr. Collingwood said of Kate Howards eyes in Dollars and Cents, when he compared them to the channels of the Bermunda Islands. What a pleasing 57 voice, too, she has. I do not feel the least afraid of her, and I will speak boldly, while I have such a good opportunity. Miss Wvndham, would you be so good as to present my apologies to Mrs. Wynd- ham for having been so tardy to call upon her? It must seem very unfriendly, coming from one who is herself the daughter of one of Dr. Wyadhams predecessors, to think that she should be the last to welcome her into a new parish; but I assure you the omission was quite involuntary on my part, and was caused by the severe illness of my little girl, which for a long time has kept me a close prisoner to the house. Even yet I cannot leave her but for a short time, while she takes a sleep.~~ We were sorry to hear from Miss Jones, Mrs. Selwyn, how much anxiety you had suf- fered about her. Without personally know- ing you, we sympathised most heartily with you; principally, I think, because my little sistershe who is sitting therewas just recovering from an illness very similar before we removed here. You know the old truism about fellow-feeling. Do you find your little daughter gaining strength? Very slowly. I am often almost inclined to despair. Nothin0 seems to do her good. I try to think of the Great Physician; but even with that I often despond. And, poor little soul, she plunged immedi- ately into a particular detail of the progress and symptoms in little Nannies case, prompted equally by the kind eyes and gen- tle feeling answers of her listener. The girls, as their mamma always said, were uncommonly annoyed at this monopoly of their visitor, and, in their pity for them- selves losing such a golden opportunity for pushing their acquaintance, fancied they were pitying Miss Wyndham, in not believing any one could be interested in what they called the widows twaddle. They felt inexl)res- sibly relieved when the striking of a time- piece reminded the widow she should be at home; and the shower being over, she set out. THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. From The Ladies Companion. THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. I WhEN Miss Catherine had sealed her letters, she rose and called little Tib, her maid. Immediately there hustled round the partly open door the quickest and brightest little servant ever seen. She was going out, for she was clad in a little duffle cloak: her bonnet was snu0 and warm, and she had a small bnsket on her arm. I think it has got colder since the morn- ing, Tib, said Miss Catherine, as she gathered the letters together much colder. Yes, maam. The frosty wind hites at your nose like a wolf: hut I shant mind it: the roads are hard, and I can run. Do so; but first go up-stairs, and fetch that dark blue woollen handkerchief from my upper drawer, and that old boa from the closet. Lawk, maam! snid Tib, guessing the intent, Im warm enough, thank you, and running 11 make me a deal warmer. A kindly shake of the head, and an im- perative wave of the hand, warned Tib that her mistress bidding must he done. So she went into the hail, and ran up the great, carved, wainscot staircase, and soon came down again with handkerchief and boa. These her mistress took, and put the one over Tibs bonnet and the other round Tibs throat; and when this was finished she re- ferred to Tihs errand. Get Snibson to put on what stamps are necessary, and carefully post them, as they are Christmas-letters to friends; and heres eighteen-pence, which will, perhaps, be money enough: then get a pound of candles and a pound of sugar; call at the town library for the book I was to have; and, last thing, get a small piece of roasting-beefsay four or five poundsat Cobbs shop, and tell both him and Bolt that they shall have theit ac- counts as soon as I hear from Mr. Hutt, or the commissioners. Oh dear, maam, spoke Tib, they both said, when I was there last, that you wasnt to trouble yourself at all about the little you owed em; but you was to have everything you needed; indeed, old Mr. Cobb quite laughed at the thounht of your sending a message about such a little bill as fifteen shillings. He said, if it was fifteen or fifty pounds it would be the same to him; for youd be just as welcome to the best joint out of his shop as though you didnt owe a shil- ling. The people are all very good to me in these days of trouble, said Catherine, thou0htfully. And please, maam, hesitated Tib, wont you have one pound of plums and currants one pound? It wont be a great deal; and it wont be Christmas-like, Miss Catherine, if you dont have a pudding. No, Tibby, no! Christmas puddings and solitary hearths are sad things side-by-side. Were you to be at home to-morrow wed have one; but as your old aunt has sent to ask you, youd better go. Now make haste, or youll not reach the town in time for post; and if youll be quick back again Ill keep the tea hot for you. At this Tib had somethin0 to say, it might be seen; still she went onward to the parlor- door, and then, when there, and her face was hidden, she said, falteringly, If you please, maam, Mrs. Throwley said if the night was cold, I might just as well step in and take a cup there? Nothing more?, asked Miss Cranbrook, with a smile. Yes, maamthat Joe might see me home; for the road, with so much wood about it, was wild, like, at night. This is the first time you and I have found it out, Tib, though we have lived three years together. But Joe is a good lad; and so Ill be no hindranceonly, Tibby, you mustnt leave your mistress till these shadows are a little gone. I aint a-going, missis, replied Tibby, with a choked voice; Im sure I aint; and so you neednt be fretting about it. Saying thus, Tib hurried from the house, crossed the quaint precincts of the ancient schoolhouse, then the frost-bound road, and so into the woodland which lay opposite, and by which the road was shortened to the town. Catherine, like her little maid, had kept back some point for hesitation; for, no sooner had she watched Tib across the road, than she hurried after her, and opening the rude gate which led into the wood, went onward a few paces, till she stood beneath the shadow of some hollies, and where her low call met Tibs ear. Dont come back, Tib; but you can ask at Cobbs or Bolts how Mr. Farquhar is, and 58 THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. if he is better. There, now, go on; that is all. She did not let the little maid see her face, even if she could have done so, in the hoar shadows of the boughs, but went as slowly back to the old school-house of St. Johns as though it was a summers eveningas though no wind blew icy from the north. Once more in the old wainscoted hall, she repaired to the kitchen, where a fire burned brightly, and where little Tib had left things in exqui- site daintiness; and there she set the tea- things, and carried them into the ])arlor, and made tea, though it was yet early, and sat over it, lost in deep thought, till nothing but the firelight shone through the shadows of the room. Then she took it forth, and set it by, and laid supper for old Kit (the man that milked the cow, and attended to the land and garden). Then lighting her lamp, and sweeping the l)arlor-hearth, she sat down to her needleher rarely-plied needle, except upon labors of love of this sort, which was that of fabricating Tib a collar, for her Christ- mas-box. As this was near completion she worked diligently, though l)re-occupied by sad and weary thoughts, her soul struggling through some hidden darknesses of this mor- tal life, as a dismantled ship through a dark and stormy sea. What hitter things, at best, are human festivals! how strewn with the wrecks of broken hopes! how chequered with the visions of things that might have been, and never were! How countless are the men and women who hide such wrecks and visions in their souls! and how, worse than all, do women, who sit by solitary fires, go hack upon these stel)s of shipwrecked Time! In the meanwhile, little Tib made her quiet way through the mile-and-a-half of pictur- esque old woods to the little towna very little town, of one main street, and one or two smaller branching from it. Though on this small scale, there was a tiny market- house, and a grand range of ancient build- ings, called King Edwards School; and every house seemed to have a garden: and, finally, being situated in one of the nearest southern counties, the little town was not more than thirty or forty miles from London; yet, in a country rich with ancient parks and woods, it was as quiet and remote as the way around for miles was picturesque with Eng- lish landscape loveliness. The post-office was at a little dr~ pers shop, wherein Deborah Snibson, the mistress, was helping divers customers to half-var. of calico and yards of ribbon; hurrying in so doing, fer the post-hour was at hand. Seeing Tib she nodded to her, and bid her sit down; but more calico and ribbon customers arriv- ing, and the inexorable hour close upon striking, she bid them wait whilst she at- tended to the letters. Taking those Tib had laid upon the counter, she proceeded to weigh and place on them the necessary staml)s. Well, Tib, and hows Mis~ Cranbrook? asked Mis. Deborah, as she proceeded in her dutyfor everybody in this little town knew little Tib, and that she came from the old school-house at St. Johns. But poorly, replied Tib. Her spirits go down, now the winter-days are so long and st?ll. Ay, and I dont wonder at it, said Debo- rah indignantly: shes had enough, and got enough still, to make a sore heart. I only wonder when those folks up in London will settle matters about the old school-house at St. Johns? Im sure I wonder when ! ~ echoed more than one customer; and little Tib sighed. For a minute or so no one spoke; then, as Deborah began to handle the letters Tib had laid down, she came to one or more heavier than the restenclosed, in fact, in official envelopes of large size. Now I daresay, said Deborah, wei0bing the largest in her hand, that this contains something nice as a Christmas remembrance as half em do, one may be pretty certain, for I never knew Miss Cranbrook to forget a friend. No, and she dont, replied little Tib, en- thusiastically, though I cant say as folks remember her half enough. But I should just like you to see inside that letter, for there are two as beautiful pair of worked sleeves as you ever seed. They are for the daughters of Dr. Musgrave, who were so kind to missis when she was in London in the spring. That other letter has a collar in it for somebody else; for, though she dont like her needle, missis cannot, as she says, be always sitting at her books; so she may just as well spare such stray minutes for her friends; and she dont forget one of em, I can tell you, Mrs. Snibson, quoth little Tib, 60 rising, like a singing-bird, higher and hi~her in her note of praise; for weve been mak- ing old Kit two new shirts; and others, that aint nigh as old, or nigh as good, have been thought of too, Im sure; thou ~ h it aint for em hardly to say so. Deborah smiled, and looked up tenderly into the hooded face. If the Mistress of St. Johns is good, so is the little maid, she thought. She now came to the last letter the smallest of alland she read, half aloud, half to herself, the superscription : Oliver Romney, Esq., Trinity College, Cambridge. And pray my dear, she added, how is Mr. Oliver? and has Miss Catherine heard of late? No, she aint, answered Tib; and it frets her sadly. She even risks this letter, thinking that if he is not at Cambridge it may he sent on; for he has rooms there still. Well, she neednt fear of gratitude there, if all accounts be true. And, bless me! to think that his father only kept a little drug- gists, shop in this town, and he what he is for they do say his brain and his edcation are wonderful! A gentleman told me so not a long while ago. Yes, it was a poor little druggists shop, just round the corner; and the lad went a good while to St. Johns. Nevertheless, Deborah Snibson, check your wonder; it is out of poor shops, and poor houses of many kinds, that much marvel- working intellect comesnot out of palaces or halls, or from the titled ranks; be very sure of that. The letters being safe now, in the post-bag, ~1ittle Tib rose to go; Deborah begging to be respectfully remembered to her mistress, and that her thanks be conveyed for a basket of pears sent the week before. Tib was turning from the door, when the post-mistress called her back. Oh, I nearly forgot it; but just tell your mistress that there was a gentleman at the Crown, the other day, and he made great inquiries, both there and about the town, as to the old place at St. Johns, as well as of herself. Nobody could learn his purpose, though Tom, the waiter, says he thinks he came from Oxford, by what he dropped. And Tib, tell your mistress, as well, that Mr. Rog- ers, the steward, was down, from Sutton Place, the other day, and told me that Sir Richard is coming to England for a short THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. time, as the Queen has made him ambassador to a different country to where he now is. Laden with this news, Tib w at. She now proceeded to the little market house, in a room above which was kept a fair- sized library of ancient books, bequeathed through a long course of yearsby sundry towns-folks, for the free use of such as might like to read them. Few were the applicants, so that the keeper thereof had an easy life of it; for, with the exception of the learned mistress at St. Johns, and a few neighboring parsons, a customer knocked rarely at tha nail-studded door. Opening this, and as- cending a little, crooked stair-case, Tih pre- sented herself, in a minute sort of antecham- ber, wherein old Jerry Clamp, the custodian, and his wife were getting their tea. From whatever cause derived, the old man had a very acrid nature; and, on occasion of festi- vals, such as this of Christmas, when men at least assume cheerfulness if they even do not feel it, his mood was always trebly bitter. And, strange to say, Mrs. Jerry shared this cynicism. So, when little Tib wished him a happy Christmas, and asked for the book. he began to growl. Ilappy Christmas! he ejaculated; dont wish it here, girl. This isnt the place nor the folks. Its all right enough, however, for such as have lots of money, and lots to eat, and lots to drink. Ha! ha! that aint here. And as to the book, its a very little onea nice little handy book to carry on a winters night, like this ! He took up the guttering candle as he spoke, and going into the adjacent room, re- turned directly, with an enormous folio, which he delivered to the little maid, with a grin. There, he said, the road and the load will do. I can do a deal for my missis, quoth little Tib, but I dont think I can carry this. But please sir, I know a nice young man, wholl be coming our way, I dare say, to- night, and hell call for it, please sir, and bring it. Very well, growled the cynic, very well, only mind he aint a minute after eight, or hell find the door closed. For Ive got my Christmas to keepbread and water by the light of a rushlight. And mind, young wo- man, tell your missis, from rue, that reading such books as this can lead but to a place I wont namethough its a very warm one THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. and Mr. Dodd, the vicar, as was here to-day, says s~ Ha! ha! pretty things ha heen taught at St. Johns, if all accounts he true. Tib, indignant at this, was about to reply hut Mr. Clamp slammed-to the door, and she had to creep her way down into the street. Nor was she distressed at Mr. Clamps pros- pective supper of bread and water, such being a pleasant fiction of his cynicism; for he was a miser, and, as report had it, could dine off bank-notes, if he so willed. In a few minutes little Tib stood in Bolt the grocers shop. That worthy, being some- what at leisure and prone to chat, served her with what she asked for, and then inquired if she had forgotten matters for the pudding. Please, no sir, answered Tib, ruefully, the old aunt as has got a bit of money has sent for me this Christmas, and missis will make me go; so she aint a-going to have a pudding, and that is just what it is. But she must, said Bolt: the mistress at St. Johns must never go without a pud- ding. Folks that dont taste Christmas fare aint 110 luck in the new year: and so you must make the pudding, Tib, and Ill find fruit and sugar. I can make a pudding, sir, said Tib, tri- umphantly; but you see, sir, the dear missis may-be would not boil it; for, ten to one she wont even roast the beef that I shall take home from Cobbs, but sit in deep sadness by the fire all day; l)ar-tik-lar if she dont get letters in the mornino fib, said the kindly grocer, emphatcally, and clutching a pound weight that lay hard by, as though for demonstration, a way to duty is always to be found. So you must get up early and make tile pudding, and put it on to boil before you go; and by the time she finds it, it may be done. So heres the fruit, of which, if a word is said, you can say it ill be all right in the billha! ha! And, amused at his own joke, whatever it might he, the merry little grocer wei0hed and pa- pered his finest raisins and choicest currents. When these were in the basket, he asked Tib what fruit she liked most. Now it hap- pened that all little Tibs tastes had latterly become merged in those of Joe; and there- fore, though her liking was for raisins, Joes was for figs, and so she modestly replied If you please, figs, sir. Whereupon Bolt papered a pound of figs, ~nd laid them, with a shilling, on the counter. 61 There, my girl, there they are, as well as a shilling to buy a top-knot. Tib curtseyed her thanks and prepared to go. She was closing the door, when the grocer, calling her back a step or two, said, My respects to your mistress, and a happy Christmas day, in spite of all. And just say that some frosty morning soon, ]i shall be walking the way of the old school-host e, and 1 will, with her honored leave, stel) in and have a chat about the school affairs; and that, meanwhile, she isnt to think a bit about the little hillits nothingits nothing. He waited till the little maid had closed the door, and then, he added, as if carrying on the sentence in continuous breath, no more it is. There are debts in this world th~ t can alone be summed up and paid in heaven, and this is one. For didnt she teach my nephew Richard noble things? Didnt she make him master in Latin and difficult fig- ures, in spite of bigoted trustees, who would have kept the poor towns lads to the Delect- us and the Rule of Three, if they could. And through this knowledge he has become a well-to-do gentleman; and so Heaven re- ward her, for I cannotI cannot and the old man dropped a tear. True, Bolt, our souls growth can only come by knowledge; and, therefore, glorification be to those who hold the divine cup to all who are athirst. When Cobb, the butcherand very fat and Falstaff-like he washeard little Tibs order for the beef, he whetted his knife on hi steel, and laughed to such a prodigal amount as to bring his ruddy complexion to the color of mulberries; whereupon as he leant a~ am sta bench, quite out of breaththough still whet- ting his knifea little shutter opening from a comfortable parlor was slid back, and a kindly voice cried Cobb, dear, hush! remember the apo- plexy. At as early a date as he might, the butcher attended to this injunctioh ; and then, repair- ing to the little cavity, whispered something. At this a spruce little woman made her ap- pearance, and the butcher giving his knife a final whet sent it like a sword into a large sirloin, and cut off a portion, which certainly, at the least, did not weigh less than ten pounds. He made feint to weigh it, and then brought it to ribs basket. It is a very large piece, sir, said the 62 little maid, and missis said only four or five pounds. We always give good weight at Christ- mas, lassOh! oh! and here Cobb went purple again, and his little wife, punching him on the back, cried Mind the apoplexy, dear. So, as the good old butcher would say no more, Tib was ol)liged to put the beef into the basket; and when Mrs. Cobb had sent her dutiful respects, and expressed her hope that when Miss Cranbrook came to town she would honor her by stepping in, and tasting the Christmas ale, little Tib went, first ask- ing, however, the point relating to her mis- tress last words. Why, Mr. Farquhar is very hadso had that he cannot see another week. My boy heard this when he was up at the house this morning. At this instant some customers entered; so, with this reply to her question, she departed. Mrs. Throwleys cottage was in one of the little ow-streets, or lanes, and just where the pretty rural town merged into the wooded country. She was a widow, and earned her bread by the culture of a field or two, and by keeping a cow; and her eldest boy, Joe, worked under the steward, at Sutton Place a noble ball, at about the distance of a mile from the town. She had two other boys be- side Joe, and very glad she was that he, who was so good a son, had set his heart on such a good girl as little Tib; though she was a poor orphan, and one who had known much of the worlds adversity, till Miss Cranbrook had befriended her. So, thinking that Tib would come to tea on this Christmas Eve, she had made great preparation of cake, and muffins, and slices of hamset in the picture of a cleanly kitchen, the best tea-things, and a rousing fire. But, before Tib could see these for herself, she was met by Joe, who kissed the frost off her face, and led her in in great triumph. Then, after a good deal was said all round, the tea was made and the muffins brought into requisition. After talking about many things espe- cially about Sutton Place, where Mrs. Throw- ley had once lived servantlittle Tib related her perplexity about the pudding. Mrs. Throwley listened, but said little; but when Joe had started off to the library, for the book, she broached what had been meanwhile passing in her brain. THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. You see, Tib, she said, that your old aunt is a miserly sort of body, and would be glad enough, I dare say, if you did not go to dinner; and so, to be there a little before tea-time would do very well. Now, as I had a goose sent me yesterday, I intend to roast it; and if so he you would dine here l)etween twelve and one, why we could put by the nicest part, with potatoes and greens, and apple-sauce. I could make a little pudding too, in a shape; for you know I am a good cook; and we could keep all hot by placing the dishes over a couple of milking-pails filled with boiling water, as I shall have plenty in the back-house copper. And then, my idea is, if Joe could borrow his masters light-cart and drive you to your aunts; you could, on your way, turn down the lane to St. Johns, and there you could steal in to the back door, and put the little dinner neatly on a tray, and cairy it into the parlor, and say If you please, maam would you ac- cept this dinner from little Tib? Oh ! its a nice thought, said the girl, her eyes sparkling with joy at the idea of giving pleasure to her mistress; but she is so independent that she will accept favors from no one. And I should not like to offend her, or hurt her feelings in any way. You wont, I think; for she is too good and too kind to mistake your meaning. So I would trythat I would. So Tib acquiescing, matters were so ar- ranged, as the young girl felt sure her mis- tress would not object to her dining with Joe and his mother. Moreover, just to give a coloring to the idea that the present was little Tibs, the plums and other things were con- signed to Mrs. Throwley; and Joe soon re- turning with the large book, and it being eight oclock, he and Tib set forth, as soon as something more in the way of refreshment had been partaken of. It was pleasant walking through the moon lit frosty woods, with the hoar frost shining like silver on the great hollies, and the scar- let berries, looking more scarlet by the con- trast. When she got home, the little maid found the kitchen-fire hright, and her mis- tress in the parlor, quietly reading; but she said little of her errands till Joe had rested and was gone. Then she carried-in supper, and told her mistress what Mrs. Snibson had said about the return of Sir Richard Sutton to Sutton Place; and of the visits and inqui THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. ries of the stranger from Oxford. Both cir- cnmstances seemed to surprise Miss Cran- hrook much. Not a word, however, was said on either side with respect to Mr. Far- quhar, till Tib coming in to make report that the house was safe, and to wish her mistress good-night, she related what she had heard. To this, Miss Cranhrook made no reply, other than an abrupt Good night; so Tib closed the door, and went up to hedthere to find, upon her little dressing-table, the lovely collar her mistress had worked, for her Christmas-box. For a long time after the little maid had left the room, Catherine sat just as though what she had listened to had rendered her incapal)le of motion. Eventually, however, she arose, and unlocking an old-fashioned escritoire, took thence a letter. This she hrought to the table; and re-seating herself, read it over and over again ; then it dropped from her hand, fluttered to the floor, and lay. Then pressing her face in her hands, her hands in turn upon the table, she sat till far into the night, with all the weight upon her soul of the desolation of this Christmas eve. When Tib ~vent to her mistress in the morning, she found her far from well; so she made breakfast, and took it to her. After this, Miss Cranbrook seemed hetter, and, rising, came down to her pleasant parlor, wherein the brightest of fires shone, and which Tib (by way of showing it was a fes- tive time) had dressed with holly and Christ- mas flowers. The latter then came in, to propose to stay at home, as her mistress was not well; for she had already told her of the proposal to dine with Joe and his mother, and to go afterwards to the old auntsa plan to which Miss Cranbrook had assented, and thought good. She would therefore listen to nothing Tib would say, but bid her hasten to get dressed and go. I would rather be alone to day, Tib, she said; much rather. And if I need to dine, I can boil an egg, or take a crust of oread and cheese; so make haste and go. Tib, having her own reasons for not wish- ing to press the subject of dinner, said noth- ing more; but, dressing and putting on the pretty collar, went down to take her leave. If you please, maam, I shall leave my warm shawl and basket, till about two o- clock, when I will call for them; for Joe will drive this way. 63 Very well, Tib; I shall be glad to sec you.~~ As soon as her little maid was gone, Cath- erine put on her garden-bonnet, and went forth to walk up and down an old terrace, from which there was a lengthened view of the road. Here she remained till she saw the postman approaching from the little town; then, opening the rustic wicket, she went forth to meet him. But he did not be- gin to look at his letters, or unbind the string which fastened them; so, even before she was close to him, her heart died down. She had so expected letters; had so prayed for them: her Christmas would be so deso- late without! No letters, Smith? No, maam, not one; leastways, this is all the post-missis gave me. Catherine looked them through. Every neighbor of hers, in the cottages and farms around, seemed to he blessed by the tender remembrances of others, only she was for- gottenshe to whom existence bad been a perpetual sacrifice, in all instmccs save one; and even in that, perhaps, if rightly viewed But hidin0 her disappointme. t, as usual, by an effort of her iron will, she chatted cheer- fully to the old man; bid him call on the morrow, when Tib would be at home, and have some ale. She then, reaching the wicket, wished him good day, and returned to the house. Here once more in the par- lor, she sank down in her chair and wept aloud. Forgotten forgotten! Alone! she said. Even by my dear Andrew, above all And the morning, which had been hitherto so bright, began to be darkened by descend- ing snow; so that the day sympathized, as it seemed, with the terrible depression which lay upon her sdul! It was weakness, all thisseeing her noble life, and the harvest coming of the immortal seed she had sown; but low in estate, from many causes, her spirit (usually so strong and full of faith) was bowed by the seeming desolation of the time and scene. In the meanwhile it would have been de- lightful to have watched all little Tibs pro- gresses: how Joe met her when not far into the woods; how he made pretext of kissing away the frost, just as he had done the night before; how in due time they reached the 04 town how dinner was ready early; how capital the goose and pudding both proved, and how the nicest part of the wise bird was put aside till, finally, with the pudding in the cart, Tib, Joe, and his little brother were on the way to St. Johns. Here arrived in the lane, a few yards off the picturesque old school-house, Joe and Tib alighted, and, carrying each a seething burden, went softly round to the court-yard in the rear. Here Tib, reaching the kitchen by a side door, she had purposely left unfastened, went softly about, like a little mouse, whilst Joe watched her through the window, and laid a snowy nap- kin on a tray, with silver and glass and other necessaries, and then set the nice hot dishes thereon, and went softly towards the parlor-door. Opening it, she put her head within, and said, Its me, missis. Come in, Tib. I am glad to see you! And Miss Cranbrook spoke as she lay quies- %nt on her couch beside the fire. So Tib, half frightened and much flurried, hurried in, and set the tray upon the table. If you l)lease, missis, she said, deprecat- ingly (and not daring to look at her mis- tress), I have hrought you. a piece of goose and a little pudding, and I hope you wont be offended with your little rfih~ (At this precise moment, Tih having wound herself up quIte to a pitch, burst into tears) ; for, oh! I couldnt hear that you should he with- out dinner; and, please maam, Mr. Bolt gave me the fruit, and said I was to make a puddin ~, for I said you wasnt going to have oneand so, please, Ive brough tit. And I won t stay more n ow, maam, for Joes wait- ma, and Ill sure and be home early. So saying, and without once looking at her mis- tress, she hurried from the room. When Miss Cranbrook had recovered from her great astonishment at this appearance of little Tib with so nice a dinner, she wondered what could have prompted so sweet a thought; fain ettin g, in so doing, what her own acts were. To please Tih, rather than from inclination, she tasted a little of both goose and pudding; then carried the tray away, and returned to her parlor. The cold was greaterthe frost more in- tensethe snow fell thicker and thicker as day began to wane. All at once she heard the sound of wheels in the lane, and a min- ute or so after, some one knocked upon the porch-door. hastening to open it, she wel THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. comed in Mr. Acton, an eminent surgeon, living at the distance of some miles. He said but little, till he was seated by the fire; then he asked her to accompany him to ee Mr. Farquhar. I-Ic is dying, said the surgeon, tbo%ht- fully, and, as he says that a few minutes speech would be to him the greatest human consolation, I hope you will not object to go! It is many years since I saw him, said Catherine, thoughtfully, and as though to hex- self. It is ; and, like you, he is utterly alone. You will therefore surely come. I will; I owe it to him! And Cathe- rine hastened from the room, to put on her cloak and bonnet. As she ~ent, the surgeon could but look with curiosity at the expressive and still handsome face, though some fifty years had left their traces there, and tinged her hair with grey. They were soon on the way to the coun- try-house where Mr. Farquhar lived. Leav- ing the servant in charge of the vehicle, they alighted at some little distance from it, and ap~)roaching by a wooded path, gained a pri- vate door. This was opened by an elderly man-servant, who led them up a stone-stair- case, and ushered them into a room, half had-chamber, half sitting-room. Here, in an easy-chair by the fire, sat a gentleman about sixty years of ane ; his hair, like Miss Cran- brooks, was tinged with grey, and he seemed a little hunch-backed. When Mr. Aetna had placed Catherine a chair, he withdrew. The gentleman held forth his hand; but Catherine was for some minutes too moved to take it. It is very good of you to come, he said at length, at such a season, and on such a night; but I thought you would. We have had many I)itter and solitary hoursand of somewhat wilful causing, if I mistal c not. We have; and when seasons, such a~ this come round, regret arises chiefly be- cause I possil)ly gave pain to you, Mr. Far- quhar. Otherwise, I do not doubt that I have attained a higher and more lasting hap- pinessthat is taking the averabe of yeara as they glide bythan had I followed the promptings of a more personal and selfish kind. TILE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. Undoubtedly. These victories cost us much; but the reward is great. Only tell me how it was, and what was the reason of your refusal twenty or so years ago. It was this :My father was, as you may have heard, a country gentleman of good fortune; IL and a brother were his only chil- dren. He gave me a fine education; for I had a taste for books, and this I found my only fortune when he died suddenly and my brothers dissipation of the estate left me penniless. Such being the case, I had to seek my bread; and I went as tutoress to the only son of Sir Richard Sutton, a neigh- bor and old friend of my family. Amongst the occasional visitors there was a somewhat eminent political character. We talked much: we had sympathies akin; and I liked him. On more than one occasion he said emphatically, At present circumstances pre- vent me, but I will make you an offer as soon as I can. I made no reply to this whenever it was saidneither assent nor dissent. Still, I believed that he spoke in good faith, and that his honor was irre- l)roachable. Three years after this I saw you: you hired this house of Sir Richard: you visited Sutton Place. Almost as soon as you saw me you made me an offer. It can- not be said that IL refused, for I repulsed you by absence rather than by words. I did not know then what you were, or the quality of your noble heart. Moreover, you were a stranger to mebrusque in maimer, and a little too authoritative to win. I was somewhat a hunchback, said Mr. Farquhar; perhaps that was it. No: in truth, no. But I felt myself bound to anothereven though indirectly. You should have had patience, and you would have won me; for I liked you even then. As it was As it w~ s, he interrupted, wringing his hands, as it was, I cursed my life and yours. In my mad disappointmentin my haste to show you that there were others whom I could winI married a heartless shrew, who in six weeks left me, and whom I have never since seen nor heard of, except as it has concerned money matters. Bitter- ly have I rued that haste. And bitterly, at times, have I rued my pride, and my false estimation of anothers honor. Soon after you discontinued your visits to Sutton Place I left there also. I had THIRD SERIES. LIYING AGE. 5 65 an enemy in the chaplainsince become the master of an Oxford College; and he, I have strong reason to believe, poisoned Sir Richards ears as to the heterodoxy of the knowledge I was imparting to his boy. So I left, and went to London, and began a lit- erary life. If men who pursue the higher departments of knowledge find money come slowly in, so, necessarily, must a woman, whose hindrances are so formidable, After two years struggle I returned to the coun- try, and l)rocured the mistresship of St. Johns, which was then vacant, and of which a trusteeship belonged to my family. It is, as you kiww, a branch of the old Grammar School in our little country town, and in- tended for the preparation of boys between six and ten years old. When I had brought the school into some kind of organization I was very happy; for the old school-house had always been a lovely place. But the payment of the salary soon fell into arrears, owing to the bad mana,, ement of the trus- tees; and now, for eighteen years, I have been struggling on with the merest pittance and but for the earnings of my pen, I must have starved. Some thirteen hundred pounds is due, andwith what I have spent in re~ pairs to the bi~i1ding, and other thingsis upwards of sixteen hundred pounds. For the last six months the school has been closed, and the whole business is now in the hands of the n4ewly organized Charities Com- mission. When last I heard, it was inti- mated to me that St. Johns will be sold. If so, and I am paid, I shall, with what is due, buy the old place. It is endeared to me by a thousand memories, and there I wish to die. Since his fathers death, my old pupil, Sir Richard Sutton, has written to me in the kindest manner. He says he owes to me all which is valuable in life, and that when he comes to England he shall bring me his two little sons to do by them as I did by the father, and he will pay me handsomely. If this he so, St. Johns will be no longer solitary. I shall be indepen- dent, and be able to l)iirsue, at leisure inter- vals, the assistance I have now for some time been rendering to my beloved Oliver. What I have seen of him, said Mr. Farquhar, I like much. He appears to be an extraordinary youn0 man. A gentleman who was here from town, a few days since, says that his forthcoming book is likely to 00 be a masterpiece. I see that it is adver- tized. Indeed! This is news to me, said Cath- erine; for, to my bitter disappointment, I bad neither letter or paper from him this morning. Indeed, I suppose he means to surprise me, for he has been silent for some weeks. But I attributed it to the illness of his relative, a miserly old tradesman in Lon- don, who, for some years has allowed him a gentlemanly income, and at his death will leave him a considerable fortune. This is well, said Mr. Farquhar. Means to rest upon is an absolute necessity, if literature is to be pursued with an un- broken spirit, and with an ultimate purpose of high intent. And my object, somewhat in asking you to come here to-night is to sue for leave to make your remaining days free from troubles of a pecuniary kind. I have the means. You may have, but I have no right to them: so make no attempt of the kind, for it will be utterly useless. A book or two you may leave me, if you likenothing more. And, she added solemnly, and low- ering her voice, for the pain I caused you for the mistake I madewill you, in the profound charity of this time and hour, for- give me? I will, I will, he said, with choked ut- terance, more readily, and more truly if you will tell me one thing. Did you ever love me? I did! I do! she said vehemently. I have drained the bitter cup of deep regret, if such confession makes atonement. It will; because for years I have nightly prayed for Gods tender mercy to me in the life to come: that, even as I have loved you with the deepest human loveeven as I have worshipped your high intellect and lofty powereven as I reverence your singleness of heart, your rectitude, and trutheven as for years I have watched and wondered at what you had done for truth, ultimately, throu~,h those you have taught and trained so do I pray that, side by side with you on some nobler scene, we may have companion- ship. For this I shall ever pray unto the end; and, trusting in the perfect goodness of Almighty God, find rest and peace. Amen! Amen U she said~ so pray I likewise! THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHN S. She could say no more; so she rose even as she spoke, and prepared to go. He put a book into her hand he had been reading: and as he gave it, she pressed her lips down on his fingers. This was her sole farewell, as it was his; and so they parted. When she once more gained the air the snow had ceased, the moon and stars were shining, and a deep peace seemed brooding both far and near. Little was said during the drive to St. Johns; and when there she alighted and went in alone. Tib had not yet returned; but as soon as she was within and had got a light, she became aware that some one knocked at a door at the rear. Hurry- ing thither, she found a country bumpkin holding a parcel and a letter in his hand If ye please, missus, I bin a-knocking till ee bones be sore like. Mrs. Snibsons warry sorry; but shed such a lot to think on with the beef and puddia as to make this yere parcel and letter go clean out on her head. So you must just forgive her, inissus. Catherine proved that she did so by giv- ing the bumpkin a shilling and dismissing him. She came back into the parlor, tore the post cover off the thick and noble looking volume, and found, as she suspected, that it was Oliver liomneys book, and, to her great surprise, that it was simply and briefly dedi- cated to herself. Then she read his letter, explaining his some weeks silence by his desire to surprise her with the gift of the first copy of his book on Christmas Day. It said, too, that his uncle was dead and buried, and that, when affairs contingent thereto, were settled, he should be the master of a handsome yearly income. Means would be, therefore, hiseven did they not otherwise ariseto secure St. Johns, restore it, enrich it with the finest books in many languages, and thus affording him a place for retire- ment, country change, and study, leave her mistress of the old place, with power to aid him, by gathering together out of books of many kinds, those facts and sequences of hu- man action and natural laws from which alone the generalizations worthy the name of history can be drawn. Thus, even as she stood on the desolate and unlit hearth, she could but feel that some triumph and some joy was hers. THE MISTRESS OF ST. JOHNS. Presently little Tib came home, with much to tell her mistress of her aunts kindness, and what Joe had said; and her mistress, in turn, had much to say about the goose and pudding. When Tib was gone to bed, the fire bright, the lamp lighted, Catherine sat down to look at Olivers book; and so she read on and on till the deepest peace was hers. So the night closed upon the old School House of St. Johns. * * * * * A year has gone by, and the old hollies ubout St. Johns are a0ain thick set with ruddy berries. Catherines affairs are now settled ; she has bought St. Johns, its wood and meadows, orchard and gardens. With the residue of her little money, and what she has for the teachin a and ~ nardianship of Sir Richard Suttons little sons, she is inde- pendent: for the affairs respecting the school were more easily settled by reason of the 67 good offices of a certain Oxford dignitary, who, hearing to what low estate Catherine Cranbrook had come, had thus repaired much evil he had caused long years before. On this Christmas morning she sits at breakfast in one of the charming old par- lors of St. Johns, now renovated and clothed all round with the library Mr. Farquhar be- queathed in his will. A little boy sits on either side of Catherine, and Oliver is oppo- site. rrhe fire burns bright; the sun steals in; the ivy wreathes green about the win- dow. Little Tib comes bursting in with a hand- ful of letters, and her face is very radiant, for her Joe, and his mother and brothers, and her old aunt, and Kit, the old gardener, are to dine in the kitchen to-day. The 0roup thus gathered in the old book- lined room is a charming one, and there is peace in the long-tried heart of the mis- tress of St. Johns. The Litereture of Arnericen Aboriqiaal Len- guaqes. By Herman Ludewig. With addi- tions and Corrections by Professor Win. W. Turner. Edited by Nicholas Trilbuer. Lon- don: Triibner and Co. 1858. Tuis is the first instalment of a work which will l)e of the reatest value to philologists be- ing a compendinm of the aboriginal languages of the American continent, and a digest of all the known literature bearing upon those lan- guages. Thus, if a student wishes to become acquainted with the Haiti language, he finds, upon reference under that head, that the abori- gin~ 1 inhabitants of the island of St. Domingo are extinct, and that in cerft in works, referred to at length, words, vocabularies, grammars, and grammatical notices of the haitian lan- guage will he fonnd. The most astonishing circumstance connected with this hook is the numoer of languages referred to. Those not previously informed upon the subject would scarcely suspect the existence of so many lan- guages in the whole world as are here proved to have existed in America alone. Many of these languages are of course extinct; but traces of them are to be found in the writings of the early missionaries, who are ever the pioneers, not only of commerce, but of philology. In apportioning the degrees of credit due to the three gentlemen who have contributed to this recondite work, it should be observed that it is based upon the labors of Dr. Hcrmann E. Ludewig, a philologist and a jurist of great ac- (luirements, and well known in Germany and the United States. Dr. Ludewig emi~rated to America in 1844, and from that time up to his death, in December, 1856, lie bestowed great attention to the study of American linguistics 1)r. Ludewigs death has rendered it necessary for others to step in and complete the work which lie so hopefully commenced; and we are glad to know that this labor of love has fallen into such able hands as those of Professor Turner and Mr. Trfibner. Professor Turner s additions are distinguished by being placed within brackets, and by the addition of his initials; but they do not comprehend any very large portion of the work. Mr. Trhbners hand has been engaged passirn, and in his pteface he lays claim to about one-sixth of the whole. In conclusion, we have no doubt that the en- couragement with which this portion of the work will be received by scholars will be such as to inspire Mr. Trhbner with sufficient confi- dence to persevere in his arduous but most lion- orable task. Cr die. DEATIt OF A ScitoLAitCualous WILL. We learn from an interesting communication in the Portsmouth (N. H.) Journal, that George Jaifrey. Esq., of that city, died there, at the age of ~. He hind been librarian of the Ports- mouth J.thennum for 33 years. Tie was a pro- found selolar, having devoted his life to books, the will of his great uncle forbidding him to follow any other profession than that of a gen- tleman, and compelling him also to make Ports- mouth his permanent residence. His great uncle in question was a graduate of Harvard College in the year 1736; was ~n original pur- cha,ser of Masons patent; a clerk to the pro- prietors; was one of His Majestys Council; and was a man of great wealth and conse- quence. lie died at the age of 86 years, in the year 1802. In his will he bequeathed all his real and personal estate to his grand nephew and namesake, Geoege Jaifrey Jeifries, then only thirteen years of age. The inheritance was on these conditions: that he should drop the name of Jeifries, become a permanent resi- dent in Portsmouth, and never follow any pro- fession except that of being a gentleman. 68 WORKS OF DIJGALD STEWART. From The Literary Gazette. the great metaphysician were in the hands of The Gollected Works of Dugald Stewart, his son, Colonel Matthew Stewart, who had Esq., F.R.S. Edited hy Sir William prepared a hiographical memoir; hut the Hamilton, Bart. Vol. X. With a Memoir greater part of Mr. Stewarts correspondence of bugald Stewart, hy Jolm Veitch, M.A. and his private journals were hurned hy this Constable and Co. gentleman, uader the influence of an unfortu IDUGALD STEWAwT was the most conspien- nate mental hallucination, the result of a ous of that hand of distinguished teachers sunstroke received in India. The few letters who, at the close of the last century, gained and other biographical materials that could for the northern capital the title of the he sul)sequent.ly collected were put into the modern Athens. During the twenty-five hands of the late Sir William Hamilton. years that he held the chair of Moral and He had completed the revision of all Stew- Political Philosophy, the University of Edin- arts published writin0s, the last of which, burgh was at the zenith of its fame. In the memoirs of Adam Smith, Robertson, and physical science it had long before become Reid, are included in his tenth volume of the celebrated under such men as the first and collected edition of his works. But again second Monro, James and David Gregory, there was to be disappointments to the prom- the mathematicians, and Maclaurin, the first ised memoir. A few fragmentary notes astronomer who gave public prelections on were all that could be transferred by the the Newtonian discoveries. It was reserved publishers, on the death of Sir William Ham- for Dugald Stewart to raise Edinburgh to an ilton, to Mr. Veitch, one of his most accom- equal reputation as a school of ethical and plished pupils, and for some years his assist- political philosophy. From the class room ant reader in the University. This gentleman of Stewart ~vent forth many men whose has performed his task creditably; but names were associated, during the first half must re0ret the absence of an expositor, of this century, with the progress of opinion, trained, like Sir William Hamilton, in a sys and not a few of those who have taken the tem of philosophy which few would now-a- lead in practical statesmanship. Among days bear the pains of studying in the on- those who yet appear in public affairs it is ginal. sufficient to mention Lord Lansdowne, Lord Dugald Stewart was born within the walls Palmerston, Lord Brougham, and Lord John i of that University with the history of which Russell. Of other pupils distinguished in his name is associated. His father, Dr. Mat- various walks of life a few survive, such as thew Stewart, was Professor of Mathematics, Sir David Brewster, Lord Dundonald, and and in the house attached to the professorship Lord Murray, but the greater numberJef- in the old Colleae buildin s his son was born frey, Homer, Cockburn, Birkbeck, Levden in 1753. His a g - early education he received at have passed away. the High School of Edinburgh, two of the Although it is now thirty years since six years under the tuition of Dr. Adam. Stewarts death, and nearly fifty years since In 1765 he entered the University, where he he resigned his professonial chair, the history studied till 1769. To the teaching of James of his career has remained hitherto a vague Russell in Natural Philosophy, John Steven- traditon. In the Memoirs of Francis br- son in Logic, and Adam Ferguson, the his- ner, and of Henry Cockburn, there are mci- tonian of the Roman Republic, and Professor dental notices of his life and labors, but the of Moral Philosophy, Dugald Stewart owed preparation of a formal memoir has been the formation of his philosophical character. prevented by a series of untoward circum- In 1771 he went to the University of Glas- stances. It was long ex~ected that Lord gow, where he enjoyed the privilege of the Jeffrey would have been his biographer ; and prelections of Dr. Thomas Reid, the founder a brilliant book he would have made on a of the Scottish school~ of mental science. theme combining the political with the liter- Reids teachino was well fitted to arrest any and philosophical history of Scotland in the l~ tter half of the ciobtecath and the and influence an ingenuous mind that was a awaking to a life of reflection, and to a sense early part of the present century. From of the philosophical need of the times various causes Jeffrey did not execute the Throughout its entire course, it was a polemic design. The materials for a detailed life of against Locke, Berkeley, and Humetb WORKS OF DUGAID STEWART. 69 three philosophers with whose writings he on his pupils is thus genially described by was certainly best acquainted. His lectures, the biographer: clear and simple, wi~hout technicality, nice refinement, formal distinctions, or systematic The period of attendance on the prelec- perfection, inculcated doctrines which were tions of Stewart remained sacred in the mind the fresh products of his own vigorous reflec- of many a l)ul)il, long after the quiet of the tion. rihose doctrines he aimed at exhibiting University had been exchanged for the hustle merely as legitimate grounds of assurance ~ of the world, as a time of elevated converse regard to realities which the philosophy he with great themes, and the source of a refin combated cast beyond the pale of knowledge ing and ennobling influence then first amal- and existence. * * * gamated with the current of life. The man No pupil ever caught the spirit of a mas- the purity and elevation of his personal ter more fully, or more intelligently appreci- characterthe enlarged, liberal, and tolerant ated his method of philosophical inquiry, spirit which he carried into speculationhis During a long life consecrated to reflection, unwavering confidence in the steady progress Stewart nourished that spirit in Scotland, of humanity towards a fuller realization of and continued the application of the same truth and virtuehis chastened eloquence method to speculative science; and won by and ample stores of illustrative imagery and his accomplishments as a teacher and writer, classical referencethe thorough mastery a wider interest and fuller acceptance for he showed of his powers of intellect and philosophical doctrines than they had before imagination, springing from assiduous culture experienced in Britain. his grace of speech and mannerthe re- pose and dignity of his academic demeanor, In 1772, when only in his nineteenth year, not unrelieved by a vein of quiet and kindly he was called upon by his father, whose humorlong remained in the memory of health was declining, to take charge of the numerous pupils, scattered abroad over many mathematical classes in the University of lands, whom his impressive teaching first Edinburgh. After acting three years as his awoke to a full sense of the duty and the fathers substitute, lie was elected joint-pro- dignity of man, and whose higher feelings fessor and nobler impulses he called forth and ani in 1773. In 1778, on Adam Ferguson mated. In the case, indeed, of the finer being appointed Secretary to the British minds amon~ his pupils who most thoroughly Commissioners sent to America to attempt a imbibed their masters spirit,, and profited settlement of the disputes with that country, most fully by his teaching, the lapse of time, Stewart was invited to teach the Moral Phil- as they gradually receded in the journey of osophy class in the professors absence. life, from the era of their attendance on This task he fulfilled with high credit, con- Stewarts prelections, served but to enhance tinuino On the feeling of sacrednesss with which they ~ at the same time his mathematical regarded the pure spring whence, in early lectures. the resignation of Adam Fer- youth, they had drawn supplies for the needs guson in 1785, Stewart was transferred to of their opening moral and intellectual life. the chair of Moral Philosophy, which he held More space would be necessary than we till 1810. rJ7he subjects taught in this class can spare for entering on any critical review embraced psychology and metaphysics, natu- of the philosophical or political questions ml theology, ethics proper, the theory of which occupied a prominent l)lace in Stew- taste, or ~sthetics, as the modern term is, arts lectures. It was not by originality of politics, or the theory of government, and thought so much as by felicity of statement the science of political economy, to which the that his teaching was characterized, and his great work of Adam Smith had attracted chief influence was exerted in exciting a wide nexv attention. Of the manner of treating interest in subjects which till then had only these varied subjects Mr. Veitch gives an engaged the notice of speculative students. animated description, with notices of the For example, the published Lectures on personal characteristics of Stewart as a lee- Political Economy show no advance beyond turer and teacher, as handed down by the the Wealth of Nations in regard to posi- traditions of his pupils. Dugald Stewart, tive doctrines. But it was the first time that says Lord Cockburn, was one of the great- public prelections on political economy had est of didactic orators. Had he lived in an- been given in this country, and the discussion cient times, his memory would have descended of such subjects from an academic chair to us as that of one of the finest of the old caused no little sensation at the time. The eloquent sages. The influence he exercised class was commenced in 1800, and was kept 70 np till shortly before Mr. Stewarts resigna- tion of the Moral Philosophy chair in 1810. From that time to his death in 1828 he lived in retirement, devoting himself to the tran- quil pursuits of literature and philosophy. His last work, the Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers, was given to the world only a few weeks hefore his death. The greater part of Mr. Stewarts corres- pondence, as we have already mentioned, was destroyed hy his son. A few letters have heen preserved, most of them addressed to Mr. Alison, author of the Essays on Taste, and father of Sir Archihald Alison, the historian. In 1788 Stewart accompanied the Earl of Lauderdale in his mission to Paris, and witnessed some of the memorable scenes of the early days of the French Revolu- tion. He was present at many of the sittings of the States General at Versailles, and heard the opening dehate on the mode of delibera- tion, whether it should he par tete ou par ordre. A few days after he writes to his friend Alison The nohlesse and the clergy did not meet on Monday or Tuesday, as Sunday was Pente- cost, and the two following days jours de fete, hut the Tiers Etat continued their de- liberations, without however doinn any thing of much consequence. Of late they have admitted strangers into the gallery, which they are always to do for the future, and I accordingly went to Versailles the day hefore yesterday to hear one of their dehates. The subject (which I have not time to explain to you at present) was not very interesting, hut on the whole I was very well pleased with what I heard. The Comte de Mirahean spoke repeatedly, along with several others, who I think want nothing hut practice to make them very good debaters. Many of the members have already laid aside the costume prescribed to them, and appeared with colored clothes and with swords. One man, who I presume has seen our House of Commons, was dressed in hoots and huckskin hreeches. They have adopted all our Par- liamentary expressions, to a degree which is somewhat ludicrous. Faire une motion; Proposer un amendement, & c.; Lhonorable membre qui vient de parter, & c., with a great many others. In speaking of themselves too, they always call themselves Les Com- munes, and not Tiers Etat. The principal speakers who have hitherto distinguished themselves are, M. liabot de St. Etienne I (the Protestant clergyman whom I formerly mentioned, and who has decidedly at present the principal lead in the Assemhly), NI. de Volney (the traveller), M. Target (a very eminent lawyer, and a member of the French Academy,) the Comte de Mirahean, the Chevalier Dupont [de Nemours] (the econo WORKS OF DIJGALD STEWART. mist), hesides a variety from the provinces, whose names have never heen heard of be- fore. The name of Rabot de St. Etienne is at l)resent as well known in France as that of Fox in England. On his way to Paris he heard one of Sheridans celebrated speeches at the trial of Warren hastings in Westminster hall. His criticism is curious Mx- DEA Axc~sy,1 heard Sheridan the two first days, and was disappointed. He has quickness and wit, and something that passes with his hearers in Vestminster hall for eloquence; but he neither is, nor ever will be, a great speaker. The cry is at present so much in his favor that every critic- ism, either on his matter or manner, is heard with conteml)t; but when the speech is pul) lished, I will venture to say that the delusion will be at an end. Of the business l)art of the speech I do not pretend to judge (al- though, I am certain, that Fox would K ye stated the argument with infinitely greater perspicuity and force); but as to his eloquence, I really do not think it much better than his fathers flourishes in his rhetorical lectures, and it is upon this that the merit of the speech is principally rested by his admirers. Indeed, whatever the newspaper writers may choose to say upon the subject, you may be assured from me, that excepting with a very few people in the House, neither his reason- ing, nor his detail of facts commanded the attention; and the only thing that inter- ested the whole assembly was a set of com- posed declamations, which he had scattered through the speech at proper distances from each other, and which differed so remarka- bly from the other l)arts of it, both in point of expression (for the language was as arti- ficial as that of Gibbon), and in the manner in which they were pronounced, that I am perfectly astonished that it should have re- ceived so very high applause from many peo- ple who should know better. But I must delay a more l)articular account of him till I see you. I should be sorry to talk in this way in public, for it would be considered as mere petulance and affectation; hut I can assure you his eloquence hardly once touched me, and that I could not see the affected rap- tures of the people who were sitting near me without some degree of india nation. I understand lie made a still greater display the last day; but I hardly feel any regret at having missed the opportunity of hearing it, for I am sure, if I know the full extent of any mans powers in the way of eloquence, it is Sheridens. He is not once to be com- pared either to Fox, Pitt, or Burke. In- deed, I am assured, that nothing has been heard half so pathetic and sublime as WORKS OF IDUGALD STEWART. Burkes peroration at the beginning of last session. Few probably are acquainted with Dugald Stewarts account of Burns in the life of the poet i)y Dr. Currie, fragments only of which have been reproduced in subsequent biogra- phies. The most remarkable point in these reminiscences is that which refers to the in- tellectual power of Burns apart from his poetic genius Among the poets whom I have happened to know, I have been struck in more than one instance, with the unaccountable disparity between their general talents, and the occa- sional inspirations of their more favored mo- ments. But all the faculties of Burns mind were as far as I could judge, equally vigor- ous; and his predilection for poetry was rather the result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned temper, than of a genius exclu- sively adapted to that species of composition. From his conversation, I should have pro- nounced him to be fitted to excel in what- ever walk of ambition he had chosen to cx & t his abilities. * * His memory was uncommonly retentive, at least for poetry, of which he recited to me frequently long compositions with the most minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in our Scottish dia- lect; great part of them (he told me) he had learned in his childhood, from his mother, who delighted in such recitations, and whose poetic~ 1 taste, rude as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction to her sons genius. Stewarts personal acquaintance with Burns only extended over three or four years. They first met in Ayrshire, in 1786, and the next winter Burns spent in Edinburgh, where the attentions he received from all ranks and description of persons would have turned any head but his own: In the course of the spring, he called on me once or t~vice, at my request, e~ rly in the morning, and walked with me to Braid Hills in the neighborhood of the town, when he charmed me still more by his private conver- sation than he had ever done in company. He was passionately fond of the beauties of nature; and I recollect once he told me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the hap- piness and the worth which they contained. The last time I saw him was during the winter 1788-89, when he passed an evening with me at iDrumsheugh, in the neighbor- hood of Edinburgh, ~vbere I was then living. My friend, Mr. Alison, was the only other 71 person in company. I never saw him more agreeable or interestino Besides the letters to Mr. Alison, the only other relics of Stewarts correspondence con- sist of two uniml)ortant letters to Francis homer, and the following to Sir Samuel Romilly, dated from Kinneil House, where lie resided after his retirement from Edinburgh: My DEAR SIR, I have yet to thank you for the very great pleasure I received from your Observations on the Criminal Law of England. On every point which you have there touched upon, your reasonings carried complcte conviction to my mind; and how- ever unsuccessful they may have been in ac- complishing your object in Parliament, I am satisfied that they must have produced a very strong impression on public opinion. I hop~ that nothino will discourage you from the a prosecution of your arduous undertaking, in which you cannot fail to be seconded by the good wishes of every man of common hu- manity, whose understanding is not alto- gether blinded by professional or by politi- cal prejudices. I was more particularly interested in that part of your argument, where you combat Paley, whose apology for the existing system I never could read without feelings of indig- nation. Indeed, I have more than once lost my temper in discussing the merits of that part of his book with some of your couniry- men, who were disposed to look up to him as an oracle, both in politics and in morals. Your reply to him is, in my opinlon, quite unanswerable. I ever am, my dear Sir, most sincerely yours, PUGALD STEWART. Among the letters to Mr. Stewart, there is one from Burns, in which, referring to a poem which he enclosed, he pays him the compliment of asking his criticism. It is written from Ellisland, in July, 1790 I regret much that I cannot have an 01)- portunity of waiting on you, to have your strictures on this poem, how I have succeeded on the whole, if there is any incongruity in the imagery, or whether I have not omitted some apt rural paintin~s altogether. I will not pretend to say, whether it is owing to my prejudice in favor of a gentleman to whom I am so much indebted, or to your critical abilities ; but in the way of my trade as a poet, I will subscribe more imj)licitly to your strictures than to any individual on earth. The present edition of Mr. Stewarts col- lected works was to have been complete in ten volumes, but a supplementary volume is now announced, containing translations of the passages from ancient and foreign authors quoted in his writings, and a general index to the whole work. 72 From The Athennum. The Poetical TVorks of William Collins. (Bell & iDaldy). TIrE title-page of this attractive volume makes no promise of a bionral)hy,l)ut we are hound to state that what Mr. Moy Thomas, the Editor, modestly styles a Me- moir, is in reality a biography of considera- ble merit, hoth for its agreeable style, and its additional details of hitherto unknown pas- sages in the career of a man whose struggles and whose fate render him next in interest to Chatterton. Mr. Thomas Memoir opens with a correction, and places the date of the poets birth, at Chichester, on Christmas Day, 1721. Johnsons Life gives the date of the birth exactly one year earlier; but Mr. Thomas shows that the error arose from forgetting that the date of Collins bap- tism in the church register, 1721, 1 Janua- ry, referred to the ecclesiastical year ending on the 24th of March. The hatters son and future poet was, in fact, christened on what we should call New Years Day, 1722. Johnson passes from Collins birth to his school career at Winchester; hut Mr. Thomas notices the tradition that his hero was previously at the Prebendal School, in his native town; and he also records the fact of his having been intended for the Church. At Winchester he had as humbly born, and a still more humbly connected lad than him- self for a schoolfellow, Whitehead; and also Joseph Warton and Hampton,all bearing names subsequently known to fame. The head-master of the period was Dr. Burton, who had portraits taken of his favorite gen- tleman-pupils; but the boys named ahove were mere foundation boys, and the Doctor would not condescend to hang their counter- feit presentments on his walls. The portrait of Collins, at the age of fourteen, prefixed to this volume, if it he a vera effigies, shows that the boy was a remarkably handsome gentleman-like fellow. He was already a writer of verses; and three years later he wrote his Oriental Eclogues, a work in which there is nothing Eastern but the pro- per names. Of local color there is not the slightest tint. When Moore sat down to read hooks on the Eastern subjects, in order to qualify himself for Lalla Rookh, the snows of a Derbyshire winter could not drive from his minds eye the roses, the scents, the landscape hues, the scenery, the POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM COLLINS. figures, the speech, the glow, glory, and gor- geousness of the East. It was otherwise with Collins. He, too, read,read dry, dus- ty, priggish, and ingenious Mr. Salmon, and he retained so little of what was Asiatic in his imagination, that he himself called his eclogues Irish eclogues. The Eclogues were not published till after Collins had entered Magdalen College as a demy. From 1741 to 1744, the period of his Oxford residence, he wrote a little, studied a little, took a B.A. degree, indulged in a good deal of lotus-eating, and kept up his acquaintance with his early friends the lATartons, with Hampton and Whitehead, and Gilbert White, the delightful historian of Selborne, from whose pen, as it now appears, came the interesting account of Collins pub- lished in the Gentlemens Magazine under the signature V. He repaired, now fath- erless and motherless, to a military uncle in Flanders, who pronounced him too indolent even for the army. The uncle here referred to was Lient-Col. Edmund Martin, as stated by Johnson. Poor Collins, too indolent for the army, then turned towards the Church, only to be turned from it, so easily are indo- lent people led away from their own pur- poses, by the famous inventor of hard- hams Mixture, the well-to-do snuff shop- keeper, in Fleet Street. Thereupon followed that brief career of some dozen years, which is so delicately touched upon by Johnson, who barely hints at the faults of his friend, while he insists on his virtues, weeps over his struggles, apolo- gizes for his short-comings, emblazons his merits, and criticizes him with a glorious im- partiality and unquestionable truth. Of all that the literary strugglerhalf-starved to- day, hard-drinking on the morrow, feasting, fasting, toiling, idling, revelling, repenting, running after princes, or hidinn from baili of all that Collins wrote ere his active in- tellect made wreck, before death mercifully laid his finger on him, his Odes will be the longest remembered. WTithin the mein- ory of the most of us, his Ode on the Pas- sions was a favorite piece recited by actors on their benefit nights. In this speciality, it I)eat Bucks, have at ye all ! which was equally a favorite with a public, who perhaps did not so much appreciate the language of Collins as the acting of the player who em- bodied each passion, and in the presence of POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM COLLINS. an eager and delighted half-price just added to the earlier audience, staggered across the sta~e in Fear; or looked like scathing Anger, or hung his head in Despair, or waved the imaginary golden hair of Hope, or assumed the withering scowl of impatient Revenge, or the downcast gaze of dejected Pity,or, in short, called down the thunders of the house. The Ode on the Passions is a grand picture; hut grand as it is, it will never work the exquisite charm wrought on the mind by the rhymeless Ode to Even- ing, one of the most graceful, soft, tender, airy pieces that ever fell from the pen or beart of a poet Collins Odes [says Mr. Thomas] have always been the favorite o~ poets; and they won for him, perhaps, even then, the praises he prized most. He formed an acquaintance with Thomson, and soon after took a lodging at Richmond, where Thomson resided, in the midst of that little knot of men of genius who enjoyed the precarious patronage of Frederick Prince of Wales. Mallet, and Quinn, and Armstrong, and Collinss pub- lisher, Millar, were of that roystering com- pany who were accustomed to hold jovial meetings at the Castle, until long after sober hours. Thomson appears to have been very intimate with Collins. He in- formed him that he took the hint of his Sea- sons from the titles to the four Pastorals of Pope. Warton was introduced by Col2uins to Thomson, who discussed learnedly with him on the Greek tragedies. Early in 1748, Thomson published the Castle of Thdolence, his last and most poetical work, the opepin0 of which contained, avowedly, sketches of his associates. Among these is a portrait for which no satisfactory claim has been estab- lished, and which may well have been in- tended for Collins, who is described by laughorne as being of a fixed, sedate aspect, and whose habit of indulging in sl)lendid ProJects must have been notorious among his friends: Of all the gentle tenants of the place, There was a man of special grave remark; A certain tender gloom oerspread his face, Pensive, not sad, in thought involved, not dark. * *~ * * * Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind; But with the clouds they lIed, and left no trace behind. But a gloom quickly overspread the faces of all those dreamers in the Fairy Castle. The Prince, whose tastes and habits were 73 coarse, and who had probably only l)atron- ized men of letters as a ground of distinction from the unlettered character of the King, his father, quarrelled with his friend Lyttel- ton, the patron of Thomson. The l~ensions to Thomson, Mallet, and West were meanly withdrawn, and any hope which Collins may have had of favor vanished. A greater trouble befel them. In August, 1748, Thom- son caught a fever and died suddenly, and Collins quitted Richmond. Soon afterwards he l)ainted that tender and beautiful tribute to the l)oets memory, the Ode on the Death of Thomson, which he inscribed to Lvttel- ton, and published, in folio, in June of the following year. Of the Oriental Eclogues, Mr. Thomas thus speaks They have much of the rich and peculiar diction of Collins. He is said, on more than one authority, to have expressed his dissatis- faction with them, by calling them his Irish Eclon ues: but in this he no doubt simply referred to some remarkable blunders in his fi st edition. By a fiction in the preface, the Eclogues are stated to have been written in Persian by Abdallab, a native of Tauris; but before the l)oet had reached the end of his first Eclogne, he had so far forgotten his assumed character as to write the line: When sweet and oderous, like an eastern bride and again: Thus sung the swain, and eastern legends say, The maids of Bagdad, & c. These and one or two other similar acci- dents of a less important nature, as in the line in which the diamonds of Balsora are said to sparkle to the sight, no doubt, were the cause of the poets calling them his Irish Eclogues. Alto a ether, Mr. Thomas ranks Collins high, and gives good reasons for most of his praise. On the death of Collins he remarks, adding another correction of Jolmsons erro- neous chronology: He died at Chichester, in the arms of his sister, on the 12th of June, 1739, and in the thirty-ninth year of his age. Such, says Johnson, was the fate of Collins, with whom once deli a I hted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness. The world from which he had retired had already forgotten him. ~rI~he neglected author of the Persian Eclogues, says Goldsmith, in his Enquiry into the State of Learning, which, however inaccurate, excel any in our lan~unge, is still aJive; happy if insensible of our neglect, not raging at our ingratitude. The braise of Goldsmith had not then the POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM COLLINS. 74 value in mens eyes which it afterwards pus- Andrew, at Chichester, on the 15th of June, sessed : but it is doubtful if Collins ever read 1759. this token of his future fisme. Goldsmiths As an editor, Mr. Thomas has done his work Essay was not published until April, 1759 excellently; and the text of Collins has had two months only before Collinss decease. all his care and resl)ect. In this circum- No newspaper or ma~azine of the time re- cords the poets death: so little trace had stance also, this volume contrasts favorably his later years left in the minds of his most with the old Aldine editions of English intimate friends, that Johnson, who consuIte d poets,that of Young especially, which with the Wartons, when writing his Memoir abounds with absurd mislirints. The cor- of Collins, describes his death as having reetness of Mr. Thomass edition of Collins taken place in 1756, three years hefore the renders us impatient for Mr. Bruces Cow- fact. He was buried in the Church of St. per and Mr. Thon~ss Pope. A GEsucAx KITcHENOne morning, being up unusually early, and having mistaken the hour, I made a sortie from my room to see how the world was getting on, and why Yettcben had not brought me my coffee; for I had for- gotten to wind up my watch, and had, there- fore, no clue for discovering the hour of the day. I knocked gently at the door of the room adjoining my own. All was still; so, receiv- ing no answer, I ventured to raise the latch, and peeped in. It was the kitchen. Nobody was to be seen; so I adv~ need a step or two, for the purpose of making discoveries as to any peculiarities in domestic economy or house- hold arrangements. The stove was placed in one corner of the room, and resembled a bright steel table ; it was circular, and about three feet and a-half in diameter. In this were four or five holes, made to receive different-sized copper vessels, with covers, and a kettle of the same material, for water. The fuel was laid into this stove underneath, and thus the whole apparatus was heated, with little expense of coal, cinders or coke, either of which are in frequent use. The arrangement for cooking, with its beauti- fully bright stove and stewpans, free from all appearance of dust and blacks, looked quite a ladylike business; and no wonder that tbe Ger- man ladies occupy themselves with the direct- ing and overlooking the dressing of their din- ners. Soups and vegetables are stewed in these dainty saucepans, and the roasting, or braten, as they call it, is only performed by placing the meat or poultry in the bottom of one of them, with sufficient butter to prevent its burning. It remains thus until the underside is a nice brown, when it is turned and basted, and so on, until each part is well dressed. I saw, some time after, a brace of partridges cooked in this man- ner, and they looked quite as tempting as when roasted before the fire. The mistress constant, presence in these kitchens has a wonderful and almost fascinating effect on the cleanliness, and state of excellent neatness and preservation, in which everything is found in their kitchensa matter worthy of imitation at home, where the blame of negligence and untidiness of the Eng- lish mistress is often laid on the shoulders of her cook, who wo~dd have been a good, and clean, and trustworthy servant, had her em- ployer only performed her share of duty, by keeping her up to a diligent performance of her task, and encouraging her by approval, when commendation was deserved. I will not go so far as to say that these people are consistently clean; but I never saw an exception, in the case of culinary utensils or kitchen apparatus. But I shall now have to relate a contradiction to this statement, on one occasion, by saying that, having peeped into everything in the neighborhood of the stove, I ~vent towards the further end of the apartment, when I perceived a pair of dark eyes staring at me out of the great chest. I uttered an Oh! and started, when the head was raised, having a close, knitted night-cap on, and the smiling face of Yettchen greeted mc, as she made a sign to me to be quiet. I then perceived that she was lying in her bed, which was made in a large, deep chest, which, when the lid was down, served as the kitchen table, during the day. Before I had recovered from my astonishment, she had jumped into the middle of the boarded floor, in her blue print night-dressthe material which, I afterwards found was frequently used for night gear by very respectable people, both for themselves and their children, because it saved washing. Yettehens bed consisted of loose straw ~n a sacking, a wadded colored old quilt next it, and a plumean, or feather bed, as a covering; and, besides the colored pillow, there was nothing moreno sheets, no blanketsin fact, nothing white, or which could show use, was to be seen. As the girl got out of it, so she shut it up, until she should again seek repose within its narrow precincts. I observed two strong looking springs fixed into the wall behind the chest, which tightly held hack the lid of the box when in use, lest the story of the Old Oak Chest should be enacted over again, in the per- son of poor Yettehen.Sibella Jones. TWO RUSSIAN PRINCESSES CAPTIVITY. From The Spectator. TWO RUSSIAN PRINCESSES CAPTIVITYA~ IT may be recollected th~ t during the Rus- sian war, the Emperor Nicholas was reported to have released a son of Shamil, who had heen kept as a sort of prisoner, or hostage, educated as a Russian nobleman, and ap- pointed to a commission in the army. The liberation was ascribed to a conciliatory poli- cy; and such was undoubtedly the case. It was not, however, to conciliate Shamil, hut the Georgian nobility, that the young Circas- sian was released. His father had planned a foray into the Tiflis Government, and while occuj)ying the soldiery in one direction, con- trived to carry off from her mansion the Princess Chavchavadzey, whose husband was heading the regular forces in the neighbor- hood, her sister-in-law the Princess Orbe- liani, as well as the children and domestics. They were all taken to Shamils retreat of Pargi-Vedenno, and kept there till the Em- peror of Russia restored his son, and the relations of the prisoners raised a sum of money for ransom. This bold and daring deed excited much interest at Tiflis, in whose neighborhood people had supposed them- selves quite safe. On the return of the ladies, NI. Verderevsky, editor of the Cau- casus, the principal journal of that city, com- piled an account from the narrative of the Princesses themselves, of which this volume is a translation, with some occasional curtail- ment. The Gaptivity consists of three parts. The first tells the story of the surprise, cap- ture, and journey to Dargi-Vedenno; the second contains a description of the residence there; the third gives an account of the diplomatic proceedings respecting the release and ransom of the prisoners. However in- teresting this part may be to Russians and diplomatists, or even, as the translator in- timates, for the light it throws upon Shamil as a bargainer, we think it might have been advantageously omitted in the English trans- lation. As the hook stands, there is too much of it in proportion to its matter. Prisoners hurried along by rather rough con- ductors, over mountains, through woods, and ~ captivity of Two Russian Princesses in the Caucasus; including a Seven-Months Residence Shamils Sercylio. Communicated by Them- selves, and translated from the Original Russian by H. Sunderland Edwards. Published by Smith and Elder. 75 across rivers, suffering from cold, hunger, and fatigue, harrassed by fear, and tormented by anxiety for the fate of children, friends, and followers, are not in the best frame of mind for observation, had there been much to observe. Shamils head-quarters offer more attraction and variety. There were his three wives, his other relations, the ser- vants, and the domestic life of the seraglio. All this, however, was monotonous or soon exhausted; and the incidents mostly consisted of attempts to frighten the captives into promising to procure an enormous ransom, or the spiteful contrivances of the wife high- est in rank to stint them in creature com- forts. It is, however, a curious picture of manners, and such as we know not where to match. In the unworthy annoyances Shamil appears to have had no part, and he always rectified any shortcoming that fell under his own observation. The account of the great chieftain is altogether curio us, but without a single spice of the melodramatic or even the romantic. On the contrary, he appears as a hard-working administrator, a cautious though a bold warrior, a kindly, regular, and strict family man. The judgment of the Princesses, however, was drawn indirectly, for they had scarcely any communication with him, Infidel women not being permitted to look so great a Mahometan in the face. He waited upon them on their arrival, but it can hardly be called an interview. In the evening, Hadjio the steward an- nounced to the Princesses that Shamil was about to pay them a visit, in order to have some important conversation with them. Soon afterwards the illustrious mountaineer al)l)eared, but did not cross the threshold of their room. He remained throughout hi~ visit in the balcony, close to the open door, where he was provided with a wooden stool to sit upon. By his side, and also outside the door, stood Hadjio the steward, and In- dris the Russian interpreter. The captives remained in the room; and the conversation took place through the door and by means of the interpreter. Shamil began by inquiring after their health. We are tired, owing to ourjournev, but otherwise quite well, thank Heaven! replied the captives. I am astonished myself at your having all arrived in safety; and I can see in that a promise that God will now grant me the wish I have so long cherished, that of redeeming TWO RUSSIAN PRINCESSES CAPTlYITY. 76 my son who is with the Russians. I have the modes of the marauders were not civil- now come to assure you that you need feel ized modes. The Princess Chavchavadzey, no alarm about remaining here: no one will who was known, was the object of a contest, harm or annoy you, and you will be treated during which her clothes were torn off her like the members of my own family, hut only back, leaving her with nothing but her stays, on one conditionthat you attend strictly to my injunction not to write or receive letters with- chemise, and one slipper; and in this plight out my permission. If you attempt to carry she had to make part of the journey, not on any secret correspondence with your re- through wantonness but thoughtlessness. lations, or if they offend in a similar manner Worn out with cold and fatigue, she could not on their side, then I will spare neither your- any lonner carry her infant with one arm, or selves nor your childrenI will kill you all, extricate the other from the girdle of the man as I killed ten Russian officers who were prisoners here and received a letter baked in behind whom she was riding. To stop was a loaf. Their ingenuity was discovered, and out of the question, for they were hurrying I ordered them to have their heads cut off. past an ambush of the Russians, whose balls Remember, too, the young Russian countess were falling among them. Little Lydia, the at Stavropol, who was on the point of being infant, dropped from the mother, and was married when she was takea prisoner by my either killed by the fall or by being struck men. That girl could have been ransomed for the babys body was afterwards found by lonb ado; but I would listen to none of her relatives offers, because she presumed to set a detachment sent out by the father she me at defiance. The same thing mi~ht hap- bore no trace of a wound, but a small blue pen to you; therefore take care what you spot was just visible on her left temple. do. All this is very shocking; but to the free- Shamil having concluded this long speech, booters it would appear as in the usual paused for a reply. course of things. One man offered a lady a The Princess Chavchavadzey was so en- handful of flour, which he took from his raged at Shamils menaces that she resolved not to say a word; but her sister, who was pocket: it was useless to her, but he could less excited, went to the door and addressed have made a tolerable mouthful of it had he him in the following terms had time. A politer man at nightfall offered You need not threaten us. We have the Princess Orbeliani an apple, accompany- no intentida of disobeying you. Our posi- ing his present with the remark, You tion and our education alike forbid us to Georgians are accustomed to eat every day, have recourse to falsehood, and you may have entire confidence in our promises. As and you are no doubt hungry; take this. for any letters which may be addressed to But the Princess, in spite of her exhaustion, us, of course we cannot be answerable for felt no wish to partake of the marauders their contents. supper, and refused the proffered fruit. Very well. returned the Iman; but do An unlucky Frenchwoman, just arrived to not forget that you are in Shamils power. take charge of the children as governess, This finished the interview. Shamil rose, was among the captives, and suffered not disappeared, and was followed by Hadjio and only from the contrast to la belle France, and the interpreter; after which the captives but from seeming to expect French gallantry breathed freely. in the Caucasus. There is more of information as to man- While the robbers were taking the Prin- ners, and perhaps a wider interest, in the cess Orbeliani down stairs, and after her the second part than in the first. This last- Princess Chavchavadzey, Madame Drancey named section, however, has this kind of at- remained on her knees, covering her face tractionit gives us back a glimmer of the with her hands, seeing nothing, and hearing middle ages. In the sack of the mansion, only the screams of the children. Soon at- the capture of the ladies and their peol)le, terwards she felt herself in the arms of a and the subsequent march, one can realize man with a bare shaven head, a red face, and an onslaught of the age of chivalry. The an indescribable odour. This mountaineer, whom the French lady calls a monster, car- Princesses were of too high rank, and Sha- ned her part of the way down the staircase, mils object too important, to allow of any which fell beneath his steps. palpable ill-usage ; but there was much of In this catastrophe all the women suf- suffering, and much that an European wo- fered considerablyas much from fright as man would deem ill-usage, simply because from positive injuries; and with the excep TWO RUSSIAN PRINCESSES CAPTIVITY. tion o~ the Princesses Orheliani and Baratoff all had their dresses more or less torn. Madame brancey, in the latter respect, was more to he pitied than any one; for the rohhers, in their anxiety to take everything valuable she possessed, tore her clothes from her back, and left her with nothing hut her chemise, her stays, and her Parisian hoots. In this condition she was carried into the courtyard, made to sit down on the steps of the laundry, and told to take care of a couple of horses, whose reins were placed in her hands. Madame Drancey had always been afraid of horses, hut she understood that she had no choice hut to obey. On the road, her privations and the indig- nities she suffered were worse. The second halt was made early the next morning, on the hank of some river. Here they were joined hy Madame IDrancey, exhausted, beaten, and almost without clothing. The unhappy French lady had indeed had her share of suffering during the short but eventful march. Though she had followed a separate route in the midst of the herd of oxen, she found herself towards nightfall at the ed0e of the same wood which had been entered by the other captives. She had travelled the greater part of the way on foot, and the road had heen both long and full of obsta- cles; hut when she failed to keep up with the horsemen, the Murid made use of his whip to awaken new strength in the exhaust- ed woman. The first blow from the Chechnian s whip roused all the pride and all the anger of the already irritated Frenchwoman. She turned towards her insulter, and expressed, in forcible but unfortunately quite unintelli- gible language, all the indignation and con- tempt which she felt for his conduct. Of course it was in vain that Madame Paracey addressed her remarks to the Mu- rid, and he did not cease to apply his whip to the unfortunate ladys shoulders whenever she lagged behind. At a later period, when the moon had risen, Madame iDarucey, un- der the impression that her persecutors, as Mahometans, worshipped that orb, took no trouble to curse it. But the imprecation was not more intelligible than her expres- sions of indignation and contempt, the mountaineers being utterly unable to under- stand either the pantomine or the language of their captive. Madame lJrancey passed the night in the woods, where she had to sleep in com- pany with the cattle and the Chechnians. The chief of the party having lain down on a large cloak, which he had previously ex- tended along the ground, invited her to share it; but she informed him (of course in the French language) th~ t she was not ac- customed to receive such offers from stran- gers, and that she preferred to sleep with one of the oxen; whose back she soon con- verted into a pillow. ATCIIAFALAYA CURRENCYCaptain Shall- cross of the Mississipi Steamer Peytona, is one of the crack captains on the river. Every- body knows him and he knows every body, and therefore we must tell a little story about him. One day the Peytona was steamiub down past the cotton woods towards New Orleans when she was hailed by another boat goin~ up Hallo! Capt. Shall ! Ilallo! was the answer. Got any Atchafalaya money ~ Yes, plenty. Well, pay it out; the banks liusted, or a gwine to. Ay, ay, said Capt. Shalleross; Clerk have you got mnch of that money l About a thousand dollars I reckon, sir, said the clerk of the Peytona. Well, stop at the first wood boat. And the Peytona puffed on until a wood boat was seen moored to the shore, with piles of cord-wood around, and a small man, with his trousers rolled up, and his hands in his pockets, shiverin,, on the bank beside of his boat, in the ill December weather. Wood boat) ahoy! sang out Captain Shall. Small man in the distance, I-Ialloo! Want to sell that wood 3 Small man in the distance, Yas. Take Atchfalaya money 3 Small man in the dist uce. Yas. Ijounil to, pilot, said Capt. Shall. The boats bound down stream always have to come around, with their bow pointed up stream, to resist the current of the lississippi sometimes they encounter a big eddy, and have to take a sweep of some miles before they reach the landing-place. So it was in this instance. So youll take Atchafalayn money for wood, will von 3 said the captain as the boat ap- proached the shore. Yas. said the small man. how will you take it 3 said Capt. Shall, (meaning at what rate.) Take it even, said the small man. What do yo mean l)y even 3 Uord for cord, captain. Put her round again, pilot; said Capt. Shall, and wood up at the next wharf-host; I reckon this fellow has been posted by sonse- body on Atchafalaya.Cozeas Wiae Press. 78 SPORTING SCENES AMONGST THE KAFFIRS. From The Athennum. tary who is getting up his thoughts for a Sporting Scenes amongst the Kaffirs qf public meeting. Like African huntsmen in South Africa. By Capt. Alfred XV. general Capt. Drayson suffers from want of Drayson, Royal Artillery. (Routledge & water. His Tottyfriends let him into a Ce). secret Tir~s is the despatch-book of a soldier and Well, said Kemp, when I go into the sportsman, whom a strong uncivilized in- country where there is not much water, I al- stinet impelled to the Cape in search of ways take my baboon. Yon dont drink prey, and the fondness of friends on his re- him, do you P No, but I make him show turn induced to publish his experiences. me water. How do you do that P In Capt. I)raysons adventures in Africa, are this way :When water gets scarce, I give the Bavain none: if he does not seem thirsty neither very novel nor very marvellous. He I rub a little salt on his tongue; I then take is not a man of sciencehe is not an cx- him out with a long string or chain. At plorer,but, as far as we learn, simply a first it was difficult to make him understand gentleman who went out to shoot wild beasts what was wanted, for he always wished to go and, without emulating Mr. Gordon Coin- back to the waggons. Now, however, he is mm g, achieved a satisfactory amount of well trained. When I get him out some slaughter. The scene of warfare is chiefly distance, I let him go ; he runs along a bit, scratches himself, shows his teeth at me, in Caifre-land, in the Znlu country, the takes a smell up-wind, looks all round, picks neighborhood of Natal and Pietermaritzberg. up a bit of grass, smells or eats it, stands up He left England for the Cape in the hard for another sniff, canters on, and so on. winter of 1853sailed in a wet little brig- Wherever the nearest water is, there he is antine for Algoa Bayamused himself on sure to go. This anecdote was corroborated the voyage with cutting off a string of cab- by others present. bages from the poop; and, after three Ilis domestic relations with the Caffres weeks tossing about in the society of a ro- appear to be encouragin0. He wins the mantic and abstemious skipper, a nasal car- heart of the men by slaying wild bucks, and penter who never changed his clothes, and a bringing down furtive crows which run off squat Dutchman who economized his person with the meat laid out to dry. The ladies, in a berth whence he tootled annonymous too, like the white man, and bring him milk. airs on the flute,our author was delighted Take his opinion of them, and a sketch of to find the vessel bumping over the harbor- Caffrarian fashions bar of Port Natal, and verdant little islets The women can be handsome, although and shores and hills in view, overgrown with perhaps admiration for them is an acquired swinging boughs of mangroves or giant en- taste. Well, Peshauna (the girls name) was the best looking of Inkaus wives, and phorbias. In due time, he camps among the was placed as head woman of Inkans kraal; Caffreslearns their arts and speechcan she did but little work, and was highly spoor elephants or elands or buffaloes, and dressed, in the extreme of the fashion, not in even win savage respect and affection. He crinoline or embroidery, but in beads and makes experiments in bush-life, learns to brass. Round her head she had a broad steal along in soft leather veld-slsoens, to band of light-blue and white beads; a pen- avoid cracking boughs and rustling leaves, to dent string of the latter han ing in a grace- ful curve over her eyelids, giving them the mount and dismount at full speed, load and sleepy, indolent look assumed by so many fire at a gallop after a four-mile ride, rattle of our fair sex. Round her neck in num- over rocks and ruts with a loose rein, and, hers, strings of beads were negligently hung, when he is firing, roll out of imminent reach and a little apron of fringe about a foot long of his pony with the rapidity of a monkey. was fastened round her waist; this was His mistakes of identity are curious. Occa- neatly ornamented with beads of red, white, sionally he confounds an evening party of and blue; her wrists were also decorated doing their hair, with their hu with bracelets made of beads and brass, baboons while her ankles were encircled with a fringe man relatives, the Hottentot ladies, or in the made from monkeys hair. This was the dark levels his piece at a lonely Caffre digni- full-dress contume of Peshauna. To these SPORTING SCENES AMONG THE KAFFITtS. adornments the most affable and agreeable manners were added, quite divested of that Itauteur and assumption so often practised by acknowledged belles; she had a most graceful way of taking her snuff; and stuck through her ears were two very long mimosa thorns for the purpose of combing her woolly locks. I think all must agree in placing her on record as a most charming and divine nymth! She was, alas, anothers! Twenty cows had been paid for her, and five men assagied, before she became the pro- perty of my gallant friend Inkau. It took at least a pint of gin before I could work him up to tell his story. An old lady regards him favorably. here is her portrait. Her face was thin and wrinkled, while her whole body looked as though it were cov- ered with a skin that had been originally in- tended for a very much larger person. She had also suffered from sickness, as was shown by the scars all over her body,si0ns of the cupping and bleeding that had been per- formed on her by some Kaffir doctor, with an assagy in lieu of a lancet. Still she did not seem to be much displeased with her- self,a circumstance for which I can only ac- count by the absence of looking-classes in this village. I did not feel much inclined to move after my long walk this day, so I took a seat near the door of the hut, and watched the old lady turn my tobacco into snuff. She first cut it up into little hits with an assagy, and brought two large stones to the hut; into the lower stone, which had a well-worn hollow, she put all the bits of tobacco, and with the other, which was nearly circular, and about the size of an ostrich-egg, she com- menced grinding the tobacco it seemed very hard work, as she pressed heavily on the stone during the operation. After a time she added some water, which made the mess into a sort of paste, something like a childs dirt-pie. After a great deal of grind- ing and scraping, the composition began really to look like a snuThpowder. She then got a wooden spoon nearly full of white wood-ashes, and mixed them with the to- I 79 bacco. More grinding seemed to amalga- mate the two compositions, when she tried a pinch herself, and pronounced that it wanted drying in the sun, and would then be good. During the whole time that she was at work she was uttering disjointed remarks to me, and at length proposed, in the most shameless and bai efaced manner, that I should marry her daughter. I requested to know which of the damsels then present was the proposed bride, and was shown a youn~ lady about twelve years old, who had very much the appearance of a picked Cochin-China fowl. I concealed my laughter, and told the old lady that when this lassy became teller, and very fat, I might then think more seriously of her proposition ; but as at piesent I hail not six cows (the required price) handy, I could not entertain the subject. The old lady told me she would get the skin and bone adorned with fat by the time I came on another visit ; and, for all I know, this black charmer may be now waiting in disal)pointed plumpness. I stayed seven days at this kraal: after the third day I had no bread or biscuit, but merely roasted Indian corn and meat, with the arnasi and ubisi (sour and sweet milk). Therefore I felt the want of bread, butter, and a bed, and biddng my shooting companion farewell, I distributed beads and tobacco to the women and some lucifers to the men, and then took my de- parture. I should wish to testify to the manner in which 1, a perfect stranger, un- known by name or reputation to these sav- ages, w~ s treated during this visit. They were kind, civil, and really hospitable It was pleasing to see a young Kaffir girl come each evening with a bowl of milk and some corn, and, putting them down quietly beside me, look with her wild black eyes into my face, and musically say, Ar ko iakosi (Yours, chief). The authors scapes and fortuneshow he was treed by elephants, and how he fuddled the fish with an insane root,those who like to consult his entertainin0 book may find amply detailed. A RUssIAN AND AN ENGLISH R GIMENT. up together in ho same square : See, said The coura.ge of an English army is the sum a Neapohiton to me, who had mistaken me for total of the conrage which the individual soldiers one of his countrymen, there is but one face bring with them to it, rather than of that which in that whole regiment; while in thot (pointing they derive from it. When I was at Naples, a to tho English), every soldier has a face of his ussian and an English regiment were drawn own.Coleridges Fiiead. PUBLIIHERS PIROSPECTJIJS~ On the 3rd of April, 1858, we begin, in connexion with Messrs. Littell, Son & Co., Boston, the New Series of The Living Age, issued weekly, enlarged to eighty pages, handsomely printed on fine paper, with cut edges, etc. The long-established, and deservedly high reputation which this esteemed book has enjoyed, renders it superfluous to refer to its characteristic claims as a most choice and ably-conducted compendium of the best selected literature of the times. Comprising as it does, the creme de la crime of all the world-renowned Reviews and Periodicals of Europe, as well as occasional selections from the best fugitive literature of our own country, it will be at once apparent thnt it possesses a character alike unique and unrivalled as a repository of good things, suitable for all classes of the reading community the statesman, student, and philosopher, as well as the family circle. In addition to the intrinsic quality of its literary contents, the quantity of reading matter em- braced in a single year of this work, amounts to four thousand one hundred and sixty double pages, the subscription price of which is only Six Dollars per annum, thus constituting it not only THE BEST, BUT THE CHEAPEST PERIODICAL IN THE WORLD. This work, which has been received with universal approval of the Press, religious and secular, has also enjoyed the cordial approbation of many eminent men of our country, among them, PRESIDENT ADAMS, I-JON. JARED SPARKS, JUSTICE STORY, W. H. PRESCOTT, CHANCELLOR KENT, GEO. BANcROFT, Bisiio~ ALONZO POTTER, GEO. TICKNOR, REV. Du. BETHUNE, II. J. RAYMOND, REV. ALBERT BARNES. STANFORD & DELISSER, PUBLISHERS, 637 Broadway, New-York.

THE LTYTNG AGE. No. 724.lO April, 1858.Enlarged Series, No. 2. CONTENTS. CorrespondenceNew Books 1. Memoirs of Bossuet 2. Ashburn Rectory 3. Walled Lake in Iowa 4. Photographs for our Bibles 5. William Penn and Baron Macaulay, 6. The Germans 7. The Emigrants Adieu to Ballyshannon,. 8. The End Crowns All 9. The Old Years Record Edinburgh Review, National Magazine,, Cincinnati Gazette, Dablin University Magazine, Athenceum, Sibella Jones, TV. Ailinyham, Examiner, T. Hood, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL Son & Co., Boflon; and STANFORD & DELISSER, 637 Broadway, New-York. For Six Dollars a year, remitted direttly to either of the P tisleers, the Living Age will be punctually forwarded, free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, aud of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand- somely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANy NUMBER may he had for 12 cents; and it is well worth while for eubecrihers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enbanoc theirvalue. PAGE 82 83 103 142 143 136 158 139 160 160 CORRESPONDENCE. Probably the proof readers passed over this page in the last number, without reading it, supposing that we would attend to it; and we were somewhat ashamed upon reading it in the published work. The contents of 724 are less varied than usualbut they have seldom been better. Bossuet is a noble article; Photographs for our Bibles is frech and beautiful ; Ashburu Rectory is unusually long for a single article of the kind; but it completes the story at onceand is worth the price of a number. Baron Macaulay is forced, by the evidence of dates, to give up one of his charges against William Penn. But he vows he will hold fast to the others, which are probably equally unfounded. The passive resistance which the character of the dead Quaker philanthropist and statesman O~~O5C5 to the brilliant Essayist, will probably destroy the Baron as an authority in History. Publishers who desire to have their issues included in the list below, will please for- ward them early to Boston. We shall be glad to have in each weeks number a coin- plete catalogue of books published in the United States. The Enlarged Series meets with great fa- vorand already the sale has largely in- creased. So we hope that the coming good time is near at hand. NEW BOOKS. DOUBTS CONCERNING THE BATTLE OF Bux- for the Location, Construction, Equipment, and KEE s JIILL.Addressed to the Christian Pub- Management of Railroads, as built in the lie. B Charles Hudson. James Munroc & United States. With 158 Illustrations. By y Co., Boston. This is after the manner of George L. Vo so, Civil Engineer. James Mun- Archbishop Whateleys Doubts concerning the roe & Co., Boston. existence of Napoleon Bonaparte. ANNUAL OF ScIENTIFIc DIscOvERY: or ONE WEEK AT AMEE, an American City of Year Book of Facts in Science and Art for the Nineteenth Century. James Munroc & Co., 1858. Exhibitiub the most important discov- Boston. Not having yet read this poem, we cries and improvements in Mechanics, Useful cannot say whether Boston is the city written Arts, Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, Astrono- about. Prohably its satire upon Church and my, Geology, Zoology, Botany, Mineralogy, State, and tbe Professions, and Merchants, may Meteorology, Geography, Antiquities & c. To- he more generally applicable. gether with a list of recent Scientific Publica KIANA: A Tradition of Hawaii. By James tions; a classified list of Patents; Obituaries J. Jarves. James Munree & Co., Boston. of Eminent Scientific Men; Notes on the Pro- HANDBooK OF RAILROAD CoNsTRucTioNs; gross of Science, during the Year 1857, & c. for the use of American Engineers. Contain- Edited by David A. Wells, A. M. Gould & tug the necessary Rules, Tables, and Formul~ Lincoln, Boston. MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. From The Edinburgh Review, synod. The Abb~ had little notion of ar~ Memoires et Journal sur la Vie et les Ouv tistic grouping or selection: he turns his re- rages de Bossuet. Publi~s pour la pre- flecting-glass round in every direction, and mi~re fois dapr~s les Manuscrits auto- notes down whatever it takes in without dis- graphes de lAhhe~ Le IDieu, et accompag- nes dune Introduction et de Notes par M. tinction. Nevertheless there is a stamp of 1 Ahhd Guettde. 4 vols. Paris 1856-57. sincerity about the narrative; and we read THE appearance of thdse Memoirs is sin- with much pleasure the details he has given gularly encouraging to all authors who are us of the great patriarch of the Gallican Church. We wish this faithful servitor had waiters upon fortune and aspirants to post- considered Bossuet the man worthy of as humous fame. The Abh~ Le Dieu evidently much attention as Bossuet the churchman, thought well of them : he read them to this and had given us less of the routine of his person and to that. One l)raised the style, an- ecclesiastical and diocesan duties and more other the choice of facts, another the lucid or- of his ordinary conversation and deportment. der; and the Jesuit Pare de In Rue, who used But the Ahhd Le Then was no Boswell or them in the funeral oration which he pro- Eckerman, and we must remain content to nounced over Bossuet, even declared them to see only of Bossuet what the Abh6 Le be eloquent; and now at length, after a century Then saw in him, and to hear only what the and a half, the manuscripts have found a pub- Ahb~ Le Dieu thought worth hearing. The lisher. The Ahh~ Guett~e a liberal Catholic grandeur and suhlimity of his master were and a firm Gallican, the author of an industri- evidently subdued hy familiarity to the ous history of the Church of France, has gone domestic chaplain, and now and then through the duty of editing these documents, touches of naivete escape him which recall an undertaking which he has conscien- the old adage that no man is a hero to his tiously discharged, suhjoining many useful attendant. notes, and prefixing a Judicious introduction. Yet the very hirth and cradle of Bossuet The~ Ahh6 Le IDieu, who may now he seem to have heen placed under the protec- known to posterity as the author of these tion of that religion of which he was des- Memorials, was for twenty years the private 4ined to become so illustrious a defender. secretary of Bossuet, the confidant of his Jacques lienigne Bossuet was horn at ID~jon, thoughts and lahors. The life of Bossuet contained in the on the night of the 27th of September, 1627. He was the seventh son of an honorahle Memoirs appears so have heen composed bourgeois family, who had occupied seats in partly from notes taken from Bossuets own the parliament of Dijon. The name Be- lips and partly from personal observation; the Journal is a diary kept hy the Abhd ninge was taken from the l)atron saint of his himself. Cardinal de Beauset had both native city, after whom the Princil)al church is called. There is still extant a journal Memoirs and Journal before him, arid 50 kept in Latin, in the handwriting of his filled three volumes with the somewhat pom- aged grandfather. The birth of this child is pous history which bears his name. M. noted with the following quotation: Gir- Floquet too, in the three volumes which he cumduxit eurn et austodivit quasi pupillam published on Bossuets early life, has added little to the facts here related. oculi. After having as a boy shown an as- The Ahb& s Journal, however, only extends tonishing aptitude for learning, the true character of his genius was disclosed by the over the last four years of the life of the perusal of a copy of the Bible found in his prelate; indeed the last volume and a half fathers library. The harmonious pomp of contains events subsequent to Bossuets Virgil, and the sounding sublimity of Homer, death,the dissatisfaction which the next c M. de Meaux gave, the petit fripon as Bos- eased to engross his youthful and ardent imagination, from the time that the rapt in- suet called him, who did not know even how spirations of the Hebrew Prophets, and the to say massthe great dispute about the inexhaustible treasures of Divine Love and deanerydetails about the publication ~ Wisdom were spread before his fervid imag- Bossuets workshow the furniture of the ination: that hallowed fire kindled his fac- next bishop was better than that of Bossuet ulties with unquenchable enthusiasm, which church separations and the affairs of the failed not amid the temptations of the 84 world, the chills of age, the racks of a most painful illness, and the agonies of death. When we read that he received the tonsure at eight years of age, and that he was a canon of the cathedral of Metz at thirteen, we call to mind the biblical figure of the in- fant Samuel. At fifteen, the scene of his studies was removed from the college of the Jesuits at Dijon to that of Navarre in Paris. It was fated that the young canon, on his first entrance into the capital, should he the spectator of a scene which must forever have remained fixed in an imagination so eager to mark the sublime and the awful in the vicissitudes of human destiny. lIe found the walls of the city laid open to admit a slow and solemn procession,the streets lined with chains to restrain the curiosity of the populace, while Richelieu was conveyed to his death-bed in the Palais Cardinal. Yet a few days more and the youthful Bossuet saw his inanimate form on a bier of state, decked in the parade of death, and heard the masses chanted for the soul of the great states- man, who while he held her phlegmatic and aimless monarch in suhjection, raised France to the rank of the first power in Europe. Immediately on his arrival in Paris he was brought into contact with the most polished society of the capital. Such a society must have exercised a most potent influence on a mind like that of Bossuet, who united the strength of will and clear vision of a man to the boundless impetuosity of youth. His family was not unconnected with persons in high station. The astounding precocity of the young ecclesiastic was vaunted at the 116- tel delRambouihlet. The great ladies and bril- liant wits who assembled there were desirous to see and hear the prodigy. He appeared one eveninga text was given him, and the subject of the sermon prescribed. After a short pause for reflection, Bossuet preached a sermon which was rapturously applauded. The preacher was then only sixteen, and the bel esprit Voiture declared, quil navait jamais oui pr~cher ni si t6t ni si tard. This mot served to make Bossuets name known to all the notabilities of Paris. M. de Cos- peau, Bishop of Lisieux, a prelate of great piety and learning, hearing of this sermon, was himself eager to be the witness of a simi- lar improvisation. The experiment was re- peated hefore himself and two other hishops The prelates were struck with admiration at MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. the learning and eloquence of the youthful stu- dent. MI. de Cospeau warned him, with friendly counsel against being led away by a vain love of premature display ; and, still more pleased with Bossuets modest hearing, exclaimed that he was born to he one of the great lights of the~ Church. The modesty of Bossuet, indeed, was too great and his aspirations too noble to allow him to be corrupted by secular admiration, and he continued to apply himself to the study of sacred and profane eloquence with an industry as remarkable as his genius. St. Augustine ap1)rOached the font of baptism after the fervid passions of youth had been exhausted in licence; and in the untimely fate of Adeodatus he bewailed at once the evidence and the punishment of his early ab- errations. But doubt and dissipation never led astray the early steps of Bossuet. His enemy, Madame de Montespan, declared in after life, that the most searching inquiries had elicited no fact which could cast a shad- ow of suspicion on his youth or manhood: he lived from the first a spotless life, as though he respected the sanctity of his genius. liii purpureus pudor, et sine labe juventus Grata fuit Undiverted by the allurements of youth, his energies were concentrated in preparing for his holy calling. He disdained not the aid of profane studies. The great exemplars of Greece and Rome were ever in his hands. From the Pro Ligario, and the Dc Cor- on~,from the indignant brevity of Tacitus and the serried strength of Thucydides,he drew that vigor of style which, when enriched by the sublime imagery of the prophets and the tender pathos of the Evangelists and early Fathers, placed him amongst the first of Christian orators. To an immense apti- tude for eloquence he united a prodigious memory; and in his most advanced age he was able to recite long and favorite pieces of the writers and the poets of Greece and Rome. He passed his different degrees and acquited himself of his Theses in a manner which attracted the rapturous admiration of his audience and the applause of his superi- ors. The great Cond~, present on one occa- sion was so excited by the young theologians ability, that he was almost tempted to hazard his laurels won in other fields by entering the lists as a volunteer against the oun~ dispuLant. For every fresh consecration to the service MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. of the Church Bossuet prepared himself with deep humility and a solemn sense of the im- portant duties he was about to undertake. What greater proof can be shown of the earnestness with which he received the de- gree of Doctor, than that just before his death he repeated from memory the perora- tion of his Latin discourse on that occasion, in which he devoted his l)ody and soul t.o the defence of truth with the fervent sJ)irit of an early Christian martyr P It remained for him to receive the priesthood; and to do it worthily he l)lacedl himself under the spiritual direction of St. Vincent de Paul at Saint Lazare. St. Vincent de Paul recognised his aspiring genius, and subjected him to the guidance of the most simple and pious eccle- siastic of the seminary,a lesson in the deference due from intellect to character and virtue. Refusing all offers of advancement in Paris, anti flying from the seductions of the brilliant society of the H6tels de Nevers and Rambouillet, Bossuet betook himself to Metz, and there for the next six years he still devoted himself to an immense course of theological study, and gained that inti- mate acquaintance with the spirit, the doc- trine, and the language of the Fathers, with the history of the Church, its councils and (lecretals, which distinguished him above all his contemporaries. The state of France during this period must have tended to confirm a mind loving stability anti hating doubt in that spirit of resolute dogmatism which marked his reli- gious and political life. Scarcely were the Spanish standards captured at Sens carried in trium1)h to Notre Dame, when a storm, which had long been brooding, burst in the interior of France. The elements of disorder, which the strong spirit of the Cardinal de Richelien had kept in subjection, broke forth on all sides. The recent wars had necessi- tated enormous taxes; discontent was rife in town and country; the parliament, so long the ally of the monarchy against the aristoc- racy, was ambitious of independent action; the mutinous spirit of the nobles8e, no longer curbed by a ruthless policy, threatened again to seize the brand of civil warfare. The halls of the Palais resounded with the declama- tions of Mold and Talon against state abuses; the young counsellers uttered mag- nificent harangues, says the Parliament Journal, which had in them something of old Rome. Anne of Austria was exasper- ated that the canailie, as she termed the aristocracy of the bar, should atteml)t to limit that royal po1v~ which had subjugated the aristocracy of the sword. The arrest of Brous~el, the protecteur du peuple, was the signal of open revolt. Paris became an en- trenched camp. When Condo besieged the capital, Bossuet, to provide against contin- gencies, slept with four sacks of corn under his bed. Another day of barricades recalled the days of the League; and Paul de Gondi, who united the demagogic arts of a Grac- elms to the profligacy and genius of a Sal- lust, became for a while the dictator of the capital. The Royalty, which it had taken five centuries to perfect, seemed on the point of perishing. Anne was at one time obliged to fly with the young Louis to St. Germain, and take refuge in the deserted chateau on beds of straw; at another time she was a prisoner in the Palais Royal, and obliged to show the boy-king asleep to quell the suspi- cions of an insurgent l)opulation. Religious parties exhibited the same colli- sion of opinion and authority. Although the fall of Rochelle had averted the civil sword from the Hu~uenots, although the strong places recognised by the Edict of Nantes were dismantled, although the culverin no longer peered over the castle wall of the Huguenot cavalierthrough the pulpit and the press they still continued the war on the ancient faith; their ministers still continued to thunder in their temples against the bar- lotries of Babylon, the tyranny of Pharaoh, and to lament the misfortunes of the house of Israel. The sectarian spirit was, however, sufficiently relieved by these fiery declama- tions; and the glorious edict of Henri IV., had produced such good effects that no at- tempt was made by the Huguenot party to take advantage of the troubles of the Fronde. But, on the ot.her side, the victorious party were less moderate. Gakier after cahier was sent up by the assemblies of the Catholic clergy, complaining of the liberty of the Protestants and their unresting zeal of pro- selytism. The Catholic population followed the lead of the clergy; and the scars of civil broil were green in the minds of men in whose houses still hung the cross-bows and arquebuses that had done good service in the wars of the League. The Government was of necessity predisposed to treat the ilugue 85 MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. nots with greater severity than the Catholics. The Catholics, attached to tradition both in Church and State, might be relied on to support that administrative unity which was the traditional policy of the French Mon- archy; whilst the ecclesiastical polity and the social ties of the iluguenots attached them to the Protestant and republican corn-. munities of Switzerland, England, and Hol- land. It is not surprising that to a fervent Catho- lic like Bossuet the doctrines of the new faith seemed fraught with perdition to man- kind. He saw immemorial authority treated with scorn; the old landmarks torn up; the guiding voice of the Church neglected, and the lost sheep straying wilfully in the wilder- ness of sin and death. To use the words of the Apocalypse, the mouth of the bottomless pit was opened, the smoke of it blotted out the sun and heavens, and in blind bewilder- ment countless souls were engulphed to irre- deemable perdition. The past century had been filled with deeds of horror. Wherever the new doctrine had been preached, the earth had reddened with carnage or black- ened with homicidal fire. From the first it was clear that rebellion would~ follow heresy, and that the right of private judgment would not be restrained to things spiritual. With the aid of the Gospel Luther withstood popes, councils, and decretals; with the same ally Muazer raised the German peasant to revolt against kings and l)rinces. Peace was secure in no part of Europe except Spain, and that was t.he peace of the charnel- house. The follies of the Anabaptist, and the theocratic extravagance of John of Icy- den, were inspired alike by the same spirit of reform and love of novelty which animated Zwinglius and Calvin; and a grey, discrowned head had lately fallen on the scaffold of Whitehall, whose fate Bossuet could logically deduce from the schismatic intemperance of Henry VIII. Within the bosom of the Church of Rome a furious conflict had been carried on with mutual exasperation for more than thirty years; and when the doctors should have fought in one spirit against the enemy with- out, they were themselves raging against each other with the utmost rancour within. The institution which Ignatius Loyola had conceived in the gloomy depth of the cavern of Manreza had now overrun the whole earth. The Jesuits were the priests militant of the Papacy, and did battle against heresy and infidelity with craft and compliance weapons more insidious and more effective than the lance and shield of the Templars and Hospitallers of old. The moral force in the hands of the General was such as no man had ever wielded before. It was impos- sible, however, but that in an age when re- ligious faith was earnest and universal, the rapid rise of the Jesuits should meet with violent antagonism. The Catholic clergy viewed this upstart society with suspicion, and looked with jealousy on their rising churches, colleges, schools, and immense wealth; and the aged priest of the parish was deserted for the giozing tongue and sup- ple morality of the Jesuit confessor. On points of mere morality it had not been easy to engage them in a general conflict. When therefore the Jesuit Molina sent forth the Concord of Free Will and Grace, and revived the heresy of Pelagius, their foes at once seized this unskilfully advanced outwork of Jesuitism as the point of attack. The battle-field on which the disciples of Jansenius joined issue with the disciples of Loyola, is one which has probably existed ever since man awoke to a consciousness of his destiny. In the intellectual, as in the material world, forms change, substances and ideas remain the same. The spirit of St. Augustine was alone equal to cope with the new heresy. By a six times repeated study of the ponderous folios of the Bishop of Hippo, Cornelius Jansen had endeavored to wake the genius of the great master, and composed that terrible volume the Augus- tinus, in the desolate depths of whose meta- physical subtleties were supposed to be hid- den the five mysterious prol)ositions which had killed Jacqueline Pascal, and drawn con- flicting discussions from Infallibility itself. St. Cyran, the fellow-student of Jansen at Somme, St. Cyran preached to the world that doctrine which his fellow-pupil elabor- ated in his study. The spiritual regeneration of the spiritual man, and consequently a less need of priestly mediation, and a most austere morality, were the main distinctions of the creed with which the Jansenists carried on successful war. Genius and eloquence, wealth and beauty, swelled their ranks. The earnestness, faith, and unconquerable courage of ardent converts supported them in the 86 MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. 87 deadly conflict against crafty foes supported ordinary men finish it. At Metz he reformed by the fulminating edicts of Rome, by de- his education anew. Sevcnteen years of in- crees of exile and imprisonment; but though cessant study were relieved by the charm of the Jesuits triumphed for a while, and the family intercourse, by occasional visits to asylum of Pascal, Arnauld, and IRacine was. Paris to deliver courses of sermons, and by uprooted, and the plough driven over its an unremitting attendance on his duties in foundations by the ferocious Letellier; though the cathedral. At morning and at eventide his the sacred remains of the glorious anchorites fine clear voice was heard leading the cborus were scattered to the air; let none think, of Divine praise, and rising above the swell because the cause of quarrel now seems oh- of organ symphony. Few men, it must be solete, that their lives were wasted, their allowed, ever possessed such advantages as talents and energies absorbed, in the defence Bossuet for the uninterrlil)ted pursuit of of a vain theological riddle: wherever truth is knowledge. He never doubted an instant in loved and hypocrisy abhorred, these names the line he was to pursue. Poverty and will ever be held in honor, disease, that fell pair, never distracted his The influence of Jansenism on Bossuet attention; his profession relieved him from was great. The Jansenists abjured Protes- all domestic cares; he had full liberty to tantism, and yet were Romanizing Protes- bend his whole soul and energies to the ac- tants. Bossuet repudiated Jansenism, and complishment of those tasks which he felt he yet particil)ated largely in its doctrines: he was marked by the hand of Providence to was as vehement against the flagitious im- fulfil. The mere recital of Bossuets numer- morality of Sanchez, Suarex, and Escobar, as ous labors while at Metz would terrify the the most fervent disciple of Port Royal, and studen~t of light literature of our age; but declared he would sooner have written the Bossuet lived in a time when St. Augustine Provinciales than any other book of the and the Augustinus were to be seen in the age. Like Jansenius, he owned St. Augus- boudoir, and the chat of the salons touched tine as the father of his predilection, and in on the efficacy of Grace or the Trait~ de many a hard-fought battle the weighty au- la M~thode. Later in life, people mar- thority of the Bishop of Hippo decided the yelled at the facility with which he threw off, controversy. It was impossible, too, for a one after the other, treatises full of encyclo- nature like Bossuets to withhold his sym- piedic learning from the Fathers, but they pathy from the great character of Arnauld, little knew how large a portion of his youth the dauntless athlete of the Jansenists, whose had been spent at Metz in drawing inspira- life was a combat, and who looked alone to tion from the fiery spirit of Tertullian, ce eternity for repose. What, too, must have dur Africain, as he termed him, the Tacitus been the wonder of the young ecclesiastic of a persecuted church; from the allegoric when the pale and noble form of Pascal ap- genius of Origen, the pathetic eloquence of peared in the lists,who knew no day with- Basil, the earnest vehemence of Gregory of out pain, who lived as if the sound of the Nazianzen, and the Asiatic abundance of last trumpet rang in his ears and an ever- Chrysostom. But his companion by day and open gulf yawned by his side, whose soul night, abroad and at home, his master, his was shattered and lamp of life extinguished counsellor, and his model, was St. Augustine. by the fierce conflict within him of the True His copy of the IDe Civitate Dei, the and the Good for mastery and utterance. Psalms of St. Augustine, and his treatises Launched in the midst of this civil and secta- against the Pelagians, were worn with con.- nan turmoil, when the human mind seemed stant use, the margins scribbled over with a shifting quicksand lashed by the fury and countless notes; and he was accustomed to storm of opinions in collision, Bossuet deter- boast, that every portion of the writings of mined to plant on the rock of Authority a St. Augustine cc maitre si maitre, le beacon to warn the sea-tost mariner from the docteur des docteurs, laigle des P~res perilous coast. might be traced in some one or other of hi~ When he left the schools of Paris he had own compositions. ~iready acquired the reputation of a con- At length he ventured to appear in the summate theologian. But extraordinary men pulpits of Paris: the public expectation was like Bossuet begin their education where great; wherever lie was to preach, the doors 88 were beset by an impatient audience. The queen-mother desired to bear him, and was moved to tears; the discourse made so deep an impression, that she desired it to be re- peated after t~vo years interval. One sermon was tbe taih of the town, and was known as Le Surrexit Paulus de M. lAbbd Bossuet. It was clear that a revolution was made in pulpit oratory, and that Bossuet was the Corneille of the pulpit. The learned pedan- try of Cheminais and Desmares, even the labored rhetoric of Mascaron and Flechier, were at once displaced by his fresh and im- petuous vigor. The most eminent doctors of Port Royal followed him from church to church, astounded at his clear exposition of doctrine, and the force and grandeur of his style. Condd, Turenne, the Caidinal de Bouillon, and the secretary Le Tellier, be- came his eager admirers and friends; and, finally, the King himself appointed him to preach the Advent of 1661 at the Louvre. During the space of ten years, the churches and chapels of Paris, and the court, re- sounded with Bossuets inexhaustible elo- quence. His reputation was so well estab- lished, that, in 1663, M. de Perefixe, Arch- bishop of Paris, appointed him to preach the opening discourse at the meeting of the Synod of Paris. The queen-mother came constantly to hear him, but her premature death arrested her plans for his advancement. He was the director of the repentant Duchess of Longueville. When noble ladies took the veil, Bossuet was asked to celebrate their last solemn farewell; and dying courtiers claimed his consolation amid the agonies of a death-bed repentance. His fervent zeal prepared Turenne for conversion; and the great Condd was so charmed when he de- fended the privileges of the theological faculty that he embraced him before the court. Arnauld, at the close of a conference at which Bossuet was present, declared that he had learnt more from Bossuet in two or three hours than in a long course of study. But, amid all the temptations of increasing cele- brity, he loved the seclusion of his quiet abode in the house of an old fellow-student of the College of Navarre, where he passed his hours of leisure in the society of friends of similar literary and serious tastes with him- self; and every year after his course of ser- mons was preached in Paris~ he returned regularly to his duties in the cathedral of MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. Metz. His congregation saw the man whose eloquence was the wonder of the capital, resume with unassuming regularity his duties in the choir; his nights were passed again in solitary studies, and his days in giving in- struction to converts and in ministration to the poor and sick. The Abbe Le Dien gives us some interest- ing details of the manner of composition of his sermons. He dashed rapidly down on paper texts, citations, and arguments suitable to the subject and occasion; in the morning of the day on which he was to preach he meditated deeply on this rough document, developing his discourse in his mindwriting he found distracted his attention,and ii this way he passed mentally through his sermon two or three times, reading the paper before him, and altering and improving as though the whole were written. Bossuet never ascended the pulpit without having in private prostrated himself at the foot of his crucifix to implore the Divine assistance: he frequently devoured with rapt attention some pages of the Gospel. On one occasion when he had to preach on the Decalogue, he threw himself on his knees and read with a voice quivering with emotion, from the book of Exodus, how the people of Israel trembled when they saw and heard the lightnings and thunders of Sinai, the redoubled sound of the trumpet, and the awful voice from the cloud upon the Mount. In the pulpit, his majestic mien and bearing imposed a silent awe, which those who have seen his bust in the Louvre can well realise. His hair, pre-maturely grey, clustered down to his shoulders; his eyes cast a glance of power from beneath his well-arched eyebrows, like Sordello, iRiguar- dando a guisa di leon quando si posa; his nose was aquiline and well-formed; his face was oval; his cheeks straight and shaven; his mouth gracefully cut, and on the upper lip a slight moustache gave somewhat of a martial air not unbecoming to one pre-ems~- nently regarded as the militant leader of the church whose sacred symbol, the cross, glittered on his breast. His action at first was dignified and reserved; he confined him- self to the notes before him; gradually he warmed with his subject, the contagion of his enthusiasm seized his hearers; he watchec their rising emotion; the rooted glances of thousand eyes excited him with a sort o divine frenzy; his notes became a burdes MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. 89 and a hindrance; with impetuous ardor he sion of Montaignesis terribly impartial, al)andoned himself to the inspiration of the and crumbles ruthlessly to dust the bases of moment; with the eyes of the soul he all statues raised on perishable foundations. watched the swelling hearts of his hearers: Yet in our attempts to jud~e eulogistic ora- their concentrated emotion became his own; tors we should l)lace ourselves in the l)osition he felt within himself the collected might of of the orator and behold his audience, his the orators and martyrs whose essence, by subject, and his age from his own point of long and repeated communion, he had ab- view. This is especially the case as respects sorhed into himself; from flight to flight he Bossuet. His l)olitical and reli~ious rever- ascended, until with unflagging energy he ence for monarchy, the influence of the per- trnvere(l straight upwards and dragged the sonality of Louis XIV.that efli~ayante ral)t contemplation of his audience along majeste as even the frondeur St. Simon with him in its ethereal flight. At such calls it,his aversion to change, his unalter- times, says the Ahb6 Le Dien, it seemed as able faith in all the teml)oral and spiritual in- though the heavens were opened and celestial stitutions then existing, his enthusiastic sense joys were about to descend upon these trem- of the greatness and nothingness of human bling souls, like tongues of fire on the day of glory, the tremendous antithesis of his char Pentecost. At other times, heads bowed acterall serve to make, in these reforming down with humiliation, or pale ul)turned and sceptical days, the Oraisons funhbras faces and streaming eyes, lips parted with difficult of appreciation, until the mind is broken ejaculations of despair, silently testi- content to admire the orator within the fled that the spirit of repentance had breathed limits of his dogmas, like a lion hounding on many a hardened heart. M. Bossuet, within the radius of his chain. To appreci- said Madame de S~ vign~, Se bat ~ outrance ate these discourses of Bossuet we must quit avec son auditoire: tons ses sermons sont des this generation of plain clothes and sol)er combats ~ mort. estimation of kings and princes, and call The sermons which now l)~55 under the doxvn from their frames those magnificent name of Bossuet are but ill calculated to personages who glow upon the canvass of give us an idea of the eloquence which moved Rigaud and Vandermeulen, and fill with the genius, the heroism, and the fashion of them the chapel of Versailles or the Louvre. the Court of Louis XIV. Piles of illegible We must place ourselves before that multi- drafts, overcharged with Greek and Latin tude of seigneurs in umbrageous perukes, of texts, have, by the diligence or guesswork of princesses and fine ladies aux coiffures successive editors, been arran ~ed in some ~tagees,before that sea of gorgeous ap- sort of order. But Bossuet himself had no parel of crimson, green, and purple, glitter- care to appear in print; he considered the ing in gold and lace, scintillating x ith rib life of a priest should not be in words but in bons, and stars, and diamonds,and stand actions. The Abb6 Vaillant, in one of his face to face with the cynosure of all eyes, the theological works, made a special study of1 incarnate embodiment of the most ancient the sermons of Bossuet, and succeeded with monarchy in Etirope; before whom kings much labor in determining their dates and trembled, leagued, and knelt; while at home disentangling them one from the other; and his power was adorned like that of an idol, with his aid Bossuet, like Raphael or Car- his authority revered like that of a master or regio, is to be studied in his first, second, and a father, and his favor courted like that of a third manner. mistress. But to Bossuet Louis XIV. was Bourdaloue has been said to be the finest more than all this. The royal crown was work of Bossuet. Undoubtedly the sermons surrounded with a reflex of divine splendor. of that great l)reacher, as well as those of He was the favored child of the Most high Massillon, will ever be ranked amongst the the representative not only of the glories first triumphs of pulpit oratory, but in the of Clovis and Charles Martel, but of Abraham oraison fun~bre Bossuet stands confessedly and of David. From the teats of the patri- without a rival. Panegyric has doubtless to archs and from the l)alaces of Mount Zion dread more than any other form of composi- was transmitted a halo of theocratic splen- tion the criticism of posterity. Time le dor, which rested on the head of the King of grand justicier du passe, to use an expres- France. 90 To such an imagination a more moving subject could hardly be offered than the death of Henrietta, the wife of Charles I. While in her cradle her father fell under the dagger of iRavaillac; in her youth her wit and grace were the theme of universal admi- ration, and inspired St. Fran~ois de Sales with the happiest auguries; at sixteen she was married to the young prince of the House of Stuart, who now for the first time was the inheritor of three crowns. But alas for human foresight! the daughter, wife, and mother of kings knew almost every form of human misery,the fury of revolt, the in- sults of the mob, the agitations of flight, the perils of tempestuous seas dared in vain, the enterprise of hope, the courage of despair, the agony of impotent resolve in the face of overpowering destiny, a husbands bloody end, the mournings of a royal widow insulted by the mad frenzy of the Fronde, her coun- try a place of exile. This daughter of France had a true title to be called la reine mal- heureuse, and to say that her misery was as boundless as her fortune. Be wise, therefore, 0 ye kings; be in- structed, ye judges of the earth, was the text of Bossuet, which thrilled his auditors with a sort of religious terror, almost equal to that of the KDieu seul est grand, mes frdres, of Massillon. Taking advantage of the emotion excited by the text, the orator, in a most lofty exordium, at once unveils the awful reality of God the Lord of all empires, the chastiser of princes, reigning above the heavens, making and unmaking kingdoms, principalities, and powers, and declaring by terrible judgments that the mightiest pyra- mids of power afford no shelter from the breath of his anger. The same religious awe pervades the whole piece. It is the ma- jestic stream of inspiration which gives mo- tion to the rapid and powerful narrative, the sublime reflections, the magnificent imagery, the portraits worthy of Tacitus or Sallust, that are borne calmly on its surface. The fatal consequences of schism, the extrava- gance of fanaticism, the horrors of rebellion which devastated a country more agitated than the ocean that surrounds it, necessa- rily pass before the review of Bossuet as he grapples with the elements of fury which consumed the distracted kingdom of Charles. After describing the perils of the Monarchy, beset on all sides by the saints of Millennium, MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. by Independents, Anabaptists, and Levellers, he draws that nameless and admirable por- trait of the mighty genius who ruled the whirlwind and directed the storm. Hugue- not and hero, politician and saint, doctor and soldier, prophet and captain, indefatigable in war and peace, with a prudence and activity which outsped, arrested, and awaited fortune, impenetrable in council, thrusting a nation into slavery with the standard of liberty, Cromwell is conceived by Bossuet as one of those destined by inscrutable Providence to change the fate of empires. On the other side a queen struggling unconquerably against destiny and revolt, seeking unweariedly for new forces, crossing nine times the sea, serene and gay amid battle and shipwreck, animating the kings councils, wrestling foot by foot with defeat, alone amid the ruins of the state, unbending as a column which, long the sole support of a majestic temple in decay, receives at length the sinking mass of the vast edifice which unmoved constancy. To the triumph over the world succeeds the higher victory of faith; and the calm dignity of the conclusion of the oration resembles the peaceful end of the queen, who sought in the convent of Chaillot a refuge from the pit- iless storm of life. Even now, that we know these imposing pictures of characters and events to be as untrue and unreal as if they belonged to the creations of the tragic drama, they excite a sympathy in the pages of Bos- suet, which the judgment of History refuse8 to their follies and their crimes. It was destined that a young princess, whose tears flowed plentifully over the coffin of the Queen of England, should herself be the subject of the next oraison fune~bre. The youthful vivacity and graceful affability of the youngest daughter of Charles I. and Henrietta,Madame Henriette Anne dAn- gleterre, the wife of Philippe Due d,Orleans, the only brother of Louis XIV.,was the ornament and delight of the court of Ver- sailles. To much natural sensibility she added a correct taste; and the encourage- ments she bestowed on genius were doubled by her charming condescension. She loved to talk with Racmne or Corneulle about the plot of B~r~nice or Nicom~de; and once, while walking in the galleries of Ver- sailles, followed by a crowd of courtiers, she beckoned with a smile to Boileau, whispered in his ear one of the prettiest lines of the MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. Lutrin, and then tripped after the king the orator himself was unable to proceed and the royal family. On croyait, said from the violent outburst of sorrow. Bossuet, avoir atteint la perfection quand From time to time as the bier was spread on avait plu fl Madame. She felt at once for some royal or noble form, the voice of the ascendancy of Bossuets genius, and Bossuet called France again to meditate on placed herself under his spiritual guidance. the awful themes of time, death, and eternity. The secrets of political intrigue were also His last effort was the well-known discourse entrusted to her keeping; and it was on her over the great Cond~, in which he breathes return from the arrangement of the famous the ardent spirit of the dead hero, and treaty of Dover with her brother Charles II., unites the fire of an epic poet with the zeal that she was seized with a mysterious illness, of a prophet. Every schoolboy knows by after drinking a glass of succory water, ad- heart the magnificent peroration which called ministered by the hateful minions of her own on nations, princes, nobles, and warriors to husband. Her agonies were appalling. She come to the foot of the catafalque which knew the touch of death, and cried impa- strove to raise to heaven a magnilicent testi- tiently for the end of her sufferings. She mony of the nothingness of man. Bossuets longed for Bossuet: she said she should be own white locks then warned him that his inconsolable if she died without hearing him, failing voice and declining energy would ere and demanded repeatedly if he were coming. long be quenched in the same cold silence On his arrival she felt the bitterness of death and decay which possessed for ever the great was over. The strong spirit of Bossuet him- prince who loved to hold converse with him self was overcome for a moment to see the beneath the forest shades and around the an- pale flag of death and anguish planted upon sleeping fountains of Chantilly. cheeks lately radiant with health and beauty. It has been the custom to call Bossuet the He knelt by her bedside; he shook off the Demosthenes of the pulpit. As Bossuet says shackles of earthly emotion. At the sound of Alexander, that he partakes of the tri- of his eloquent voice the features of Henri- umph of every conqueror, so we may say of etta beamed with celestial hope: she besought Demosthenes, that he shares the glory of him not to leave her stricken soul alone in every orator. If by so calling him, no more the awful combat, but to deliver her un- is meant than that he is the greatest orator scathed into the arms of eternity. For four of the iRomish Church, so much may be con- hours Bossuet continued, amid her weeping ceded; but we can discover little affinity be- relatives and attendants, to utter words of tween the boldest strokes of Athenian pat- faith and consolation, until at length, press- riotism and the gorgeous exaltation of the ing with dying hand the crucifix to her lips, Oraisons fun& bres.~ The Attic precision of she welcomed the fatal moment with the the one is in direct contrast with the Asiatic same sweetness which had distinguished her richness of the other, whose style is so colored life. One hour before death she spoke in that the finest abstractions of Christian phil- English to her attendantsit was to tell osophy grew visible at his touch. The best them to give to Bossuet after death an eme- of the Oraisons funbbres~ are not Demos- rald ring. Louis himself placed it on his thenic, but Pindaric. It is the inspiration of finger, desired him always to wear it, and to the lyric l)Oet, united with the deep voice of preach her funeral sermon at St. Denis. the historian, that swells out in the noblest Speaking under the influence of this tragic passages; and the poetry of France can scene, no wonder if Bossuet, although he hardly produce a page comparable to the wanted the great topics of national commo- diction of her greatest writer in prose. tions and a dethroned monarch, produced a With all this, there is no display of art: discourse not inferior to the former one. Bossuets language, though grand, seems the The pathos of the second rivals the sublimity natural speech of his fervid imagination, and of the first. We seem still to hear as we it was peculiarly his own, though many read the passage, that terrible cry which phrases of his coinage have since become rang through the halls of Versailles current among French writers. He has not Madame se meurt! Madame est morte! the silvery cadence and polished phrase of and to see the audience sobbing with veiled Massillon; nor has he the argumentative faces as the words were pronounced, while strategy of Bourdaloue, which was so illustra MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. tive of the imperatoria virtus of Quin- tilian, that Cond~ cried out once when the Jesuit mounted the pulpit, Silence, Mes- sieurs, voici lennemi ! Yet there is only one production of the French pulpit which can be compared with his best effoits , and that is the really evangelic sermon of Fene- ion on the Epiphany, where the vast love of the swan of Cambray is clothed in language so pure and holy, that it would have become the lips of the angels who sang on earth peace and goodwill to men. The ability of Bossuet was without a rival. lie was made a member of the Acad~mie Fran~aise, and also Bishop of Condom. This bishopric, however, he ceded in order to undertake the education of the Dauphin, t.he duties of which employment kept him for many years at the court of Versailles. The King appears from the first to have under- stood that Bossuet was the prelate especially adapted to support that administrative unity in Church and State to which his imperious nature tended, and that no more fitting pre- ceptor could be found of the duties of a king as he himself conceived them. The J)au- phins earliest infancy had been placed under the care of the celehrated Mlle. de Ram- bouillet. This lady married M. de Montau- sier, a nobleman of high character and posi- tion; and he was appointed governor to the young prince, with Bossuet as preceptor. The scheme of education was magnificent. The learned Huet, Madame Dacier, and others prel)ared the well-known classics ad usurn Delpliini; the erudite Tillemont com- j)osed the Life of St. Louis, the brilliant Flechier his Life of Theodosius, for the especial use of the royal pupil. Bossuet conducted their labors; comprehending in his vast mind the whole range of ancient and modern literature and philosophy. He plunged anew into antiquity with all the ardor of youth. It is said he knew by heart nearly all the Iliad and Odyssey. He never spoke of Homer without the epithet divine. his passion for him was so great, that lie recited his verses in his sleep. On one occasion, when he astonished an episcopal colleague by thundering out a long passage, he said, What marvel! when after having been a teacher of grammar and rhetoric for so many years. Where? said the Bishop. At Versailles and St. Germains. He wrote criticisms on style in the manner of the classic poets and historians. He composed a fable in the iambics of Phi~drus, which passed current as genuine. l)y A letter in classic Latinity was written Bossuet to Innocent XI., in which he sub- mitted for his approval the course of educa- tion proposed. Grammar, logic, rhetoric, history, politics, religionall passed under the review of Bossuet, taught in a way worthy of himself. Piles of manuscript yet exist in hi~ handwriting and in that of his pul)il, which attest the industry of the prelate in these duties. lie studied French history from the original documents, dictated to the Dauphin in French his oliservations on each e1)och, and the pupil translated them into Latin: in this way they got as far as the reign of Charles IX. The principal treatises which Bossuet com- posed for the education of the Dauphin are collected in his works, comprising philosophy, politics, and history ; and it is in these that his peculiar theories of the ielat.ion of God and man, sovereign and subject, ni-c most apparent. The philosophical treatises written for the Dauphin were La Connaissance de Dieu et de soi-m~me, and Le Trait6 du lihre Arbitre. It would require far more space than the limits of this article will allow to give a due estimate of Bossuets importance as a philosopher. In his treatises, in his sermons, in his controversies with Protestant, Molinist, and Idealist, he has handled every question of metaphysics; and his opponents had to cope not only with a consummate theologian, hut with a profound philosopher, who had constructed for himself a system by the aid of reason alone, with no help from Theology or Revelation. His great mind, secure in its rooted and immovable faith, saw the danger of setting philosophy at defiance in the name of Religion. To Religion and Philosophy he allotted their distinct domains. To expound the one was the office of the Church; to advance the other was the pro- vince of the philosopher. To the one he assigned as guides, authoCty and tradition; to the other, sense and free investigation were the very conditions of its existence. He professed himself as favorable to the pro- gress of pure philosophy as he was opposed to all innovation in the dogmas of the ancient faith; and by the aid of his comprehensive genius, with the grasp of his vigorous reason, MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. but above all by the perspicacity and clear- ness of his vision, the orthodoxy of the bishop never clashed with or embarrassed the system of the philosopher, and the conquests macic by the unassisted efforts of the understanding were, when gained, sanctified to the uses of theology. Bossuet, it is true, invents nothing, he only expounds; but with admirable clear- ness and order he combines with a ~vell-con- nected system the lessons he has learnt from his great masters. Indeed, there are few among all the great intellects who have dedi- cated theii- power to philosophy, who can lay claim to invention. T he great truths of metaphysics are like family jewels, which descend as heirlooms from generation to generation, and are perpetually reset to suit the fashion of the tiii~es. It is the manner of l)rcsenting them, and not the substance which changes. The language of Bossuet is admirably adapted to philosophical sub- jects,simple and strong, with a power of plain illustration which presents the most abstract ideas in the most concrete forms to the imagination. His principal masters are Descartes, St. Augustine, and Thomas Aqui- nas. At the college of Navarre he was nursed in the doctrine of the Angel of the Schools. To this mitigated Peripateticism he continued to adhere on many sovereign l)oints of phil- osophy and theology, conciliating with it as far as l)Ossible the Platonism of St. Augus- tine and the new sl)iiitual philosophy of Descartes, which he found making such prog- ress among thinking minds. ])escartes, it may be said, furnishes him with the main nerves of his philosophy. In La Connais- sance de Dieu et de soi-m~me, he is emi- nently Cartesian both in his treatment and matter. He rises, like Descartes, from the fact of the l)ossession of eternal and immuta- ble truths by the finite and iml)erfectintelli~ gence to the collocation of these truths in the mind of an Eternal Being, and leans on the authority of Plato, cc divin philosophe, and of St. Augustine. Like Descartes, too, he rises from the idea of the infinite and perfect to the existence of a cause of the idea adequate to the idea, and therefore in- finite and perfect in itself. Indeed these no- tions, eternal and immutable,the r~ 6v1-w~ 6vi-ov of Plato, which would subsist if every intelligence were destroyed, which have an ol)jective existence independent of the sen- tient subject,can reside in no subject excel)t one, in which all truth is eternally subsisting and entirely comprehended. No senses could avail to convey to the imperfect and finite human intelligence the notion of an infinite and pci-feet being of God, if the truth were not present at all times to all spirits, inspir- ing them with li0ht, life, and apprehension; and if the narrow and dark prison-house of sensual perception were not irradiated on all sides by the effulgence of celestial glory. But at the same time Bossuet carefully stops short of, and combats, the extravagance of Malebranche, which destroys the alterity to use the word which he takes from Plotinus of the human intelligence, and the divine truths on which it is nourished, which en gulphs the human mind in its nothingness in the Divinity. These eternal truths arc but entrusted to man for his guidance; they illuminate his thought, but still proceed from Heaven. Their rays descend into the soul, which, made in the image of God, is endowed with the capacity of reflecting them, and of comprehending as much of its Divine Origi- nal as it has been given it to comprehend. The Cartesian treatise of Bossuet is a com- plete l)hysiological and psychological investi- gation of the nature of man, and his relation to God. In order to render himself fully conversant with the nature of the body, he dedicated some considerable time to the study of anatomy in the schools of medicine. The structure of the human frame, its func- tions and operations, are distinctly described and defined, as well as its points of contact with the soul; and although he professes not to reveal the secret by which the ever-exist- ing miracle of the obedience of the body to the soul is determined, yet he points out clearly ho~v merely corporeal movements and impressions are to be distinguished from in- tellectual sensations. In the Trait~ du libre Arbitre ~ the con- clusions of Bossuet al-c not so satisfactory. He adopts, after examining the other svs- tems, and particularly the detect ative victo- rieuse, the primit~ee or predetei-minative physique of Thomas Aquinas: he thought this was the just mean between the Molinist who discredited grace, and the Calvinist who discredited free will. Between the two he found himself like St. Augustine between the Pelagians and the Manich~ans. Every fresh generation has gone to the grave, and left behind some testimony of the incom MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. petence of the human mind to span the in- calculable abyss. That man is, or believes himself to be free, and yet depends on the will of God, is the mystery; and it is far better to leave it so than to darketi the matter more by a more mysterious explanation, and then call in the name of God to silence argu- ment. In the treatise entitled La Politique sacr~e tirde de la Saint Ecriture Bossuet fully developed his political theory, and as- pired to be the apologist of despotism. The first part of this treatise only was composed for the Dauphin; and even up to the last hour of his life he was occupied in its com- pletion. We have here the matured result of Bossuets political speculations. Never, certainly, were such gigantic talents em- ployed to give a divine sanction to the doc- trine of passive obedience; and the treatise will ever remain a perpetual monument, that it may be possible for the highest genius to accel)t as the foundations of political and social power theories which the com- mon sense of a school-boy would rightly re- ject with disdain. Bossuet is perhaps the most complete type of the pure Conservative which ever existed. lie was born old; a zealot of the dogma he never doubted, change was to him hateful. For the future he had no hopes and no aspirations. He knew none of those yearnings for the ame- lioration of mans earthly lot which are often the anguish and the glory of the poets of progressthe Fenelons of politics. He dreamt of no Utopia or Salentum, for he wished for none,or rather, a land of slaves and eremites, with a king the undisputed lord of all, was his Utopia. Immutability was his great test of all things. He was one of those imperious minds who, being strong themselves, sympathize with the strong; love the rapidity of force; think persuasion and compromise tedious; who like M. de Maistre and Mr. Carlyle, adore power wherever es- tablished, and, see no justice in a defeated cause. On ne doit pas examiner comment est etablie Ia puissance; cest assex quon la trouve etablie et rdgnant. Aucaract?~re royal est inherent une saintdte qui ne peut ~tre effac~e par aucun crime mime chez les princes infidbles. We see Bossuet hesi- tated not to follow his premisses to their ex- treme legitimate conclusions. Deurn timete, 7sonor~ftcate regem, is his whole doctrine. Louis XIV. could never have heard from Bossuets lips any thing not in perfect har- mony with his own conceit of his royal dig- nity and necessity, Bossuet was the ideal subject, as Louis himself was the ideal king- Bossuet thus defines royalty : La prince est no personnage publictout letat est en lui; la volont~ de tout le peuple est renfer- m~e dans la sienne, The words Letat, cest moi, were but the application of this axiom. To a monarch thus placed on the giddy apex of unlimited dominion, immovea- bly raised on divine authority, unassailable by human cares or apprehensions, Bossuet en- joins the fear of God. This is his constitu- tional check: on this the people must rely for wise and good government, for modera- tion from a master amid the temptations of boundless and irresponsible power. Such is the polity ~which Bossuet founds upon the Scriptures,the same arsenal which shortly before had supplied the Independents with arguments for a Republic and the decapita- tion of kings. But while Bossuet held these extravagant notions of regal power, his was pre-eminently a healthy spirit; he would never have been one of those distorted and morbid minds who roar for coercion in the midst of liberty of thought and speech. In his sketch of the policy of Greece and Rome, he shows how fully his really noble mind could appreciate the glorious dignity which history confers on every citizen of a free state. Natures like Bossuets tend to unity and a strong govern- ment, and in their respect for antiquity and love of precedent, they employ this tendency in maintaining the supremacy of whatever happens to be established. Indeed, Bossuet does not omit to lay down that whatever gov- ernment is established is best. The monar- chy of, France, which had grown from such small beginnings, and had so marvellously succeeded, after ages of conflict and subtle policy, in bringing all ancient Gaul (to use an expression of Richelien), under its undis- puted authority, seemed to him especially fa- vored by Divine power. In this spirit Bossuet composed for the Dauphin the great Discourse on Universal History, through which his influence has been greatest on posterity. He was the first to attempt to deduce a fixed law from the history of the world~to judge by a single principle and at a single glance the work of MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. civilization and of mankind. From St. Au- gustine or from Paulus Orosius he may have gathered the hint which put him on the track of this great conception, hut the vigor and originality of its execution are his own. Vico may have seized the idea in a more philosophical sense, Herder may have devel- oped it, Hegel may have rendered it capable of indefinite development, but not the less is Bossuet the Copernicus of history, who alone first clearly saw that history revolves about an eternal axis, and that the apparent aber- rations of the destiny of the world, the rise and fall of empires, may, like the complex motions of the planets, be resolved with the precision of truth when referred to the right centre. Writers following in the wake of Voltaire have accused J3ossuet of giving too much space to the Hebrew people, and of making Jerusalem as it were the metrop- olis of the world; but Bossuet was no Vol- tairian, and the limits assigned to the He- brew people are scientifically consistent with his views of the purpose of the dest.iny of man. His object, as the philosopher of the Catholic Church, was to exhibit, amid the shock and confusion of races and colli- sions,amid a world, the seeming prey of havoc and chanceamid the unutterable up- roar of throne hurled on throne, and empire upon empire,the calm features of religion alone superior to change, the serene com- panion and helper of man since the com- mencement of the world. To show the active influence of each nation upon the establishment of Christianity, some ages are necessarily compressed to a span, and some countries entirely neglected. It is with nations as with the battalions of armies in combat,some bear the brunt of battle and win the attention of the historian, but many add in the rear an unseen support to the onward march. The stores acquired by modern erudition and ethnography were wanting in the days of Bossuet to enable him to determine the true position of many of the ancient nations. Hence some races of the East and of medi~val Europe are missing in his pages. But he displays the wisdom of Egypt, the might of Assyria, the valor of Persia, the intellect of Greece, and the am- bition of Rome, all unwittingly conspiring to bring mankind in submission to the foot of the Cross. There is doubtless much room for criticism, even from Bossuets own point of view, in the dimensions and proportions of the work. In the first part, the torrent of events rolls onward with such precipita- tion that the attention is bewildered with the rapidity with which the cloudy forms of states and empires are hurried along by the whirl- wind of destiny. The power of condensation is indeed admirable, but the plan is as level as a geographical chart. There is no group- ing, no heights and valleys to catch the eye, and no space left in the sacred nature of the recital for emotion, which is the life of his- tory, or for the moral or philosophic reflec- tion, which staml)s its truths on the mind. The l)roofs of religion were never set forth with a firmer hand or ~more glowing style than in the second part; but it is in the third that we learn most to admire the depth and penetration of Bossuets genius. It is in vain that he attempts to insinuate the advan- tage of a 85{jetion Uqitime, his grand im- agination is inflamed, in spite of himself, at the aspect of the patriotic freedom of Greece and Rome; the Catholic doctor breathes the spirit of Pericles and of Cato, shows himself the equal of Machiavelli in politic insight, and the worthy precursor of Montesquien. The result of this vast scheme of educa- tion was not happy. The Dauphin was naturally of an inert temperament; and it was said that Bossuet overpowered an unas- piring mind with the immensity of his energy and the vast weight of knowledge prema- turely thrust upon it: at any rate, he was wholly wanting in that affectionate sympathy which enabled the tender Fenelon to become the beloved master and confidant of his pupil the Due de Bourgogne, and to convert a boy of violent and intractable temperament into an amiable and accomplished prince, des- tined, alas to be but the Marcellus of France. During the education of the Dauphin, Bossuet had more delicate and less agreeable duties to perform towards the King. The gentle La Valli~re and the superb Montes- pan, when the royal caprice was over, were alike persuaded into retirement by the ex- hortations of Bossuet. The former, the penitent Magdalen, la petite violette, qui se cachait sous lherbe, to use the words of Madame de S~vigni, et qul ~tait honteuse d~tre m~re, d~tre duchesse,longed to bury in the peace of the cloister the keen sufferings of a wounded heart; but the re- tirement of Madame Montespan was an MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. affair of greater difficulty. The King him- tical authority, until an attempt to extend self had waverings, which induced her to the right of receiving the temporalities of think her empire was not ended. When the a vacant see, and appointing to its henefices, final vows of La Yalli~re were taken, the a right known by the name of the r~qale, Queen presented the mortuary veil and Bos- hrought the contest of Royalty and Papacy suet pronounced the discourse; and as he to an issue. uttered the final adieux for the penitent vic- innocent XI. was not an unworthy adver- tim, the audience sobbed aloud with pity for sary of Louis XIV. He was of the House the late favorite, whom they heard consigne(l, of Odescalehi of Como, and entered Rome under the name of the Sneur Louise de la as a young soldier, with a sword by his side Mis~ricorde, to the fearful rigor and living and pistols in his belt. His merit and zeal death of the Carmelites,to serge and sack- became so notorious, after he entered the cloth, to midnight vigils, maceration, and Church, that the people of Rome clamoured servile duties, while the royal adulterer was for his elevation under the porticoes of St. parading a new liaison with a prouder para- Peters, at the same time that the cardinals mour. selected him in conclave. He had retained The life of Bossuet at the court was worthy the vi~or of the soldier under the priestly of a great ecclesiastic. His equipage and robe; his character was mild, firm, aud con- establishment were modest; his society ~va~ acientious; his private life unimpeachable; and, comuosed of a select body of priests, men of as Pope, impartiality and constant eflbrts to letters, and judges. He was often to be rectify abuses marked all his proceedings. seen, followed by an imposing cortege, dis- To this pope appealed the two Jansenist cussing points of doctrine, philosophy, or bishops of Aleth and of Pamiers, who had history, pacing the alleys of Versailles, re- opposed the extension of the regale ovqr minding observers of the plane trees of the these sees, and had suffered such oppression Attic Academus. One ally was called the at the hands of the Kings officers, that the AlUe des Pitilosopites. The idle saunterers Bishop of Pamiers had been reduced to live of the gardens would often notice him within on alms. Sentences of proscription, exile, the Bosquet dzEsope, discoursing on ecele- and death were scattered a the clergy siastical history, with the Abbe Fleury taking supporting the bishops. Innocent XI. re- notes by his side. sponded to the appeal; twice, thrice, without When the education of the Dauphin was result, did he address the King in terms of concluded, Bossuet was made Bishop of authority and menace, until, at last, he sent a Meaux. Shortly after was convened the brief to the chapter of Pamiers which vio- celebrated Assembly of 1682. Bossuet was lated all the maxims of the national church. called at once to be president; an office in The Parliament was not slow to enter in the which he rendered good service to his coun- quarrel, with all the violence of old times. try, by mediating between the ungenerous The addresses of the clergy were redolent of arrogance of the King and the pretensions of the most abject adulation and servility; the the Holy See, and by reducing to a formulary Archbishop of Paris was, as Bossuet said him- the liberties of the Gallican Church. self, ready, in true valet style, to follow every The relation of France to Rome had long shift of the Kings humor. Cond6 said, if been unfilial, if not unfriendly. In 1663 the the King took a fancy to turn Protestant, the French troops passed the Alps, and were in clergy would be the first to follow. A popu- readiness to march on Rome to avenge an lar song added that they would sign the affront offered to the Due de Crequi, the Koran itself within a year if required. We French ambassador, when Cardinal Chigi, a are informed by the Abbe Le Dieu, that it brother of the Pope, was sent to Versailles was Colbert who saw the advantage to be solicit pardon. It was the first time in gained from the present embroilment and to the history of Europe that the Papal Court who determined the King to call an Assem- had known such humiliation aince the brutal bly, for the purpose of defining clearly the assault at Anagni. The Parliament and the relation of the Pope to Royalty and the Gal- Sorbonne seized the opportunity of fulminat- hican Church. ing on behalf of the Church of France. The The sermon which Bossuet preached at the King continued to make war on the ecelesias- meeting of the Assembly, is one of the finest MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. monuments of his genius, and contains all the grounds of the doctrines afterwards com- prised in the Declaration of the French pre- lates. Bossuets conduct on this occasion was extremely skilful. He viewed with ap- prehension the convocation of an Assembly in the then excited state of opinion; he feared the spirit of subservience of great dig- nitaries of the Church; he feared the perso- nal pique felt by many of the bishops towards the Court of Rome; and he equally feared the blind advocates of papal supremacy; nevertheless, under his guidance, the Galli- can Church equally avoided schism and ul- tramontanism. The four articles of the Declaration were drawn up by him; the first three establish the independence of the tem- poral power, the superiority of Councils over the Pope, and the inviolability of the usages of the national church; the last declares that even in matters of faith, the decision of the Pope was always reformable by that of the Church. These are the l)rinciples on which rest the liberties of the Gallican Church, liberties to which the clergy once clung with steadfast affection, and for establishing which the name of Bossuet was once held in honor. flub the chicanery of Bellarmin and Rocca- berti, and the still more recent violence of Bonald and De Maistre, have not been in vain exerted against doctrines asserted by an assembly of Catholic divines, headed by one of the greatest prelates the Church of Rome ever possessed. And it has been reserved to us in our own time to see the immortal prin- ciples of Bossuet repudiated by the majority of the French clergy, of whom Cardinal Beausset now is a fair representative, and the distinctive propositions of the Gallican Church become almost as obsolete in France as the distictive propositions of Jansenism. Bossuet had now reached his fifty-fifth year: his reputation was acknowledged in every part of Europe as one of the chiefest of the time; he had done sufficient to gain immortality, high l)osition, resl)ect, and troops of friends: all that men usually care for he possessed in abundance; but he felt, like Arnaud, that he had eternity to rest in, and that the night was coming in which no man could work. His latter days have in them something heroic. The last twenty-two years of his life were one combat. He had thought to have l)laced the throne and the altar on imperishable foundations, and to have taught THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 7 the human mind to flow around them, to rest in their shadow and reflect their glory; but alas, from every quarter under heaven came sweeping clouds of evil spirits laden with doctrines more pernicious than pestilence or famine. The lonely prelate stood ever on the defence, grappling on every side with his deadly assailants. If midnight vigils, medi- tations, long fastings, and fervent prayer can avail, he alone will deliver the human soul left, like Andromeda, forlorn and helpless amid the monsters of the deep. In the church and out of the church, le eharme trompeur de la nouveaute~ a new source of anguish, meets him wherever he iQoks. Lu- therans, Calvanists, and Arminians were rec- ognized and respectable antagonists; hut what were these compared with the new race of e8prits libertinsdeists, pantheists, seep- ticsdisciplined in the philosophy of Des- cartes and Malebranche, Spinoza, and Leib- nitz, who now came rushing to the at- tack P Almost the only peace which Bossuet knew was in his frequent journeys to La Trappe: the lonely walks amid the horrid shades and round the sombre lake of that austere solitude, in the company of De Ranc6; the lugubrious rites; the ever open and newly dug grave; the habitual admoni- tionFr& e, ilfaut mourirgave the weary prelate a foretaste of the quiet of the tomb. Only an iron constitution could have enabled him to accomplish such incessant labors. After he became Bishop of Meaux, he ever lay with a lamp by his bedside; his first sleep was usually four hours, after which, even in the severest winter, he arose, put on two dressing gowns, and placing a bear-skin wrapper over his legs, recited matins and lauds amid the stillness of the night; he then went to study his dockets of papers; his portfolios, his pen, paper and inkstand were in readiness on his desk; his easy-chair placed in front, his books of reference on other chairs on each side. He studied until overcome with fatigue, after which he went again to bed. His domestic affairs were usu- ally in considerable disorder; he paid little or no attention to them: his gardener re- gretted that his apple-trees were not the apple-trees of St. Ambrose or St. Jerome, as his master might then be induced to take notice of them. He left the management of his property to an intendant, and died in debt. He knew his deficiency, and excused MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. it thus in a letter to the Mar6chal Bellefond: Je perdrais plus de la moiti~ de mon esprit si jetais etroit dans mon domestique. Nevertheless, he surprised his servants and friends sometimes by spontaneous acts of kindness which showed that his love of books and controversy had not altogether supplanted his love of men. Protestantism still continued the main object of Bossuets assaults. The great doc- tors on either side carried on with the pen that contest which the Guises and Colignys had been unable to settle with the sword. Of the voluminous results of Bossuets labors in this cause, the two most celebrated treat- ises are the Exposition de la Foi Catho- lique, a resume of the Romish doctrine to which Turenne attributed his conversion, which received the approval of the Church, and thousands of copies of which were printed at the Kings expense for distribution; and the Variations des Eglises Protestantes, which subdued for a while the sceptical soul of Gibbon. Both these works hear the im- press of his fervid impulse and vigorous un- derstanding; but very different is the method which Bossuet adopts in these two treatises. The former is a simple exposition of the truths in which all Roman Catholics agree, giving a plain statement of all such tenets as Catholics must believe,leaving out all mat- ters on which different opinions might exist, and cutting away all rites and practises intro- duced to conciliate the superstitious imagina- tions of the southern nations. But the man- ner of his argument changes completely when he plants his attack on the Protestant Churches, on the discrepancies of the Confes- sions of Faith, not on those points in which they agree. Had he drawn up an Exposi- tion de la Foi Protestante, leaving out their disputes on controverted topics, he would have found t.hey all concurred in rejecting the gross usurpations of the Romish Church, and received with himself the fundamental tenets of Christianity. Paul Fern, Bastide, Iurieu, Burnet, and the learned Basnage were the principal an- tagonists of Bossuet in his long controversy against the Protestants. Of these Jurien carried on the war with the greatest perti- nacity; and although from his absence of taste and asperity of language, Bossuet has all the advantage as far as manner goes, yet the replies of Jurieu undermined the very foundations of Bossuets magnificent edifice. He denies that variation is a sign of the absence of truth; and against the divine right of kings he brought forwardominous soundthe sovereignty of the people. Later in life, Bossuet was engaged in correspon- dence with a mind of giant mould, which carried into every department of physical, intellectual, and political science the same searching insight and boundless originality the great Leibnitz. A project had been set on foot for the reconciliation of the Lutheran Church with that o Rome. Bossuet was prepared to make great concessions; to allow communion under both forms, the use of the vulgar tongue; to submit even to the Luthe- ran bishops retaining their wives, and the abolition of the superstitious use of the wor- ship of images. But the negotiation t.hough kept on foot for many years, was at last broken off: it was impossible to overcome the obstacle presented by the acts of the Council of Trent. It had been well for Bossuet had he been content that Protestantism should be assailed alone by the aid of reason. A dark sus- picion has attached to his name that he was a member of the council in which was de- cided the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. However this may be, he cannot be absolved from a heavy responsibility in the cruel per- secutions which raged against the Protes- tants, when the influence of the great patri- arch of the Gallican Church was at its height. To an imperious master he had preached the dogma of divine right and of nonresistance; and now, by maintaining the right of using violence on behalf of religion, he hardened an arrogant monarch in that barbarous poli- cy which made France the theatre of the last religious persecution in Europe. It is true Bossuet himself was courteous in argu- ment, and mild in treatment of the Protes- tants of his diocese; but all this is as noth- ing when weighed against the 5up1)Ort which his character, genius, and position gave to the inflated pride and intolerance of Louis in those fatal counsels which began to pre- vail when Colbet ceased to have influence in the Cabinet, and the cold and wary Mainte- non, the ferocious Louvois, the bigot Letel- her, and the Jesuit La Chaise, met with no opposition. Where was the sonorous voice, the sounding phrase, and the pomp of dec- lamation when, as St. Simon tells us, good 98 MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. Catholics groaned from the bottom of their hearts that a Christian monarch should, against the Huguenots, rival the atrocities of Pagan tyrants against the early Christians, when the Kings missionaries, in red coat and short carbine, were spurring from pro- vince to province to carry on the good work of conversion, and while the villages were left deserted at the whisper of the approach of these hooted apostles of murder and vio- lence,when the refinements of torture of the worst ages of barbarism were repeated at the command of the Kings council, and the exhortations of a zealous priesthood were directed against all who persisted in not accepting His Majestys religion ~* Their houses were plundered, their bodies racked, their feet roasted; they were strung up by the toes; they were shut up in deep damp cells with rotten carrion; their wives and daughters shrieked helplessly amid brutality and license; the apostacy of the child was paid for by the heritage of the father, and it was found the good work of conversion pro- ceeded with astonishing rapidity. Thou- sands were tortured, abjured, and excommu- nicated in a single day. The hearts of a million and a half of Frenchmen sickened with despair. They took to flight; and the kingdom was drained of its very best citi- zens. The terrors of the sword and carbine, the galleys and the gibbet, were insufficient to stop the deserteurs. who l)referred trust- ing themselves in their frail boats to the wintry fury of the Atlantic, and to the un- trodden passes of the Alps, than to the ten- der mercies of Louis. Pr~chons ce miracle de nos jours, ~pan- chons nos cceurs sur Ia pi~t~ de Louis, pous- sons jusquau ciel nos aeclamations, et disons A ce nouveau Constantin A ce nouveau Th~o- dose A cc nouveau Marcien ~ ce nouveau Charlemagne, Vous avez affermi la foi, vous avez extermin~ les hir~tiques; cest le digne ouvage de votre r~gne, cen est le propre caractbre. Par vous lh~r~sie nest plus. Then seul a pu faire cette merveille. Such is the extravagant rhapsody of Bos- suet about a measure which equalled in cru- elty that of the expulsion of the Moors from Spain. The furies of civil butchery, rapine, and license were let loose; terror went be ~ Sa Majest~ veut quon fasse sentir les der- ni~res rigucurs ~ ceux qui ne voudront pas se faire de sa religion.. Letter of Louvoi.s list. de 1 Edit de Nantes, vol. v. p. 869.) 99 fore them, desolation behind; and the most eloquent voice of the Gallican Church swelled with rapturous emotion, while the blood of the just and the sufferings of a fly- ing and I)ersecuted people were crying ven- geance throughout the length and breadth of France Against the Protestants, Bossuet could combat without compunction as against de- clared foes, but in Mysticism he found his most perilous and painful controversy,a controversy in which he had first to pass the sword through the dearest affection of his heart, and in which, though he at last tri- umphed, his victory cost him dear: it cost him the gathered sympathies of long years of intercourse, the love of one who had adored him as a disciple, and whom he could now reverence as an equal. In the cele- brated dispute with the Quietists there can be no doubt that Bossuet was right in the main; although we should have approved him more, had he carried less rancour into the discussion. The imperious and suscepti- ble pride of the dogmatist, and the stifling effect of controversy on all human affection, are proverbial; but, besides this, we suspect that Bossuet must have looked with some jealousy on Fenelons growing interest at court; that he mistrusted the influence of that tender nature, the magnetic attraction of a heart which was a shrine of love, be- nevolence, and charity,the fascinating and philanthropic nature of one who united the graces and virtues of a nobleman, a Chris- tian, and a saint. The Due de Bourgogne, the heir to the crown, lived and breathed for Fenelon his preceptor, who had poured into the pupils soul his own virtue, his own sanc- tity, and his own vast hopes for the future of man. Bossuet feared the progress of Fene- Ions liLral opinions, the accomplishment of those vast projects he nourished for social amelioration, so entirely at variance with La Politique tir~e de la Sainte Ecriture. The King himself heard of Fenelons re- forming schemes, and desired an explanatory interview, from which he retired, saying, that the prelate was le plus bet esprit et le plus cleimerique de mon royaume. But a snare for Fenelon was spread in his own boundless love and enthusiastic imagination. The re- lations of St. Fran9ois de Sales and Madame de Chantal are an instance of that mystic sympathy of aspiration towards the Infinite, 100 MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. in which it is hard to discover how much of that Bossuet and Fenelon were agreed; it human there was in that love which knew no was only in the application of them that earthly alloy. Madame Guyon was another they differed. Bossuets condemnation fell Madame de Chantal, whose angelic features, upon the attempt to make use of the most inspired air and piety gave her the air of an spiritually gifted enthusiastics of the Church evangelic sybil; her hearers were fascinated as ordinary guides for the conscience, and to with her doctrines of Pure Love, which, as combine their ecstatic ejaculations, in their recognizable in the Cantique des Can- most exalted fits of divine frenzy, with the tiques, and in Les Torrents, are the same sayings of obscure and ignorant fanatics, into as were condemned by the Inquisition in a system of religiosity which would cvi- Molinos. To t.hese enthusiastic minds it dently be a most dangerous snare for the seemed as if Heaven could be realized on general mass of mankind. What wa.s per- earth, and the soul, hy ecstatic volition, could missihie for a Theresa, a Fran~ois de Sales, lift itself at once to celestial glory and eter- or a Fenelon, was not so for all the world. nal peace. The main difference hetween Bossuet and To those possessed of this pious energy, Fenelon was that Fenelon looked at prin- all practice and discipline were indifferent: ciples alone, while Bossuet saw at once the hence the name of Quietisme. The soul principles and their most remote conse- possessed God, was at rest with him, and so quences. His excellent book, the Instruc- incapable of sin. Madame de Maintenon tion sur les Etats dOraison, is full of admir- saw, and was enraptured with the new able philosophy, and vindicates, in the clearest Theresa. She introduced her to the little manner, the rights of human reason against circle of which Fenelon was the spiritual the absurd aggressions of the mystics. Bos- chief. Fenelon granted her an interview: suet, with that good sense and practical to use the words of the caustic St. Simon, spirit which so pre-eminently distinguished leur sublime samalgama. A new and him, had observed human nature carefully; strange language began to be spoken by the he had studied himself; and in the confes- pet it troupeau, as the Duke calls them. The sional he had possessed full opportunity of public generally were bewildered, and re- studying, probing, and testing the limits of peated the mot of Madame de Sevigne the conscience generally. Bossuet, the great Ep aississez-moi la religion qni sevapore en controversialist, the antagonist of Calvin, se subtilisant. The King, whom Madame Grotius, Malebranche, Simon, and Jurieu, de Maintenon attempted to indoctrinate, de- the correspondent of Leihnitz, the head of dared he was not sufficiently advanced to the Gallican Church, the soul of its councils, taste such reiveries. Madame de Maintenon found ample time to solve the difficulties of herself was disposed to think these new the most simple penitent, as may be seen in rhapsodies were not suited for the vulgar, his correspondence with Madame Cornuau and should be kept for the enjoyment only of and other religious persons. He knew the initiated. Bossuet at last denounced enough of human nature to see the danger Madame Guyon and her doctrines to the of favoring in any way the progress of a King ; the prophetess was immured in Yin- mysticism which annihilated self, treated with cennes, and Bossuet demanded from Fene- contempt the humble assistance of reason lon, as Archbishop, a condemnation of (that secret inspiration of truth, as Bossuet Madame Guyons opinions. Fenelon re- terms it), and in despair, and despite of fused. The two prelates published their human intelligence, dreamed of nothing less treatises. Bossuets admirably written work than direct communion with God through a was the Instruction sur les Etats dOraison. spiritual medium refined of all earthly and That of Fenelon was called Les Maximes sensual alloy, in a state of disembodied des Saints, in which he justified, by quota- prayer, in which words were only a corporeal tions from the Fathers and Saints, so much bar between thought and Omnipotence. of Madame Guyons mysticism as he held. By the pure and elevated piety of Fenelon Bossuet declared the book heretical, and these consequences were overlooked, and lie thenceforward carried on an implacable war attached himself with immense ardor to the against Fenelon. doctrine of Pure Love. Mysticism of this On abstract principles there is little doubt nature is the more dangerous, as it seizes the MEMOIRS OF BOSSUET. finest natures on their most disinterested and poetic side. The Archbishop of Cambrai appealed from the Council of the Gallican Church to Rome. The dispute lasted several years. All Europe was anxious to know how would terminate the great ~roc~s between the eagle of Meaux and the swan of Cambrai. The Pope and the cardinal inclined in favor of Fenelon. The Cardinal de Bouillon used every effort in his behalf, but Bossuet had Louis XIV. on his side, and both were de- termined that Fenelon should be convicted of heresy. Bossuet spoke in a contemptuous way of the peu de lumi~Yre possessed by the head of his church. A fulminating rnemoire was drawn up by the prelate in the name of the King to quicken the Popes judgment. The King, it was said, would know what to do if the matter were delayed longer. A plainer threat of schism and a national coun- cil could hardly be conveyed. At length the Vatican yielded. But the Pope, in pronounc- ing sentence, declared that if Fenelon had sinned from excess of love for God, Bossuet had sinned in the defect of love for his neigh- bor, Fenelon received judgment with unre- sisting meekness; he read his own condemn- ation from the pulpit, and never uttered a coml)laint. He spent years of exile in his diocese, deserted by all who longed for favor at the court. The King feared him. The memorable remonstrance of Fenelon, and his known opinions, were unpardonable offences. Madame de Maintenon hated him, for she had injured and deserted his cause. A brief gleam of sunshine came just before his beloved pupil was snatched away; but Fenelon bowed his head to the stroke; he sought refuge in his sublime patience and his boundless charity. He died like a saint and a poet. His memory survives his works, for his name is engraven on the heart of France, and the savor of his virtues is still sweet in the memories of his countrymen. The two prelates were never reconciled. The very humility of Fenelon angered Bos- suet more, and he seems to have carried his rancor to the grave. In this journal we find him stating that Fenelon had acted the perfect hypocrite all his life. He was too imperious to brook difference of opinion, even in his friend and pupil; ce cher disciple, as he said, que fai porte dams mes en- trailles.. ~ It is strange, indeed, that two ~ Letter of Fenelon to Bossnet : Nons som 101 such sublime types of two such opposite characters should be shown to France at the same time. Bossuet was born with all the vigor and fixity of age,Fenelon retained till death all the generous glow and bound- less elasticity of youth. Bossuet preached the doctrine of fear,Fenelon that of love. Bossuets tPsind was petrified by ever looking back,that of Fenelon was directed ever forward, in spite of the taunts and despair of sceptics and unbelievers. The one loved immutability, the other progress. In the heart of the one ruled mistrust, in that of the other confidence. Bossuet was a Conserva- tive, Fenelon a Liberal. The gerdus of the former was Hebrew and Roman. that of the latter Grecian and Evangelical. The one had the stern majesty of a prophet by Mich- ael Angelo, the other the ecstatic beauty of a martyr by Guido Reni. Bossuets last days were sad,he suffered severe pain from an illness which had been growing uporn him for years. But though the body broke, the spirit was unconquerable. He looked around, it is true, with gloomy forebodings. He viewed with terror the sceptical spirit of Montaigne revived in Pierre Bayle; and saw the future pregnant with evil. He said sadly, Je prevois que les esprits forts pour- ront fitre decredites, non p~~ur aucune hor- reur de leurs sentiments, mais parcequon tiendra tout dans lindifference hors les plaisirs et les affaires. He foresaw, in fact, lindifference en mati?~re de religion. Still he plied his pen unweariedly: convinced that he was placed by Providence in the hreach against the assaults of pernicious doctrine, he remained there till the last. Protestant, Socinian, Jansenist, and Jesuit controversies still absorbed his main efforts. In his very last hours he was still working at his Poli- tique, at his Elevations sur les Myst~res, and Meditations sur lEvangile, in which religion speaks with a voice of awe and mys- tery, and philosophy is borne aloft by the spirit of theology to the highest regions of mes vous et mci lobjet de la ddrision des impies nons faisons gdmir los gens de bien. Que tons los autres hommes soient hommes cest Co qui ne dolt pas surprondro, mali quo des minIstres do Jdsus Christ,ces anges des dglises,donnent an monde profane et incrddule do tols spectacles, cost ce qul demande des larmes do sang. Trop heureux ii an lien do ces guerres do doctrines nous avions tonjours fait nos cat~chismes dans nos dioc~ses, pour apprendro nos peuvres villageols h connaltre et iL aimer notre Dieu. MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. transcendental metaphysics; while the eyes of the soul reveal to us as much of the excess of light as it is possible perhaps for human imagination to conceive. From the journal of the Abh~ Le iDieu we gather much interesting information concern- ing the latter days of the aged prelate. True to his announcement in the peroration of his discourse on Cond~, he consecrated himself to the duties of his diocese; he laid aside the dignity and diction of the great Churchman, and preached to humble towns- folk and villagers, in terms of paternal af- fection and simplicity, the same doctrines which he had labored to enforce on the splendid congregations of Versailles and the Louvre. We find him catechizing children, visiting the sick, teaching and aiding the poor to bear the ills of life with patience, ad- ministering confirmation, assisting at confer- ences of the clergy, directing the hospitals, and reforming the monasteries. Neverthe- less, his fatal disease, the stone, was growing fast upon him he endeavored to hide it as long as he could, but the excruciating pains he suffered made it too soon apparent. The journey from Paris to Meaux and Versailles hecame more than he could hear; he sought in vain for relief in carriages with easy springs, and even in litters. The kings physicians were called in, hut they could do little, and the mention of an operation at his advanced age threw him into a fexeiish state of consternation. He found little consolation from the court he had edified, or from the nephews and nieces who flourished on his bounty. One fixed idea swayed his later years,which was that his nephew should he appointed his successor in the bishopric. The nephew was certainly not a fit character tb fill the oflice,he was intriguing, worldly, selfish, and indelicate; hut a worse man was appointed: a refusal highly mortifying to a dignitary of Bossuets merit. But Bossuet in his own person had not met with too much favor at court: many a prelate of high line- age stepped. before him there. All chance of becoming a cardinal directly through Rome was lost for him by his part in the declaration of 1682. The nomination of his nephew, however, was his favorite project: he presented a m~noire to the King on the subject with his own hand, and the King re- plied nothing, but that the matter required great reflection. He courted the favor of Madame de Maintenon on every occasion he could invent for writing to her. If a short answer of eight lines came, the dying pre- late treasures it fondly, shows it to every- body, and receives it hack, avec un grand eml)ressement, Grand rLigal ce soir au logis oii on attendait NI. lAbb6 Bossuet, writes the Abb6 Le IDieu, on one such occa- sion. Madame de Maintenon, however, at last lost all patience. Bossuet came in Sep- tember, 1703, to Versailles, to look, as usual, after his nephews interest. Madame de Maintenon had the kAlowing message con- veyed to him, as sufficient a proof of the cold-heartedness of that prudent lady as could well be given. M. Dodart trouvant M. lAbb6 Fleury lui a dit que M. de Meaux devait sen aller ~ Paris, et m~me Li Meaux; qua Me. da Main- tenon Ini a dit quelle fltait ~tonn~e de ce quil nLitait pas encore parti de Versailles, 8il voulait donc mourir ~z la Cour! M. Dodart ajouta que M. de Meaux na besoin ni de chirurgien ni de medecin; quil ny aucune 0 pLiration Li faire Li son mal; quil lui suffit de voir un mLidecin une fois en huit jours pour ordonnor son rLigime; quil nen a pas besoia daillaurs. He went accordingly to Paris, where it is painful to read that when he was in such a state of agony that his cries and groans made all tremble about himwhen he was carried from his bad to his chair like an in- animate manwhen ha was dragged about the room for exercise by two footmenwhen all he could take for nourishment was a few drops of wine, or the wing of a chicken when his cheeks were sunken and his body wasted to a skeleton,one servile topic still occupied his thoughts: as soon as ever he was able to get out, he goes to promenade ia the Tuileries, and endeavors, says the Abb6 La Then, to go up and down the slopes, in order to see if his strength was equal to the staircase of Versailles and one more solicita- tion. But though his body was racked with suf- ferings, and he had not renounced the objects of clerical ambition, he still continued his old avocations as long as he could. Grotius, Tillemont, and Fleury were his lightest read- ing. Ha made emendations on his owa works as the Abb~ La Then read them, and like Swift, broke out ia admiration of his early prowess. But the end was near. He cried out continually, Fiat voluntas tual 102 MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. adveniat regnum tuum! also, Domine, vim patior; sed non confundar, scio enim cui credidi ; and on another occasion at the mention of his glory, Cessez vos discours et demandez pardon ~r Dieu de mes He died on the 12th of April 1704, at the age of seventy-seven. Voltaire was then ten years old. During his illness, his nephews the Abb6 and another had been providing for the worst. The Abh~ laid hands on the J)late, and got pos- session of that. The other endeavored to have his revenge with the manuscripts, hut the Abh6 had forestalled him there likewise. The Abb& s constitution was weak, and he in- dulged in good cheer on fast days, which much scandalized the good Le Dieu; and Madame Bossuet, the niece, gave a large sup- per in Lent, the din of which destroyed the dying bishops repose. The Ahb6 sends his servant off to the opera before Bossuets face; Madame Bossuet goes likewise with her daughters, leaving Bossuet alone in the houseall knowing that Bossuet had writ- ten against theatrical amusements, and thought them unchristian spectacles. Mad- ame Bossuet after a masquerade gets up at midday to hear mass, and then goes to hed again. Quelle vi e,cries the Abbe Le Dieu, in the house of our prelate! Such was the life of the nearest relatives of a bishop whose decease was expected daily, at an epoch which its apologists laud for the per- fect fulfilment of social duties. So Bossuet breathed his last, hut not at the court. The King and Madame de Mainte- non were not offended! No dead prelate defiled the precincts of Versailles. The courtiers were much moved. There was a great deal to he given away. The old lion was dead, who shall have his skin? The death happened at a quarter-past four in the morning. The Abbe Bossuet was informed. No time was to he lost, lie dressed himself, went straight off to Marly, and was presented to the King. The King was grieved; and gave him, not the bishopric hut the rich abbey which Bossuet held; and he M ent hack to his dead uncle plein dejoje et temoig- nant une grande satisfaction. Bossuets charge of premier aumdnier and that of conseiller d~tat were given away likewise on the spot. The destination of the bishopric kept people in suspense some time. The 103 court was represented at the obsequies by the groom of the Dauphin, who was not even gentilliomme. The higher order of the clergy were scarce, hut the inferior were ahundant. The people of Meaux, however, made amends: they came out in an immense crowd to meet the procession as it approached; and the simple folk were heard to repeat to each other, Cest grand dommage quun 51 grand homme soit mort; il a hien l)arle et bien travaill~ toute sa vie pour la d6fense de la foi,a eulogy which the late prelate would doubtless have preferred to the porn- pous orations pronounced over him at Rome, Paris, and elsewhere. The worst feature of the whole was, that when the will of Bossuet was read, there was no mention of the poor, nor of his old servantsnot even of the Abb6 Le Dieu, who had served him for twenty years, nor of his church, except to desire that his body might be placed there. The Abb6 his nephew, who was named l~ga- taire universel, in order to hide the defi- ciency of the will, offered an ornament to the chapter, which was accepted with much satisfaction; and no further remark made about the will. But enough of these details, which present a cynical contrast to the illustrious man for whose sake they are remembered. Posterity demands of a great genius, be he orator or theologian, king, conqueror, or statesman, what use he has made of his talents for the benefit of mankind. Intellec- tual triumphs, like martial victories, may un- doubtedly be more dazzling than useful. When we bring Bossuet to this test our judg- ment must be severe. Tried as a literary artist, who produced the finest models of the sublime and pathetic in French literature; who enriched his native tongue with many noble forms of expression; who invented, in fact, a grand language; his influence has been great, and all the homage that great intellects could render to his merit has been given him alike by friend and foe; but the homage of the intellect is poor indeed, when compared with the homage of the heart; that nameless yearning which is felt towards the real guides and benefactors of man amid the perplexities of his earthly career, which overleaps time and space, and grows broader and deeper as it falls from generation to gen- eration. Bossuet himself, with his superb MEMOIRS OF BOSSIJET. contempt of mere literary display, would, if his great shade were to appear among us, refuse to he jud~ed as a mere artist; he would demand to stand or fall by his worth as a theologian, a moralist, a prelate, a politi- cian, and a citizen. As a bishop we search in vain for evidence that he attempted to use his high position and authority to moderate the vain love of ostentation, the ruinous love of war and glory which rendered his master the disturber of the peace of Europe and the devastator of France, by impoverishing her cities and her plains, and starving her people. We search in vain for the manly and Christian warnings of the remonstrance of Fenelon,* or the severe lesson given to kings and nobles by Massillon in Le petit Car~me. It cannot be said he stood erect, in the face of abused power, a mediator between the angry voice of the people and the purple tyranny of kings. It cannot be said, Ilium non populi lasces nec purpura regum Flexit. cian and a citizen his influence was pernicious, and was deeply felt in the succeeding age; and the haughty disdain which he professed for political speculation, the marvellous sub- servience of so great a spirit to the prin- ciples of unlimited obedience, the authority of his great example, deterred his country- men from forming habits of political thought, served to rivet on his country the fetters of autocracy, and left it when the chains were loosened, like an unarmed slave, with limbs powerless from long inaction, exposed to the assaults of theory and licence. We have no English Bossuet, and we have reason to be thankful that our national life was nover so concentrated in the palace as to give a pre-eminence to the court pulpit suffi- cient to sustain such lofty flights of rhetorical magniloquence. But England produced in that same age a genius of grander and more truly religious soul, greater in his aspirations, and more noble in his life,a man who never crooked the hinges of the knee to power; who raised his eloquent voice again and again in behalf of unviolated liberty of thought and conscience; who endeavored to forward the reign of Gods justice upon earth; who, blind, old, deserted, clung with unquenchable ardor to the cause that was despised by the court, scorned by the great, and despaired of by the people; a name that will be as dear as his works to the most distant posterity, who was great and good, whether considered as Christian, poet, politician, or patriot. If France has her Bossuet, England has her Milton. The genius of the one and of the other bears the same stamp of massive gran- deur; the eloquence of one and of the~ other rose to sublimity and pierced the veil of mortality. But the French orator was the champion of authority and of the Church of #E Le penpie m~me (ii faut tout dire) qui Rome; the English poet was the child of vous a tant aimd, qui a en tant de confiance en freedom and of sacred truth; and if the vous, commence is perdre lamitid, la confiance, et m~me le respect. Vos conqu~tes et vos victoires works of Bossuet stand as proud memorials ne le rejonissent pins; ii est plein daigreur et de of the Court and Creed he adorned, the ddsespoir. La sddition sallume pen a pen d Milton breathe an immortal spirit toutes parts. us crolent que vous aavez aucun~ writings of pitid de leurs maux, que vous naimez que votre which changes of opinion will never consign autoritd et votre gloire. (Letter of Fenelon to to the records of the past, and which the Louis XIV.) revolutions of the world will never efface. On the contrary, he possessed a large share of the courtier spirit. He was accused of it by others, and in part confessed it him- self. On one occasion, Madame de Mainte- nort called him the dupe of the Court; and on another he said to the superiors of a con- vent, on quitting them, Daughters, pray for me. What shall we pray for?~ Queje naie pas taut de complaisance pour le monde. Yes, Bossuet had more complais- ance for the foibles and follies of the great, their ruinous extravagances and intolerant pride, than for the importunate voice of noble aspirations, and the despairing cry of the ~owly and just whose rights were trampled on and privileges annihilated. As a politi 104 ASHBIJRN RECTORY. From The Xational Magazine. ASHBURN RECTORY. BY HOLME LEE, AUTHOR OF GILBERT MASSENGER, ETC. I. SUCH news, such glorious news, Anna! Lord de Plessy has presented papa to the living of Ashburn. Anna Brooke had had a long walk through a wet August twilight from her teaching, which had tired her more than usual, and she did not hear exactly what it was her young sister said; so she deliberately put down her umbrella, and shook the rain from her shawl and dress before speaking. WThat is it, Nora; what has happened? Papa has had the living of Ashburn given to him by Lord de Plessy. And where is Ashhurn? and who is Lord de Plessy? Doesnt it sound like a fairy tale? But come in and hear all about it. No ; let us go up-stairs first. Who is in there? indicating the parlor-door. Only papa and uncle Ambrose and Cyril. Nobody else? The two sisters went softly up to their bedroom. Anna closed the window, drew down the blind, and lighted a candle on the dressing-table, with the same deliberate gen- tleness with which in the hall she had put down her umbrella before taking any heed of her sisters joyful announcement. You might see from her most trivial actions that she was the very soul of method. The way in which she stood before the glass, sleeking her dark bands of hair, arranging her collar, and strai~htening her trim waist mechanical- ly, with a far-away pre-occupied look on her careful young fac5, would have convinced you that it was a necessity to her that all things should be done in order. Nora grew impa- tient, and bade her make haste. They are all waiting for you down-stairs. We thought you so late in coming home to- day, because we wanted you to hear the good news. Do be quick. There is uncle Am- brose calling of you. Mrs. Driver kept me talking about the childrens music. Go and say I will be down in five minutes. Nora ran off; and Annas five minutes were 1)assed by her standing in the middle of the floor, with her arms down-dropped, and her eyes gazing into the dark blank of the glass. She could not be thinking of the1 great family event certainly, for her face was very sad. He might have made time to come, she said to herself, and then walked softly down- stairs and entered the parlor. Her father rose to meet her. Nora has told you, Anna? Yes, papa; and I am so glad, so very very glad. And she kissed him. Now you must tell me all about it. She drew a chair close by the steaming window, and sat down, turning her eyes for an instant towards the gray outside atmosphere with a quick search- ing glance, and then composed herself to listen to the details which the others were waiting to 0ive. The story may be briefly told. Mr. Brooke was a London curate of forty-nine years of age, with a family of three children, and a very small stipend. He had taken upon him the responsibilities of life very early by marrying before he was ordained, and had been curate of the same over-crowded and extensive parish ever since; hoping against hope that some preferment would fall to his lot by luck, for patron he had none. Though his home had been hallowed by much love from first to last, that could not keep aloof many and severe privations; and this had been more peculiarly felt when, on the birth of Cyril, his wife fell into bad health, and after lingering through ten years of feeble suffering, died from sheer exhaustion. Since then four years had elapsed,years of unre- nutting exertion and stringent economy. Anna was now twenty; and a daily gov- erness; Nora was sixteen; and Cyril, at fourteen, was gathering from his uncle Am- brose, an old Indian officer, the foundation of the military education which was to give him a start in life. Dunn0 the past spring, there had pre- vailed, especially in the district where Mr. Brooks labored, a cruel epidemic. He had always been attentive, but now he was inde- fatigable; early and late, in season and out of season, braving faithfully imminent danger in the execution of his duty, he was always with his people. When, by the return of a healthy time, the strain was somewhat re- laxed, his own strength gave way. There seemed for some weeks little chance of his recovery; and Anna had begun to say to her- self fearfully, What shall we do, what shale we do, if he be taken from us? when, as if his po~verful will to live for his children had prevailed over bodily weakness, he took a sudden turn, and amended rapidly. His doctor recommended rest for a short inter- val, or at any rate an exchange for some lighter provincial work; but this was not easy to obtain, and after two failures, he gave up seeking for it, and returned to his own heavy labors. Anna was disappointed. She thought they ASHBIJRN RECTORY. might have afforded the sum to send her father and Nora to the sea-side for a month if Mrs. Driver would pay her the half-years salary that was six weeks over-due; and one morning she summoned courage to ask for it. Mrs. Driver asked if it would not he all the same to her next week, and Anna said, Yes, it would; hut in such a cold tone, being hurt, that an explanation was de- manded of her extraordinary behaviour. She gave this explanation in her own plain matter-of-fact way, without observing that a thin, gray-haired, elderly man, whom she often saw there at luncheon, was taking in every word she said. The money was paid to her; hut her father refused to profit by it, and she had offended Mrs. Driver to no purpose. It was just ten days after this that Nora met her sister at the door in the rain with the announcement, Such news, such glori- ous news! Lord de Plessy has presented papa to the living of Ashburn. For the solution of this apparent mystery, it will suffice to say, that Mr. Brookes name had many times occurred in the public ac- counts of the epidemic as that of a most hard-working and energetic man. His rep- utat.ion was thus familiar to many; and the person who had heard Annas reasonable re- quest was by that made acquainted with his poverty as well. He was a lawyer, and he was moreover the lawyer of the noble family of IDe Plessy, who all did their duty by dep- uty, even to the bestowal of the Church pre- ferments in their gift. Mr. Lindsay sug~ested to his patron that the living of Ashburn, which was worth three hundred and fifty pounds a-year, could not be better appropri- ated than as the reward of a London curate of five-and-twenty years standing who was breaking down under his work. Very well, write the letter. said my lord. You know what to do, Lindsay. And the letter was written; and 0 the tears of joy that were wel)t over it at the first reading! It was life to them, hope to them, every thing to them. Lord de Plessy seemed some fabulously noble benefactor; and when, in after-days, he followed up his gracious kindness by a personal call upon the family at Ashburn Rectory, in the plenitude of their gratitude they could almost have fallen down and kissed his feet. One must have been very poor to exult so keenly in the prospect of a bountiful to-morrow. It is a beautiful letter, ~ But where is Ashbur~? is it the Ashburn in Kent? Anna asked, when having read the letter that her father gave her, she returned it to him. If it is, it is a very pretty place: it is where Jane comes from. Yes, it is the Kent Ashburn, Janes Ash- burn, Anna. This letter must be answered at once; but we waited to tell you. I will go and do it now, while tea is got ready. And, Nora, light the fire; it is a very damp chilly night. Ambrose, you may help n~e, perhaps. The two brothers went away through the folding-doors that divided the two small par- lors from each other, leaving the three young ones alone. Nora went down on her knees to blow the flickering fire into a blaze, and Anna stood straining her eyes into the dark- ness, and seeing nothing but the dim forms of the trees in the small court waving sol- emnly in the rainy night. At last she closed the shutters, and drew the crimson curtains close; then turned and stood upon the hearth- rug watching the smoke struggle up the chimney. Ashhurn Rectory! What a change it will I)e ! said she half aloud, hut to herself. Wont it? cried Cyril, shutting up his book with a clap that startled her. We have not had time to think half about it yet. I shant believe it till we get there. Isnt papa glad? Where is Jane? why dont she bring tea? Shes lost her wits since Nora told her. Anna rang the bell; and when the old ser- vant came in with the tray, she busied her- self in making tea, and then cutting the bread-and-butter, all with her usual mechan- ical precision and neatness. Yet hers was not exactly a countenance that impressed you as that of a person of cold or weak feelings. She was reserved, silent, and singularly un- demonstrative; but the position she held in the family testified to a strong under-current of goodness and affection influencing her daily conduct. Much of her quietness and method arose from natural temperament; hut the being early thrown upon her own re- sources had developed them into character. Her shape was rather tall and slender; her face clear and pleasing, without any absolute beauty; her eyes looked cool, limped, emo~ tionless, and comprehended in one glance what another person might have looked at for an hour without seeing; her mouth was delicate and refined in expression, her brow expansive, and her complexion fair and pale. Simplicity of mind, simplicity of manner, and a gentle, if rather proud, independence, were her marked traitsif any thing could he marked in such a character. She was clever and intelligent, hut not many people found it out; she was generous and self-sac- rificing without a shadow of display. A solemn automaton, said some; a good and gracious woman, said others. In her own family, where it will be acknowledged she 106 ASHBITRN RECTORY. must have been the best known, the general opinion was, that it would be impossible to live without Anna. Nora, sixteen-year-old Nora, Eleanora she had been christened, but affection always abbreviates a long name,was a great con- trast to her sister. She was a very fine creature, possessing all that brilliance, color, and impulse which Anna lacked. Passionate, wilful, petted but very lovingthere was light and shade in her character, meteor-light and thunder-cloud. Gratify her, and her countenance shone from within like some beautiful ilitiminated porcelain lamp; excite her anger, and down dropped her curved brows like an eclipse over hei eyes ;very lovely eyes they were, of that bluish iron-gray which varies with almost every thought; and Nora knew very well that they were beauti- ful. By the curve of her lip and nostril you could tell that she was impetuous as well as proud; and by the ring of her step and the straight poise of her light figure, that she was imperious. Old Jane, her nurse, used to tell her she was born to be a queen. Cyril was merely a high-spirited warm- hearted boy, selfish and inconsiderate, as boys usually are, but not more so. He loved his uncle Ambrose, who taught him and told him histories of Indian warfare; he thought no man living to be compared with his father for learning and excellence; he looked up to Anna as if she were his mother, and he teazed Nora and old Jane. For the rest, he was passably handsome, audacious, frank, and brave. He was a lad of fine promise altogether. The room in Which these three waited the return of their elders was the, by courtesy called, drawing-room of one of those tiny cottages which are so thickly sown in every Buburb of London. In other hands it might have beea. only a small, dull, stiffly-furnished, comfortless closet; but, presided over by Anna, a very j)leasing effect had been elicited from the simplest materials. It must have been ob- served over and over again, by those who do observe, that while one acquaintance can put a touch of her own refinement and taste into womans peculiar province, home, and educe from cheap materials a certain elegance, brightness, and an indefinable charm of com- fort, another, with double the cost, provides only a necessary amount of chairs, tables, and upholstery, as uninteresting and inhar- monious as the contents of a furniture-bro- kers shop. When Nora had caused the fire to burn up brightly, and the lamp was lit, every corner of the little drawing-room reflected back the flashing light either from a picture-frame, or the curve of a white figure on a bracket, or the shining gold on a book-back; and yet 107 there was repose about it too,a repose which seemed to emanate from the calm pale face by the tea-table. Nora had seated her- self on the hearth-rug as if it were iDecem- her, with her white chin pushed forward, and her hands clasped round her knees; a favor- ite attitude of hers that reminded Anna of a certain old-fashioned picture of outcast Hagar removed a stones-throw from her child that she may not see him die; only in Hagars face there was a passion ~ restrained grief, and in Noras there was nothing but a girls dreaminess. Cyril was already in his place, waiting for his tea with a hungry boys im- l)atiei~ce of delay; wonderin0 when that letter would be done, then b ating a tattoo on the table with his fingers, and next ask- ing Anna if he might call them in the next room. Go and ask Jane to give you a pot of preservesplums, said Anna. And away he sprang. While he was gone his father and uncle came in. You must read the letter before we seal it, Anna, said her father, putting the clocu- ment into her hand. Nora rose up lazily and looked over her shoulder. Will it do? asked uncle Ambrose. Anna read it to the end, folded it carefully, and gave it back. Yes; it could not be better; it conveys all our gratitude without a trace of servility. Now, will you come to tea? Jane says there is no end of l)lums at Ashburn, Anna, said Cyril; and that the rectory is like a birds-nest. Anna cut the paper neatly from the pot, and Cyril instantly plunged a spoon into its sweet contents. It is a f6te-day, remarked uncle Am- brose. What trifles indicate f& e-days in the houses of poor folks! When Jane brought in the toast, abe apologized for not having made some currant-cakes for tea; and her master, in perfect seriousness, bade her never mind, since the children had some pre- serves. You will have to tell Mrs. Driver, Anna, of our change of home, said her father. We shall have to go to Ashburn next month. She will not care, l)al)a. You know she only engaged me from week to week; and she said to-day that they intended going to the sea-side very soon, and that she should not need me when they returned. Then things will ~t in capitallyCyril, if you eat any more l)lums you will be ill. You will have enough to do, Anna, in our flitting. Do you not think we had better 108 keep Janes niece permanently? She asked me to-day about giving her a character. Yes, papa; but Nora and I ~ill make all those arrangements; dont let them harass you.~~ Papa, when you go to read yourself in, may I go with you? demanded Master Cyril with the air of a boy used Xo indul- gence. Yes, my son, perhaps you may, if it is fine. I must horrow Mr. Reevess chaise- cart to go down in, and Josy and Thomas. The whole equipageman, horse, and chaise-cartis to be disposed of in one lot, papa; you had better buy them at once. Very well, we will consider of it; they would he in good old-fashioned keeping with the birds-nest house that we are to live in. Papa, does it seem real ~ I dont quite believe it yet; I dont think I shall believe till we get there,shall you, uncle Am- brose? You will believe it fast enough, Master Cyril, when you are making havoc amongst the ripe fruit. Another cup of tea, Anna. Cyril, open the shutters and throw up the window a little way; the room is too warm. You are tired, Anna; are you quite well? Quite well, papa, and not particularly tired. It is always a long walk from Hamp- stead, especially in the rain. When the window was opened, the gentle whushing of the summer wind amongst the trees in the court, and the tinkle of the falling rain upon the paved footpath, made a pleasant murmuring accompaniment to the singing of the kettle on the bar. There was a short silence, during which every one in that family circle appeared to be dealing with some inner thought, more or less glad; then the talk recommenced by uncle Ambrose asking his brother if there were any books in the house in which information touching the noble family of IDe Plessy might be found. Yes, there was the county history of Kent; and when the tea-table was cleared, Cyril fetched it from the book-case in the other parlor, and uncle Ambrose and he sat down to study it, while the girls brought out their work-baskets. Nora was idly disposed, and scarcely set a stitch a minute; but Anna sewed as swiftly at her brothers new shirts as if Ashburn.and Lord de Plessy had never been heard of; only now and then, when the wind came with a louder gust through the branches and the rain fell a little faster, she seemed to listen for a moment towards the open window. Here is an engraving of Plessy-Regis; what a grand place! cried Cyril. Come and look, papa. Nora leant over the table to catch a glimpse ASHBURN RECTORY. too, and uncle Ambrose turned the book to- wards her. 0, I should like to be mistress of a house such as that, said she. Now let us read what it says about the family. Norman of courseiDe Plessy. The name is not historical, Philip; you dont re- member it in any of the old chroniclers, do you? There is nothing remarkable men- tioned here. Let me see? Vanbrugh built the house; fine collection of pictures; Gib- bons carvings; copies in marble of antique groups. Gardens laid out in the Italian manner; extensive deer-park, and fine sheet of water; some of the noblest timber-trees in England. Family mausoleum at Larkhill, an elevated part of the grounds from which the sea is visible. Her2 is a picture of it, half as big as the house. The name Plessy- Regis, or Kings Plessy, dates from Henry VIII.s time; that monarch having taken refuge there when the sweating sickness raged in London. [he old house was pulled down by Lord hugh de Plessy, and the present structure erected by his son. Here is Ashburn, papa. A village pic- turesquely situated by the river IDarrent. A rectory rated in the Kings books at 4 lOs. 8d. The church is an interesting speci- men of the early Norman architecture. Thats all; there is no difference between this village and another. Any body else want the book? Nora? Then you must put it away yourself when you have finished. Nora gladly threw her seam aside for a longer study of the home that was to be; and sat over the volume profoundly interested until, at half-past nine, her father rang the bell for Jane and her niece to come to pray- ers. Anna then folded away her work, and with a low sigh of disappointment and a last look out into the rainy night, shut down the window, and drew the curtains close. A grateful mention of special benefits that day received concluded the short earnest prayer, and gave even to Cyril an impression of sub- stance about what he was half disposed to call too good to be true. A few more worlds about the fireside, and then the three young ones went up-stairs to bed, leaving their uncle and father to talk over the great event till past midnight. II. ANNA, I forgot to tell you that Mr. Hartwell came yesterday afternoon while you were out. I could think of nothing but charming Ashburn. Did he, Nora? Was he here long? Noras forgetfulness had cost her sister a very unquiet night. She had an interest in Mr. Hartwell, and had been blaming him in her own mind for a little neglect. They had ASHBURN RECTORY. 109 been engaged t~vo years, and were to marry came, and that would be soon enough to when she was of age. practise economy. Notwithstanding the in- He did not stay above ten minutes; for tended connection between the two families, papa was gone into town, and uncle Ambrose their intercourse was limited to occasional was busy with Cyril. morning visits. Anna would have liked to Had the letter about Asbburn come P be more friendly, but she could not accom- No; or if it had, it was not opened. Papa modate herself to the manners and tastes of left soon after breakfast, and ever so many Johns relatives. His mother had an insatia- papers came before he got back. I believe ble taste for gay society and great people; the midday post brought it. lIe wont like and her life was made a toil of a pleasure in your going away from London, will he ? the pursuit of high acquaintance, who de- Mr. Hartwell, I mean. spised while they made use of her. his sis- He can come down and spend Sunday ters were both handsome, lively, and accom- with us. If he should come while I am plished girls, without an idea beyond pres- away to-day, Nora, will you keep him to eat amusement. They thought John was quite tea? Yes, if he will stay; I tried yesterday, throwing himself away, and were not careful to conceal this feeling from Anna, who was but he said he had an engagement for the l)rofoundedly hurt by it. The engagement evening. Dont you think he is very gay, had been formed when she was only eigh now P teen, on a slight intimacy contracted at Mrs. He has a great many friends. Drivers Christmas parties, to which she was There was a short silence, during which invited because her pianoforte-playing was Anna dressed herself to go to her teaching useful; but as Mr. Brooke and uncle Am- at Hampstead. brose disapproved of it altogether, and the It often strikes me as very odd how you Hartwells were far from cordial, its fulfil- two, who are so different in everything, should meat was by general consent deferred for have contrived to fall in love, said Nora. three years; every body but the two young Extremes meet, Nora, replied her sis- people themselves hoping that in the long ter. Good-by; I will try to be back earlier interval they would change their minds. than I was yesterday. Come and meet me, But full two years had now elapsed, and if it is fine. Anna still regarded John as the handsomest, It was a deliciously cool clear morning; and gayest, kindest, noblest creature in the whole though Anna was late in starting, and she universe. Her love for him was an enthusi- had a three-mile walk before her, she could asm, and her