THE LIVING AGE. No. 736.3 July 1858.Enlarged Series, No. 14. CONTENTS. 1. The Speeches of Lord Brougham, 2. WalkerOn Pronunciation, 3. The Antiquities of the New World, 4. Cathedri Petri o. Trinidadby iDe Verteuil 6. Robert Emmett i. A Sweep through the Stars, 8. The Man with the Hessian Boots, 9. Earthquake Experiences 10. Eddies Round the Rectory, Chap. 20, 11. The Lions Breath 12. Countess de Bonneval Edinburgh Review, Household Words, Saturday Review, Press, Spectator, Saturday Review, Household Words, London Journal, Household Words, Titan, Bentleys Miscellany, Spectator, POETRYAt Eventide there shall be Light, 2. Choir Singing, 2. The Three Gifts, 2. Life Sculpture, 2. Only One Life, 2. Cousin Robert, 48. Bonnets, 48. Enigma, 76. Poetry and Philosophy, SO. The Burial at Sea, SO. Epitaph, SO. SHORT ARTIcLEsWater at Jerusalem, 15. Electric Telegraph in 1787, 16. The Post- Office in England, 19. Railway to Rome, 19. Bridge over the Rhine, 19. Topsfleld, 19. The word Donny, 23. Stone, the Mathematician, 26. Common objects of the Country, 26. A Male Nun, 29. Elastic Coating, 29. Do it in a Hurry, 36. Australian Forests, 41. Ar- senic in Pipes, 41. Crokers Collection of Autographs, 41. Hardness of Character, 41. Perfumes, 41. London Water, 47. Sudden Thought, 69. Stains from Books, 69. The Water Cure, 69. The Telegraph in War, 79, Gutta Percha, 79. Disinterested Kindness, 79. Presto Amoroso, 79. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, Son & Co., BoRon; and STANFORD & DELISSER, 508 Broadway, New-York. For Six Dollars a year, remitted directly to either of the Publishers, the Living 1*ge will be punctually forwarded, free of postage. Complete tots of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand- somely bonnd, p Iced in neat boxes, and delivered in all the prsneipai cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. Aav VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars. bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANy NUMEESE may be had~or 12 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumesthey may have, and thus greatly enhance theirvalue. PiGS. 3 16 20 24 26 30 32 37 42 49 70 77 THE THREE GIFTS.~ONLY ONE LIFE. CHOIR SINGING. SINGERS in a choir should he Lovers of true harmony; Not the harmony alone Of the voice, and lip, and tone, But the harmony of soul, Each uniting with the other, As a sister or a brother; Sanctifying every part With pure melody of heart, Singing true, with joy and love, As the angels sing above. Sin,,ers in a choir should be Full of gentlest charity; Holy love within the hreast Will make every voice the best; Guarding well the spirit harp. From the undue flat or sharp; Keeping all its strings in tune, That would else be broken soon. Pride might hid them sing to please Those who criticize at ease; Love would hid them ever sing To the praise of God their King Whose attentive, listaing ear Bends from his high throne to hear; Who can track thoughts giddy mazes, Who inhabiteth the praises Of eternity! 0 Lord, Do thou tighten each lax cord; Tune each voice to sweetest key, That thy songs and psalms may be Sung in heaven-born harmony. AT EVENTIDE THERE SHALL BE LIGHT. MOST lives have shadows never understood Dark corners where no friendly gleam can come, Dim secrets of a once bright youth, long past; Oh ! courage, sinkiub heart, remember yet For you at eventide there shall be light! Lioht to the captive in the darkest cell, Where weary years have lagged unnoticed by, Unmarked by sunshines ray, or lightnings flash, Shrouded forever in one twilight grey For him at eventide there shall be light! Light to the blinded wandererled astray Oer desert moor, by the delusive gleam He dreams must be the cheerful light of home, And wakes to find a lantern of the waste. For him at eventide there shall be light! Light to the shipwrecked on the shores of life, Who see their barks go down in sight of land, Lured by false meteors onward to their doom Where the black rocks lie buried in the foam. For them at eventide there shall be light! Light to the patient eyes that cannot see Earths glorious beauty and her bloomy hues, Nor the dear form and lineaments of love; A tenderer dawn shall greet those unsealed eyes, When at the eventide there shall be light! To all who pine in darkness and in gloom Of heart or soul, that ray shall come at last; To some, a star to lead the pilgrim home; To some, the lurid glow of endless flame; To all, at eventide there shall he light! (YknrClz Porch. THE THREE GIFTS. ISV W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS. I GAVE my love a burning gem, All tonchd with ruddy fire; Might grace an antique diadem, And light a kings desire. She said: Such gifts shall neer be mine, These gems I will not wear; For no love-thoughts do they enshrine, No gentle fancies bear. I gave my love a violet, Mid fondling mosses bred, With twilights dewy kisses wet It bowd its graceful head. She sighd: Alas! the flowr will fade, Too soon its beauty pale! In sooth, I were a silly maid To take a boon so frail. I gave my love a simple song, Essayd by poet-pen; Which sought, and found, its friends among All earnest-hearted men. She said: True, song can never die! Let thy love like it be, And on my heart the gift shall lie To bid me think of thee! London Journal. LITE SCULPTURE. CHISEL in hand stood a sculptor-boy With his marble block before him: And his face lit up with a smile of joy) As an angel-dream passed oer him: He carved the ~Iream on that shapeless stone, With mafiy a sharp incision; With heavens own light the sculpture shone, He had caught that angel-vision. Sculptors of life are we, as we stand, With our souls, uncarved before us, Waiting the hour, when at Gods command, Our life-dream shall pass oer us. If we carve it then, on the yielding stone, With many a sharp incision, Its heavenly beauty shall be our own, Our lives, that angel-vision. ONLY ONE LIFE. Tis not for man to trifle; life is brief, And sin is here, Our age is but the falling of a leaf, A dropping tear. We have no time to sport away the hours; All must be earnest in a world like ours. Not many lives, but only one have we; One, on~ one how sacred should that one life ever be That narrow span! Day after day filled up with blessed toil, Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil. 2 4 3 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROIIGHAM. From The Edinburgh Review. throughout life has been astounding; and Speeches on Social and Political Subjects, even now, at a period which in other men with Historical Introductions. By Henry would be called old age, it shows little sign of iLord Brougham, F.R.S. 2 vols. l2mo. diminution or decay. Mentally, his eye is not London and Glasgow: 1867. dim, nor his natural strength abated; for he MANY are the claims of Lord Brougham still l)rosecutes the cause of Law Reform upon the respect and gratitude of his coun- with an ardor which might put to shame the trymen; and many are the titles by which he efforts of younger men; and year after year will be known to posterity. As a philanthro- he presses upon the Legislature measures of pist his name is imperishably associated with which the object is to simplify the machinery, those of Clarkson and Wilberforce in their ef- and lessen to the suitor the costs of our courts forts for the suppression of the Slave traae, of justice. and he has, given the chief impulse to the We do not intend to go over the wide great cause of the Education of the people. field which a life so spent presents; but we As a statesman, he has takers a leading part propose in the present article to confine our in counselling and carrying some of the most attention to Lord Brou0ham as an Orator. important political measures of the nineteenth It is by his speeches that his influence was century. As an advocate whose zeal for his most felt in the gener~ion now fading from client scorned consideration of personal ad- amongst us, and by them, more than any vancement, he will be known, if for nothing thing else, his colossal reputation has been else, yet for his immortal defence of Queen built. Although there is, unhappily, some- Caroline. As a lawyer, his name is inscribed thing evanescent in those great efforts of the in the list of Lord High Chancellors of Eng- human tongue which have so often roused land,and he bounded to that lofty dignity and ruled the passions and the intellect of from the ranks of the Bar, without having the senate and the nation, their results be- previously filled one of the subordinate law long to history, and Lord Brougham will offices of the Crown. As a legislator the leave no monument behind him more worthy country owes to his perseverance some of the to be held in lasting remembrance than these most important improvements in her civil Orations. For he has labored to become a laws, and we allude more especially to the master in his art, and we see in the arrange- radical changes that have been effected in the ment of his topics, the structure of his periods, law of Evidence. He is not only a great and the choice of his language, the skill, and speaker, hut an able writer, as our own cen- in its proper sense, the artifice, of the consum- tury of volumes will testify: not only a poli- mate rhetorician. tician, ~vho has fought like a gladiator for Upon the subject of oratory a lamentable fifty years in the arena of party strife, but a misapprehension seems to prevail, and we are man of letters, and a mathematician of no not sorry to have an opportunity of saying a mean attainments. We remember when it few words about it. No one can deny that was the fashion for those who cannot conceive eloquence at the Bar and in Parliament is the possibility of excellence in more than one just now at a low ebb. It is often positively department of knowledge, to sneer at Lord painftil to enter a court of justice and hear Broughain as no lawyer. But this is best thQad4resses to which juries are condemned answered by the fact, that in hardly a single to listen, from men who occupy the place instance were his judgments in the Court of where once stood an Erskine and a Brou~ham a Chancery reversed on appeal by the House No doubt there have been of late years bril- of Lords; and we will venture to say, that al- hiant exceptions, but we do not hesitate to though there have been lawyers like Buller, say, that the general character of forensic and Holroyd, and Bayley, and Littledale, oratory at the present day is far below what more versed in the technicalities of their might be expected fi-om the education, the craft and the mysteries of special pleading opportunities, and the intellectual vigor of the an abomination now ~vell-nigh swept a~vay, age. few have been more profoundly imbued with Nor is the state of things much better the principles of the Common Law. in the House of Commons. We do not of Rare, indeed, have been the examples of an course expect that a country gentleman should intellect so vigorous affil active. His energy be a good speaker because he has carried the 4 county; nor that merchants or railway di- rectors should study IDemosthenes in their counting-houses, and come forth as orators as soon a~ they have been returned for a bor- ough; but how few of the practised debaters of the House ever rise to any thing which ap- proaches to the name of oratory, how few are able to realize the idea of one whom Cicero describes qui jure non solunt disertus sed etiam eloquens dici possit! It has indeed been the custom of late to decry oratorical powers, as tending rather to dazzle and mis- lead than instruct and edify; and to praise the dull dry harangue of the plodding man of business, who crams down the throaj of his audience a heap of statistical facts, and then wonders to find them gaping or asleep, rather than the brilliabt speech of the accom- plished orator, who enlivens his subject with the sallies of wit, and adorns it with the graces of imagery. But this kind of language proceeds more from mortified incapacity than approving judgment. Hobbes defined a re- public to be an aristocracy of orators, inter- rupted at times by the monarchy of a single orator; and in a country like this, where the very highest rewards and the proudest posi- tion are the prizes open to successful elo- quence, it may well be matter of wonder that the number of competitors is so small in the race where that immortal garland is to be won, not without dust and heat. And what is the reason of this? It arises we believe, chiefly from the fact that men will not believe that Oratory is an art, and that excellence in this, as in every other art, can only he attained by labor and by the study of the best models. To such an ex- tent is this heresy carried, that it is actually considered a disparagement a thing almost to be ashamed ofto be suspected of pre- paring a sl)eech beforehand; and it is thought a recommendation of himself by an honorable member when, on rising to address the House, he declares that on entering it he had not the slightest intention of doing so. As if a man ever will or can speak well who takes no pains to make himself a l)roficient in the art, and who fancies that, like Dog- berrys reading and writing, oratory comes by nature! The speaker must learn his craft as much as a painter or sculptor, or musi- cian; although, like th~m also, he must have from nature some special~aptitude for his vo- cation. If common sense did not tell us THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. this, the great examples of antiquity would prove it. Every schoolboy knows the enor- mous pains that Demosthenes and Cicero, took to qualify themselves for the task of addressing their fellow-citizens; and that some of the most celebrated orations that have come down to us from Athens and Rome were written for delivery, but actually never spoken at all.* Very different from the common practice has been, if we mistake not, Lord Broughams conception of the work of the future orator. He has fur- nished abundant evidence of his familiarity with the classic models. He has shown his veneration for Dembsthenes by translating the Chersonese Oration and the great Ora- tion on the Crown; and on more than one occasion he is said to have committed to writing beforehand the finest parts of his own speeches. If this be true, we honor him the more for the homage he has paid to the eternal rule, that without such impro- bus labor, excellence in any art is denied to man. And he has had his reward. He stands confessedly in the front rank of Eng- lish orators, and he won his spurs at a time when the conflict was with giants. At the present moment it will hardly be contested that the standard of oratory is far higher in the House of Lords than in the other House of Parliament; and if any one were asked to point out the best speakers in that august body he would name without hesitation, Lord Brougham, Lord Lyndhurst, the Earl of Derby, and the Earl of Ellen- borough. We hope that before long Lord Macaulay will be added to the list, but he has not yet made a display of his great ora- torical powers in the assembly to which he has been elevated, and which by his presence he adorns. Of Lord Lyndhursts po~ver as a debat~r, it is impossible to speak too high ly. But although at times, and in some pas- sages, his speeches may be called eloquent, they want the rushing forcethe declama- tory vehemencewhich is an essential ele- ment of oratory. Admirable in logic, com- prehensive in statement, and faultless in dic- tion; Lord Lyndhurst commands the atten- SE This subject ?s~is been illustrated by Lord Brougham himself with his usual felicity, in some of his former contributions to this Journal, espe- cially in the Essays on the Greek, Roman, Eng- lish, and French Orators, now republished in the seventh volume of the Glasgow edition of his works, and in his Dissertation on the Eloquence of the Ancients. 5 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROTJGHAM. tion of all who listen to him. But he ap- cause. How dares any man so to accuse peals more to the reason than the feelings me? How dares any one, skulking under a or the passions of his audience, and seeks to fictitious name, to launch his slanderous im- convince rather than to persuade. His dis- putations from his covert? I come forward in my own person. I make the charge in course flows on like the waters of some calm the face of day. I drag the criminal to trial. majestic river unruffled by the wind; but we i openly call down justice on his head. I hear nothing of the dash of the torrent or defy his attacks. I defy his defenders. I the roar of the cataract ;there are no challenge investigation. How dares a~ny con- startling apostrophes, nor soul-stirring ap- cealed adversary to charge me as an advocate peals, which, in the proud consciousness of speaking from a brief, and misrepresenting the facts to serve a purpose? But the absurdity his argumentative power, he seems almost to of this charge even outst disdain. Certainly this cannot he said of rips its malice. Lord Derby, who, with a command of lan- Lord Broughams voice is not musical; at guage as perfect as Lord Lyndhursts, has a times, in its higher tone, it is harsh and fire and a brilliancy peculiarly his own; but hoarse, and sounds like the scream of the we should be disposed to place Lord Ellen- northern eagle swooping down upon its borough at least on an equality with either prey; but he 1)ossesses the art of modulating of these eminent speakers, since he com- it with admirable effect, and his elocution is hines the exquisite precision of language of not less cultivated than his diction. His the one, with the force and animation of the power over the English language is wonder other. ful. It was said of him on one occasion that But great as these men are in debate, he made it bend under him. We do not none of them can be said to rank as orators assert that the word chosen is not sometimes with Lord Brougham. If we were obliged too strong. We will not affirm that he does to characterize his oratory by a single word, not sometimes sin against a fastidious taste. it would be Energythe Aetv6T~ of the We cannot deny that in ransacking his mem- Greeks. Cicero tells us that often when he ory for e1)ithets and synonyms,or perhaps rose to speak he trembled in every limb, we should say polyonyms,he brings up We doubt whether this ever happened to some that are too vehement, and that in his Lord Brougham. But the Roman orator descriptions of persons and measures there had by nature a weak and nervous constitu- is too much tendency to exaggerate. But tion, and this may account for the timidity of his vocabulary is inexhaustible, and his faults a character which, although on a memorable are those of amplitude of power. lIe runs occasion he could thunder forthConternpsi riot in the exuberance of strength. his pe Catilinw gladios, non pertimescam tuos rinds are often declamatory, but there are no caused him, in the strife of contending fac- platitudes; and without declamation, in its tions, painfully to oscillate between his re- proper sense, there is no oratory. It would gard for Pompey and his fear of Cmsar. be easy to l)oint out in Demosthenesstill With an athletic frame Lord Brougham ~ easier in Ciceropassages which, to the sesses a mental organization singularly in- colder feelings of our western clime, seem bust; and his style of speaking is cast in a overstrained and hyperbolical. But the crite- corresponding mould. It is the furthest pos- non is this: How did they act UI)Ofl the sible removed from the exercitatio domestica ci76wd~ that listened? Did they, or did they ei umbratilis, and is rather that which rushes not, stir up from its innermost depths the medium in agmen, in pulverem, in damn- soul of the auditory? For it must never be rem, in castra, atque in aciem forensem. forgotton that the great end of oratory is to The following passage breathes not only the persuade, and by carrying captive the l)as- force of the orator, but the character of the sions, to attack through them the citadel of man. It is from his speech in the House of reason. It will be found, on a careful study Lords in 1838, on the emancipation of Negro ofLord Broughams speeches, that the decla- apprentices : mation almost~lways assists the argument; I have read with astonishment, and I it advances, so to speak, the action of the repel with scorn, the insinuation that I had drama, and never, as is the case when it he- acte(I the part of an advocate, and that some comes mere tinsel or bombast in the hands of my statements ~v~re colored to serve a of inferior men, impedes and encumbers it. 6 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. He is fond of iterating an idea, and clothing (then Mr.) Peel, in 1819, against the Educa- it in every imaginable form of wordspiling tion Committee, of which Mr. Brougham had Ossa on Pelionand making each sentence been Chairman. It is a masterly effort, full rise in the scale of impressiveness. Some of the keenest sarcasm and most cutting of his periods may be too long, and there is a pointand from a note at the end we learn danger lest the attention ofthehearerorper- that its preservation is owing to the accident haps we ought no~v to say the readershould of a barrister who took an interest in the flag while pausing for the climax of the sen- subject, happening to he in the gallery of the tence; hut there is no false grammarno House of Commons; for the Newspapers, anacoluthonno confusion of metaphor, and for some days before this debate took place, out of the longest sentence or succession of had refrained from reporting Mr. Brougham~s sentences, he winds himself with unerring speeches in consequence, as it is said, of some accuracy. offence given by him to a reporter in the He himself said in one of his speeches form of words used in referring to him. tnat on the administration of justice in Ire- The following passage from this reply is a land in 1839, when defending himself from good illustration of the sl)eakers l)ecuhiar the charge of violence and undue severity styleheaping sentence upon sentence, and made against him by Lord Melbourne No stretching his topic until the tension becomes man is a judge of the exact force and weight almost too great to be borne. of his own expressions. Probably Lord But if I do not now satisfy all who hear Brougham has at times been hardly con- me that the Committee were right, th at this scious of the force of the projectile he has House was right, and the Right Honorable launched from his lips in the ardor of debate. Gentleman wrongif I do not succeed in prov- He reminds us of Polyphemus hurling rocks ing to the hearts content of every one man of as if he were a boy flinging pebbles. Thus common candor and ordinary understanding, speaking in 1823 of the Notes of Russia that the Right Honorable Gentleman is utterly Prussia, and Austria, with reference to th wrong in all his chargeswrong from the state of Spain in 18223, he said e beginning to the end of his labored oration if I do not in a few minutes and by referring I will venture to say that to produce any- to a few plain matters strip that performance thing more l)reposterous, more absurd, more of all claim to creditif I do not show him extravagant, better calculated to excite a to be mistaken in his facts, out in his dates, mingled feeling of disgust and derision, at fault in his law, ignorant of all parliamen- would baffle any chancery or state-paper tary precedent and practice, grossly unin office in Europe formed, perhaps misinformed, upon the whole question which in an evil hour he has under- And again taken to handle, with no better help than the Monstrous and insolent and utterly ~- practical knowledge and discretioii of those bearable as all of them are, I consider that who have urged him on to the assault, while of Russia to be more monstrous, more inso- they showed only a vicarious prodigality of lent, and more l)iodigiously beyond endur- their own personsthen I will consent to ance than the rest. sufferwhat shall I say Pto endure what- ever punishment the Right Honorable Gen So also, speaking of the conduct of the tleman may think fit to inflict upon me and Whigs on the Bed-chamber question in 1839 my colleiigueseven the weight of his censure This is the novel, the uncouth, the por- which will assuredly in his estimation be fully tentous, the monstrous description of our equal to our demerits how great soever they free and popular constitution, which the may be. But I venture to hope that the House, Whig Government of 1839 has given to the mercifully regarding my situation while such Reformed Parliament of England. a judgment is suspending, will allow me, era the awful decree goes forth, to avert, if it be That careful preparation of an elaborate possible, from our devoted heads a fate so speech does not unfit an orator for unpremed- overwhelming. itated and effective reply, has been shown by Sarcastic irony, 6~ which only a light touch Lord Brougham in some of his finest displays. appears in the latter part of the above extract, We will mention one remarkable example. is a favorite weapon of Lord Broughaiti. It is the speech delivered by him on the Sometimes he has indulged in it even to the instant without a moment,s notice, in answer verge of indiscretion; as, for instance, in the to the charges brought by the late Sir Robert following passage, from his speech in defence 7 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. of Queen Caroline, addressed, be it remem- bered, to the House of Lords, who were sit- ting in judgment upon her fate. But he doubtless knew how far he might venture to go in upbraiding while he affected to praise. This was when he was examined on the Tuesday. On the Friday, with the interval of two days,and your Lordships, for reasons best known to yourselves, but which must have been bottomed on justice guided by wisdom, wisdom never more seen or better evidenced than in varying the course of con- duct and adapting to new circumstances the actions we 1)erformwisdom which will not, if it be perfect in its kind and absolute in its degree, ever sustain any loss by the devia- tionfor this reason alone, in order that injustice might not be done (for what in one case may l)e injurious to a defendant, may be expected mainly to assist a defendant in another,)your Lordships, not with a view to injure the Queenyour Lordships, with a view to farther not to frustrate the ends of justiceallowed the evidence to be printed, which afforded to the witnesses, if they wished it, means of mending and improving upon their testimony. And this reminds us of another passage in the same speech, where, flinging irony aside, he with unparallelled boldness charged the Peers of England, before whom he stood as the advocate of the Queen, with having them- selves, by their own conduct, forced her to associate abroad with persons beneath her, and thus incur the degradation of which she was then accused. But who, he asked, are they that bring this charge, and above all before whom do they urge it? Others may accuse herothers may blame her for going abroadothers may tell tales of the consequences of living amoi~g Italians, and of not associating with the women of her country or of her adopted country; hut it is not your Lordships that have any right to say so. It is not you, my Lords, that can fling this stone at Her Maj- esty. You are the last persons in the worldyou who now presume to judge her, are the last persons in the world so to charge her; for you are the witnesses whom she must call to vindicate her from that charge. You are the last persons who can so charge her; for you being her witnesses, have been the instigators of that only admitted crime. While she was here she courteously opened the doors of her palace to the families of your Lordships. She graciously condescended to mix herself in the habits of most familiar life with those virtuou~and distinguished per- sons But when changes took l)lace when other views openedwhen that po~ver was to he retained which she had been made the instrument of graspingwhen that lust of power and place was to be continued its gratification, to the first gratification of which she had been made the victim,then her doors were opened in vain; then that society of the Peeresses of England was withholden from her; then she was reduced to the alter- native, humiliating indeed either to acknowledge that you had deserted her or to leave the country and have recourse to other society inferior to yours. Our limits will not allow us to attempt an analysis of this celebrated speech, and in- deed, it is too well known to need that we should do so. All who have read it must have stamped upon their memories the way in which Mr. Brougham shattered the evi- dence in support of the bill, and the irresisti- ble force with which he insisted upon its rejection, not only on account of the worth- lessness of the witnesses who were called, but the absence of the witnesses who were not. In anticipation of the taunt which might be expected from those who would say that he might call the latter himself, he burst forth And if you do not call them in the name of justice, what? Say !Say !For shame, in this templethis hi~hest temple of justice, to have her most sacred rights so profaned, that I am to be condemned in the plentitude of proof, if guilt is; that I am to be condemned, unless I run counter to the presumption which bears sway in all Courts of Justice, that I am innocent until I am proved guilty; and that my case is to be considered as utterly ruined, unless I call my adversarys witnesses! Oh most monstrous! most incredible! My Lords! my Lords! if you mean ever to show the face of those symbols by which Justice is known to your country, without making them stand an eter- n~l cotdemnation of yourselves, I call upon you instantly to dismiss this case, and for this single reason; and I will say not another word upon this subject. It was in the same speech that he uttered his well-known description of the duties of an advocate. once before took occasion to remind your Lordships~which was unnecessary, but there are many whom it may be necessary to remindthat an advocate, by the sacred duty which he owes to his client, knows in the discharging that office but one person in the world, THAT CLIENT AND NONE OTHER. To 8 save that client by all expedient meansto protect that client at all hazards and costs to all others, and among others to himselfis the highest hind most unquestionable of his duties; and lie must not regard the alarm the sufferin bthe tormentthe destruction which he may bring upon another. Nay, separating even the duties of a patriot from those of an advocate, and casting them, if need he, to the wind, he must prove reckless of the consequences, if his fate should un- happily he to involve his country in confusion for his clients protection This, if considered as propounding an arti- cle in the code of forensic ethics, is an exag- gerated and erroneous view, against which the right reason of every one instinctively revolts; but the speaker meant it to apply to and foreshadow the necessity to which he might he driven of recriminating upon the King, and impunging his title to the throne in consequence of his marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert. Although Mr. Brougham did not go so far as this, yet he went far enough in vindicating his claim to know in the dis- charge of his duty to his client but one person in the world, that client and no other, when lie called the King the ringleader of the band of peijured witnesses;~ and in quoting an affectionate letter from George III. to his daughter-in-law, said, that he could not read it without a feeling of sorrow, when we reflect upon the reign that has l)assed, and compare it with the rule we live under. It is needless to express any opinion upon die merits of the case, or to revive a contro- versv, in every aspect most unhappy, which has died away. We are dealing with the Queens trial merely as it afforded a great occasion for a great advocate; and no one can deny the matchless skill with which the defence was conducted, and the power with which the testimony of Majocchi, the non mi ricordo Majoechi of Demont, the Machiavel of waiting maids of Cuechi, with that unmatched physiognomy, those gloating eyes, that sniffing nose, that lecher- ous mouth of Sacehi, and of Kress, and indeed of all the witnesses for the bill, was sifted, anatomized, and destroyed. We will quote the peroration of the speech, and chiefly for the purpose of calling attention to the rising climax at the beginning. Such, my Lords, is the case now before you! Such is the evideffbe in support of this THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROIJGHAM. measureevidence inadequate to prove a debt impotent to deprive of a civil riglitridien- bus to convict of the lowest oflhncescan- dalous if brought forward to sul)l)ort a charge of the highest nature which the law knows monstrous to ruin the honor, to blast the name, of an English Queen! What shall I say, then, if this is the proof by which an act of legislation, a parliamentary, sentence, an ex post facto law, is sought to be passed against this defenceless woman? My Lords, I pray you to pause. I do earnestly beseech you to take heed! You are standing upon the brink of a precipicethea beware! It will go forth your judgment, if sentence shall go against the Queen. But it will be the only judgment you ever pronounced, which, instead of reaching its object, will return and bound back upon those who gave it. Save the country, my Lords, from the horrors of this catastrophesave yourselves from this perilrescue that country of which you are the ornaments, but in which you can flourish no longer, when severed from the people, than the blossom when cut off from the roots and stem of the tree. Save that country that you may continue to adorn it save the Crown which is in jeopardythe Aristocracy which is shakensave the Altar which must stagger with the blow that rends its kindred Throne! You have said, my Lords, you have willedthe Church and the King have willedthat the Queen should be deprived of its solemn service. She has, in- stead of that solemnity, the heartfelt prayers of the people. She wants no prayers of mine. But I do here pour forth my humble supplications to the Throne of Mercy, that that mercy may be poured down upon the people, in a larger measure than the merits of their rulers may deserve, and that your hearts may be turned to justice. In connexion with the Queens trial another opportunity was afforded to Mr. Brougham for a great oratorical display. When she died in August, 1821, the bells of most of the churches throughout England were tolled, but those of Durham remained silent. Nei- ther church nor cathedral there paid this tribute of respect to her memory; and a Mr. Williams, the editor of a local newspaper at Durham, commented with some severity upon the omission. What he wrote would now-a- days pass unheeded and disregarded, but those were times ~of ex-officio informations; and the late Lord Abinger, then Mr. Scarlett, the Attorney-General of the County Palatine, obtained a rule, which was afterwards made absolute, for a criminal information against John Williams, the publisher of the pam 9 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. graph, for a libel against the clergy residing in and near the city of Durham. We more than doubt whether such a bodyhaving no corporate character or capacitycould, in point of law, be the possible subjects of a libel, so as to enable them to be the relators in a criminal information. But the rule was grant- ed, and Williams was defended before a Dur- ham jury by Mr. Brougham. In the alleged libel occurred the following passage : Yet these men profess to be fol- lowers of Jesus Christ, to walk in his foot- steps, to teach his precepts, to inculcate his spirit, to promote harmony, charity, and Christian love! Out upon such hypocrisy! and Mr. Scarlett, who conducted the prose- cution, had suggested in his opening address to the jury that the reason why the bells of Durham were silent was because the clergy there too deeply sympathized with the Queens fate to give open expression to their sorrow. This was indeed to expose an unguarded flank to the enemy and invite a terrible attack, and thus did Mr. Brougham avail himself of the opportunity. The venerable the clergy of Durham, I am told now for the first time - . . . did nevertheless, in reality, all the while, deeply sympathize with her suffering in the bottom of their reverend hearts! When all the re- sources of the most ingenious cruelty hurried her to a fate without parallelif not so clam- orous as others, they did not feel the least of all the members of the community their grief was in truth too deep for utterance sorrow clung round their bosoms, weighed upon their tongues, stifled every soundand when all the rest of mankind, of all sects and of all nations, freely gave vent to the feelings of our common nature, THEIR silence, the contrast which THEY displayed to th~e rest of their species, 1)roceeded from the greater depth of their affliction; they said the less because they felt the more Oh! talk of hy- pocrisy after this! most consummate of all the hypocrites! After instructing your chosen official advocate to stand forward with such a defencesuch an exposition of your motives to dare to utter the word hypocrisy, and complain of those who charged you with it This is indeed to insult common sense, and outrage the feelings of the whole human race! If you were hypocrites before, you were down- right frank honest hypocrites to what you have made yourselvesand surely for all you have ever done or ever been charged with, your worst enemies must be satisfied with the humiliation of this day, its just atonement and ample retribution ! In the same speech occurs a passage which we must cite as perfect in its kind. Mr. Scar- lett had lamented in his opening that the cler- gy had not the power of defending themselves through the public press. Mr. Brougham declared that they had largely used it and scurrilously and foully libelled the defend- ant. 1-le then thus proceeded Not that they wound dee~ly or injur~ much; hut that is no fault of theirs: without hurting they give trouble and discomfort. The insect brought into life by cQrruption, and nestled in filth, though its flight be lowly and its sting puny, can swarm and buzz and irritate the skin and offend the nostril, and altogether give us nearly as much annoyance as the wasp, whose nobler nature it aspires to emulate. These reverend slanderersthese l)ious backbitersdevoid of force to wield the sword, snatch the dagger; and destitute of wit to point or to barb it, and make it rankle in the wound, steep it in venom to make it fester in the scratch. Nor was this the last occasion on which Lord Brougham defended the memory of the Queen. No one can doubt the sincerity of his conviction of her innocence, and he has seized every opportunity of proclaiming it to the world. In a debate in 1823, on the ques- tion of the administration of the Law in Ire- land, brought forward by hi~mself, Mr. Peel had censured his reference to a letter which had been addressed by the Irish Attorney- General, Mr. Saurin, to Lord Norbury, then Chief Justice of the Common Pleas in Ireland, and in which the writer had suggested that Lord Norbury should make use of his posi- tion as a judge on circuit to influence those with whom he came in contact against Catholic Emancipation. This letter was a private one, which had got into print by some improper means, contrary to the wish and intention of Mr. Saurin, and had been. the subject of much public remark. On hearing the attack, Mr. Brougham turned to Mr. Denman and Mr. Williams, who with Dr. Lushington had been his colleagues on the Queens trial, and, quoting Cromwells words at the battle of Dunbar, said, The Lord bath delivered them into our hands. When he rose to reply he thus dealt with the accusation, and thus retorted upo~ his adversary: And why, let me ask, am I to be blamed for simply referring to an extensively pub- lished letter, as if I had first given it pub- licity ~ I entirely agree with the Right Honorable Gentleman, in his condemnation THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. of those who have been concerned in obtain- ing the letter for the purpose of publishing it. Their conduct may not be criminal by the enactments of the law, but it is morally dishonest, and it is revolting to every honor- able feeling. I go heartily along with him in reprobating all such odious practices; I hold with him that it is shameful, indecent, abomin- al)le to encourage them; I consider it truly tietestable to hold out the encouragement of bribes for the purpose of corrupting servants, and inducing them to violate their first duty, and betray the secrets of their masteraye, and of Iheir mistress too !J say of their mistress !of their mistress !and not only to betray her secrets and to steal her papers, and to purloin her letters, but to produce them for the treacherous, the foul, the execra- ble purpose of supporting a charge against her honor and her life, founded on the docu- ments that have been pilfered by her servants and sold to her enemies! the proofs obtained by perfidy suborned, and larceny perpetrated! and then to carry on a prosecution wholly grounded on matter drawn from sources so polluted, as at once insulted, disgraced, and degraded the nationa prosecution so foul, so utterly abominable, making the sun shroud himself in darkness, as if unwilling to lend the light of day to the perpetration of such enormous wickedness! * And by whom was this infamy enacted? By the Ministers of the Crownby the very colleagues of the Right Honorable Gentleman who now pro- nounces so solemn a denunciation of all that tends to encourage servants in betraying the confidence of their masters and their mis- tresses ! Lord Brougham is sparing in the use of metaphor, and hardly ever resorts to a simile. But when he does employ metaphor it is al- ways apt and effective. We may give as a specimen his description of the benefits con- ferred by the Reform Bill, which occurs in a sp~ech delivered by him in 1839, on what was called the Bed-chamber Question, so fatal to Sir Robert Peels attempt to form an Ad- ministration in the month of May in that year. It is my clear and deliberate conviction (and if I had not so believed I never would have consented to the change in 1831 and 1832, much less promoted it)that if the altered Constitution is fit for the calm, it is yet better suited to the tempest; if the vessel can ride the more safely in smooth water, since the repairs she has underwent, they were still more necessary for enabling her to ~ An eclipse of the s~in happened to take place at the time of the opening of the case for the Bill of Pains and Penalties against the Queen. bear the storm. Her being made more tight in her rigging, better trimmed, better manned, and by a more contented crew, sounder in her timbers, more secure and more seaworthy in all her fabric, far from rendering her less fit safely to ride through the troubled waters, must make her more powerful to defy the strife of the elements The vessel has undergone a thorough repair; not unneces- sary for her security in the fairest weather, but in the stress of wind and wave absolutely required to give her a chance of safety. And, although it is not included in the collection we are reviewing, we cannot resist the temptation of quoting an extract from his noble speech on the State of the Law, where a fine metaphor is beautifully sustained. The great stream of Time is perpetually flowing on; all things around us are in cease- less motion; and we vainly imagine to pre- serve our relative position among them by getting out of the current and st.anding stock- still on the margin. The stately vessel we belong to glides down; our bark is attached to it; we might pursue the triumph and partake the gale; but worse than the fool who stares expecting the current to flow down and run out, we exclaim, Stop the boat! and would tear it away to strand it for the purpose of preserving its connexion with the vessel. It is, however, in the power of description that Lord Brougham peculiarly excels. No one can paint with more force a picture in words. Witness that tremendous passage with which he appalled the House of Lords when, in his speech on the Slave Trade in 1838, he described the horrors of the Middle Passage and spoke of the shark that follows in the wake of the slave-ship; and her course is literally to be tracked through the ocean by the blood of the murdered, with which her enormous crime stains its waters. Our space will not allow us to do more than give a fragment of the picture in which are drawn scenes Scenes not exceeded in horror by the forms with which the great Tuscan poet peopled the. Hell of his fancy, nor by the dismal tints of. his illustrious countrymans pencil breathing its horrors over the vaults of the Sistine Chapel! Mortua quiu etiarn jungebat corpora vivis! On the deck and in the loathsome hold are to be seen the living chained to the deadthe putrid car- cass remaining to mock the survivor with a spectacle that to him presents no terrorsto mock him with the spectacle of a release that he envies! Nay, women have been known to 10 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROTJGHAM. bring forth the miserable fruit of the womb, surrounded by the dying and the deadthe decayed corpses of their fellow victims. After this, his affecting account of the suf- ferings of the people in his sJ)eech against the Orders in Council in 1812 seems almost tame. And yet his tale of starving penury and silent woe in the manufacturing districts was told with infinite skillwe fear with not more skill than truthand touched the hearts of all who heard it. Speaking of Birming- ham he asked In what state do you find that once busy hive of men? Silent, still, and desolate dur- ing half the week; during the rest of it, mis- erably toiling at reduced wages, for a pit- tance scarcely sufficient to maintain animal life in the lowest state of comfort, and at all times swarming with unhappy persons, Will- ing, anxious to work for their lives, but un- able to find employment, lIe must have a stout heart within him who can view such a scene, and not shudder. But even this is not all . . . . A third would say that he was afraid to see his people because he had no longer the means of giving them work, and he knew that they would flock around him and implore to be employed at the lowest wages: for something wholly insufficient to feed them. Indeed, said one, our situa- tion is greatly to be pitied; it is most dis- tressing; and God only knows what will be- come of us, for it is most unhappy! He possesses also an unrivalled fertility in strong and apposite illustration. This is one of the most effective ornaments of a speech, vividly condensing the argument and bring- ing it home at once to the apprehension. We will give one or two examples. Alluding to the pressure of misery caused by the Orders in Council, and the wild ideas that were afloat of the relief that was likely to flow from the proposed abolition of the East India Companys trading monoply,when one district, which raised no earthly produce but black horned cattle, had petitioned for a free exportation to the East Indiesand the ancient and respectable city of Newcastle which grows nothing but pit coal, had earn- estly entreated that it might he allowed to ship that useful article to supply the stoves and hot-houses of Calcutta, he said They remind one of the accounts which have been handed down to us of the great pestilence which once visited this city. Noth- ing in the story of tha~.t awful time is more affecting than the picture which it presents of the vain efforts made to seek relief. Mis- erable men might he seen rushing forth into the streets and wildly grasping the first pas- senger they met, to iml)lore his help, as if by communicating the poison to others they could restore health to their own veins, or life to its victims whom they had left stretched before it. In that dismal period there was iio end of projects and nostrums for prevent- ing or curing the disease; and numberless empirics every day started up with some new delusion, rapidly made fortunes of the hopes and terrors of the multitude, and then as speedily disappeared, or were themselves borne down by the general destroyer. Mean- while the malady raged until its force was spent ; the attempts to cure it were doubt- less all baffled; but the eagerness with whjch men hailed each successive contrivance, proved too plainly how vast was their terror and how universal the suffering that prevailed. And again, in the same speech, in answer to the question, what had the Orders in Council to do with the scarcity arising from a deficient crop ? Why, Sir, to deny that those measures affect the scarcity, is as absurd as it would be to deny that our Jesuits Bark Bill exasper- ated the misery of the French hospitals, for that the wretches there died of the ague and not of the hill. True, they died of the ague; but your murderous policy withheld from them that kindly herb which the Providence that mysteriously inflicted the disease, merci- fully bestowed for the relief of suffering hu- manity. Throughout these orations occur from time to time magnificent bursts of the finest elo- quence, and our only difficulty is to make a selection. We might quote from his speech in 18~2, at the Liverpool Election, his invec- tive against the policy of Mr. Pitt. Im- mortal in the triumphs of odr enemies and the ruin of our allies, the costly purchase of so finch blood and treasure! Immortal in the afflictions of England and the humilia- tion of her friends, through the whole results of his twenty years reign, from the first rays of favor with which a delighted court gilded his early apostacy, to the deadly glare which is at this instant cast upon his name by the burning metropolis of our last ally! ~ We might also quot~ from his speech on the Army Estimates in 1816,a speech which we are told by himself had a greater success than any other made by him in Parliamenthis ~ The news of the burning of Moscow had ar- rived in Liverpool by that days post. 11 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. comparison of France in 1792, when a pro- digious revolution had unchained twenty-six millions of men in the heart of Europe, with France at the time he spoke, after Jacobin- ism, itself arrested by the Directory, punished by the Consuls, reclaimed by the Emperor, has become attached to the cause of good order, and made to serve it with the zeal, th& resources and the address of a malefactor en- gaged by the police after the time of his sentence had expired. Or the peroration of his speech in 1823, on abuses in the Adminis- tration of the Law in Ireland, which Mr. Wilberforce in his Diary (see his Life, vol. v. p. 186.) called quite thundering magnificent, but very unjust declamation. With the justice or injustice of the attack we are not now concerned, but it is melancholy to think that such a theme should have afforded materials for a long oration in the House of Commons little more than thirty years ago, and that it should have been possi- ble to say there, as Mr. Brougham did say, In England, justice is delayed, but thank Heaven, it can never be sold. In Ireland it is sold to the rich, refused to the poor, delayed to all. It is in vain to disguisethefact; it is in vain to shun the disclosure of the truth. We are driving six millions of people to despair, madness But at the risk of choosing a passage which some may think eclipsed by others more rhetorical and brilliant, we will give an extract from the close of his speech in the House of Commons in 1830 on Negro Slavery, which we think remarkably fine Tell me not of rightstalk not of the property of the planter in his slaves. I deny the rightI acknowledge not the property. The principles, the feelings of our common nature, rise in rebellion against it. Be the appeal made to the understanding or to the heart, the sentence is the same that rejects it. In vain you tell me of laws that sanction such a claim! There is a law above all the enact- ments of human codesthe same throughout the world, the same in all timessuch as it was before the daring genius of Columbus pierced the night of ages, and opened to one world the sources of power, wealth and knowledge; to another, all unutterable woes. Such it is at this day. It is the law written in the heart of man by the finger of his Maker; and by that law, unchangeable and eternal, while men despise fraud, and loathe rapiI~e, and 4bhor blood, they will reject the wild and guilty phantasy that man can hold property in man! * In vain you ap~)eal to treaties, to covenants between nations: the covenants of the Almighty, whether of the old Covenant or the new, denounce such un- holy pretensions. With this it is worth while to compare his grand and impassioned burst of indignant eloquence, when denouncing in the House of Lords, in 1838, the cruelties practised in our West India Colonies, and calling upon the House to assent to the immediate emancipa- tion of the Negro apprentices. Eleven female slaves had been severely flogged, and then forced by torture to work on the tread- mill, till their sufferings had reached the pitch when life can no longer even glimmer in the socket of the weary frame. They diedand Ask you, said the great champion of the cause of African freedom, ask you, if crimes like these, murderous in their legal nature, as well as frightful in their aspect, passed un- noticed; if inquiry was neglected to be made respecting these deaths in a prison? No such thinr! The forms of justice were, on this head, peremptory even in the West Indies; and those forms, the handmaids of Justice, were present, though their sacred mistress was far away. The coroner duly attended; his jury were regularly impannelled ; eleven inquisitions were made in order, and eleven verdicts returned. Murder! manslaughter! misdemeanor! misconduct! Nobut Died by the Visitation of God! Died by the visitation of God! A lie! a perjury! a blas- phemy! The visitation of God! Yes, for it is amongst the most awful of those visitations by which the inscrutable purposes of His will are mysteriously accomplished, that He some- times arms the wicked with power to oppress the guiltless; and if there he any visitation more dreadful than anotherany which more tries the faith and vexes the reason of erring mortals, it is when Heaven showers down upon earth the plaguenot of scorpions, or l)estilence, or famine, or warbut of unjust judges and pei;jured jurors; wretches who pervert the law to wreak their personal yen ~ Some years ago, wheii a case was argued be- fore Lord Denman and several other judges in Serjeants Inn, involving incidentally the right of a Spanisb or Portuguese vessel to carry slaves, the counsel who argued that a certain capture was unlawful, was assurniug that, by the Law of Nations, slave-tr ding was lawful; upon which Lord Denman sai ~ I dont know that; I should like to hear that point argued. However, it was soon shown that what the laws of the principal nations of Europe had sanctioiied, cool d not he contrary to the Law of Nations and indeed so Lord Stowell bad decided in the ease of the French vessel La Louis in 1817. 12 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. geance, or compass their sordid ends, for- swearing themselves upon the gospels of God, to the end that injustice may prevail and the innocent be destroyed! Lord Brougham is also a great master of the art of ridicule, which becomes in his hands a formidable weapon. He is obviously fond of it, and uses it often with marked effect. But we are bound to say that it is never ill-natured; there is no venom in the point. The wound may pain for a moment, but it never festers. And there is often an hilarity in the satirical attack which might make even the victim himself join in the laughter of which he is the object. When the Berlin and Milan decrees of Napoleon had sealed the Continent against the imports of British commerce, and we had tried to retaliate by the Orders in Council, which had the effect of stopping our American trade, and involving us in a quarrel with the United States, the Ministers advanced the argument that a substitute for our former market was found in our increasing trade with the Span- ish and Portuguese colonies of South Amer- ica. In point of fact, our North American trade had amounted to thirteen millions sterling a yearwhile the South American trade was only one million. By way of illus- trating the importance and magnitude of the commerce we had lost, Mr. Brougham drew an amusing picture of the raptures of joy into which Ministers would be thrown if they could command such a market anywhere on the Continent. Why, Sir, only conceive an event which should give an opening in the north of Eu- rope or the Mediterranean for but a small part of this vast bulksome change or acci- dent, by which a thirteenth, aye, or a thirti- eth, of the enormous value of British goods could be thrown into the enemys countries! In ~vhat transports of delight would the new President [of the Board of Trade, Mr. Rose] be flung! I verily believe he would make but one step from his mansion to his office all Downing Street, and all Dukes Place would be in an uproar of joy. Bless me, what a scene of activity and business should we see! what Cabinetswhat boards What amazing conferences of Lords of Trade! What a drivin~ together of Ministers a What a rustling of small clerks !What a mighty rushing of brokers !Circulars to the manufacturing townsharangues upon Change, performed by e~inent naval charac- terstriumphal processions of dollars and volunteers in St. James Square !Hourly deputations from the merchantscourteous and pleasing answers from the Boarda speedy importation into Whitehall, to a large amount, of worthy knights representing the Citya quick return cargo of licenses and hints for cargoesthe whole craft and mys- tery of that license trade revived, with its ap- propriate perj uries and fraudsnew life given to the drooping firms of dealers in forgery whom I formerly exposed to youanswered by corresponding activity in the Board of Trade, and its clerksslips of the pen worth fifteen thousand pounds *judicious mistakes well considered oversightselaborate mad- vertencies.Why, so happily constituted is the Right Honorable Gentlemans understand- ing, that his very blunders are more precious than the accuracies of other men; and it is no metal)hor, but a literal mercantile propo- sition to say, that it is better worth our while to err with him than to think rightly with the rest of mankind! In a review of Lord Broughams speeches, it would be unpardonable to omit mention of his great Oration on Parliamentary Reform one of the most elaborate of all his efforts. But it is too well known to require more than a brief notice. Nothing but the highly- wrought state of public feeling could justify the scene at the close, when sinking on the ground beside the woolsack, the Lord Chan- cellor exclaimed, By all you hold most dear by all the ties that bind every one of us to our common order and our common country, I solemnly adjure youI warn youI im- plore you,yea, on my bended knees I sup- plicate youreject not this bill. This is too theatrical for good taste. It reminds us of the exaggerated manner of the P& e Lacor- daire in the French pulpit, or of some of the extravagant scenes which have occurred in the French revolutionary assemblies. But the genius of French oratory is essentially diff~ienf from our own. Let us, however, not be understood to depreciate the eloquence of our neighbors, either in the pulpit or the tribune or at the bar. The country which has produced a Bossuet and a Massillona DAguesseau, a Berryer, and a Guizot, may well contend with others for the palm of ex- cellehee in speech; and it is one of the most melancholy result~of the suppression of lib- erty in France, that her orators are dumb, and that the force of a military despotism, or ~ Mr. Baring (afterwards Lord Asliburton) had stated in the House of Commons, that by two mis- takes at one time, licenses were rendered s~ valu- able, that he would have given that sum for them. 13 THE SPEECHES OF LORD ]3ROTJGHAM. the restrictions of a jealous police, have crushed into silence the tribune which has been the scene of so many triumphs of elo- quence and freedom. Quousque tandem? The speech on Parliamentary Reform has several fine passages, but it is not, through- out, so eloquent as many others delivered by Lord Brougham. It is more in the nature of an exhaustive reply to the arguments that had been advanced in opposition to the bill by Lords Dudley, Winchelsea, Wharncliffe, Harrowby, and Caernarvon, and these were met and parried and retorted with admirable skill. The Earl of Caernarvon, in answer to the question, What Reform had the Opposi- tion to offer if the proposed measure was re- jected? had compared the Ministry to some host, who, having set before his guests an un- eatable dinner with which they found fault, should ask them, What dishes can you dress yourselves ~ and thus Lord Brougham took up the illustration My noble friend says that such an answer would be very unreasonablefor he asks, in- geniously enough, how can the guests dress a dinner, es~)ecially when they have not pos- session of the kitchen? But did it never strike him that the present is not the case of guests, called upon to eat a dinnerit is one of rival cooks, who want to get into our kitchen. We are here all on every side cooks,a synod of cooks (to use Dr. John- sons phrase) and nothing hut cooks; for it is the very condition of our beingthe bond of our eml)loyment under a common master that none of us shall ever taste the dishes we are now dressing. The Commons may taste it; but can the Lords? We have nothing to do but propose the viands. It is therefore of primary importance, when the authority of two classes of rival artists is the main ques- tion, to inquire what are our feats severally in our common calling. And in answer to the extreme and impos- sible case put by the Earl of Harrowby, of the population of an enfranchised borough of four thousand souls being all paupers, he said that he had a right to put an extreme case on the other side, to illustrate the nature of rep- resentations under the rotten borough system; and he instanced the case of the Nabob Wal- lajah Cawn Bahadur, who had actually his eighteen or twenty members bought with a price, and sent to look after his pecuniary in- terests as honest and independent members of Parliament. ~ Behold, he said, ~he sovereign of the Carnatic, who regards nor land, nor rank, nor connexion. nor open country, nor populous city; but his eye fastens on the time-honored relics of departed greatness and extinct J)opu- lationthe walls of Sarum and Gatton; he arms his right hand with venerable l)arch- meats, and pointing with his left to a heap of star pagodas, too massive to be carried along, la)s siege to the citadel of the Constitution, the Commons house of Parliament, and its gates fly open to receive his well-disciplined band. But our limits compel us to stop. We shall he glad if anything we have said has the effect of making these speeches more generally read. We advise all who wish to qualify themselves as public speakers to study the orations of Lord Brougham. They will find them a storehouse of manly thought, of vigorous argument, and lofty eloquence upon all the great questions of his time. Few may hope to rival the orator who defeated the bill of Pains and Penalties against Queen Caroline, and sna1)ped asunder the chain of Slavery; but none can fail to profit by the example. But above all things, let no one imagine, that without taking pains and be- stowing labor, ke can rise to eminence as an Orator. He may be a fluent speaker and an expert debater, hut an orator he will not be, if he refuses to copy the example and follow the precepts of the great masters of the art. And of all auxiliaries to the tongue, the pen is the best. Cicero tells us, that stuns opti- mus et prce-stantissimus dicendi effector et magister; and to use his own beautiful simile, the habit of writing passages in a speech will communicate aptness and force to extempore expression, just as the vessel retains her on- ward way from the impetus previously given, after the stroke of the oar has ceased. Let us, however, not be misunderstood. We by no meaps intend to advise a habit of writing out the whole of a speech, and getting it off by heart before it is delivered. Not only does this impose too great a load upon the memory, and render the chance of a break down almost inevitable, when, from sudden nervousn~ss or any other cause, some passage which forms a necessary link in the chain is forgotten ;but it preveats a sl)eaker from feeling, as it were, the pulse of his audience, and varying his style and tone according to the impression which he sees is made upon them. In most cases a written speech is a failure from this cause. But the subject 114 15 THE SPEECHES OF LORD BROUGHAM. matter should be beforehand well and thor- familiarity with writing and practice in speak- oughly digested ;there should be the cogi- ing mutually act and react upon each other.* tatio et commentatio insisted upon by Cicero; In conclusion, we may add, that the value and in addition to this, with respect to par- of this collection of Lord Broughams speeches ticular passages, the assiduct ac diligens is enhanced by the historical introductions scrzptura. By this means the speaker will have, laid up in the arsenal of his memory, a supply of weapons ready for any emergency that may arise; and it is almost a truism to say, that sentences considered beforehand in the laboratory of thought, and submitted to criticism and revision by being embodied in written composition, must be more likely to be effective than those which are thrown off hastily in the hurry of debate, when there is no time to pause for the best and most ap- propriate expression. But, indeed, the habit of composition will have the effect of suggest- ing to the speaker, at all times, the best word and the best sentence; and will thus assist him whenever the necessity occurs for un- premeditated reply. Cicero amongst the an- cients, and Lord Brougham amongst the moderns, have shown with what advantage written by himself, and prefixed to several of them, explaining the occasions on which they ~vere delivered, and the subjects to which they refer. The style of these introductions is excellentclear, vigorous, and correcti- and they are in themselves a very useful con- tribution to the history of the nineteenth cen- tury. We cannot take leave of the subject of oratory without a passing allusion to the highly important labors and discoveries of Mr. Churchill Babington, which have enabled him recently to recover from Egyptian papyri in the British Museum copious fragments of no less than three of the Orations of Hyperides. The last of these discoveries is the long lost famous eirtrc~& Lof of this orator, being the funeral discourse over Leosthenes and his comrades in the Lamian War, which has just been published with the munificent assistance of the Royal Society of Literature. This work is a real addition to the known remains of Greek oratory, for it puts us almost entirely in possession of another of the most celebrated orations of antiquity. WATER AT JERUSALEMA correspondent of the Ckristian Era, (Boston,) dating his letter at Jerusalem, says: The fountain of Elisha waters the plain of Jericho east and xvest of the villageand is sev- eral miles from the Jordan; and furthermore, there is plenty of water in Jerusalem and neigh- borhood, where persons could be immersed, without resorting to the Jordan. Take, for in- stance, the upper pool of Gihon, which is only a few steps or yards from the north-western cor- ner of the city, and measures 310 feet long by 200 feet wide. This pool would measure around it some 10,200 feet, and in depth 14 feet. You may now calculate how much water that pool would hold. I was out to that pool a few days ago, and saw thirty Arabian horses in it drinking water. It is my opinion that 3,000 persons could have been immersed in that an- cient pooi, without going out of the city. There is also another ancient pooi, a few yards from St. Stephens on the east side of the city, which measures 106 feet 13 inches long west side; the the north side 89 feet; the east side 109 feet; the south side 89 feet; depth at the steps 23 feet 2 inches. Then there is the pool of Siloam on the south side of t.he city, to which the Savior sent the blind man to wash for the recovery of his sight. (John ix. 7.) In any of the above- named pools, you can easily see that they wouki be very favorable places to which the people could resort to be baptized; and that in either of them, 3,000 persons could have been immersed without going to the Jordan. ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH IN 1787 During Arthur Youngs visit to Paris, in 1787, he visited M. Lomond, a very ingenious and inventive mechanic who (says Young, in his published Travels ) h~s made a remarkable discovery in electricity. You write two or three words on a paper; he takes it with him into a room, and turns a machine inclosed in a cylindrical case, at the top of which is an electrometer, a small fine pith ball; a wire connects with a similar cylinder and electrometer in a distant apart- ment; and his wife, by remarking the corres- pon4ing~ motions of the ball, writes down the words they indicate; from which it appears, he has formed an alphabet of motions. As the length Qf the wire makes no difference in the effect, a correspondence might be carried on at any distance: within and without a besieged town for instance; or, for a purpose much more worthy, and a thousand times more harmless, between two lovers prohibited or prevented from any better connection. Whatever the use may be, the invention i~beautiful. 16 WALKER. From Household Words. WALKER. IT is well known that the meaning of many words has altered considerably since they were first introduced into the English lan- guage; indeed, this fact has been fully aifd cleverly illustrated in the arguments which have l)een recently heard in favor of a new translation of the Bible; but, perhaps it is not so ~ve]l known that the pronunciation has been susceptible of equal changes. We can obtain an excellent idea of the un- settled state of pronunciation at the com- mencement of the present century, by dip- ping into one of the first editions of Walker, whom we find laying down the law in a very quaint and querulous manner. Remembering the very partial spread of education in Walk- er s time, we must not be surprised to find no more than few really correct speakers; still we should hardly have expected that he would have met with so many difficulties as he complains of. He tells us that there are coxcombs in pronunciation who would carry distinctions farther than they ought to go. That the rule for the adaptation of a word was, that it should be pronounced in direct opposition to the rules of our language. The stage was constantly introducing innovations not at all agreeable to Walker, and the House of Com- mons was guilty of similar barbarities. Poets, he allows, should have a certain license; but they who, when tortured for a word, often torture a word to ease themselves, are gene- rally guilty of one part only of the cruelty of Procrustes; and that is of shortening such words as are too long for their verse. In this way Co~vley crushed many words, and Milton did the same in innumerable in- stances. Spencer corrupted words for rhyme, and was imitated by Dryden. All these causes together, rendered the English lan- guage in such a ruinous condition, that Walker burst out into the following pathetic lamentation: How hard is the fate of an Englishman, who, to write and speak his own language properly, must not only understand French, Latin, and Greek, but Hebrew also! In this forlorn state of things, Walker urged the reader of his Pronouncing iDic- tionary, to adhere as closely as possible to antiquity; but his favorite weapon against the perverse independence, prevalent in ortho~pical matters was the analogy of the language. Antiquity is argued to be in favor of pro- nouncing Raisins, Reesins; because Shaks- peare made Falstaff tell Prince Henry, when asked to give reasons for his conduct that if raisins were as plentiful as blackberries he would not give him or~ upon compulsion. Walker thinks this proves reesins to have been the usual pronunciation in Queen Eliza- beths time, therefore in departing from that we destroy the wit of Shakspeare. We are further informed that Sheridan was the first to introduce our present pronunciation of the word. It is not an unnatural variation for an Irish man. Another pun of Shakspeares is considered indisputable proof that Romewas Room, in his time. The pronunciation of this word gives our author iXo trouble. It was irrevoca- bly fixed; he traces it from Elizabeth to Anne, and then to Pope, who rhymes it to doom. Pope does not enjoy imdemnity from the accusation of torture ascribed to other poets. Indeed, if some words were sounded now, as they appear to have been spoken in the Augustan age of literature, they would fall on the ear discordantly. Rhymes contin- ually recur in the poems of iDryden, Pope, Gay, and especially in the prologues and elM logues to the plays of that time, which lead to the belief ( Kings not being, according to Byron, more iml)erative than rhymes ) that, for instance, Are was commonly pro- nounced as if it were written Air. These lines are from Drydens Eleonora Scarcely she knew that she was great or fair, Or ~vise, beyond what othcr women are, Or (which is better) knew, but never durst compare. Again: For such vicissitudes in Heaven there are, In praise alternate, and alternate prayer. Player is also made to rhyme, very gene- rally, to such sounds. In the prologue to Steeles Funeral, or Grief ~ la Mode, we are told: All that now, or l)lease, or fright the fair, May be performed without a writers care, And is the skill of carpenter, not player. We should be startled to hear a well- educated person of to-day pronounce Oil, Ile; yet rhymes of that kind abound. Pope, in the first part of his essay on Satire, writes thus: Cunning evades, securely wrapt in wiles, And Force, strong-sinewed, rends the unequal toils. True, that further on Pope makes the same word rhyme to Hoyle. But, in the epilogue to the play we have mentioned above, and in other poems too numerous to quote from, we have similar discords: Hed sing what ~overing Fate attends onr Isle, And from base pleasure rouse from glorious toil. Whatever may have been Walkers opinion on such euphonies by these poets, he is not uniformly submissive being a very fickle personto Shakspeare. He recommends us WALKER. in such sentences as sleeping within mine orchard, to change the mine to my. He thinks whenever mine occurs we have a formnlity, stateliness, and uncouthness of sound peculiarly unpleasant to the ear. I We must therefore he, facetiously, says, pronounce it mm; but, by thus mincing the matter (if the pun will be pardoned), we mutilate the word, and leave it more disagree- able to the ear than before. Otherwise we must make the alteration he suggests. Antiquity again exerts its claim to be re- membered in the first syllable of Chamber, which used universally to be pronounced to rhyme with Psalm. It has been gradually narrowing to the slender sound in came, and thereby militates against the laws of syllabi- cation. Walker is not surprised at it, how- ever; for, if two such words as Cam and Bridge could not resist the force of custom which has for so many years reduced them to Camebridge, why should we wonder that Chamber and Cambrick, or Tynemouth and Teignmouth, should yield to the same unre- lenting tyrant? Walker declares that custom had also made it so usual to say Sparrow-grass, that Aspara- gus has an air of stiffness and pedantry. This, of course, drives our author to despair; and so does the pronunciation of Cucumber, which is too firmly fixed in its sound of Coweumber, to be altered. He has a gleam of hope that Radish may retain its correct sound. This word is commonly but corruptly pronounced, as if written Reddish. The deviation is but small; nor do I think it so incorrigible as that of its brother esculeuts the sparrow-grass and coweumber just men- tioned. Not an inapt accompaniment to these esculents is Sausage, which Sheridan prefers pronouncing Sassidge; nor is he un- supported in his peculiarity. Still Walker considers it vulgar and not agreeable to best usage. The analogy of the language appears to great advantage in the following: Polite speakers interpose a sound like the letter y between g and a in garden, which coalesces with both, and gives a mellowness to the sound. Thus, A Garden, pronounced in this manner, is nearly similar to the two words, egg and yarden united into Egg-yarden. To our more modern ears the effect of Tennysons melodious appeal, Come into the gheyarden, Maud, would be considerably marred by this polite pronunciation. The same rule ap- plies to Guard, Guile, Guardian, Gild and Guilt, all of which necessarily admit of the e sound between hard g and i, or we cannot pronounce them. Kind, Sky, and others are changed by the same coalition into Key-inde and Skey-eye. Nor i~ this a fanciful pecu- THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 67 17 liarity; but a mispronunciation arising from euphony, and the analogy of the language. On the word Corruptible we find some very pungent remarks. Walker complains that, Some affected speakers have done all in~ their power to remove the accent of this word from the second to the first syllable. Thanks to the difficulty of pronouncing it in this manner, they have not yet effected their purpose. Those who have the least regard for the sound of their language ought to re- sist this novehy with all their might; for if it once gain ground, it is sure to triumph. The difficulty of pronouncing it, and the ill- sound it produces will recoiAmend it to the fashionable world, who are as proud to dis- tinguish themselves by an oddity in language as in dress. The grave lexicographer found other things requiring censure besides mis- pronunciation. A Wound should be pronounced a Wowned. Indeed, to pronounce it otherwise, is a capri- cious novelty received nmong the polite world, probably from an affectation of the French sound. I think it ought to be utterly ban- ished. But where is the man bold enough to risk the imputation of vulgarity by such an expulsion? The author of Now stood Eliza on the wood-crownd heights. was evidently of Walkers opinion. We can. now appreciate how Eliza, sinking to the ground, Kissd her dear babe regardless of the wownd. Before, the want of rhyme sadly damaged the effect. There must have been, besides the before-mentioned privilege of torture, more facilities for rhyming generally; for, was it not most correct to pronounce Dover iDuvver; and c~n we not see at a glance how nicely it comes in with Lover? The stage would pronounce Fierce, Ferse; this is slightly defended as being philosophi- cally right, though grammatically improper; because a short sound denotes a rapid and violent emotion. But when the same au- thdtitWtakes upon itself to transform Sigh into Sithe, we are assured it is a perfect odd- ity in the language. Walker receives our full concurrence when he remarks, that it is not easy to conjecture what could be the rea- son of this departure from analogy. Some affected speakers on the English stage pro- nounce the first syllable of Confidant like Cone ; and as our l)reseI~t pronunciation of Conquer is in f~ull possession of the stage, there is but littleope of a change. It is a wanton departure from our own analogy to that of the French. It ought, decidedly, Mr. Walker thinks, to be Conkwer. The word Haunt was in quiet possession of its 18 WALKER. true sound till a dramatic piece made its ap- p earance; which, to the surprise of those ~vho had heard the language spoken half a cen- tury, was, by some speakers, called The Hawnted Tower. This pronunciation is not agreeable to analogy,but is, nevertheless, agreeable to most modern colloquists, who persist in retaining it. Garrick receives a decided compliment, or rather, perhaps, a forced submissionowing to his great popularityfrom our author; who, in deference to him, marks Bowl as we pronounce it now; though the least ann- logical. Respectable speakers make it rhyme with Howl. G~rrick also pronounced bourne to rhyme with mourn. This is agreeable to Walker; for he is also fortified by the suifrages of Mr. Elphinstone, Mr. Nares, Mr. Smith. And, we may again add, hy those of our English public in general. Now for a sl)ecimen of the erratic genius of the House of Commons. Some respect- able speakers there pronounce the e in the first syllable of legi~lature, as if written leegislature, and think they are wonderfully correct in doing so. And why was it that Fashion would always feel itself obleeged? Why will it go to the iDarby, hunt with the Barkley hounds, and call a Clerk a Clark? Walker observes, that the speakers to whom he alludes may have been natives of the Modern Athens; or, that the sound of vowels in the Scotch manner was perhaps a little ?~ la mode. He tells us in a note on High- lander, that we sometimes hear a most absurd pronunciation of this word taken from the Scotch, as if written Heelander. It is curious to observe, that while the Scotch are endeavoring to leave their own pronunciation, and adopt that of the English, there are some English so capricious as to quit their own pronunciation, and adopt that which the Scotch strive carefully to avoid. We can echo the fervent desire of Walker to give the full sound to the first syllable of Soldier. The word was, in his time, pro- nounced So-ger. Mr. Johnson leaves out the 1; but I have frequently had occasion to differ from this gentleman, and in this I do devoutly. The general pronunciation of the polite and learned world, in all words ending in ass, such as pass, glass, & c., was to rhyme with gas; every correct ear would be dis- gusted at giving the a in these words the full long sound of the a in father. Besides the sin of mispronouncing estab- lished words, Walker finds his public indulg- ing in the equally troublesome crime of mak- ing additions. These were sources of re- newed grief. The House of Commons must have been genial soil for ~vord-coinage, for we are told that Irrelevant was one of their an- nual productions; indeed, Walker becomes grimly facetious about the House generally. There, he says, new words and money-bills naturally originate. He considers Irrelevant a pedantic incumbrance to the language. In- imical was another of these producti6ns; the great recommendation being, that it is pronounced in direct opposition to the rules of our own language. We owe many other new words to other sources :the public ear being one. To this neglected organ we are indebted for Intrusive; an adjective that perhaps, may be considered as appertaining properly to that important ab- straction. Veterinary was in only one dictionary before Walker; but, he adopted this word from a prospect of its becoming a part of the lan- guage, and as a college is founded in Ion- don for studying the diseases to which that useful animal is liable. Here, by the way, we are left in a slight mystification as to whether the college or London is the useful animal alluded to. The word Sulky had long been a vagabond in conversation, and was not to be found in any of our dictionaries, till it was admitted to a place in Enticks; and from its very frequent use, may now be considered as a denizen of the language. Incalculable may be considered as a revolutionary word, since we never heard of it till it was lately made so much use of in France. Also Para- lyze Walker says, the very general use of this word, especially since the French Revo- lution, seems to entitle it to a place in our dictionaries. Caricature was so recent an innovation, that our author was Qbliged to give us the Italian of Baretti to explain the meaning of it. Gala is another Italian arrival; and, as it is a good sounding word, and we have not an equivalent for it, we ought to give it the same welcome we do to a rich foreigner who comes to settle among us. Swindle was from Germany. From the recent introduction of this word, one should be led to believe that this country was, till ~lately, a stranger to this species of fraud; but that it should be imported to us by so honest a people as the Germans is still more surprising. All foreigners are not received on the same amiable terms. The adoption of the French word Encore in the theatre, does the Eng- lish no manner of credit. There, it would be the most barbarous and ill-bred pronunciation in the world to call for the repetition of an English song in pt~n English. It is more the difficulty of pronunciation, than a dislike to the French words that dis- tresses Walker. Thus; the vanity of ap- pearing polite keeps Environs still in the French pronunciation; but, it is impossible for a mere Englishman to pronounce it fasn WALKER. innably. Again: sometimes a mere Eng- lishman exposes himself to laughter by trying to give the nasal sound in Envelope. Some military coxcombs have endeavored to intro- duce the French pronunciation of the word Defile. In Poltroon, we have one of those half French and half English words, that show at once our desire to imitate the nasal vowel, and our incapacity to do it properly. About Truffles we are told that, we seem inclined rather to part with a hundred letters, than give up the smallest tendency to a for- eign pronunciation. The last syllable of Eclaircissement presents an insuperable dif- ficulty. We are not even to endeavor to attempt it, but are to pronounce it, like an English word at once, rather than imitate the French sound awkwardly. The French sound in Tour is very much disliked. Walker says, my experience fails me, if this word is not slowly conforming to the true English sound of the vowels heard in Thou. But, the smart traveller to France and Italy would fear we should never suppose he had 19 been out of England, were he not to pro- nounce it so as to rhyme ~vith poor. According to Walker, it is to the parsimony of printers that we owe the abolition of the final ks in such words as domestick, publick, fanatick, and the us in favor, honor, and labor. it is to be hoped they find the result satisfactory. In taking leave of our amusing lexico- grapher, we will present an anecdote of Sher- idan, which he introduces in a long note beg- ging us to pronounce Wind, Wynde. It must be understood that Sheridan agreed with Walker about this word, but differed from him with respect to Gold, which he would pronounce Goold. Mr. Sheridan tells us that Swift used to jeer those who pronounced Wind with the short i, by saying, I have a great minn d to finnd why you pronounce it Winnd! An illiberal critic retorted this upon Mr. Sheridan by saying, If I may be so boold, I should be glad to be toold why you pronounce it Goold! (inclusive of money orders), 3,035,713. Net, 1,322,237. 13. The Post Office printers (stampers) are gradually becoming more expert and legible. 14. Advertisements for defaced postage- stamps, to enable the advertiser to accomplish some benevolent object, have commonly been found to be impositions. 15. The number of re,,istered letters in 1857 was rather more than a million and a quarter, or about one registered letter to 400 ordinary letters. The opening of the railway from Romne to Civita Veechia will take place during the mouth of July or August next. Tnn POST OFFIcE IN ENGLANDThe Post- master-General has made his fourth annual se- port, from which the following particulars are extracted 1. Upwards of 703 pillar-posts or road letter- boxes are now in operation in the United King- dom. 2. 504,000,000 of letters passed through the post in 1857, giving 17 letters to every man, wo- man, and child. 3. The increase per cent. on 1856 was 5 1-2. 4. The increase in letters, as compared with .1839 (the year prior to the introduction of pen ny postage), was 428,000,000, or more than six- fold. 5. Of the whole numbers of letters in 1857, nearly a quarter were delivered in London and _________________ the suburbs. . According to the accounts received from 6. The number of letters posted in Russia mu Mentz, the treaty relative to the construction of 1855 was but 16,400,000 about as many as a fixed bridge over the Rhine has been signed by were posted in Manchester and the suburbs. the C~tnmissioners of all the Governments in- 7. About 71,000,000 newspapers were posted ter~ste~ in the question. in 1857. __________________ 8. About 1,700,000 letters were returned to A CREDULOUS PLACE: WITcI-mcxAvr, Spiit- their writers, owing to failure to find the persons ITIJAL RAPPINGS, AND MORMONIsMMiddle- addressed. ton or Topsfield, in Essex county, Massachu 9. About 580,000 newspapers were, from the setts, appears to be th~ grand seat of superna- same cause, undelivered. tural wonders. It was in this neighborhood i~ 10. Number of book-packets transmitted, America that Salem witchcraft sprang up; spif- about 6,000,000. 11. Number of money-order offices in the itual rappings still extensively pervade the 2,233. Orders issued, 6,389,702. Value, place; and Joseph Smith, the founder of tlme country, Mormons, was b~-n there. (Washington Union, 12,180,272. Net profit, 24,175. March 1855.)Notes and Queries. 12. Gross revenue of the Post Office in 1857 THE ANTIQUITIES OF THE NEW WORLD. From The Saturday Review. TIlE ANTIQUITIES OF THE ~EW WOIILD.~ WE welcome from the other side of the Atlantic three important contributions to our slowly growing stock of knowledge if knowledge it is to be culledof the prm- Columbian civilization of America. Our best sympathy is due to the painstaking inquirers who are laboring in the somewhat ungrateful field of American archceology. The real l)ast, indeed, to the thriving Anglo-Saxon communities of North America, is not the history of Incas or Aztecs, but that of their European forefathers; and those who may claim kindred with Shakspeare and Bacon may be com~)aratively indifferent to Manco Capac or Ixtlilxochitl. Still it is right, and highly creditable to the intellectual activity of our Transatlantic brethren, that the re- mains of extinct civilizations in the land of their adoption should be thoroughly investi- gated and described. Something, indeed, of universal interest attaches to those lost pages of the history of the human family, and no educated man can afford to be unconcerned in the result of researches into the ethnology of the aboriginal inhabitants of the Ameri- can continent. To those who, like Sefior Rivero, or the Abbe Brasseur de Bourbourg, trace a portion of their descent from those ancient races, such inquiries must j)O55~5~ a more personal interest. But on general grounds, the managers of the Smithsonian Institute have judged rightly, and acted in strict accordance with the spirit of their trust, in encouraging the scientific study of the antiquities of the Ante-Columbian pe- riod; and the liberality with which their valuable Contributions to Knowledge are scattered through the chief libraries of the Old World is worthy of all gratitude and admiration. Of the three works named at the head of this article, Mr. Havens is the most compre- hensive in its scope and the most able in its executionMr. Mayers, indeed, is little ~ Observations on Mexican history and Archcs- oiogy, with a special reference to Za1aotec Remains. By Brantz Mayer. Washington: Smithsonian In- stitution. Archemology of the Uaited States. By Samuel F. Haven. Washington: Smithsonian Institution. Peruvian Antiqaities. By Nariano Edward Rivero, Director of the National Museum, Lima: and John James Von Tschndi, Doctor in philoso- phy. Translated into English from the original Spanish by Francis L. Hawks, D. D. New York; George P. Putnam. London: Trtibaer and Co. more than a monograph on the Zapotec re- mains at Mitla; and the volume of Messrs. Rivero and Von Tsch di is confined to Peru. We will reserve our notice of Mr. havens essay till we have briefly discussed the others, Mr. Mayer begins with a short rcsusne of the labors of previous writers on the antiq- uities of Mexico and Central America, and bears witness to the accuracy with which Prescott has condensed the existing informa- tion on the subject. His own contribution of fresh knowledge to the common store is derived from observation of the aboriginal architectural remains. The most ancient of these are generally earth-works, either mounds or enclosures; but what are called in the Spanish vernacular the Casas Grandes are the ruins of towns or villages, sometimes of vast extent, built chiefly of sun- dried bricks, cemented by a mixture of earth, coals, and ashes, instead of lime. The houses in these ruined cities are sometimes of four stories, which were reached by lad- ders on the outside. Every one knows from Lord Kings boroughs book or from cheaper reproductions, the contour of the Mexican sacrificial pyramid; but, as in the more fa- mous examples on the banks of the Eu- phrates which Mr. layard brought to light, the action of time upon the sun-dried brick has often converted the stepped outline of these structures into an indistinguishable mud-heap. Mitla, in the State of Gajaca, contains a group of remarkable architectural remains of a somewhat higher order of merit; and some drawings made on the spot by Mr. Sawkins, which are engraved in a poor and coarse style of lithography as illus- trations of the present essay, form the staple of Mr. Mayers discourse. Here, in a lonely valley, are the traces of important buildings which seem to have occupied the four sides of a quadrangular courtone side alone re- maining in any thing like entirety. A tradi- tion relates that these monuments were built for sepulchral purposes. The adits are so low that a person can only enter in a crouch- ing posture. Inside there is a spacious ob- long apartment, the walls of which are lined with a highly poli~hed red plaster; while down its length are five massive cylindrical columns, without capitals or bases, to support the roof. From this hall there seem to have opened a number of windowless chambers, the walls of which are hollowed, as in the 20 21 THE ANTIQUITIES OF THE NEW WORLD. catacombs, in recesses large enough to hold dians of the present day is a result of the a human hody. Externally these structures fusion of the three. Our author proves are of masonry, some of the stones being and in this he is supported by Dr. Hawks, colossal in size. The walls are built so as to his translator-that the famous osteologist, incline outwards at a very considerable an- Dr. Morton, was mistaken in thinking that gle; their faces are carved in a superficial he had obtained for his great work some real kind of mosaic ornament, without any beauty specimens of the skulls of the Incas. He or regularity; and the angles exhibit a sort shows also that the Peruvian skull possesses of rude rustication. Some idols of fantastic in infancy the anomalous feature of an inter- ugliness have been found among the ruins. parietal bone, which is quite distinguishable Turning now to the volume o~ Peruvian from the ossa Wormiana. Almost all that Antiquities, we find that here, too, Mr. Pres- is known of the history of Peru before the cott has anticipated, in his lucid summary, arrival of Pizarro is derived from the tradi- much that would otherwise have been new tions embodied, and probably dressed up for matter to the ordinary reader. Of the two the occasion, in the curious but untrustworthy names associated on the title-page, Don work of Garcilasso de la Vega, who was de- Mariano de Rivero, who is the real author, scended, by his mothers side, from the royal brings to his task a somewhat exaggerated line of the Incas. The picture of the pros- respect for the beneficent institutions~~ and perity and high civilization of the old mon- advanced civilization of the Incas. Dr. Von archy drawn by this credulous and partial Tschudi, a European naturalist who had writer is doubtless overcolored; and though travelled in Peru, edited and published the there may be a groundwork of truth in his Spanish original at Vienna, where, in the history, it is impossible to accept all his Imperial Library, he found bibliographic ap- statements without reserve. But even his phiances that, as the author feelingly com- romancing is thrown into the shade by the plains, were, alas! wanting in Peru. Dr. inventions of Montesinos, who identifies Peru hawks is responsible for the translation and with the Ophir of Solomon, peoples it from some sensible notes. The introductory chap- Armenia, and gives a list of 101 monarchs ter on the relations between the two hemi- from a period ~O0 years after the Deluge to spheres prior to the discovery of Columbus, the unhappy Atahualipa, the victim of Pi- is somewhat fanciful and obscure. Of course zarro. Our author sketches the political or- we have all the old hypothesesthe Scanchi- ganization of the Incas with much minute- navian voyages, the lost Ten Tribes, a Punic ness. He calls it a theocratic autocracy. or Carthaginian migration, colonies from ~The system of government was highly cen- Ceylon, from Mongolia, or from Gaelic tribes. trahized, and the whole population was None of these are absolutely rejected; but grouped into provinces, and then numerically the author inclines to the theory that the subdivided into departments, each of which first ~)eopling of the American continent contained so many tens, hundreds, or thou- was from Asia, and, insisting strongly on the sands of individuals something like Mr. anal% ies between Buddhism and the Mexi- Toulmin Smiths ideal of an Anglo-Saxon can worship, he concludes that Quetzatcoatl, parish. The officials of this system were no and Manc Capac were missionaries from loss than a million in number. The whole China at a later period. There are some land was tripartitely divided, one third be- who identify the Toltec divinity Quctzatcoatl, longing to the Sun, the second to the Inca, which means Didvmus, with the Apostle St. the last to the people; and each man re- Thomos. We have somewhat surer ground ceived from the State, by a kind of anticipa- to go upon in the next chapter, which treats tion of modern socialism, enough land for of the ancient inhabitants of Peru. Dr. the support of himself and his family. All Von Tschudi, by the observation of hundreds taxation was in kind, every man contributing of crania, ascertained the existence of three so much labor or the produce of his skill. different races, geographically divided, which The administra4rn of justice was severe, and he named the Chincas, the Aymaraes, and the censorship of morals very strict. A con- the Huancas. The conquering dynasty of scription was in force for military purl)oses. the Incas sprang fro~ the second of these A chapter follows on the Quichuan lan- races; and the cranium of the Peruvian In- guage, which possessed, according to our 22 authors, a complete declension formed by suffixed particles, a perfect system of ~~OflOUflS and of numbers, and a very rich form of con- jugation. Like most of the American tongues, it is polysynthetic or agglutinativethat is, its changes are not made by infiexion, but hy the addition of suffixes; and the verbal forms have that extraordinarily artificial precision, which has been called by philologists the con- jugation of the personal object. But this language has no literature. It is true that the ancient Peruvians used what are called quippus, that is, knots made on various colored threads, as a kind of record; hut, in spite of much patient and ingenious experi- ment, the deciphering of these rude symbols is quite impracticable, and it is even doubtful whether they were ever used except as tallies for purposes of numeration. We cannot follow the writer minutely ia his notices of the scientific culture of the old Peruvians. He discusses their skill in medicine, astronomy, and navigation. But what we most want in all this is some reference to the authors sources of information. For instance, he gives us the music of three Haravis, or elegiac songs, in different keyswild and irregular strains very oddly harmonized without a word of explanation as to the method hy which these melodies, if really ancient, have been preserved. The authorities for the dis- quition on the Peruvian religion are probably trustworthy, being for the most part the writings of the early Christian missionaries after the Spanish conquest. One of these, by the Jesuit, Pedro Jose de Arriaga, describes the result of the inquiries of a special com- mission in the year 1617 into the nature of the native idolatrous worship, with a view to its extirpation. The analogy between Budd- hism and Christianity in the East has often heen observed. And some such coincidences between the Christian sacraments and certain rites of the religion of the Incas were noticed by the Spanish conquerors, who were inclined to attribute them to the malice prepense of the Evil One. The religious ceremonies, in- cluding the occasional sacrifice of human victims, the rites of sepulture, and method of embalming, are next noticed; and then the state of the arts, in metallurgy, pottery, and architecture. As to the latter, it appears that timber was used but rarely, and iron neverthe precious metals, on the other hand, were abundant. TrCweaving and dye- THE ANTIQUITIES OF THE NEW WORLD. ing, great excellence was attained; and Don Mariano informs us that the Peruvian Indians of the mountains still use bright and lasting dyes which they obtain from plants unknown to Europeans. If so, we can only say that the sooner their secret is borrowed from them for use in Manchester, the better. Of the remains of Peruvian masonry, some are quite Cyclopean; and it is astonishing how such works could be wrought without the aid of iron tools. The arch was unknownthough our author, who is not at home in architecture, draws the opposite conclusion from data which prove our own assertion. The royal roads and fortifications of the Incas were, however, their greatest monuments. Humboldt de- scribes a gigantic road traversing the Cordil- leras for 2~0 geographical miles, with resting- places at intervals; and another causeway of solid masonry, at the elevation, by barometri- cal measurement, of 12,440 feet above the seaa thousand feet higher than the Peak of Teneriffe. A few illustrations are given of architectural decoration, which strongly re- semble the carvings described at Mitla by Mr. Mayer. But in the absence of such truthful drawings of architectural remains as nothing but photography can give, it is vain to specu- late on the subject. The work of Messrs. Rivero and Von Tschudi will continue to have a solid value to all who wish to investigate the arch~olo~y of Peru. We have left ourselves but little space tc notice Mr. Havens treatise. Its especial value is that it presents a conspectus of the present state of the whole inquiry into the antiquities of the United States, with judicious criticisms of the various authors who have treated of the subject. Mr. Helps recent volumes are unfortunately not included in this summary. Mr. Havens opening chapter marshals~all the suppositions by which writers have attempted to account for the existence of men and animals in the Western Hemi- sphere. Some have imagined that those ab- original peoples were spared from the Non- chian deluge others, that, as in the vegetable world, so in the fauncs of the earth, there may have been more than one centre of original creation. And the tendency of re- cent speculation itowards the theory that the New World is really the older of the two, as having been sooner prepared for the occu- pancy of man, and actually peopled at a more remote period. The numerous theories of 23 THE ANTIQUITIES OF THE NEW WORLD. the migration of various tribes, some of which were noticed in the earlier part of this paper, are next succinctly detailed by Mr. Haven. But, as he well observes, all this ingenious speculation has left the subject still in its original obscurity. Quitting the interesting disquisitions on the whole course of archmo- logical investigation in the United States, which form the bulk of the present volume, and which will make Mr. Havens work a standard book of reference for future students, we may hasten to the conclusion, in which we have the condensed results of the authors own inquiries. We note here that he rej ects the hypothesis of an earlier geological an- tiquity for the western hemisphere. He dis- credits the discovery of fossilized human skeletons in geological periods, and argues that some species of colossal animals, whose bones have been sometimes found mingled with human remains, ~vere contemporary with our race, and lanve only become extinct at comparatively recent periods. Next, from a consideration of the winds and currents of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, he concludes that it is not improbable that voyagers from Eu- rope or Asia might have been driven from time to time upon the coasts of America. But he observes that, however frequent foreign accessions may have been, they have not had the power to affect materially the structural uniformity of speech and physical conformation, and the homogenous mental type of the original inhabitants. A more extensive migration from Asia by the Aleutian Islands our author considers by no means improbable, but yet far from being proved. Upon tlae whole, he thinks that the best philological and physiological inquiries tend to establish that the American aborigines were a distinct and peculiar race, though without thereby denying the primitive unity of the human family. The question, however, must remain among the enigmas of im- memorial time. Proceeding to the consider- ation of the actual antiquities discovered with- in the borders of the United States,.to which his researches are principally confinedsuch as enclosures and tumuli, and the contents of the latterMr. Haven denies that they ex- hibit evidence of any much higher civilization than was to be found among the aboriginal Indians before that mysterious decay of their tribes which seems to have preceeded by some few centuries the arrival of Columbus. This temperate and well-weighed essayls worthy of the very highest commendation. Mr. Haven has approached the subject in almost ajudicialspirit, and we are disposed to adopt his conclusions implicitly. We borrow his final paragraph as a specimen of his style and manner: We desire to stop where evidence ceases; and offer no speculations as to the direction from which the authors of the vestiges of antiquity in the United States entered the country, or from which their arts were derived. The deduction from scientific investigations, philological and physiological, tend to prove that the American races are of great antiquity. Their religious doctrines, their superstitions, both in their nature and t.heir modes of prac- tice, and their arts, accord with those of the most primitive age of mankind. With all their characteristics, affinities are found in the early condition of Asiatic races; and a channel of communication is pointed out through which they might have p6ured into this continent, before the existing institutions and national divisions of the parent country were developed. Fortuitous arrivals, too in- considerable in numbers and influence to leave decided impressions, may at intervals have taken place from other lands; ana geographical facts and atmospherical 1)he- nomena may serve to explain why the New World remained so long a sealed book to the cultivated nations of Europe, or was only known through the vague intimations and rumors alluded to in history, such as the chances of the sea, and indefinite reports from barbarous regions and peoples would be likely to bring to their ears. MExNIar~ OF THI~ Woxn DoNNY, OR The Custom-house officers on the Russian DoNNI. A fountain of water near Licifield, frontier have received the strictest orders not to granted to the friars of that city in the fourteenth allow any book~printed abroad in the Russian century, was then, and for a long subsequent language to enter the country. It is well known time, called DoaniwelL What are the deriva- that many Russian travellers bring back with tions of Donni in reference to Donniwell and them works of a sabversive tendency, which are Donnybrook iNotes and Queries, printed in London. 24 CATHEDRI PETRI. From The Press. it was to the East, and not to the West, that Cat hedri Petri. A Political History of the he turned. His first epistle is addressed to Great Latin Patriarchate. By Thos. Green- the strangers scattered throughout Pontus, wood, M. A., Barrister-at-Law. Books I. and II. London: Stewart, 1856. The Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia, and Bithynia, and Same. Books III., IV., and \T london: it is dated from Babylon. His second is ad- Stewart, 1858. dressed to the same parties, and he wrote it, THIS is a remarkable book. It is learned, he tells us, not long before his death. The laborious, impartial, and well written. ~ earliest writer that we possess, after the Apos- patient industry the author reminds us of the tolic age, is Clement, the third Bishop of divines of the middle ages, and of the seven- Rome. lie speaks of both Paul and Peter, teenth century. Here are two goodly vol- but he makes one very important distinction umes, of nearly 1,200 pages taken together between them. Paul, he says, was the and the author states that he has the material herald of the Gospel both in the East and in for three more already prepared! We can the West He taught righteousness hardly call to mind a similar instance of lite- throughout the world, and having reached to rary labor in our own day. And it is the the utmost verge of the West, lie passed out more surprising, when we recollect that the of the world and entered the abodes of the author could not have indulged any very con- blessed. Thus, speaking of both the Apos- fident hope of gaining many readers, tIes, he distinguishes one of them as having The predominant thought, however, which travelled to the West as well as to the East. pervades our mind is that of wonder that any Clearly it is here implied that of Peter he had student should have been able to devote him- no such facts to record. self to such a work, knowing, as lie must have But, in truth, any earnest student of early known, that the whole is but a learned inves- Church history will easily satisfy himself of tioation of a fiction and a fraud. If the facts thisthat of Peters visit to Rome, or bish- of the case were really as peol)le half a cen- opric of Rome, there is no evidence in any tury ago supposed them to heif the Pope early writer. The whole story was fabricated were really the successor of St. Peter, the first about the time of Eusebius, when the Roman Bishop of Romethen there might be some See began to feel the want of some such show of reason in investigating the history of basis to support its lofty pretensions; and, that ecclesiastical sovereignty. But when once concocted, there was no difficulty in find- people have been gradually awakening to the ing fresh maintainers of the fiction, age after fact that the whole idea of the Chair of St. ageits suitability to the wants of the case Peter is one which never passed throu0h being so evident and so complete. any ones brain until the days of Eusebius And this is, in fact, the turning-point of the hl a. e., until three hundred years after the sup- woe controversy. All else depends posed circumstances had taken placeit does upon it. Peter, say the Romanists, was made seem strange to find a man, at this time of by our Lord the rock on which 1-lis church day, calmly discussing the question as it was was built, and the Prince of the Apostles. supposed to stand some thirty or forty years Now Protestants and Papists may wrangle ~9r ago. days and weeks upon the text, Thou art Mr. Greenwood correctly states that ~ Peter, and upon this rock will I build my visit of the Apostle Peter to the West is as- church,and may fail in convincing each serted in direct and positive terms by any ex- other. But it is as well that both Protes- tant Christian writer of the first three centu- tants and Papists should be reminded, that ries. There is no doubt whatever that the the real question does not turn upon the in whole story of the Apostles visit to Rome, terpretation of these words. The Papist may his bishopric of Rome and his martyrdom at be wholly right, and the Protestant utterly Rome was concocted in the third and fourth wrong, in their respective views of this pas- centuries, when the Roman See began to sage, without the ~apal Supremacy being exalt itself, and when it found that to derive either established or overthrown by that con- rank and power from the first of the Apos- troversy. Let the advocate of the Papacy tles would greatly aid its pretensions. The remark, and lay it well to heart, that however Apostle himself, in his own epistles, plainly triumphant he may be, in establishing his tells us that, when forced to leave Jerusalem, view of the words in Matt. xvi. 18, he will CATHEDRI PETRI. only, by that victory, have advanced one step in the argument; and it is quite clear, that, unless he can prove something more than this, the Papal Supremacy will he left without a ~ all that the Papist claims, in this first controversy, to he quite true: suppose, for arguments sake, that our Lord did give to Peter a primacy over the other Apostles, and did mean, that the Church should be built upon him: What does all this do towards making the Bishop of Borne the visible head of the Church? Clearly, nothing at all. For,what if Peter lived all his latter years, and ended his days in the East? What if he never even visited Rome; never communi- cated in any special way with its Church; never directed any epistle to the Roman Christians, or sent to them any commands? Why, then, it will follow, that Peter stood to- wards Rome in no other relation than that in which he stood towards Alexandria and Anti- och. Consequently, the Bishops of Rome have no peculiar title to assume to be the successors of St. Peter. And, finally, their claim to be regarded as something higher than the Bishops of Antioch and Alexandria, is seen to be the merest presumption and usurpation. Let St. Peter have what primacy he may, their claim, the claim of the Bishops of Rome, to inherit this primacy, is as unfounded a pre- tension as ever was set up. We deny their title: we call for proof. No proof has been, or can be, adduced. Yet, without such proof, the Papacy becomes an open, palpable, unde- niable, usurpation and imposture! STONE, THE MATHEMATICIANStone was born about the year 1700. His father was gar- dener to tile Dnke of Argyle, who, walking one day in his garden, observed a Latin copy of Newtons Principia lying on the grass, and thinking it had been brought from his own library called some one to carry it back to its place. Upon this, Stone, who was then in his eighteenth year, claimed the hook as his own. Yours! replied the duke do you understand geome- try, Latin, anti Ne~vton ? I know a little of them, replieti the youn~ man. The duke was surprised, and, having a taste for the sciences, conversed with the young mathematician, and was astonished at the force, the accuracy, and the candor of his answers. But how, said the duke, came you by the knowled~e of all these things? Stone replied: A servant taught me ten years since to read. Does one need to know anything more than the twenty-four letters in order to learn everythin~ else that one wishes 1 The dukes curiosity redoubled lie sat down on a bank, and requested a detail of the whole process by which he had become so learned. I first learned to read, said Stone. The masons were then at work upon your house. I approached theni one day, and ob- served that the architect used a rule and com- passes; nnd that he made calculations. I in- quired what might be the meaning and the use of these things : and I was informed that there was a science called arithmetic: I purchased a book of arithmetic, and I learned it. I was told there was another science called ~eometry: I bought the necessary books, and I learned ge- ometry. By reading I found that there were good books of these two sciences in Latin: I bought a dictionary, and learned Latin. I Un- derstood also that there were good books of the same kind in French: I bought a dictionary, and I learned French. And this, my lord, is what I have done. It seems to me that we may learn everything when we know the twenty-four letters of the alphabet. Under the patronage of the Duke of Argyle, Stone some years after- wards, published in London a treatise on mathe- matical instruments, and a mathematical dic- tionary, was chosen a fellow of the Royal Soci- ety, and became a distinguished man of science. Timbs Schoot-days of Eminent Men. TIlE COMMON OHJEcTs OF THE COUNTRY. By the Rev. J. G. Wood, M.A., F.L.S., Au- thor of Common Objects of the Seashore, With Illustrations by W. S. Coleman. Rout- ledge. Lizards, bliudworms, molehills, newts and toads, beetles, moths and butterflies of common- est occurrence are the tdpics of this little book. Its authors purpose is to furnish at the smallest possible cost a pleasant guide to the intellectual enjoyment of a country life or country holiday. As in his book upon Uommoe Objects of the Sea- sJior~ th~ author accompanies his written des- criptions throughout with sketches that enable any one to find the name and nature of any ob- ject by mere observation of its form, the pietmA-es answering the purpose of an index. The infor- mation tends chiefly in the direction we have in- dicated. In another volume we must hear about our birds, and again in another, probably, about our common English trees and flowers. The multiplication of cheap books of this description is most heartily to e sought and encouraged Examiner. 25 DE VERTEUJL S TRINiDAD. From The Spectator. DE VEItTEUILS TRJNIDAD.~5 THERE is a good deal of original observa- tion in this volume, especially on topics that relate to the authors own profession, as the diseases of the island, its climate, physical features, and local influences in their bearing on health and disease. There is also later and more precise information on a variety of subjects, as the topographical divisions, local institutions, the actual details of government, and the general statistics of Trinidad. Like most colonial authors or writers about col- onies, Dr. Dc Vertenil overdoes his theme, entering too minutely into many things, and treating them too much in the encyclop~dia or gazetteer style. There is also an assump- tion of ignorance in the world at large as to Trinidad, which may possibly be true; but ~vhich does not arise from want of means of learniug. Importation of free Negroes from America to the West India colonies at large, as well as to Trinidad individually, ~vas not only discussed nearly twenty years ago, but tried and failed; for bad as the position of the colored people may be in the United States, it is doubtful whether they are not worse off, as far as money earnings are con- cerned, in the British colonies. By field labor, even assuming a steady industrious adherence to it, they would earn less than at home ; in mechanical or urban employments there are not many openings for such laborers in the colonies, and if there was a gain for the imported in social standing, there was a loss upon the whole in mateiial advantages. The mistakes of Mr. Montgomery Martin as a colonial writer have not always escaped wjthout remark in England; and, not to speak of other reliable sources of informa- tion, we have the blue-books on Trinidad as well as on other places. For using up stale matter we do not know that anybody, therefore, can be well excused. For fulness Dr. De Vertenil has this reason; he is not only writing for Great Britain but Trinidad, whose knowledge does not begin at home, as it rarely does with large or small countries. It is really surprising how uninformed even Trinidadians are regarding their own country. Our best schoolboys are able to give the names of the chief rivers, and the position of the principal towns in Great Britain, France, and even in Russia and China; but they are ignorant, perhaps, of the names of the Guataro and Oropuce, or through what county the Caroni has its course. They may know that San Fernando exists, but may not be able to say whether it is on the East ~ Trinidad: its Geography, Natural Resources, Administration, Present Condition end Prospects, By L. A. A. Dc Vertenil ~M D P Ward and Lock. . . . Published by era or on the Western side of the island; they can give the principal boundaries and dimensions of Europe, and its larger king- doms, but are ignorant of those of their own island home; they can enumerate the chief productions of England or France, but they do not know what are the agricultural pro- ducts of their own country, or whether the quantity of sugar exported is. 35,000 or 56,- 000 hogsheads. Nor, indeed, to say the truth, is the author himself, according to his own admission, so practically well informed as a descriptive his- torian and reformer might be. My personal knowledge of the island, he writes, is con- fined to a few localities only, yet its extreme length is but fifty miles, and its average breadth is only thirty-five. A main motive of Dr. De Verteuils publi- cation regards one of the most important problems that could engage the attention of this country, though it is but very lightly considered by the public at large, namely the real social and economical condition of the West India colonies consequent upon Eman- cipation, and what are the proper remedies for the evils under which some of those colo- nies are admitted to suffer. The point is perhaps not very difficult to decide as respects the smaller islands, with their suffi- cient supply of labor, and their available soils appropriated if not exhausted. Emancipa- tion has probably not done them more injury than has been amply repaired by their share of the compensation-money. Thejr evils, if evils they labor under, arise from their limited surface and their natural circumstances, and the general character of the population high and low. They must look to their remedy from stagnant provincialism through some Mr. Morton, who shall teach them to develop the resources of their estates. Jamaica, Demerara, and Trinidad are in a different position, from the paucity of labor compared with the extent of fertile soil, and the facili- ties for vagrancy and squatting afforded by the large amount of unappropriated land. What the social and economical position of these three colonies really is, we have never seen presented in a way to carry conviction, or to leave any satisfactory impression that we had reached truth, except of a very one- sided kind. The Abolitionist dwells upon the natural good qualities of the Negro and their improvement consequent upon Emancipation. Without, altogether denying the good that is in the Negro, tI~ planter is prone to bring forward his failings, especially those which affect the capitalist, as the indisposition to regular and sustained labor, his love of amusement not to say idleness, his childish familiarity approaching insolence, perhaps 26 IDE V~YERTE1JIL S TRINIDAD. something worse when provoked, as well as a tendency, not always confined to colored people, to take advantage of his position by making the best bargain he can for himself. It is pretty much the same with the more direct economical results. The planter main- tains that upon the whole in sickness and in health, in bad times as well as good, the Negro is physically not better off than be- fore; his seeming luxuries, on which the friends of the African love to dwell, are a sign of his thoughtless expenditure, and are moreover unfairly obtained at the expense of the employer. As regards his own condition, the planter is lugubrious enough; absolute ruin is the all-but continual theme. There is a similar discrepancy as regards official repre- sentations. They are colored; perhaps, to speak more accurately, the reasons on which they are grounded are selected by the writer according to his bias. Passing travellers who have recorded their impressions have been too short a time in the colonies to learn much of their social or economical condition; if in- deed they understood the importance of the inquiry, or the proper mode of conducting it. A searching truthtelling book on the three once great British sugar colonies, after the model of Mr. Olmsteds books on the South American States, is a literary want of the day. Even if they are fated to fall into stag- nation and semi-barbarism, like some Span- ish-American Republic, it would be desirable to have a record of the facts at some stages of the degradation. A man in iDr. IDe Verteuils position might have 1)roduced such a work on Trinidad; but he has not. His account of the colonial agri- culturists and the colored population is per- vaded by the contradictions of which we have spoken, and of that exaggerated tone which mostly characterizes colonial writers. In one place the agriculturists are charged with egotistical individualism, whatever that may be, and other faults of a more definite kind. In other places we hear of some agricultural improvements, and of spirited enterprise in the manufacture of sugar,novelty in ma- chinery, greater ingenuity in processes. Times and persons are confounded. The reader, for instance, might, unless careful, apply what is meant of the earlier importa- tions of labor to the present time. The iDoc- tor speaks of the island as absolutely infested by hucksters, by the pettiest shop or stall- keepers, and by nominal artisans, a result of the prejudice against field labor surviving from the time of slavery, and perhaps of an aversion to hard work. Yet he wishes an immigration of free colored people from the United States, knowing that they would fol- low the same vocations, though in a more efficient way. Some of his suggestions are 27 impracticable, requiring a change in the Black and White human nature ~to be dealt with; others could scarcely be effected with the general apathy of public opinion on cob- niaVquestions in this country, and the vigilant earnestness of the Anti-Slavery party. His idea of negotiating with the United States for the importation of colored people, meaning of course free colored ~reol)le, is absurd; he might as well negotiate with Spain or Italy; the American Government might perhaps give a moral impetus to such a movement, but never could by a state-act send away free Negroes. The most practical suggestion, and a very good one it is we think, is for the Trinidadians to discard their prejudice in favor of sugar and nothing but sugar, and apply themselves to productions of another kind, especially of provisions and live stock both which are now imported at a very heavy expense. The difficulty of reaching any thing like a satisfactory conclusion upon this class of colo- nial questions is felt even in questions con- nected with figures. It appears that after a long struggle Trinidad now produces a quan- tity of sugar equal to that she supplied be- fore Emancipation. In 1829 the produce 60,000,000 pounds having risen to that quan- tity from 30,000,000 in 1819. In 1862 the quantity was at least equal to that of 1829. Quantity, however, is only one element of the subject. Owing to the admission of slave-grown sugar the price is much reduced now; and the greater cost of production has to he taken into account. How much dearer are the wages of free labor than slave culti- vation, all things being taken into considera- tion? Supposing exact truth attained on these two points, there is still to be brounht into account that enormous waste of capital that xvent on during the long struggle of some dozen years in abortive experimental plans of importation. In Trinidad, as in other colonies, marriage has increased among the colored population, and some say that immorality has decreased, though it seems gen~rall~ admitted that there is still ample room for improvement. At Port of Spain in 1851 the legitimate births were 192, the ille- gitimate 321. By 1864 a considerable ad- vance had taken l)lace, most probably in part accidental; the legitimate were 216, the ille- gitimate only 222. If it be true that the ratio of mortality is greater under freedom than it was under slavery, the fact is very startling; hut here is again an element of un- certainty; the r~istration is probably not very exact. What the final result of Emancipation throughout the West Indies may be, is one of the sl)ecial mysteries of the future. In Trini- dad it has diametrically falsified the predic DE VERTEUILS TRINIDAD. tions of the Anti-Slavery party, if the least reliance is to be placed upon Dr. IDe Verteuls statements. Nearly a generation has elapsed since the partial freedom of apprenticeship, and some twenty years since complete free- dom. So far from free labor heing cheaper than slave-labor, the emancipated Negro will scarcely work at all; the main reliance of the colony is on the Coolie; for though the Chi- naman is a sturdier laborer, he is insubordi- nate. Instead of the delightful picture which Sir James Stephen and other emancipators painted, of a colored yeomanry producing all the necessaries and luxuries of the Tropics on their own properties, and exchanging their superabundance with the traders of the towns, aThid planters ruined it might be, but ruined justly by their own faults, and merchants by their extortions and usury, the towns appear to be inhabited by a race compounding the huckster, the odd-man, and the thief; and the country by poor peasants or squatters im- perfectly cultivating the land they occupy and ekeing out their subsistence by plunder. A physician may be pardoned for remarking that they are bad patients. The most impor- tant conclusion in a general point of view, is the fact that voluntary work is a matter of training. The newly-imported Negro will not labor unless compelled; even the East Indian Coolie requires stringent regula- tions. But the Chinaman, whatever his other faults, is used to work, and will labor from the first. These conclusions are drawn from the general perusal of the volume, but they may he supported by a few passages. The Emancipated.From causes already stated, the emancipated classes have a strong inclination to retire from rural, and especially sugar labor, and to congregate in towns and villages, where they engage in petty trade, or adopt some handicraft. The number of shop- keepers, tailors, carpenters, & c., is conse- quently out of all proportion, compared with the requirements of the country, and almost every small tenement in town or village is occul)ied by some retailer of fruit, charcoal, & c.; in addition to the tribe of hucksters who l)erambulate the streets of the towns and the high roads of the rural districts. If this could be regarded as a sign of prosperity there would be ample cause to rejoice; but quite the reverse. These shopkeepers, trades- men, and vendors, may be said to have ab- sconded from the agricultural occupations, and, as a consequence, are, in general, want- ing in those qualifications which are neces- sarv to success in their ~ew avocations. As to the fruiterers and other petty dealers of the like genus, the stock-in-trade (!) displayed in their trays, before their doors, or on stands as apologies for counter~, is really ridiculous, for I have no doubt, were an inventory of ar tides taken, in nine cases out of ten the val- ue of property would not amount to ten shil- lings. Some fruit, a few pounds of charcoal, peas, plantains, & c., constitute, generally, the whole stock; and, in a large majority of cases, the vendor barely manages to eke out a most precarious livelihood. Colored Patients.Immediately after, and on several occasions since Emancipation, attempts were made for securing medical aid to the class of artisans in towns, of laborers located on estates, and of small settlers gen- erally, on their contributing the small sum of ten cents per week for each working person children and old people being attended gratuitously; incredible, however, as it may appear, these attempts have invariably failed. After a few weeks, or two or three months at the utmost, such of the subscribers who had not been subject to any attack during that period withdrew their subscription, on the pretext that it was not fair they should pay for the doctor whilst they enjoyed good health. But these very people, when ailing are unwilling, and,in most cases unable to pay the fee; and they then throw themselves into the hands of male and female quacks, or oleah practisers, who bleed, cup, l)rescribe nostrums, and give their own personal attend- ance, exacting more or less from their dupes, accordin~ to their own status or reputation in a quackery or obeahism. They are punctually paidchiefly from a superstitious dread in- fused into the minds of their patientsbut always retire in time from any unprofitable field. A Trinidad Arcadia. In all these nooks and corners [of the ward of Oropuche] are herded together large bands of immi- grants, imported into the colony, particularly Congoes and Kroomen. In fact, the popula- tion of Oropuche may be characterized as a heterogeneous collection of the inhabitants of different countries, in an unsettled and migratory state; Congoes, Yarrabas, and Kroomen, from Africa; Coolies and Chinese, from Asia; Americans, [Negroes,] from the United~ States; Spaniards, from the neigh- boring continent; [Colored] emigrants from the British and French colonies, with a lim- ited number of natives of Trinidad; these compose the mass of this motley assemblage. Scattered far atid wide throughout the vast extent of this district, removed from the in- fluence of civilizing institutions, and left to the unfettered indulgence of a disorganized and half-savage l~, moral depravity and ig- norance of all social responsibility form their chief characteristics. Bound together by the ties of nationality or tribeship, they have generally banded in distinct settlements, where nought is to be found heyond the pri- mary elements of social aggregation. Many 28 DE VERTEULL S TRINIDAD. 29 of them are squatters, regarding with suspi- Trinidad Squatters.The great mass cion and as intruders those who enter their of these unsett~ed settlers is composed of settlements. They have already on more Africans who more than other classes require than one occasion behaved riotously, and re- the lessons of civilization and the watchful sisted the agents of the Government; and eye of the law. Now, how can this be oh- unless stringent, but at the same time pru- tamed whilst the objects of this aim are lead- dent, regulations be adopted and enforced, it ing a half-savage life on the oiitskirts of civil- is to be apprehend~ that instead of improv- ization? Their dwellings are mere huts ing, matters will become still worse. their children are almost in a state of nature The African Negro.Many of the Afri- as to clothing, and so shy that they betake cans liberated from slavers, and who had themselves to the bush around their retreats been apportioned to the planters under cer- on the approach of strangers, particularly of tam conditions, viz., that they should work those who may bear the marks of respecta- for a stated number of hours every day, on bility. When the squatters are left undis- being provided with lodging, food, clothing, turbed they generally cultivate ground pro- and medical attendance, but who could not visions, such as plantains, manioc, & c., and have understood what was meant, and con- occasionally employ themselves in job-work sidered themselves as no party to the con- on the neighboring estates. They may be tract, determinedly refused to work and ab- said to form in each district an association sconded into the woods, prowling about in for mutual support, and generally manifest the neighborhood of plantations on which great distrust towards those who do not be- they ventured at night for plunder. Others long to this confraternity. attempted to retrace their steps to their Subject to the discrepancies already dwelt country, as they imagined, by travelling East- upon Dr. De Verteuils Trinidad may be ward; not only did they carefully avoid in- recommended as a book telling the latest habited localities, but when they did encoun- facts about the island. But the reader has ter any of the inhabitants, being ignorant of somewhat to sift the facts for himself. The the language spoken in the island, they could hook would have told better with the busy neither understand nor make themselves un- English public had it been less diffuse. derstood. A MALE NunA singular discovery has lately astonished the inhabitants of Versailles. For the last forty years a person known as Mademoiselle Savalette de Coulanges, had in- habited that town, and previons to the year 1832, an upper room in the chatean itself, by royal permission. At that time Louis Philippe having had it fitted up for the reception of the collec- tions of paintings and statuary, Mlle. de Con- lan~es xvent to reside in the town. She lived chiefly on a pension of iOOof. granted by Charles X., and on pecuniary aid furnished by various noble families. This was sufficient to have ena- bled her to live with some comfort, and at least with decency; bnt this last point seemed a mat- ter of indifference to her. The lodgings she successively occupied were like pig-sties; the den was worthy of the inhabitant. The person who came during the day to minister to her few wantsfor she bad grown old and infirmwas never allowed to stop over the night with her. Some days aao, on entering in the morning, the attendant found the invalid kneeling against the bed, quite dead~ A secret kept for half a century then came to light: the supposed Mile. de Coulanges was a man! Papers found in the room, and which certainly had been documents belonging to a demoiselle Savalette de Conlan ges, of a noble and well known family, l)roved her age to be 72his countenance was that of one ten years older. On examination, the letters T. F. were found branded on the shoulder. How and when this escaped convict had found means to take the place, name and papers of Mile. de Coulanges, to receive her pension and pecuniary assistance from her relatives, is still unknown. It is probable he murdered her and concealed the body, hut how he managed to carry on the cheat so long undetected, is most strange. Paris Gorrespondence of the Philadelphia Bulletin. ErAslic CoMPosITION FOR COATINGMr. B. Parker, Hammersmith, for making 1 cxrt. of elastic composition, proposes the use of india- rubber about 10 lbs., which is mixed with say 40 lbs. of tar, when the following materials are added: pulverised chalk, 48 lbs.; sulphur, 1-2 lb. With these materials are incorporated flax, cot- ton waste, or other suitable material, to give a tenacious character to the whole, about 20 lbs., making together 118 lbs.; allow for waste 6 lbs., and 1 cwt. remains~ The mass is brought into a homogeneous stats, and rolled into sheets or pressed into moulds. ROBERT EMMETT. From The Saturday Review. ROBERT EMMETT.~ THIs little volume is an interesting and well-written summary of a very pathetic story, the outline of which is probably well enough known to most of our readers. It is, how- ever, put into a shape and accompanied by reflections which will, we have no doubt, in- terest them once more in its repetition. Francis Robert Emmett was born at Dublin, in 1780, and was the youngest of three broth- ers, each of whom was in his own way distin- guished. Temple Emmett, the eldest, was at the Irish bar, and died after practising there for seven years with considerable dis- tinction. Thomas Addis Emmett, also a barrister, took a very conspicuous part in public affairs. Indeed, he was so much mixed UI) with the rebellion of 1798 that he nar- rowly escaped with his life, and owed his safety to a long imprispnment, which was succeeded by exile to the United States, where he passed the rest of his days. He practised at the bar of New York, and rose to great distinction there. Robert Emmett grew up in an atmosphere in which it was impossible that he should not conceive the most violent enmity against the English Government, and from a very early age his extraordinary elo- quence and his extreme opinions attracted their attention and excited their suspicions. He was the most ~nspicuous member of the famous Historical Society at Trinity College, Dublin, which possessed a degree of political importance which we can hardly conceive any schoolboy debating societyand it was very little moreto be invested. It is said that the Government attached so much im- portance to the proceedings of this body that it actually deputed a man of some standing and eminence as a barrister to go to one of its meetings for the express purpose of con- futing certain republican theories advocated by Emmett. Whatever his political influence over his college associates may have been, it was brought to an abrupt close in 1798 by his expulsion for refusing to take a species of test oath of fidelity to the Government, which the college authorities tried to impose on the stu- dents. He was immediately introduced to a wider and more serious scene. Under the pretence of finishing his education by travel- lin0, lie paid several, visits to the Continent, and had a good many communications with Bonaparte, then first ~Consul, whom he sup- plied with memoirs on the possibility of orga- nizing an invasion of Ireland. These intrigues continued, with more or less activity, until the year 1803, when, upon the outbreak of the second war between France and England, and the attempt of Na- poleon to invade this c~Thntry, he went over to ~ ]?o6ert Emmett, Paris. 1858. Dublin to organize a revolt which was origi- nally intended to have been seconded by the landing of a French army on the south coast of England. His intention was to surprise Dublin Castle, to induce the peasantry from various counties in the neighborhood to march into the town, and finally to call together such of the members of t fi e old Irish Parlia- ment as were ol)posed to the policy of the Union, erect them into a Provisional Govern- ment, and proclaim the independence of Ire- land. He organized his plan with very re- markable secrecy. Up to the very day when he made his attempt; the Lord-Lieutenant was profoundly ignorant of his intentions. On the afternoon of the 23rd July, he sud- denly placarded the walls of Dublin with an address to the inhabitants, calling upon them to join himin his attack on the Government, and at the head of about eighty m~n attempted to capture the Castle. A considerable mob collected in other parts of the town, and whilst Emmetts followers were assailed and repulsed in the attempt to accomplish their principal object by a small body of liolice, part of the insurgents fell in with the carriage of Lord Kilwarden, and murdered him in the street, and before the eyes of his daughter. Emmett, says his biographer, was overpow- ered with horror and disgust at the perpetra- tion of so heinous a crime, and, shortly after it was consummated, left Dublin, though not before he had been engaged in a sharp but unsuccessful skirmish with the troops, who in the course of two hours completely suppressed the revolt. Emmett retired to the Wicklow hills, where he found a considerable number of perscns in arms ready to march upon Dub- lin. With some difficulty he persuaded them to disperse, and hope for better times; but he persisted in revisiting the capital, in order to take leave of Miss Curran, to whom he had been for some time engaged, without her fathers knowledge. He was discovered there, and was shortly afterwards condemned and executed. His trial was remarkable for the weIl-k~own speech which lie made in arrest ofjudgment, and which competent judges de- clared to he one of the most eloquent ever heard in an Irish Court of law. It is cer- tainly pathetic; but it is not very easy to see how it was appropriate to the circumstances of the case. It only amounts to a passionate assertion that he was right and the law wrong, which, even if it had been true, was not to the point. The romantie7~circumstances of Emmetts career, and the undoubted courage and self- devotion which signalized his whole life, have surrounded his name with a sort of halo, of which his biographer does his utmost to enhance the splendor. Emmett, in his opin- ion, is one of those persons whom every one 30 ROBERT EMMETT. 31 is bound to reverence who acknowledges any Mere failure may not be conclusive evidence higher standard of merit than mere success. of the folly of the original plan; but if Englandsuch is the inuendostands to Emmetts plan had succeeded, its madness Ireland in the same relation in which Louis would have been still more apparent than it Napoleon stands to French liberty. We is now. have, it is asserted, a clearer view of our own The view which the volume before us takes interest, and greater perseverence; but, on of England, and of the sources of our great- the other hand, less conscience and less mind ness, is, we think, as unjust as it is unfortu- than those on whose ruin our prosperity is nately common on the Continent. No one founded. The world is so constructed that who really knows what Englishmen are would the cold, hard, unromantic temper which has ever think of describing them as a cold, self- no illusions, and which is never deterred from ish, calculating race, who succeed by the ab- the pursuit of its own ends, is more than a sence of all the faults which accompany a match in most of the careers of life for sensi- generous temper. The shallowness of this bility, intellect, and genius. Such is the opinion, and the mode in which it arose, are moral drawn from Emmetts history; and it equally obvious. In that sort of melodra- is ingeniously enough contrived to comfort matic hastiness which characterizes so much the partisans of French liberty for. their French speculation, our censors personify defeat, and to give vent to a sort of soreness England, and proceed to talk of her self- at the contiast afforded by England, which ishness, her intense pursuit of self-interest, we are sorry to be obliged to admit is a com- and so forth, without perceiving that, if a a mon feeling amongst a large class of French- great mass of men show a power of pursuing men. We fully agree that mere success is a common object with indefatigable energy often nothing more than that prosperity of and perseverance, it is simply absurd to call the wicked which has been the great puzzle them selfish. Patriotism and selfishness are of life since David wrote the Psalms; but, on utterly inconsistent. The fact is that Eng- the other hand, continual failure is certainly lishmen have more, and not less, than other strong evidence of some great fault. It may nations of that generous warmth and force of be susceptible of explanation, but it unfortu- feeling which is the basis of all strong char- nately demands it. it appears to us that acters, and which our Continental critics deny Emmetts career was one great fault, redeemed to us. The difference lies in the use which no doubt by certain splendid qualities, but we make of it. On the Continent it is by founded upon wrong prin~iples and carried no means an uncommon thing (especially in out by bad means. He never seems to have France). to draw a deep line between the felt that it is a tremendous responsibility, ideal which delights youth and the realities only to be justified by the most extreme which occupy middle age. After the illusions necessity, to attack an established Govern- of the one period are dispelled, the other is meat, and to plunge the nation into civil war. cold indeed. This is not our practice here. It. never seems to have occurred to him to in- We do not make all our gunpowder into fire- quire whether, if Irish independence were works, and we have some contempt for those possible, it would not be a mere state of who do. Woe unto thee, 0 land, when thy organized internecine civil war between Cath- princes are children! The poetry of a mans olics and Protestants. As the event showed, character must be weak indeed, if it does not he was grossly mistaken as to the character grow with his growth and strengthen with his of the people with whom lie had to do. He strength. It should display itself, not in had hoped to be the leader of a body of boyish amusements, but iii the grave affairs of heroic patriotshe found himself at the head life. O.i~r romance comes out, not in childish of a cowardly and ferocious mob, by whose revolts, gaudy sentiments, and a literature of excesses he was so disgusted that he threw despairit must be looked for in the history UI) the whole undertaking on the first check of England; and it will be found, by those which it received. Indeed it is perfectly who have eyes to see and ears to hear, in the clear, from the whole story, that if his enter- existence of the greatest Empire, the strong- prise was not utterly wild and desperate, he est institutions, and the most splendid list of was a very fainthearted l)erson. There are daring achievements that any nation in the cases in which, as the phrase is, resistance world can show. Cold-hearted, calculating to a Government becomes a mere question selfishness would have found it no easy thing of prudence, but it is not the less a question to storm Delhi a~ to relieve Lucknowto of vast importance. It is a question which discover the North~West Passage, and to cx- men decide at their peril; and if they decide plore the African Continentto say nothing it wrongly, they are justly looked upon as of founding the British Empire, and peopling amongst the most guilty of all criminals. North America. A SWEEP THROUGH THE STARS. From Household Words. A SWEEP THROUGH THE STARS. ONE of the most curious and pleasing delu- sions to which the soul of man is in the habit of yielding itself during repose, is the frequent dream in which the sleeping individual fancies himself gifted with the power of flight. He is uplifted from the ground, as if in a buoyant medium, and glides without an effort through the scenes of an ever-varying panorama. He skims over the surface of azure seas; he traverses the glades of tropical forests; he passes within sight of Alpine chains of rock and mountain; he leaves ordinary combina- tions of landscape behind him, and enters some valley whose paradisaical loveliness has no existing type amongst earthly realities. He even feels a semi-consciousness that pic- tures of such surpassing beauty are but visions, after all; and he makes an effort, in conse- quence, to prevent himself from waking to behold his homely chamber instead of the brilliant phantasms of his brain. It is a remarkable pysehological fact, tl]at the same identical scenes (which have no original type here below, from which they are copied) are visited, in dreams, by the same person, after the lapse of days, months, and years. Land- scape dreams cannot be evoked at will; they return spontaneously, depending probably on certain similar conditions 1)0th of mind and body, perhaps including the further circum- stances of ventilation and bedding. But certain it isthat their visits are capricious and irregular; they come like shadows, and so depart. It would be a delightful privilege were we al)le to command the visions of the ni~ht, and to treat ourselves to a spectacle that should be interesting, instructive, or magnificent, at will. The nearest approach to this intellectual in- dulgence is the perusal of some able book, which, by the power of its subject, and the magic of its style, carries off the mind to distant realms of space, and to far-removed epochs of time. One particular flying dream, with which hundreds of men would be enrap- tured, were they able to command it, is, not a mere passing glance at things of the earth, or at details or combinations of things of earthly semblance, but a birds-eye view of celestial scenery,of groups of worlds and constellations, such as would serve to convey sonic imperfect idea, less of planetary life or its mmuti~, confined in it~ compass and narrow in its scale, than of the grand plan and dispo- sition of this our corner of the universe. Let us try and soar, then, in waking spirit~ since we cannot so coml)el our slumbering souls, and mount far, far above that tiny, microscopic l)it of dust which the human race have entitled Earth. Tiny and even microscopic it really is, by comparison, although it may boast a diameter of eight thousand miles, or thcreabouts, either from pole to pole, or from the equatorial sur- face of one hemisphere to that of its antipodes on the hemisphere opposite. Jupiter alone is equal to thirteen hundred Earths; the Suti to a million four hundred thousand Earths; Sirius to eleven millions two hundred thou- sand of the same. But all that enormous mass of matter is nothingstill by compari- son. Regard the firmament of heaven dur- ing any clear, cloudless, moonless night; the deep-blue vault is scattered with stars, in number prodigious, wonderful. Who can tell their multitude? No man living; and it is probable that no man will ever live who can. For they are supposed to be infinite; in num- ber absolutely without limit or end. More than twenty thousand stars are already regis- tered in our catalogues. William Hersehell, while observing certain portions of the Milky Way, saw more than fifty thousand stars pass over the field of his telescope, during a single hour, in a strip of sky only two degrees in breadth. Laplace admits that there may exist ten thousand million stars; he might have ventured to guess as far as a million thousand million, and yet have remained within the truth. Put the sum of the bulk of all these together, and then say whether the Earth is not a microscopic atom, in spite of our spelling her with a capital E. The wonder is, that the animalcules who creep over the surface of this insignificant particle should be endowed with sufficient intellectual power to sl)eculate on the nature of the Sun and the arrangement of the Universe. But human thought and imagination can easily conceive that, beyond the space acces- sible to our eyes or our instruments, there exists space a hundred times, a thousand million times larger than it,than the finite space which our finite organs and instruments are able to fathom. When once the mind has thus far climbed these lofty heights, whose utmost summit is inaccessible to human under- standing,these elevated regions, which are really the mountain-peaks of truth,it falls wonder-stricken and ])rostrate before the measureless power of Him who l)lanned the Universe, wherein, boundless as it is, perfect order reigns from a past eternity to an eter- nity to come. Not.hing, or next to nothing, is known of the physical constitution of the stars. There are stars whiclPb shine with white, bluish, yellowish, and reddish light respectively; there are single stars, like our sun ; and there are stars which go in pairs, and in threes, revolving round each other, or rather round their common centre of gravity; it is as if the 32 A SWEEP THROUGH THE STARS. 33 earth and the moon were more nearly equal ing orbs may be measured by scores and to each other in size, and shone with their hundreds of yards; while the constellations own instead of with borrowed light, of fixed stars are outlying in space at such Astronomers have succeeded, by ingenious extreme distances, that no change in their means, of whose correctness there is no reason aspect, no alteration in the perspective of to doubt, in determining the distance of the their groups, is perceptible to an ordinary nearest stars. The only way in which we can observer, if we flit from the planetary pea to approach to a conception of that vast distance the orange, or from the orange to the plum. is by making use of the rate at which light is In companionship with most of these, are transmitted for the measurement of the inter- satellites or moons, whose dimensions are as val between us and them. Now, light travels variable as those of the planets themselves, one hundred and ninety-two thousand miles though we know of no moon so small as in a second of time, and it takes the nearest many of the telescopic planets. Thus, Titan, star more than six years and a half to send Saturns sixth satellite in point of distance, us its light; in other words, supposing that discovered by Huygens, is much more bulky the star were utterly annihilated, we should than Mercury, and only a trifle smaller than continue to see it for more than six years and Mars. a half after it had disappeared from its place Let us cautiously (for fear of burning our in the heavens. This distance, reduced arith- wings) approach the common centre and parent metically to miles, becomes a range of figures of our own planetary family; for the latest too long to make any clear impiession on the system of cosmogony makes him, materially, mind, so completely does it overstep our the father of us all. From his substance are habitual range of numeration. Well, Her- believed to have been born, at the will of the schell believes that certain nebulm must have Great Artificer, l)lanets, and from them their taken as much as two million years to trans- satellites; from the sun, too, comets and mit us their feeble and cloudy light, so that ai~rolites. As we draw near to the mighty what we see of them is probably their past luminary, we perceive black, angular, irregular history rather than their present state. And spots, surrounded by a penumbra or half- now an astounding, extreme idea, which obscure fringe with radiating puckers, like stretches our thoughts in another direction those of a muslin frill. They contract and namely, that of infinite littleness. Monsieur expand, opening and closing like the thunder- F. Moigno (and others with him) surmises clouds observed in a stormy sky. Did we that, however great may be the density of dare to venture nearer, we should find that either solid or fluid bodies, their ultimate and these luminous and flickering stripes are the elementary atoms are as widely separated crests of immense waves of flame, or incan- from each other, relatively to their size, as descent gas, agitated by the heavings and are the heavenly bodies in open space. tossings to and fro of the solar atmosphere. In our flight through the starry firmament, But the portion of the suns disc which is it is natural that we should hover, in fond exempt from spots is far from shining with contemplation, over our own home and birth- uniform brilliancy. The ground of its pattern place, our solar system, our habitation,earth to borrow a homely phraseis thinly over- and her sister planets. There they circle be- spread with a multitude of little black spots neath us, shining orbs, all wheeling in one or spores, which are in a state of continual direction, though of various magnitude and change, as if curdled matter, or some chemi- brightness, around their lordly master the sun. cal precipitate, were rising and sinking in a Seen from the height at which we soar, allow- transparent fluid. We can almost see that an ing a complete view at once of the central eddying luminous flood is intermingled and star and the l)lanets in their orbits, the Sun boiling up together with another non-lumin- and twent looks like a globe of fire some six y ous tide, without any actual mixture or com- inches in diameter; Mercury, his nearest bination of the two taking place. attendant, is of the modest size of a grain of When the Jesuit Schemer first discovered millet; next comes Venus, the size of a pea; the spots on the sun, lie dared not publish the earth is a little larger pea; Mars is a his discovery, although he confided it to a good-sized, nay, a large pins head. The tele- few of his most intimate pupilK After re- scopic l)lanets produce a dazzling effect, like peated observations had removed all doubt as motes of dust dancing in the sunshine; they to their existence, he consulted the Provincial amount to, at least, some fifty or sixty small Father of his Qrder, a zealous peril)atetic grains of sand. Jupiter beams like a fine philosopher, who~efused to believe in any bright orange, while Saturn rivals the magni- thing of the kind, because Aristotle had said tude of a billiard-ball. Uranus resembks a that the sun is all over shining with light. phosphorescent cherry; Neptune might be I have several times read my Aristotle, he taken for a still more faintly luminous plum. sagely observed, from beginning to end, and The apparent distance between these revolv- I can assure you that he mentions not a sylla- THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 68 34 A SWEEP THROIJ Gil THE STARS. ble about it. Go, my son; make yourself sun as it is at the surface of the earth. A easy, and take it for certain that what you full-grown man, like one of ourselves, if he suppose to he spots on the sun are nothing fell on the sun, from a height equal to his hut flaws in your glasses, or your eyes. own stature, would he smashed as if he had Schemer obeyed his superiors advice, said no thrown himself from an earthly steeple. more about the spots on the snn, and retired, Elephants and rhinoceroses, weighing twenty- aftcr admitting that his eyes must be in the eight times as much as they do in their ter- wrong, and Aristotle in the right. But the restrial haunts, would be immovable fixtures; spots on the sun were not to he so put down. their muscles would not serve to stir them, A senator of Augsbourg, named Veiser, Who were ill-luck to convey them to a solar forest. had heard whispers about the novel heresy, A Daniel Lamhert, sent to the sun for exhi- wrote to Galileo. The astronomer replied bition, would sink to the ground, and would that Schemers eyes were as good as need be, be flattened and outspread by the force of his and that he himself had watched those spots own weight, like a loose bag of quiQksilver for some time past. here. Supposing the existence of a solar The size of these ever-changing spots is populationa hypothesis which is generally sometimes exceedingly great, covering a su- accepted, and on rational grounds, at present perficies several times larger than the whole we must believe them to be little fragile surface of the earth, were it spread out flat, creatures, with frames of the utmost lightness instead of being spherical. The first result and suppleness. The only bodily constitu- of this discovery was the proof that the sun, tion which seems possible under the condi- which had always been regarded as perfectly tions in which they are placed, is analogous motionless in the midst of the universe, had to that with which l)oPular imagination has a rotary movement on its own axis. By ob- endowed the sylphs of the air, and the fairies serving the time that each spot required to of the wood; they must be made up of dew return to the same apparent position, it was and vapor, held together by gossamer bones, found that the sun performed a complete rev- and cobweb muscles. olution in about five-and-twenty days and a The spots on the sun also led to the discov- half. Thus, the hour of a solar day,which ery of its physical constitution. It was found day, however, can scarcely have an alterna- by ingenious observations that those spots are tion of light and darkness, like ours,is nothing else than holes through which the equal to a whole terrestrial day and some- body itself of the luminary is caught sight of. thing more. The difference gives a slight The sun, therefore, is coml)osed of two very idea of the relative magnitude of the two re- different materials, namely, the internal mass, spective globes; time, or rather its means of which is a solid body, non-luminous, and measurement, bears here a certain proportion black; and a superficial envelope, which con- to space. The size of the sun is oppressive sists of a light stratum of inflamed substance, to think of. If we suppose the earth placed whence the star appears to derive its light- in the middle of the sun, like the kernel and-heat-giving power. An elastic fluid, elab- inside a peach, so that their two centres coin- orated on the dark surface of the sun, and cided, the entire orbit of the moon would lie floating upwards through the luminous coat, within the solid body of the sun, about half- would force it aside temporarily, like the way between the centre and the surface. To drawing back of a curtain, and so produce comprehend the truth, therefore, we must the effect of spots. This notion gives two conceive a spherical mass, whose radius distinct atmospheres to envelope the interior stretches from the centre of the earth to globe of the sun. He rej oiceth as a giant to twice the distance of the moon. A vessel run hi~ coursesomewhere in the direction which circumnavigates the earth in three of the constellation Herculesand bedecks years, would require considerably more than himself with light as it were with a garment. the longest human life, namely, nearly three The latest observations suggest the belief hundred years, to perform a similar feat of that the sun has not less than three distinct navigation, if sailing at the same rate, round coats. the sun. The study, therefore, of solar geog- The opinions of the learned on this curious raphy, and any thing like extensive solar point have changed completely and rapidly. travels, must be difficult undertakings for Towards the close of the last century, one dwellers on the sun, unless their term of life Doctor Elliot was tried at the Old Bailey for is very much more extended than our own. the murder of or~ Miss Boydell, in a fit of After this, think of the magnitude of that jealous rage. His friends defended him magnificent luminary, the Dog-star, which is successfully, on the plea of madness; they calculated to be eight times as large as the broiight before the jury certain writings, in sun. which the doctor maintained that the light Weight, or the force%f gravity, is twenty- of the sun came from what he called a dense eight times as powerful at the surface of the and universal aurora; in short, an aurora A SWEEP THROUGH THE STARS. borealis, which entirely surrounded the mass of the sun. He also endeavored to prove that the sun, in spite of the torrents of light and heat which it unceasingly pours over the planetary system, might still itself enjoy so moderate a temperature at its actual surface as to he habitable. A few years later, Wil- liam Hersehell astonished the world 1w adopt.- ing the criminal lunatics ideas. He declared that the matter which causes the sun to shine is neither a liquid nor an elastic fluid hut a stratum of phosphoric clouds floating a in the suns transparent atmosphere. The lower atmosphere is not luminous, but merely reflects the light of the upper one. Arago by means of l)olariscol)ic experiments, has furnished what is considered proof that the luminous portion of the sun is of a gaseous nature. Mr. Thomas Woods deduces from pbotographic results, the probability that the nature of the sun is analogous to that of flame, since their results are identical. Each solar atmosphere, separated hy a certain in- terval, is endowed with independent move- ments. The thickness of the atmospheres is estimated at hetween two and three thousand miles. Modern science, which has swept the inhahitants of the moon into nothingness by the ever increasing assurance that the moon has no respirable atInosl)here, has given ~almost official authority to the fact that or- ganized beings dwell on the surface of the sun, and exist unscorched hy his ardent rays. Buffons cosmological theory, that a comet, striking the sun obliquely, knocked off splashes of igneous matter of various dimen- sions, and so produced the planets and their satellites, has long fallen into disrepute, and at the present day has received its death- blow, from the current helief that the mass of a comet is next to nothing. To this suc- ceeded the hypothesis, of Laplace, who main- tained that ou~ whole solar system was once a vast rotatory nebula, rarefied hy excessive heat, and whose limits reached beyond the orbit of Neptune that the planets were formed by the process of cooling and con- densation, at the successively-outward boun- dary of this fiery atmosphere, from zones of vapor t~at were thrown off from the plane of its equator as they gradually hardened and contracted into smaller dimensions. Buffon and Laplace agree on one point; they both of them make the planets proceed from the sun. Every one is now of the same opinion in that respect. Nobody scarcely ventures to doubt that the earth is of igneous origin; and the sun is the only known source of heat in our system. But now, a bold philosopher, M. Boutigny (dEvreux), who backs his theory by facts and experiments, holds that the planet~ are the direct and immediate offspring of the sun, without the intervention of a blow from a comet, oi~ a condensation of the solar atmosphere. The satellites, being the children of the l)laI~ets, are consequently the grandchildren of the sun by lineal descent. M. Boutigny considers the central sphere of the sun as a body in the spheroidal state, preserved from the action of its own blazing atmosphere by the property which it pos- sesses of reflecting caloric. The entire sun has a movement of rotation on its axis, and every one of its atoms takes l)art in the same movement. Independent of this motion, the stin and every one of its molecules are ani mated by the vibratory motion observed in all bodies in the spherodial state. And now, let tis not forget the enormous volume of the sun,so great, that all the plal)ets anid their satellites put together scarcely make the six hundred and fiftieth part of it. These points laid down, what more is wanted to make the planets to be horn of the sun P Nothing but vibra~tions of great force and amplitude, for the l)rojection of a portion of the suns own sul)stance beyond his incandescent or exterior atmosl)here. Of this nature are the volcanic eruptions and the earthquakes on our own globe, which are ~)ropagated by vibration, waves, or undulations. The sun having a movement of rotation from west to east, everything which I)roceeds from the sun must have also a rotatory movement from west to east, and, moreover, a motion of pro- gression in the same direction. The satel- lites are also part and l)arcel of the sun, but subsequently shot into space by the explosive force of the planets around which they now revolve. The moon, for instance, is the daughter of the earth. Unless the tearing up, and the projection of a l)ortion of our globe into open space be admitted, it is im- possible to explain satisfactorily the hollowing out of the basins which contain the oceans whilst it is naturally accounted for, by admit- ting the projection of the forty-ninth part (reckoning by bulk) of the earths substance, which cast-off portion now forms the lunar sphere;~ Such explosions are doubtless going on at the presei~t day in other worlds. When the explosions take place in a direc- tion which is not far from l)erpendicular, the force which occasions them is combined with the centrifugal force, and the solar material may be projected in masses sufficiently con- siderable, and to distances sufficiently great to form the planets of our system. On the other hand, when the explosions shoot out their charge in eher of the other direction, the small masses which alone can be pro- jected beyond the limits of the suns blazing atmosphere, are thereby destined to traverse the heavens in all directions, and become comets, a~rolites, or asteriods, with orbits 36 A SWEEP THROUGH THE STARS. more or less elliptical, and sometimes even passing in the neighborhood of the moon, it irregular, causing them to wander from sys- described a curve convex to the earth, rushed tem to system. towards the moon, and disappeared. Its Olbers was of opinion that the telescopic luminosit.v was, therefore, not owing to any planets were simply the remains of a former combustion in our atmosphere. A~rolites J)lanet which had burst into fragments. Arago have been supposed to come from lunar vol- favors this opinion, which receives a powerful canoes; but the moon has never possessed corroboration from the strange fact related by volcanoes, though she has mountains in Varro, which appears to have occurred about plenty, and though she herself is of volcanic eighteen hundred and thirty-one years before origin. the Christian era: the planet Venus was To sum up. Planets, celestial meteors, and seen to change its diameter, its color, its airolites, are all the immediate offspring of shape, and its course. The doubling, or the sun, as satellites are the offspring of their division of several comets, is a well-observed respective planets. Consequently, the mat- and well-proved phenomenon; but the most ter of which our system is composed, must be remarkable circumstance is the discovery, on essentially of the same, or very similar na- the very same day of 1848, in Europe and ture, throughout. Gold in Venus would tally America respectively, of a new satellite of with gold in Jupiter. Earthly ice would he Saturn. According to M. Boutignys ideas, homogeneous with the ice of Saturn. this new satellite was discovered immediately But, if all the bodies of our planetary sys- after its birth, or projection; that is to say, tem are the progeny of the sun, whence comes that Saturn is still agitated by grand vibra- the sun himself? From another much more tory movements, in which the centrifugal voluminous sun, to whom ours would be noth- force predominates. It is scarcely possible to ing but a planet, or a satellite merely. And admit that Saturn, who has been constantly this other sun ? From a third, vaster still. watched ever since the discovery of the last And, after that, what then? And again, satellite but one, should have been able to what then? To what first commencement hide from so many prying eyes the new- can we trace the life, the laws, and the move- hatched bantling, whose existence has been ment, which the Eternal Almigbty Ruler has recently signalized, ordained to exist throughout His Universe? 50 a A~rolites are presumed to be shot out from Whatever he may do, and wherever lie may volcanoes in the sun in a direction parallel or seek, the proudest human intellect is obliged obliquely inclined to its axis of rotation. The at last to bow and worship before the incom- opinion is confirmed by the smallness of their prehensible power of the Supreme Governor size, and their property of being self-lumin- of suns and worlds. All we know is, that be- ous, which is a property belonging exclusively fore the mountains were brought forth, or to the sun. A meteor has been seen to ap- ever the earth and the world were made, pear in the firmament, at a distance double there was One who ruled from everlasting, that of the moon from the earth, and to I and who will rule world without eiid. direct its course towards our planet: but, on JUST AS WxLL TO DO IT IN A Tluxmv. Why, you see, when my man came a courtin me, I hadnt the least thought of what lie was afternot I. Jobie came to our house one night, after dark, and rapped at the door. I opened it, and sure enough there stood Jobie right before my face and eyes. Come in, sez I, and take a cheer. No, Lizzie, soz he, Ive come on an arrant, and I always do my arrants fust. But you had hotter come in and take a dicer, Mr. W. No, I cant. The fact is, Lizzie, Ive come on this ore court- in business. My wifes been dead these three weeks, and everthings going to rack an ruin right straight along. Now, Lizzie, ef youve a mind to hey me, an take care of my house, an my children, an my things, tell me, an Il come in an take a cheer; if not, Ill get some one olso tu. Why I was skeered, and sed If you come on this courtin business, come in; I must think ont a little. No, I cant till I know. Thats my arrantan I cant sit down till my arrants done. I shoiAd like to think ont a day or two. No, you neednt Lizzie. Well, Jobie, if I must, I mustso heres to you then. So Mr. W came in. Then he went after the Squire an he married us right off, an I wont home with Jobie that very night. I tell you what it is, these loab courtias dont amount to nothing at all. Just as well to do it in a hurry. THE MAN WITH THE HESSIAN BOOTS. 37 From The London Journal, of salt to each, and then ate his breakfast, THE MAN WITH THE HESSIAN BOOTS. cautiously abstaining from looking at any of AMONG the persons who were in the habit the journals or periodicals. of regularly frequenting the well-known Cafd Some of the ardent politicians who fre- de Foy in the Palais Royal, about the year quented the cafe expressed astonishment and 1815, was a little old man, very carefully contempt at this last habit, andregarded the dressed, although his costume constituted a little old man as a very Vandal, careless of real anachronism. His head was enveloped the honor and interests of his country. The in a warm Welsh wig, with a long thick queue more judicious, and among them myself, were depending froni it, which appeared, when of a different opinion; we considered him, viewed from its hinder aspect, to resemble a for precisely the same reasons, a very paragon full-grown cabbage, with the stem still dang- of prudence and wisdom. Inattentive to hug from its circumference. His pantaloons both parties, the man who always ate stale were of black cloth, and were met midway bread pursued the quiet tenor of his way down his stumpy legs by long Hessian boots, without change. He never attempted to garnished with tassels, and bright as the sur- form any intimacies, or suffered any unneces- face of a polished mirror; a long green waist- sary expressions to escape from his lips; his coat fell downwards in folds so as to cover breakfast was eaten in silence, and usually in part a round and well-developed paunch; terminated with the finale of a march beaten a loose and cal)acious coat, of a deep marroon with his fingers on the table: his next step color, decorated with large bright metal but- consisted in puhliug up the Hessian boots to tons, and forcibly reminding one of the era their greatest altitude, after which he paid of the Republic, incased the outward man: for his breakfast ,gave the waiter a sou, and and a hat, bevelled off into a sugar-loaf form heft the house without saluting the dame de surmonuted the wig, and completed the comptoir. equipment. The worthy old gentlemans habits and After all, however, this costume was noth- peculiarities excited so much attention among ing very extraordinary, or indeed very differ- the customers and waiters at the coffee-house, cut from that of the hundreds of antiquated and his manners were so gentle and docile, men who about this epoch were to be seen that some of the younger people began to swarming forth in fine weather, hike a host think he would prove an eligible butt for of innocent green frogs basking in the sun their pleasantries. A sub-lieutenant on half- nfter a spring shower. The little old man in pay, and in want of cheap amusement, deter- question visited the Caf~ de Foy every morn- mined one day to forestall the old gentleman ing precisely at one oclock, called for a cup in his accustomcd seat, and take possession of coffee with cream, and a roll of bread, of the table to which he was attached. The which he always divided into the same num- little man arrived, and without being discon- her of circular slices. It was necessary, how- certed took his place on the opposite side. ever, that this bread should be stale, and as There is no room here for two, said the they knew the peculiar fancy of the old gen- young fire-eater, twirling his moustache. theman in this respect, a roll was carefully I have used this table for months, re- reserved from each days consumption, and plied the old man without moving, and in a put aside for his breakfast the following deprecating tone of voice. morning. From this practice the old gentle- The soldier could not resist the appeal, man became known among the different and retreated from the field. This occur- waiters by the sobriquet of the old man who rence encouraged one of the waiters to make always ate stale bread. a fuxth~r trial of his equanimity: the little, ohd The old gentlemans state of existence was man, unwilling as I have said to waste words so uniform, and his movements so regular, as was in the habit of holding oat his fore-finger to resemble in no small degree those of an to intimate the quantum si~fficit of coffee and automaton. He entered the ca% every of cream. The waiter, pretending inadvert- morning without looking to the right or the ence, directed the stream of boiling coffee left, and proceeded directly forwards to a over the finger of the original, at the instant little round table, isolated and incommodious, that he waved it forth as a signal to cease and which for this reason was nearly always pouring. The sufferer rose silently from his vacant. After being served with his break- seat, and, ~vith an alacrity for which no one fast he invariably abstracted two out of the gave him credit, ~ought the point of his stout five pieces of sugar which figured beside his Hessian boot in contact with that part of the cup, and conveyed them into the dexter person of the waiter which was uncovered pocket of his green waistcoat: he next pro- with coat tails, and sent the joker spinning ceeded to butter in succession each of the across the floor of the apartment. numerous morsels of bread, adding, if I mis- The waiter was exiled from the coffee-room take not, precisely the same number of grains as a punishment for the attack; the justice 38 THE MAN WITH THE HESSIAN BOOTS. of the master condemned him to serve for a the waiter, in addition, the sum of fifteea certain space in the laboratory, as the kitchea francs six sous as his gratuity, at the rate of of the caf& restaurant is called, one sou a-day for ten months, of which four In the end, the man who always ate stale contained each thirty-one days. hread triumphed over his tormentors, and If interest alone had guided the conduct of generally had the laughter on his own side; the head waiter it must be confessed that he he did not, however, exhibit any appearance had lamentably failed in the result, for in of triumph; and after one or two additional France the contributions to the waiters are all attempts at mystification, finding him quite placed in one general cash-box, and at the immovable, his enemies left him to enjoy in end of a certain period the proceeds are di- peace his little table at the Cafti de Foy. vided among all the servants of the house, One day, towards the close of the year the master first helping himself to the lions 1817, the old man quitted the cafti without share; at this rate, therefore, Dominics rec- paying for his breakfast; hut as lie made no ompense would probably amount to a solitary observation in so doing it was supposed that sixpence. Dominic knew this, but was satis- he had forgotten it and would remember the fled with the reward of his own heart; he next morning. The coffee-house keeper, thanked the old man graciously for the pay- however, reckoned without his host in this ment, placed the gratuity in the common re- supposition, for the next day came, and the ceptacle, and transferred the other monies to next, and the next the man who always his own stronghold, for he had previously paid ate stale bread regularly pocketed his two day by day the expense of the breakfast from lumps of sugar, beat his accustomed march, his own pocket. pulled up his Hessian boots, and did all that The little man followed Dominics move- he had been accustomed to do, with the excep- ments with his eyes, at the same time beating tion of paying his bill, upon the table a march somewhat longer and This change in his usual practice continued a little more vehement than was his wont; for a week, at the end of which time the but by no word or movement did he afford an proprietor of the coffee-house, ignorant of indication of having understood the liberal the name or residence of his debtor, deter- conduct of the waiter in his behalf. mined upon presenting him with a bill, the About the close of the same yearthat is more especially as the little man gave no cx- to say, three or four months after the hiquida- l)hanation of his conduct, or made any allu- tion of this singular debt, the proprietor of sion to this remarkable change in his ancient the caf6, who had realized a fortune, an habits. nounced his intention of disposing of the es Dominic, the chief waiter of the establish- tablishment and rc!iring from trade. ment, had become attached to the old man in Hearing this intention announced in the consequence of the little trouble he gave and cafti, the old gentleman made a sign to Dom- his quiet and gentle demeanor. Dominic inic, who was in attendance, to approach, and imagined from the circumstaTnce of his not began a conversation. Dominic was as much diminishing the expense of his breakfast that surprised at this sudden fit of loquacity as the good man was merely laboring under though one of the stucco figures on the ceil- some temporary embarrassment; so that ing had opened its mouth and asked for a cup partly from calculation and partly from good of coffee. But Dominic was destined to be feeling Dominic determined to become re- even more surprised at the nature of the con- sponsible to the piopiietor for the past and versation. future breakfasts, not doubting that the em- My friend, said the little old gentleman barrassment would shortly cease, and that to .the head waiter, you are a good fellow, the little man would soon settle his arrears, and I wish you well. and perhaps accompany the settlement with Dominic bowed, and elevated his shoulders a gratuity for the accommodation. with that slight movement which may he iii- But Dominic was deceived in his calculation terpreted ad libitum to mean I am much of time; ten months elapsed without any al- obliged, or It is of little consequence to lusion to the matter or Gffer of payment. The me. The old man took the former explana- coffee-house keeper and his waiters began to tion, and continued shrug their shoulders and make long faces at Dominic, I am sure you have been eco- the risk poor Dominic was running. Dominic nomical; I know this and much more of which himself, exposed to these daily doubts, began I do not speak~because I am too well ac- to think that he had acted too liberally in be- quainted with the value of words to throw coming responsible for a man whose debt them awayI know you have saved money. seemed destined to go on accruing for ever, Dominic bounded back a step or two, and when one day the old man, without any ex- the action hardly needed to be interpreted. planation, demanded h~ account, settled it in j He is about to ask me to lend him money, full, and after a careful calculation handed to I thought the head waiter. T E MAN ~TITH THE HESSIAN BOOTS. The questioner appeared to divine the thoughts of the waiter; his visage was for an instant distorted with a grimace of which the model may he seen in the figures of the mid- dle ages which decorate the porch of some Gothic church. Dominic, he continued, I see that I am rightyou have money in the funds. This is excellent; and now to reply to my question shortly and to the purpose. Do you think from your own knowledge that an intelligent man, desirous of improving his circumstances, would find this a favorable speculation in which to risk a capital so large as that de- manded by your master for his busines? Dominic was pleased to have an opportunity of talking on a subject which entirely occu- pied his thoughts. If, said he, the pur- chaser understood the business so as to he able to attend to his own interests, and if he was not compelled to horrow the purchase money on extravagant terms, he would find the business a fortune. Well, and why do you not purchase it? Mercy. I! with what? With your savings. My savings! they do not altogether amount to ten thousand francs. Ten thousand francs! how long have you been in the service,.Dominic? I have carried the napkin for twenty-three years. I am now thirty-nine. You are a good fellow, as I said; the man who could amass ten thousand francs by add- ing son to sou would soon he worth a million at the head of a house like this. Decidedly, it must be so. Dominic, I know a person who could assist you with a loan; how much do von want? Nothing. I would not incur a debt of two hundred and twenty thousand francs the risk is too great, and the interest would probably absorb all the profit. I would rather continue a waiter a few years longer, and re- tire upon a small annuity, than run the risk of marching to prison in the shoes of a bank- rupt. You speak sense, my friend, hut leave the matter to me. The old man then adjusted the folds of his hoots, and departed without uttering an- other word. The next morning he came to the cafd half an hour earlier than was his custom. Dominic commenced arranging his table, but the old man arrested his arm. Where is the proprietor? said he. In his cabinet, said Dominic. Conduct me to him. Dominic moved forward to show the old man the way; his heart beat with violence, for although he had passed the whole of the preceding day in trying to convince himself that the good man was weak in his intellect, 39 and was trifling with him, still his perplexity returned when he beheld the air of assurance and determination with which the man who ate stale bread proceeded about the busi- ness. When they were both arrived in the presence of the proprietor the old man com- menced the conversation without further pre- amble. How much do you demand for your es- tablishment? said he. Before I reply to your inquiry, said the proprietor, who suspected some mystification or scene of folly, before I reply to your de- mand, and enter upon the affair with you, suffer me to ask whom I have the honor to addiess ? You are right. If two parties are about to enter into a contract, it is first of all nec- essary that they should know and have con- fidence in each other. I am the Baron Ragelet, ex-commissary-general of the armies of the empire. Baron Ragelet! said the ~~ropri~~i., bowing; I know the name; I have seen it lately in the newspapers. No doubtin relation to an injunction obtained by my indignant family to prevent me from wasting my fortune. Thcy say that I am a fool, and that my liberality has its origin in imbecility. During ten months, while the inquiry was going on, my property was estreated, and I refused to touch the allowance offered me. Since then the in- quiry has terminated in favor of my sanity, and having again entered upon the adminis- tration of my property, I was enabled to refund to this excellent man the little sum he had the generosity to disburse for me. Now that we know each other let us return to business. What sum do you demand for your establishment? Two hundred and twenty thousand francs. It is not ~)erhaps too dear; and you would probably have no objection to leave some of the purchase-money on mortgage. But listen to me. The times are unsettled, and Uk most solid establishments are at the mercy of revolutions, and two hundred thou- sand francs now is better than two hundred and twenty thousand in prospect. Here, then, he continued, drawing an old portfolio from his pocket, is two hundred thousand francs in notes of the Bank of France. If these satisfy you the affair is finished. This is hiy way of transacting business, and in my time I have colNleted more important bar- gains in fewer wards. Dominic and his master hoth seemed stu- pefied with surprise. The baron appeared to enjoy their confusion, and rubbed his hands and repeated the grimace to which we have already alluded. THE MAN WITH THE HESSIAN BOOTS. I am willing to agree, said the proprie- tor; but it is necessary that the matter should be arranged by a notary. Why so? Is not the sale executed in good form by the three parties present? But with respect to the interest, mur- mured Dominic in a smothered tone of voice, seizing the barons coat, it is neces- sary Bah! replied the old man, I do it to oblige a friend, and am no usurer. Give me your acknowledgementI desire nothing else. But as I have no intention of making you a present of two hundred thousand francs, I will arrange it in such a manner that you shall not long remain my debtor. Dominic fell from his elevation, and the man who always ate stale bread descended to the coffee-room. While the buyer and seller were preparing themselves to register the transfer of the property he swallowed tranquilly his cup of coffee, without forget- ting the two pieces of sugar to be transferred to his pocket, beat a superb march on the table, drew up his boots, and departed with his two friends to finish, by a dash of the pen, a transfer of the two hundred thousand francs. In a few days Dominic was installed in his new dignity. The little old man continued to take his customary breakfast in his usual impassable manner, when one day, as he was leaving the room, he deviated so far from his usual custom as to approach Dominic, who was enthroned in the seat of honor, and ad- dress him with the following words Dominic, said he, I think you have warm affections. Perhaps, said Dominic, fixing his eyes upon the baron, as though he would read his thoughts. I see, said the other, you have them wnen the occasion demands it; you are rightI am pleased with the reservation. I find you have not lost your heartmar- riage is the most important affair of a mans life. Dominic, you must get married. I have already thought of it, sir, said Dominic; a wife would be a great source of comfort and economyit would save the ex- pense of a dame de comptour. True, said the baron; you have need of aid and counselyou shall have them. Be ready at eight oclock this evening; I will call for you, and we will pay a visit together. The appointed hour arrived, and with it the baron. Dominic was ready, and accom- panied Monsieur Ragelet in a hackney coach to that quarter of decayed wealththe Fau- hourg St. Germain. Here they stopped at the door of a house of mean appearance, and having ascended several flights of stairs, en- tered a small apartment, where they found two ladies, who received them with marked attention. Madame Dupr6, said the baron to one of them, with an appearance of friendly fa- miliarity. this is the worthy man of whom I have spoken, and in whose welfare I hope to interest you. Dominic, continued he turning towards the coffee-house keeper, this lady is the widow of a man who has rendered me many important services. She has promised to extend her favors to you, and will permit you to visit her at intervals. While Monsieur Ragelet was making these introductions in due form, the daughter of Madame Dupr6, whose name was Rose, and who, without being exactly beautiful, possessed all the freshness and bloom of the flower whose name she bore, regarded Dominic at- tentively, and he in return bestowed upon her a large share of his attention. The result of this double investigation appeared favora- ble to both parties, for Dominic was well- formed, and with good features, and his coun- tenance reflected the goodness and gentleness of his heart. He had also taken care at his first introduction to set off his person to the best advantage, believing the old adage, that, with the ladies, Ce nest que le premier pa.~ qui coute. But the meanness of the apartment, and simple and unexpensive dresses of the ladies, somewhat disappointed Dominic. He was anxious at the earliest possihle moment to return the barons loan, and indeed thought, from a hint the baron had dropped, that it was his intention to introduce him to a lady of property, with some sum towards the liqui- dation of his debt. But observing such obvi- ous signs of want of wealth in the Dupr~s, he came to the conclusion that the baron was now desirous of marrying him to a girl who had been under his protection, in return for the favors which he had just bestowed. This thought occasioned Dominic great uneasiness; but whatever the appearances might be, the conclusion was a wrong one. The next day, as the interview had been satisfactory between the young people, the baron announced to Dominic his plans in full. He stated the nature of the obligations conferred upon him by the elder Dupr~, and his desire, as the family were left in adverse circumstances, to return the obligation without alarming their delicacy; and this, he thought, he could best do by effecting a marriage between Dominio and the daughter of his friend. Dominic was sa(isfied with this explanation and arrangement; the young lady appeared truly amiable, and desirable as a partner for life; and before a week had elapsed Dominic made a~ formal offer of his hand and heart, and was duly accepted by the protege of the man who always ate stale bread. 40 THE MAN WITH THE HESSIAN BOOTS. The marriage was soon after solemnized; and the same day, after his customary break- fast, the Baron beckoned to Dominic to am proach. You have done well, said he; you have married, without interested motives, a woman desirous and capable of rendering you happy. I told you I should find the means to cancel the debt you owe me: it is the dowry of Rose. And here, continued he, tearing the two hundred thousand franc bill in pieces, I destroy the acknowledgment you gave for the money. Enjoy it, and be happy. Dominic, full of gratitude, would have thrown himself at the Barons feet, but he was already out of the door. Two or three such reparations, he mut- tered to himself, as he walked swiftly away, and I shall die contented and absolved; and these are what my relations call prodigal di- lapidations of my fortune. May all those who wallow in ill-acquired wealth render the same atonement to society as Baron iRagelet; and may they be as happy in the selection of their objects! Dominic verified the prediction of the Baron, and became a millionaire. TIe im- proved the establishment in the Palais Royal, and, having brought it to its present state of perfection, sold the property for five hundred thousand francs. He is now a retired citizen, residing in a noble hotel in the Rue St. Honorh, and member of the Chamber of Dep- uties, distinguished chiefly for the simple probity of his character. Neither he nor Rose have ever forgotten or hesitated to ac- knowledge their obligations to the man who always ate stale bread. AUSTRALIAN FOREsTsIn no part of the world (lid I ever see such absolute midday dark- ness as occurred in many spots of this forest. Not a ray pierced, nor apparently had pierced the dense shade; and the eye ranged through the melancholy colonnades of tall black stems, and alon~ the roof of gloomy foliage, until it was lost in the night of the woodsmidnight, with an Australian sun at its meridian! We were, perhaps, the more struck with its peculi- arity because the reverse is the character of the Australian hush; for the foliage of the gum tree is so thin and so pendulous that, ~vhen the sun is overhead, one rides almost as though there were no trees. If there be such a thing as a sinum- bral treea Peter Schlemil of the woodsit is the gum tree. It was a singular and pretty si,,ht to see, as we did this day, during one or two momentary bursts of sunshine, large flocks of parrots dart across our path, like a shower of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires glittering for an instant in the watery beam, and vanishing as quickly in the gloom of the wildernessOur Antipodes. ARSENIC IN PIPEs.An American gentle- man, living in Paris, had lately been in the habit of consuming largely the cheap white clay pipes, not as a matter of economy, but of fantasy. These pipes, in Paris, are rendered white and smooth by arsenic; and, as arsenic is a very volatile substance, under the influence of heat, the poor, who use these pipes mostly, do not suffer perceptibly, since a days use drives off all the arsenic, and they are not frequently re- newed. But the gentleman renewed his pipes every day, and about the time that he had ab- sorbed all the poisonous material of one pipe lie took up another; thus he had literally filled his system with the poison, and would have lost his life but for the assistance of his medical adviser. MEssRs. SOTHEBY AND WILKINsoN have sold the collection of autograph letters formed by the late Mr. Croker. The amount produced was 1215. There were 2000 letters written by or to Nelson. One portion of these, the corres- pondence (private and official) principally of naval and military men and statesmen, and Nel- sons letters in reply, and his sea journals, sold for 380. Love-letters to Lady Hamilton pro- duced from 1 to 16 each. hARDNESS OF CHARAcTERHardness is a want of minute attention to the feelings of others: it does not proceed from malignity or a carelessness of inflicting pain, but from a want of delicate perception of those little things by which pleasure is conferred or pain excited. A hard person thinks he has done enough if he does not speak ill of your relations, your chil- dren, or your country; and then, with the great- est good-humor and volubility, and with a total inattention to your individual state and position, gallops over a thousand fine feelings, and leaves in every step the mark of his hoof upon your heart.Sidaey Smith. PERFuMEsDrop twelve drops of oil of rhodium on a lump of loaf-sugar; grind this well in a glass mortar, and mix thoroughly with three pounds of orris-root. A fine violet per- fume will thus be obtained. By increasing the quantity of rhodium, you will obtain a rose per- fume. 41 EARTHQUAKE EXPERIENCES. From Household Words. EARTHQUAKE EXPERIENCES. So much has been said of the great earth- quake which occurred in the kingdom of Naples in the month of December, 1856, t.hat the subject may appear almost-to have been exhausted. An unexpected freshness, how- ever, has been communicated to it by the narrative of an English gentleman, who, im- pelled solely by motives of benevolence, visited the afflicted districts, and lived and labored amongst- the l)OO~ inhabitants for more than ten weeks. The details which he gives are of such an interesting and extraor- dinary character, afford so much insight into the actual civilization of localities he visited, as well as into the system of government pursued here, that I shall not make any al)ol%y for giving them as I heard them from his own mouth. On Mr. Majujs applying to Monsieur Bianchini, the Minister of the Interior, he found him rather put out by the indisposition which the English had manifested to entrust their contributions to the government for distribution. Without, however, prohibiting him from visiting the scene of the disaster, the minister would do nothing more than promise that no obstacle should be thrown in his way. General Winspear, who is at the head of gendarmerie, gave him an especial order to be accompanied by gendarmes wherever he went; and, with such guaran - tees, he left Naples on the thirtieth of Jan- uary, al)out six weeks after the earthquake occurred. From this time I shall conduct the narra- tive as though Mr. Major were speaking, and as nearly as possible in his own words My first resting-place was Salerno, where I visited the Intendente, Mr. Ajossa, who received me with great kindness and atten- tion, giving me letters of recommendation to the Sottintendente, and a circular letter to all the gendarmes, which enjoined them to assist me; and, moreover, sending one officer to accompany me during the whole time of my journey. A lovely and a well-constructed road leads to Auletta, where the ruin occasioned by the earthquake is first apparent. A great quan- tity of planks h~J been put together for churches, barracks, and l)ubiic offices. So also was it in Polla; where a handsome bar- rack had been erected for the Sottintendente, of expensive deals, and had been lined with blankets. It consisted of a saloon, ante-cham- ber, sleeping apartments, and all the other conveniences belon~ing to tranquil life. At Sala, too, he had another temporary house built of Petershur~h timber. The judge and all the principal people Were similarly accom- inodated; but, for the poor, only a few bar- racks had been put up. Indeed, wherever I went the same feature was perceptible; the authorities took good care of themselves; and it was obvious that they endeavored to pre- vent the i)eople from having access to me. I had means of making the inquiry, however; and ascertained that scarcely any thing had been done for them. The government had sent a few blankets, articles of clothing, and deals, but they were insufficient, and had been used principally for the churches and authorities. On my return in the month of March I found that the temporary church in Polla had been covered with zinc. Convinced that I could do but little for humanity in the l)rovince of Salerno, where, what had been done was by the road-side for the sake of show, in case any of the princes came down, I hurried on to Basilicata, where I arrived on the thirty-first of January in Padula. The earthquake had not committed so much injury here as in other places, but little had been done to repair it, for it was not on the high road. There was a fine old mon- astery here, which had been broken all to l)ieces. The Syndic of Padula received me well, and, leaving him with sixty ducats for the relief of poor, I went on the next morning to Saponara. There was no road to this l)lace, and my route lay over the mountains, a heavy snow falling all the time. In some parts the earth was cracked with deep fissures. Saponara I found had been nearly destroyed. On the side of the hill had stood a nunnery, which was now in ruins; the very foundations had been thrown up ; of a large church not an atom was left; beds for apartments below in another story with men and children in them, had been thrown into the rooms of nuns; two such instances I observed in Sapo- nara. Dr. Mallett explained the l)henomenon by saying, that it must have happened in con- sequence of a change in the position of the upper and lower beams of the two stories; butt I still hold that it was l)roduced by the immediate ~tnd violent action of the earth- quake, and Humboldt records similar facts as having taken l)lace in Quito. What was to be done ~ I asked. Barracks for the poor people were wanted, I was told, and that evening I set to work. The population had fled to a monastery, the walls of which had been thrown down. Some portions, however, remained; and, inside, some huts bad been thrown up of b~rd and straw, and covered over with clothes, but the wind and the rain beat fearfully into them. The authorities had had some made expressly for themselves. The government officials, too, had erected some of sticks, lightly covered over with linen; they looked just like umbrellas, but 42 EARTHQUAKE EXPERIENCES. no one would go into them. My first dispute here was with the monks, who would not allow me to erect barracks within the pre- cincts of the ruined monastery, as females, misled, might possibly take refuge there. The vicar-general and the priests, too, urged that it would amount to a violation of the cloister, and would be a mortal sin. It has already been broken, I insisted, for some huts have already been erected here. Ab- solution must he obtained for those who have already got in, was the answer; but, were others now to obtain admission, absolution could not be procured for them. I then asked, ironically: ~i? it were really true that it would be a mortal sin to break the cloister thus? On which a young priest undertook to prove that it would be a tremendous sin; and I simply observed, that the earthquake had first broken the cloister, and had occa- sioned all the ruin. It was of no use, how- ever, to argue. I built my barracks outside the monastery, and the wind swept away the government umbrellas. I remained in this place ten or twelve days, feeding all who came daily, with kettles of maccaroni or beans; and, on one occasion, I purchased and cooked a pig, and distributed it. No one who applied was sent away with- out food, and the cost of all this did not exceed thirty-six ducats. Besides this I housed twenty-two families in temporary bar- racks, so built as to admit of their taking their looms with them. The cost of this amounted to two hundred and fifty-six ducats, seventy grains. This will be the proper place to speak of a misunderstanding which I had with the bishop, on pecuniary matters. At Salerno I had been cautioned not to place money in the hands of the priests. They will put it in their pockets, I was told. The administra- tors of charity collected amongst the great body of the English, had, however, placed fourteen hundred and fifty ducats in the hands of the bishop, who, on the twenty-fifth of Jartunry, had assured them that a thou- sand ducats had already been distributed, and that the remaining four hundred and fifty ducats would be so directly. On the first of February, I arrived at Saponara, and found the bishops vicar-general distributing the money in the name of the bishop. From him I ascertained that it was a portion of the thousand ducats which it had been as- serted on the twenty-fifth of January, had already been distributed; and his orders were, to give a hundred ducats to a hundred families. As soon as the people learnt that the money had been given by the English, and not by the bishop, they flocked round us, showing th& r paper rackets containing, not ten, but eight, or even six carlini; his rever 43 ence having mulcted the l)eol)le to the tune of ten or twenty per cent. The vicar-gene- ral then ordered the 1)eople to be driven away; but, as several gendarmes were under my control, I could l)revei~t this. My next stel) was to write to the bishop, anrl ask for the second sum of one hundred ducats which had been intended for Saponara. His excel- lency sent it with much confusion, and ndded, in a postscript, that his vicar mi0ht distribute a hundred ducats in Viggiuno, and two hun- dred ducats more in another l)lace. Accord- ingly, I sent a trusty messenger, but he re- turned empty-handed,in fact, the bishop endeavored to keep back three hundred ducats, and it took me two months to get it out of his hands; but I informed him that, until I had done so, I should not leave the province. The bishop then wrote to the arci- prete, to get an assurance that ten carlini had been given to each person, and many signed it; but the archpriest himself told me that only eight carlini had been distributed to each person; at the same time I had a paper drawn up by the notary, declaring that the people had been robbed, and this paper was signed by many respectable persons. During my stay at Saponara, I went one day to a small to~vn called Sarcone, the his- tory of which possesses great classical inter- est, and I shall speak of it when I have given a report of my visit. My object was; to distribute money, but so offended were the authorities at my undertaking to do it myself that, after the Syndic had given me a list of names, they left me unprotected, and told me that I might go into the church and give the charity there. Of course the whole popula- tion followed me, and I found myself in the midst of them without gendarmes, and aban- doned by the leading people; indeed, I may tell you, that with one or two exceptions I was very ill received, and much neglected by all the civil local authorities. A huge fat priest met me in the church, and attempted to dissuade me from taking the list which the Syndic gave me; but, on running it over, 1 f~5~un(~ that the names were principally those of women, and one of his flock shouted out, Dont take his list, he will give you fifty such, winding up with observations apropos to such insinuations. I had distributed fifty ducats, according to t.he best of my judgment, and had placed twenty piastres on the ground at my side when, all of a sudden, my fat, clericai~ friend had got on my ~oulders, and was making a long arm to get ~t my money. The people, too, like hungry dogs, were all crowding upon me, had pulled off my cravat in their greedy anxiety to get something, and had torn the buttons out of my shirt. A man in the crowd called out, You are in dauger~ EARTHQUAKE EXPERIENCES. I directly made a snatch at my money, jerked the priest off my shoulders,for you see I am a strong man,and made a rush for it, knocking down forty or fifty people in my way. On getting out of the church I drew a six-barrel-revolvers and called out, keep off, or I will fire, and in this way made myself master of the position. Hearing of some noble ladies who were reduced to great distress by the earthquake, I got a man to accompany me to their ruined dwelling, a vast crowd of poor, of all grades, following. On arriving, I found an elderly and a younner lady almost without clothes. The latter was one of the most beautiful per- sons I ever met with, and it went to my heart to see two well-born and well-educated ladies thus seated, almost amidst the falling walls of their house, and willing to accept the re- lief which I offered them. I could not help reflecting, as I left Sarcone, what the Roman Catholic religion had done for its inhabitants during fifteen centuries, and I told them You are fierce animals; you are not Chris- tians. I alluded above to the classical interest which surrounds Sarcone, for two thousand years ago it belonged to the old city of Gru- mentum, of which various authors, as Pliny and Livy, speak. The latter, in book twenty- seven, chapter forty-seven : Not to meet the iRomans in the Bruzz, Hannibal l)assed into Lucania, and particularly to Grumentum, hopin ~ to recover some cities which had passed to the Romans. The Consul Claudius Nero, following him, besieged him. Hanni- bal had encamped under the walls of Gm- mentuin; the army of the Romans, about five hundred passi distant from the Carthaginians. * * * The Carthaginians began to fly, and be- ing followed, left eight thousand dead on the field, seven hundred prisoners, nine standards, four elephants killed and two taken! A great variety of articles belonging to both armies had been found in this nei~hborhood, and the Notary of Saponara speaks amongst other things, of an elephants tooth having been turned up. Whether the people have made any advance since the day when they routed Hannibal may Well be doubted, for they are in a half savage state, despite the light of what is by courtesy called Christianity, and of the exertions of an all-powerful priesthood. A specimen of that body I have given you, and I might repeat his likeness over and over again. From Sarcone, I returned to Saponara; and before leaving this l)lace, I must mention two or three of the distressing cases. The judge had been buried under the stones of his house, with his wife and child, but he managed to make his voice heard, and one of his people procured assistance, and endeav ored to dig him out. His body had been cleared as far as his middle, when hits young wife was found lying across his knees. As soon as the rubbish had been cleared, the poor judge took her in his arms, but she was already dead. Unlike an Italian, his manner was utterly undemonstrativehe seemed to be crushed; looking at her, he only said: Eleonora, cara, tu sei morta! and a groan escaped him. His child, too, was killed. When I saw him, perhaps about a month after, he had never spoken of the event to any one, nor had he ever smiled. He did all the duties of his office, however, punctu- ally, and took my part manfully against the monks. I took his hand and expressed my deep sympatby with him, but he answered not a wordhe only returned my pressure. The Notary of the same l)lace took me into a cor- ner of his hut, and related his own story. It was as follows: He had been a man of con- siderable property, living in a good house, one part of which was occupied by himself and his second wife, and another part by two daughters by the first wife, who were much attached to him. When the first shock of earthquake came he was asleep in bed, and waking up he called to his wife. They had heard no previous sound. Then came a sec- ond shock, and all came down. We fell close to a door which opened into the street, he said, and it happened to be open. I could have got out, but my wife held me back, and thus both were saved under the arch of the door. The noise of the falling of the house was that of a tremendous crash, like the rushing of a cataract, and this ~vas fol- lowed by the stillness of death. The street itself was obscdred by a cloud of dust. I called for my daughters, he continued, but there was no answer. I scrambled towards their part of the house, but every thing was buried, and when they were found, they were seated in their chairs, for they had not yet gone to bed. I thought the day of judgment had come. In a half dreaming, half waking state, but utterly confused, I called again and again for my children, and then 1 listened for the crowing of a cock, as if to mark the time, but during that night no cock crowed! In Saponara alone two thousand persons had been buried. Thence, resumes Mr. Major, I went on to Montemurro, where six thousand persons had been buried, and a melancholy sight it pre- sented, indeed. There was nothing left. The stench from the 4ead bodies was almost in- sufferable, for they had been but slightly cov- ered, so that the pigs dug them out and ate them. I saw one devouring the leg of a man. Some soldiers had been sent down by the government; but they gave themselves up to plunder and drinking. They broke into the 44 45 EARTHQUAKE EXPERIENCES. cellars of Montemurro, drank the wine, and then th~y and the poor plundered right and left. One man, who appeared to be walking with me, was arrested for stealing four thou- sand ducats. One of the great sufferers in Montemurro was Baron . His house had fallen, and he had been buried in the ruins, and his right leg rendered useless. The first shock had buried him up to his shoulders, but two beams above had kept the house from falling upon him. He heard the voice of his daughter up-stairs, lamenting and calling out for him, but he answered, that he could not move! The second and the third shock came, he told me, and threw the beams upon my head, crushing me to the ground. An opening was, however, left before my mouth, just sufficient to allow me to breathe, and speak to my daughter. The next shock closed up even this aperture. Not a limb could I move, and the only mem- ber of my body that I could use was my tongue. With this I worked at the ground, and blew the dust away, until I managed to re-open the communication with my child. For three hours I heard her dying voice, and finally her very last tones. The Baron was got out safely, and so was his wife; but the daughter and two sons were killed. In this place I distributed one hundred and forty-five ducats, and left ninety-six du- cats behind me. By my orders, some agri- cultural instruments, too, were made at Spi- nosa, which I distributed, as also some work- ing materials for shoemakers. I was, how- ever, deceived by a genteel-looking woman coming to me one evening, and crying and asking for assistance. I gave her ten pias- tres; but afterwards heard that she had five thousand or six thousand ducats in her pos- session. On hearing this statement I went and asked her for what I had given her, and she restored it. So few peol)le had been spared by the earthquake in the mountains that it was useless to attempt building, and I advised the authorities to get the people away. They were occupied, however, in erecting a great wooden church, and in dig- ging for an old wooden Madonna, which, on its being found, was carried in procession, and stuck up in their church. The next place I visited was Viggiano; which, like all the others named, may be found on a good map of Italy. One thou- sand people have been destroyed here, but as a considerable population still remained and all their houses were broken, I sa~v the necessity of building huts. For this purpose, I rented a piece of ground for two years, at eighteen ducats a year; built over a part of it; and accommodated twenty-eight familles. Here I remained a n~onth, three weeks of which I spent in my barrack, ill with fever, and keeping the money under my j)illow. For eight or nine days I ate no food, and was in a barbarous country, without any one to assist me: but my good constitution helped me through. Whilst staying in Vig- giano, I sent some people to inquire into the state of Spinosa, and two hundred persons came over to me, and received relief. I seat money also to Marisconnovo, and to Brienza; but as the authorities would not put their names to the list of those who were to receive it, the money was brought back again to me. In Tranutola, I distributed three hundred and forty-four ducats to the poor. In Viggiano, I distributed six hundred and twelve ducats, whilst the whole cost of housing twenty eight or thirty families was not more than five hundred and sixty ducats, or one hundred pounds. During this time, too, I never ceased to feed the people, and on one day I fed not less than five thousand persons, and thousands on every day that I remained. The cost of feeding them did not exceed one hundred and thirty-two ducats. On leaving Naples, I brought with me five thousand one hundred and forty-nine ducats, and I took back one thousand nine hundred and ten ducats. Small sums 1 had, however, lent to some reduced persons, at five per cent. inter- est, for there were some offering it at twenty or thirty per cent. To the people, I stated that I was ready to take as many orphans as they would bring me, and receive them into my silk factory, in Sant Torio, near Portici. Twenty were offered to me. It is my inten- tion to go back to this part of the country in a few months, and build some model houses of stones, with vaulted roofs. One room and one kitchen, I calculate, could be built for one hundred ducats, or eighteen pounds. Viggiano has a special interest of its own, as being a city of Troubadours. From the middle ages, the inhabitants had wan- dered over Asia and Europe, with their harps and violins, and after the lapse of many years they come back with their thousands sometimes, and build or add to the family honse. Every generation adds something; thus, in the very architecture of the place there was a quaintness. As many, too many are abroad, the population is of a varied character; and I found here men with,wives from Spain and Germany, England and New York. Poor fellows! they had lost every thing. Their dwellings on the top of a mountain had been all thrown over. I bought a harp for one, and shall assist others in like manner. ~ When Grumento was de- stroyed by the Saracens, the inhabitants fled to the tops of the mountains, and there erected Saponara, Montemurro, and Veg- giano. It was whilst I was in this latter place 46 that I was visited by the Intendente of Basil- icata, a gentleman who distinguished himself hy his activity, benevolence, and good sense, durin~ these trying times. He came to my barrack, accompanied by all the authorities of the district. I offered him a chair, but not the others, who had abused and neg- lected me. He threw down his cap on my bed, and, lookin0 round my hut, exclaimed, Bravo, Signore Major ! Then turning to the authorities, be said, You have taken good care of yourselves; but little of the poor. Many of the poor presented peti- tions to him, which he presented to me, at the same time telling the people, You have a gentleman here who knows what is best for you. At Saponara, he said to the au- thorities, when speaking of me, we had not such a man to sho~v amongst us. This must have been a gre at rebuff to them; for they had recommended the population not to take any thing of me, or they would he put in prison. This may sound like self-laudation, hut these incidents belong to the case. After havino fulfilled my mission amongst those people, I l)rel)ared to leave; and, to their honor be it said, when I bade them adieu, they manifested the greatest gratitude, and shed tears. It remains for me to make some observa- tions which I could not well insert in my narrative ; but which will, perhaps, be of in- terest to the reader. The agricultural state of that l)art of the country, where I spent most of my time, was very bad and primitive. There were no olive nor fruit trees, but a good deal of grain was grown, and is exported from the province of Basilicata. A day field- laborer will earn in these parts a carlino (or fourpence) a-day, and this is not al~vays in money, but in kind. For myself, I paid all who worked at making huts, two carlini a-day. With the exception of the great road which runs throu h to Calakia, and on to Tarentum, there are no roads, and every thing is trans- ported on mules. Thus, from Saponara to Portenza, a distance of, perhaps, thirty or forty miles, it will take four days to make the journey by the same means. Provisions are, consequently, cheap; fbr there is no market for selling the produce. I observed a very marked difference between the character of those who lived in these parts of the country, which were traversed by roads, and that of the l)ol)ulation of those districts which were less favored. Nowhere, however, were they contented with their government; and, in many l)alts they were greatly discontented. If I were to describe the state of the l)opula EARTHQUAKE EXPERIENCES. tion, I should say, that they are in a state of semi-barbarism ; perhaps very simila~ to that of the English several centuries ago. Nor do I observe anything in the ecclesiastic& or civil administration of the country at all likely to elevate them. As for the religion, it is a modified form of paganism: the worship of Venus under the figure of the Madonna. There is a large statue, to her honor which remains on a high hill near Viggiano for a great l)art of the year; and, in the month of September it is visited by fifty thousand people. The masses are as superstitious and as ignorant as they can be, though now and then, perhaps, persons may be found who read more than men of the same class do in Naples; but, it is a reading necessarily con- fined to the past, and has nothing to do with current or modern literature. As for priests in these districts, I do them no injustice in calling them debased and igno- rant; I abstain from a number of odious anec- dotes which would prove it. On the lists presented to me, I observed attached to the names of many, Proj etti and Muli; and, the interl)retation given to me was, that they were the priests children. The community con- tributed to the support of the children until they were twelve years of age, when they were turned on the streets, unless a nurse became so attached to them, as to adopt them. Several such children were brought to me, not knowing themselves by any other name than that of Muli. I spoke to a priest about it, much regretting the state of things, and his sole observation was, that he thought it a very good arrangement, as the children would be otherwise destroyed at their birth; but at present their souls were saved by baptism. Of the officials with whom I met, I can speak in no other terms than as swarms of hungry thieves who rob the inhabitants: whether they be clerical or civil officers, my description is still the same; and, during the whole of my sojourn amongst them I met with only twQ priests who even spoke like honest men. It is only just, however, to add, that amongst the civilians I found several authori- ties who were willing to face the theivish underlings. In an especial manner I must speak of the Intendente of Salerno and of the Basilicata, who fully impressed me with the idea of their being honest and able men. With regard to myself, a daily report of my movements was made to the police: for this country is not~o tranquil and prosperous that a man can be suffered to wander freely about with a bag of money at his free disposal. EARTHQUAKE EXPERIENCES. It is very possible that the gendarmes who accompa~iled me, were sent as much to watch me as to l)rotect me, though they served me well. In fact, except to the local and humbler authorities, my best thanks are due for the facilities accorded to me in my work of charity. Different statements of the numbers who perished by the earthquake have been given. I believe the follo~ving to be correct. In the very centre of the disaster there perished at Montemurro six thousand; in Saponara two thousand; in Viggiano one thousand; and perhaps a thousand more in scattered vil- lages in the same neighborhood. If to these be added ten thousand more, we certainty shall be within the mark. Here for the present, ends the interesting report of Mr. Major. Let his exertions he a lesson to each and all, as to what ONE man can do, and let every man properly estimate his power and his duties. LONDON WATER.Dr. Lankester, treating of the nature and extent of the contaminations of water used for the purposes of drinking in London and its neighborhood, says that water forms, on an average, four-fifths of the bulk of animals and plants. By it, the solid, organizing parts of animals and plants are carried into the system, and through the agency of water the principal functions of animals and plants are carried on. The great source of water for or- ganic life is the ocean, which, being carried into the atmosphere, is condensed, and falls on the earth in the form of snow, rain, and dews. Col- lecting on the earth, it forms rivers and springs, from whence man draws his supplies for drink- ing purposes. All waters contain, more or les~, two sets of constituentsinorganic and organic. The principal inorganic substances found in the drinkin,, waters of London are 1. Garbonate of Lime, or Ghalk~This ren- ders the water hard, and is held in solution by carbonic acid. It could be removed by the ad- dition of limea process invented by Dr. Clark, and carried on most successfully on a large scale at Plumstead. This process not only softens the water, but carries down the organic matters. 2. Sulphate of LimeThis salt is decomposed by organic matters, and gives off sulphuretted hydrogen. It is a frequent cause of the impurity of London waters. 3. Ohioride of Sodium (common salt) This exists in small quantities in the Thames, but in large quantities in the deep and surface wells. In the surface wells it is the result of the debris, and the refuse of houses. 4. AmmoniaThis is found in the Thames and the surface wells of London. It occurs as the result of the decomposition of animal mat- ter. The surface wells in London are from ten to thirty feet in depth, and penetrate only the gravellying above the clay; thus receiving all the percolated filth of the metropolis. 5. NitratesThese salts are the result of the oxidation of ammonia, and are found in large quantities in same surface wells. The organic matters are both dead and living. They are better discovered by the microscope than by chemical reagents. When fresh and liv- mu, they are not injurious; but when in a de- composing condition they produce disease. Wa- ter charged with organic impurities produces disease. Waters charged with organic matter had been shown by Noad and Medlock to act on lead, and to introduce this poison into the sys- tem. Dr. Medlock believed that all lead was taken up in water by the formation of soluble nitrates of lead. Lead, however, dissolved in carefully-melted ice-water, which contained no organic impurity, although it is not disolved in water carefully redistilled in contact with caustic potash. The living organisms of water are both plants and animals. Some live amongst de- composing animal and vegetable matters. These are present both in the Thames and surface-well waters. The eggs of higher forms of animals some of which are inhabitants of thc human bodyare present in those waters. Iron, in contact with water, according to Dr. Medlocks experiments, is a great purifier of water. The following are his conclusions 1. Uncontaminated water is necessary for the health of man. 2. Impure waters have been known to pro- duce extensive disease. 3. The Thames .water, as now supplied, is improved; but is still impure, from the refuse of towns passing into it, and requires filtering, or, what is better, boiling and filtering before it is used. 4. The surface well waters of London are al- together objectionable, as they give evidence of impurity in containing 1. Carbonic acid in large. qI~ntities; 2. Chloride of sodium; 3. Ammonia; 4. Nitrates; 5. Living and dead organic matter. 5. Artesia.n or deep well waters are generally free from organic matters. 6. The chalk in the neighborhood of London contains less saline matter than the deep wells directly under London. 7. Storing waters in lead cisterns is objection- able, as all naturatwaters are found occasionally to act on leadLondon Journal. 47 COUSIN ROBERT.BONNETS. COUSIN BOBERT. O COUSIN ROBERT, far away Among the lands of gold, how many years since we two met I You would not like it told. O Cousin Robert, buried deep Amid your bags of gold, I dreamt of you but yesternigbt, Just as you were of old. You own wbole leaguesI, half a rood Behind my quiet door: You have your lacs of gold rupees, And I my children four. Your tall barques dot the dangerous seas, My ships come home to rest Safe anchored from the storms of life Upon one faithful breast. And it would cause nor start, nor sigh, Nor thought of doubt or blame, If I should teach our little son, Our Cousin Roberts namd. That namehowever wide it rings, I oft think, when alone, I rather would have seen it graved Upon a church-yard stone Upon the white sunshiny stone Where Cousin Alick lies; Ah, sometimes, woe to him that lives! And blessed he that dies! O Cousin Robert, hot, hot tears, Though not the tears of old, Drop, thinkin,, of your face last night, Your hands pathetic fold: A young mans faceso like, so like Our mothers faces fair; A young mans hand, so firm to hold, So resolute to dare. I thought you goodI wished you great; You were my hope, my pride: To know you good, to make you great, I once had happy died; To tear the plague-spot from that heart, Place honor on that brow, See old age come in crowned peace, I almost would die now; Would giveall thats now mine to give, To have you sitting there, The Cousin Robert of my youth A beggar with gray hair. O Robert, Robert, some that live Are dead, long ere grown old: Better the pure heart of our youth Than palaces of gold. Better the blind faith of our youth Than doubt, which nil truth braves; Better to mournGods children dear, Than laughthe devils slaves. O Robert, Robert, life is sweet, And love is countless gain, Yet if I think of you, my heart Is stabbed with sudden pain: And as in peace this holy eve I close our Christmas-doors, And kiss good-night oer sleeping heads Such bonny curls! like yours I fall upon my bended knees With sobs that choke each word On those who err and are deceived Have mercy, 0 good LORD! Chamberss Journal. BONNETS. OF all the charms dear woman wears, Of all her many traps and snares, For real effect theres naught compares With a truly pretty bonnet; For when or wherever you chance to meet One that is perfectly modest and neat, You may depend tis proof complete That the head has more in than on it. No matter whether shes pretty or not, How much or how little money shes got, Whether she live in a mansion or cot, Tis a fact, depend upon it; The woman to make a man happy thro life, To make a model mother and wife, Is one who, scorning the milliner strife, Wears a plain and tasteful bonnet. Now a bonnet of genuine beauty and grace, Worn on the head in its proper place, Shadowing faintly the wearers face, Is a thing for a song or a sonnet;~~ But one of those gay and gaudy things, Made up of rainbows and butterfly wings, A mixture of flowers, ribbons, and strings, Is dreadful, depend upon it. A vulgar mass of fuss and feather, A little of every thing thrown together, As if by a touch of windy weather, A wretched conglomeration A sort of cup to catch the hair, Leaving the head to go it hare, A striking example of Nothing to Wear,~~ Is this bonnet abomination. It makes a woman look brazen and bold, Assists her in catching nothing but cold, Isbadtmn the young, absurd on the old, And deforms what it ought to deck; For look at her face, no bonnet is there, See at the side it hangs by a hair; View it behind, and you will declare That the creature has broken her neck. No matter where you may chance to he, No matter how many women you see, A promiscuous crowd or a certain she, You may fully depend upon it That a gem of th. very rarest kind, A thing most difficult to find, A pet for which we long have pined, Is a perfect love of a bonnet. 48 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. CHAPTER XX.YERIFYING THE OLD ADAGE ABOUT LISTENERS. All false pretences, like flowers, fall to the wound; nor can any counterfeit last long. CICERO. And if she hapt of any good to heare, That had to any happily betid Thea would she inly fret, and grieve and teare Her flesh for felnesse, which she inward hid; But if she heard of ill that any did, Or harme that any had, thcn would she make Great cheare, like one unto a banquet bid; And in anothers losse great pleasure take, As she had got thereby, and gayned a great stake.SPENsER. PRAY, Mrs. Beckford, said Mrs. Wynd- ham one morning, when she and Margaret were making a morning call at Beckford Hall, how does your honeycomb couvrette pro- gress ? Why, iMeed, Mrs. Wyndham, I can scarcely tell you whether it is going on well or not, for I scarcely know myself; I am very much disturbed in my mind about it. How so? Why, if you look at it, you will see I have os~ly about one row of the fringe to do; but I had not enough of Strutts cotton to finish it with, so I wrote to a shop in Liverpool where they sell it, to have some sent by return of post; and though I told them in my note I had three sides done, and only waited for the cotton to finish the fourth, I have not received it yet. They are really very dilatory in some of those shops. How many days have elapsed since you wrote? said Mrs. Wyadham. Two or three, I think, but my brother Wilmot reckoned I should have it by this days post; and though I was seated at my work-table with scissors and crochet-needle ready to begin, it did not come. Augusta, do you know what day it was I wrote for the Strutts cotton? No, mamma; I am perfectly sure I know nothing in the world about it. Indeed, Mrs. Wyndham, Augusta never remembers any thing I want. Let me see; jt was the day the men were rolling the avenue; was that Wednesday? Oh! it couldnt have been Wednesday, now I recol- lect, for it was Wednesday the house smelled so badly of hot vinegar, with all the pickles the cook had been making. It may be that it was Tuesday; hut no, that was the day the kitten fell out of the loft. Indeed, I could not say with any correctness; and Mrs. THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 69 Beckford folded up her work, looking the image of despair. I would advise you, said Mrs. Wvndham, to begin something else tbat would be amus- ing, to beguile the interval until you receive it. I am sure you are right.; that is precisely what Mr. Beckford said; only there was a slight difference, for he advised me to come down to the dairy and see three new patent churns at work. He and my brother were experimentalizing with them, and they wished for my opinion before they flx~d on one to be kept. Indeed, I thought them all very funny. One thing in patent inventions, said Mrs. Wyndham, they have at least the recoin- mendation of novelty. Indeed, yes, Mrs. Wyndham; and I chose a very nice one, that can be worked entirely with one foot, which would be very pleasant for the dairymaid, in case she had any taste for doing fancy-work. I remember a nurse the children had when they were very young, who used to read to them on Sundays out of a very religious, gilt-leaved book called The IDairymans Daughter, who, of course, was a dairymaid; and she used to read her Bible when she had any time, and used to repeat hymns at some time or other, either when milking, or churning, or doing something of thathind; and I remember what a good servant she was too, and wore such course stuff-gowns. And as our present. dairymaid has some con- scientious scruples about attending family prayers here, I thought this would be a good opportunity for her to improve herself; and I intended to buy a new Tent and Altar, and give her the old one, which is, to be sure, a ljttle. worn. Besides, Julia does not like it; she sas she knows all the prayers off by heart; and that, besides, it is very low in- deed, though, for my part, I never saw any- thing very vulgar in it. But I suppose it is best to give it to tbe woman, and get rid of it, for, since Augusta came from London, she wont come down to prayers, because, she says, our manual is not the one used by any of the high ch~hesin Londononly by some very low people. But it was a great pity Mr. Beckford would not take the churn; he said my plan would not do at all. It is very odd, people always say that when I pro- pose a new plan, at least the g.irls do. 49 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. Were the results of the experiments satis- factory? Indeed I forget; only I know there was a great deal of the milk came out of one afterwardsthe buttermilk you understand; which of course is a good thing for people who feed pigs, though, to be sure, they have a very unpleasant smell, and I think the people must find it very nasty going so closc to them as they are obliged to do, to get the food pushed in. Would you like to see the churns, Mrs. Wyndham? I think they are there still, if you do not mind the floor being a very ugly kind of redstone. Off went the two mothers, leaving the two daughters to entertain each other as best they could. So Augusta ran quickly over in her mind her plan of action, which was much thus: How stupidly vulgar of mamma to take this woman down stairs. Of course she will copy every single thing she sees in a sort of second-hand way, and the next time we call on her, she will ask mamma, would she like to see the linen-press, or the china closet, or something of that sort. I wont go, for one, or, if I do, it will be to put them down, and teach them what their proper sphere in society is. But in the meantime, I will show this girl something a little more refined, for it would never do to have her going over the country, and boasting (as of course she will be glad to do) of what she saw in our house. Really, the milk-and-butter story will tell well at Clare Abbey, or worse still at the iDucketts; so now for it. Are you fond of flowers, Miss Wyndham? My sister and I are, I may say, passionately so; and as our tastes are not in unison with mammas and papas extremely uneducated ones, our principal hobby is a conservatory. The gardener takes very good care of it, so we have not much trouble. Would you have any wish to see it? Thank you. Augusta rose, and led the way into a smaller drawing-room attached, and through a glass- door into a very pretty, tasteful greenhouse, saying, as she went, I do not know whether you agree with me, that the march of intellect in the present day has brought the minds of the rising generation to a point of cultivation our parents certainly know nothing about. Travelling is facilitated; foreign revolutions have thrown foreign courts open to English society; everything has tended to enlarge the ideas of people, and give young persons an advantage over their elders. The only disad- vantage I see is, that the rural districts are quite behind the metropolitan, and an edu- cated lady finds herself rather isolatedmy sister and I do at present; but, in time, I hope, civilization will penetrate the crowd around us, and put minds more on an equality. Fancy how one could astonish some of the young people in Queen Elizabeths time, if a few could be conjured up for the purpose! Yes, and a few of the parents too, if you had them, said Margaret, much amused at Augustas very filial remarks. What a splendid fuschia fulgis! Yes, I am told it is, said that young lady, as she swept round, not at all in the style 6f Alfred and Porinda in Bewicks Childrens Friend, but at the imminent risk of destruc- tion to some tall plants, which had been set on the floor to gain the advantage of a little more height for their tapering stems. Now, thought she, I will say something to suit her comprehension a little better; and then I think she has seen enoughshe may come out again. See, she said, that stove is the same as you see in the church every Sun- day. Margaret looked at the stove as directed, and said, The church is extremely cold in winter. One feels for the poor who are so ill clad; it must be worse to them than to us, for I dare say the majority have but poor fires at home to go to, when they leave church. Well, I must say, said Augusta, My sym- pathies are not of so low an order as yours. One has really enough to do to keep ones self warm, without planning for the warmth of the whole parish; the lowest order in it, at least. Charity, you know, begins at home, and I think it is a very hard casewhen we always have the carriage to go to church in, we are obliged to muffle just as much as those who go on foot, because the church is at such an awful temperature; and there one must sit, literally choking with sable and ermine, be- cause Dr. Price says it is very unwholesome to have a crowded building so heated. It ought, at least, to be at the same degree as our own drawing-rooms arethere would be some comfort in that. I spoke to Dr. Wynd- ham about it the other day, but he refuses to make any change. Last winter, Julia and I made the footman for two or three Sundays bring our bassinoires Zt pieds out of the car~ 50 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. riage up the aisle after us, and put them un- der our feet, just to put the Coopers to shame; hut the first time Uncle Wilmot saw them, he told papa, who happened not to have heen in church since we hegan it, and he was dread- fully angry, and stopped it. Then we wanted to have a stove put up in our pew; hut papa would not hear of that either, nor a fireplace. Has not Mr. Herberts pew a fire-place? Yes; but that does us no good. I assure you, Miss Wyndhnm, I can never look at him in his pew with any patience; it is a case of casting pearls, for he never once touches the fire-irons from the beginning to the end of the service. He might as well he without one. Now, if I had a fire, I would keep stir- ring and poking at intervals, just to remind the congregation I was so much better off than they were. Of course, the third part would be dying of envy. It would he most delightful. Oh! I would give worlds for a fireplace in my pew. It is well, thought Margaret, that your father is a little conversant with yoi.ir tastes, or a pretty devotional service we should have of it ; hut, as she made no remark, Augusta went on. But I can assure you that is not all Mr. Herherts eccentricities ahout his pew. In former times, there was a nice side-door for the Herbert family to go in and out of ad lib- itum, whicb, you know, is quite comme ii faut. But not very far from their pew, and just in a line with the door, were the seats oc- cupied by some old alms-women; and Mr. Herbert observed that one or two of the seats on the end of each row were always left va- cant, and that those who came late, would rather sit on the steps lending to the transept, than occupy one of the vacant places. This awakened the gentlemans curiosity; and one Sunday he put the question to the sexton, who informed him that there was such a draught on those who sat there, coming from his door, that no threats or inducements would tempt any one of the old witches to take them. Now, she said, can you guess, what this supremely wise gentleman did? He had the door bricked up hefore noon the next day from the outside, and a heavy curtain hung hehind, to keep all air from penetrating; and when Mr. Cooper remonstrated with him, as did we, he told him that he only regretted not having known of it sooner, and actually provided warm mats for the old womens feet. I never heard a case of greater folly, for he entailed more expense on the parishwhich, indeed, he had no right to doas not one of those old women has died yet, and most as- suredly they would, had ho not taken those measures; and of course their allowance would have been saved. I think I would have done the same, said Margnret. You would have heen a fool for your pains, if you had, said Augusta, very sharply. When we spoke to him, he laughed it off, and said he was sure he was amply compen- sated by the prayers of the old women. At least, Miss Beckford, you will allow I deserved them, said a merry voice, proceed- ing from the drawing-room; and both girls started hastily round, to the detriment of more than one l)lant, almost petrified by the sight of Mr. Herbert sitting quite close to the conservatory-door his arms resting on a small table, and his whole frame convulsed with laughter, at the sight of the dismay he had caused. I must beg your pardon, Miss Beckford, for such a dreadful thing as eavesdropping; but I assure you the most part was involun- tary. Seeing you so busily engaged with Miss Wyndham, I purposed sitting here until you were both emerged; as you moved round, your voice was lost, and I only heard the he- ginning ~ your remarks on stoves in general, with stray sentences, which I might have taken as ref5ring to mine in particular; and when you came again so near the door that there could be no mistake but that ~~ou were speak- ing of me, I made myself heard as quickly as possible. Now, is my apology accepted? Miss Wyndham, perhaps you would he good enough to put in an appeal for me? It is, said Augusta, with the majestic air of Zen~hia, or of an Edith Domhey, or as if she would have expressed herself, Caitiff! thou art pardoned! but thou shalt not look upon my face FOR EVER! She then threw herself down with an air of offended dignity on a sofa; and seizing a smelling-bottle from a table near, applied it to her nasal organ, as if with the desire of composing her nerves as gracefully as possible; while Mr. Herhert was endeavoring~o show Margaret in a cau- tious manner how very much amused he was, and she quite as sedulously concealing her knowledge of the fact. Of course, as Augusta said afterwards, in 51 52 narrating the incident to her sister, the odious girl, that Wyndham, saw him there the en- tire time, and drew her on to say as much as possible, to have an opportunity for saying she would have done exactly the same thing as he had done. However, she was deter- mined to make her say something she ought not to say before she left the house. This she found far from easy, for Mr. Herbert was in a bantering mood; and Margaret, thinking it the best course to pursue, after such a maUi- propos adventure, joined him; so Augusta, rather than be left behind in the conversation, was obliged to join in. Now, Miss Beckford, said he, let us make an amicable peace; I will propose the terms, if you will try and conform to them. You like a fire in churchwe are agreed as to that. And I am, like Mrs. Gummidge, a lone, loin creaturesitting, in fact, as Jack- and-the-bean-stalks mother and himself did (of course, you understand I mean Jacks mother, not the bean-stalks), all alone by myself. I humbly move, that you get Mrs. Beckfords permission to sit in a corner of my pew on cold Sundays, or warm ones, too, if you find it pleases you. I will take care to order a good fire, and you can sit at one side, while I occupy the other. But, said Augusta, I cannot sit beside a fire without frequently poking it, and I be- lieve you dont approve of such a course of proceeding during divine service. That only holds good as far as I myself am concerned, he answered; hut when a fair ladye is in the case, of course all mat- ters and opinions are waived in deference to her and hers. I think it would he a capital arrangement for you to keep the fire brisk, which would leave me at liberty to find both our places in our prayer-books. I could de- sire the sextoness to lay all the fire-irons at your side of the grate. Indeed, said Augusta, we often said, when you were abroad, what a pity it was to see such a house, and grounds,a~~dpe~vun- occupied; in fact, wasting its sweetness. As far as one person can go towards reme- dying the evil, you will see it done, for I in- tend spending a good deal of time here for the future. Indeed, said Augusta, in a tone of affected pleasure, I am enchanted to hear it. I hope Mr. Herbert, you will ~equently find your EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. way here; you know we ladies are unable to go and see you, so you must bear that in mind, and come the oftener to see us. Mr. herbert bowed, and said he hoped some of his lady-friends would honor him oc- casionally with their company at dinner. He had brought a good many paintings home; that might be an inducement to those who had a taste for the fine arts. Augusta was really delighted now. Firstly, at the prospect of company at the Hall; sec- ondly, the compliment to her implied in speaking of the fine arts; and thirdly, that she had every right to consider his invitation as a pointed one, addressed thus to herself, when her parents and sister were not present. There was one drawback; what pleasure is without alloy? 1-us manner and words had, she feared, included the hateful Margaret Wyndham, and she felt how much the delight of the prospect would have been enhanced, had she only had the comfort of thinking these people would be left out. The next moment -Augusta started to her feet, and bounced over to the ~indo~v, in what she con- sidered her most briliant style. Mr. Herbert ! pray tell meoh! I im- plore you to sayis that most stylish phaeton yours that I see at the door? I am sure it is, from there being so fine a pair of horses in it. What splendid animals! iDo you know I am considered quite a judge of horse-flesh? The one nearest us is as nearly perfection as a hors6 can be. Oh, Miss Wyndham, do please come over and look. What a unique turn- out! We have nothing like that in this neighborhood. Is it yours, Mr. Herbert? Indeed, who else would have things on such a scale? I came in it, said the owner very dryly. Why do you not speak, Miss Wyndham? Mr. Herbert, can you not induce her to give an opinion? It is not worth giving, said Margaret. On such a subject! said Augusta tartly. If Miss Wyndham would be good enough, said Mr. Herbert, assuming a solemn tone, to state what she thinks, I would be much gratified. I doubt that, said Margaret to herself. I must begin by saying, that I have not Miss Beckfords advantage of being a judge of horses; I never know a good one, only a pretty one. EDDiES ROUND THE RECTORY. \Vell ! said Augusta. I do not care very much for those. I mean, they are not exactly such as I would fancy. Ab, true, you cannot appreciate. But what of the phaeton; do you know a good carriage when you see it? I knew a pretty one, and I know a new one. And that is neither the one nor the other? Margaret made neither assent nor dissent, and Augusta poured forth a perfect volley of exclamations at her stupidity and want of taste, until suddenly interrupted by Colonel Wilmot putting his head into the room, and on seeing who was there, coming forward. Miss Wyndham, how are you? Mr. Her- bert, I could not be convinced it was you who were here, until I came and saw for myself. Why, is there any thing so very extraor- dinary? I have been here before now. Yes, but never in such a turn-out as that. I offered to bet ten to one with my brother- in-law against his assertion. Just what we used to call at school Noahs wheelbarrow; and such horses! What has possessed you, 53 Herbert? I do not know which is the worst, the cattle or the carriage. I do not legally possess either, said the gentleman attacked. My phaeton is gone to be repaired, and the coachmaker sent me this in the meantime. Seeing its quality, I offered Sir Stephen Norris to drive those ani- mals a few days in it; they are young horses he is training; rough enough they look. As he spoke, he could not resist watching Augustas face. She was by this time in a rage at herself for having gone so far in her ndmiration, and wondering if it would be a good tack to pretend she had spoken satiri- cally all the time; but before her mind was made up, Mrs. Beckford and Mrs. Wyndham had returned from their churn expedition, and Mr. Herbert and Colonel Wilmot had both followed the ladies to the door, to assist Mrs. and Miss Wyndham into their carriage; and when they returned, their conversation had taken new channel; so Augusta was either overlooked or quite forgotten in a discussion about some church-rates Colonel Wilmot was interested in. CHAPTER XXI.TREATS OF STEPPING-STONES. For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the bnrden laid upon me Seemd greater than I could bear. There are times in life when the soul, like a half-grown vine, hangs tremulously, stretching out its tendrils for something to ascend by. Such are generally the great transition periods of life, when we are passing from the ideas and conditions of one stage of existence to those of another.DRED. Yet it was remarked to him, not so much for the fact itself, but because of the reminder it brought with it, how much she had influenced his better resolutions. None of us know to whom or to what we are indebted in this wise, un- til some marked stop in the wheel of life brings the right perception with it. It comes with sor- row: it comes with the loss of the dearly loved; it is one of the frequent uses of adver- siny.LITTLE DORRIT. VARIOUS late occurrences had combined to throw Mr. Herbert and the Wyndhams more together. It is often the case, that the most intimate friends draw off, as it were, for short seasons, till some trivial thing arises to awake all the old familiar intercourse. The decline is from no fault, perceptible at least, on either side; it comes and goes like the four seasons. So it wac between the Hall and the Rectory; but spring was drawing near, and as if in an- ticipation of ihe summer days in the pleasant garden, the free intercourse of the former year was revived. Mr. Herbert found himself morning after morning crossing the wooden bridge he had thrown across the river since the winter floods made the stepping-stones impassable, and making his way to the draw- ing-room, where the ladies of the family sat at work. He came early, before the fashionable hour which the Landeris gentry considered a proper one for making morning calls. This ar- rangement embraced two advantages :flrst, iU av~ded the sharp remarks on himself and the Wyndhams, his frequent presence there would be sure to draw forth from Miss Jones and her coterie; and secondly, the con- versation, be it grave or gay, flowed on with- out interruptions or intrusions of subjects dis- tasteful to any of the party. How afterwards he thought over the opinions exl)ressed, the ideas given so~iaturally and freely forth what Miss Bremer calls those few earnest words of life that seem to do one good; and as the winter glided by, Mr. Herbert thought with regret of the summer days coming on, EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. when their colloquies would be adjourned to the garden, where all who chose came and joined the group. How many subjects they passed in review! life in all its bearingshome-life, world-life, book-life, and, above all, thought-life. That is a manifold life ; it is peculiar to all, but all have not the perception to detect it. It is ever going on in every human breast. In children, it is strange, swift, wonderful, never understood by themselves as children, but dawning gradually as childhood merges into youth, and youth into manhood. With girls it begins earlier, is earlier matured, than in the other sex. A girl of eighteea has, in most cases, the judgment of a man of five- and-twenty. Of course there are exceptions; but they are the minority. I have heard it said that some people never grow up. I do not think that. Every woman will not attaia to the same height of mental excellence, but still they do not remain children. The pro- cess in all is gradual; some think that sud- den exigencies will blow out the blossom of some womens or mens character; that their own under the pressure of unlooked-for circum- stances, had in the course of one day, one hour, nay, one five minutes, passed from youth to manhood, and the mind leaped gulfs in two or three beats of a pendulum, I say they are wrong. The ground was ploughed and sown for them without their being aware of it, and only waited some shower to fall and touch the dormant germ, and bring up such new, abundant, wondrous plants, that, in the first surprise their advent causes, you feel shocked at your own ignorance of their properties and uses: you feel as if months must pass before you are familiarized with them. Something of this it was with Mr. Herbert: after several years of stagnant life, he had awakened to see something of life in earnest, with its real duties nobly done; and when some chance allusion to days bygone told of a hard struggle, not for liberty, as the song has it, but for life, real daily bread, often he marvelled how those quiet women had borne so well the battle of life. Life was dealing gently with them now. In green pastures and by still xvate~s their days were spent, and if acting well their part had ever deserved a peaceful lot, it was theirs, and fairly earned now. One morning, when Mr. Herbert went into the Rectory drawing-room-it was rather earlier than usualhe found Margaret and her sister very intent on a piece of work, cut- tings of which were strewed about in all di- rections. As Frances stooped to collect the fragments, Mr. Herbert gave laughing assist- ance, saying, How very busy you are, Miss Wyndham! What length of time has your superintending fairy allotted you for the per- formance of that task? A shorter time than I would wish, said the young lady. How any fairy could ex- pect me to have an entire childs frock fin- ished to-day is more than I can imagine; but she will have it done. How very cruel! What do you call your fairy P Good-nature, or benevolence, I do not know which, said Frances. You do not consider them the same? Certainly not. It is from good-nature I am helping Margaret, not benevolence, I assure you. I have no sympathy with the object of her compassion. Do you take assistance on those terms, Miss Wyadham? When I can get it on no other. Hear the tale, if you please, good friend, said Frances. Margaret takes as prot6ge a child she considers very intelligent, but which I would call very saucy Dont mind what you call it; state the mere facts. How can I, Margaret, when you interrupt me? Mr. Herbert, the fact is thisthe child is idle and saucy Now, Frances! For this child, about a month ago, we constructed a garment similar to the one you see there in progressa garment to he worn at church and Sunday-school. Yesterday comes Miss Jane Brown, and announces the startling.~ fact, that her sister has gone out to service, and taken the frock with her, and she hopes Miss Margaret will give her an- other. Whereupon Miss Margaret, thinking the case a very pitiable one, presses me into the service; and here I air, engaged for the whole day. And your spirits are sinking under such cruel oppression. I do not wonder. Certainly, if it ~as not for the satisfaction I have in abusing Jane Brown and her whole family, I could not exist at all. I should have lived in Dr. Johnsons day, I am such a splen- did hater. 54 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. On the same gentlemans principleyou require a good listener. I do, and Margaret is as patient under it as I could wish. Do you like such work as that, Miss Wyndham P I cannot say I do; but, like most lazy people, I like the result of work. Only you take a different way of obtain- ing that result. You work at it, instead of talking at it. You would astonish some lazy people, if they could often see you. How? By your indefatigable exertions. You are always husy. You mistake, Mr. Herhert, I am often very idle. I think not. Some houses I call at, I see young ladies seated in the drawing-room, looking certainly very pretty; hut I never see any traces of occupation, except that endless crochet, and what I believe you call broderie, I know some young ladies who are always busy, yet attractively pretty too. But, said Frances, what would you have these young ladies do, when you take away from them the crochet ana bro- derie? I do not knowwhatever you do. I crochet too, and Margaret does bro- derie. But you do not spend your lives at them? No; I would prefer some change of oc- ~ipation. That is what I mean. What sort of minds must such women have? Their mo- notonous work is a type of them. Why, many of them, with more pretension, have less mind than Mrs. Beckford. I do not think Mrs. Beckford such an i4ealess woman as most people do. She is only accustomed to he spoken sensibly to by her brother, and strangers are naturally enough inclined to take the tone from her own daughters, who make her always as much of a cypher as they can. They do, and the more shame for them. I pitied her so the other day that we dined there! Their hehavior was not what it should have been. What a dull evening we had! I was quite glad to run over here the next night to shake off the recollection of it in some rational society. 55 Complimentary to the Miss Beckfords. Quite enough so. But you can have no no idea how much good coming over here does me. I am quite a new man since I came home. There is not a day, since then, I have not learned something from you. Even those in which I was not near the house had their share, from the recollection of what had passed here on some other oc- casion. Your life has been a silent hut living lesson to meit was so new and strange; and you are not like the people round here. Ah, Miss Frances, if you or your sister would undertake the management of me, I would be a very different man. You could make what you 1)leased of me. Frances got up and poked the fire. Mar- garet rose and crossed the room, as if for a piece of calico, and then came hack to her seat again. Cool, thought Frances; but no matter what Margaret is, I can be as cool as he. So she turned round, swinging the poker. I would willingly comply with your request, Mr. herbert; but I can only mind one person at once, and I would be quite lost for want of training myself, while I was look- ing after you. Mr. Herbert looked at Margaret for her reply, but it did not come. He hazarded a remark addressed to her particularly, so she had to answer. I think, Mr. Herbert, one should come to be sure they wanted no training themselves, before they undertook such a post for an- other. That is my case precisely. I have quite enough to attend to. Mr. Herbert was silent. What must it feel like, he said, after a pause, to go about with a steady, well- ordered mind, always knowing precisely what is right to do, and always doing it ?with a comfo~table assurance accompanying one al- ways, that, no matter how the wind of cir- cumstances may blow, your mind remains une chose fixe. How would it feel, indeed? said Mar- garet, laughing. I do not think the wisest man that ever lived had such a mind. We know Solomon had not; and I am sure if half the sages we hear and read of would make a clean bi2~st of it, and tell truly their inner life, we would have a vacillating kind of sketch. Passing by men, what think you of wo- men? 56 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. Worse and worse. lar, occupied Frances; and Mr. Herbert sat Not all of them, he said. I know ex- pondering something alsosomething that ceptions. gave him deep thought, as the knitted brows They would he stoics, said Frances, if demonstrated. there ever were female ones. A womans It was some time before the conversation feelings must always sway her more or less. flowed again in its old, smooth channel; and I would not like one of your description at then it was in a quiet, subdued strain: its all. She would be an insufferable, pedantic, former light tone had disappeared. What self-sufficient, strong-minded pained Margaret most, was that Mr. Herbert Hold, hold! Peace good lady! I have had again brought hack the theme to him- made out a bad case simply by my clumsy self, and his intercourse with them, and way of stating it. I meant only to draw a again spoke of the effect their life and con- a feminin, character as near perfection as versation had had on him. One time he human nature will admit of. See what it has said come to! Miss Wyndham come to the If you could fancy what my life was for rescue. five long yearsthe morbid, sickly tone of Not to yours. I know no such perfect mind in which I indulged in every petty characters; and if I gave you any assistance, grievance, the selfishness with which I it would he from good-nature, certainly not brooded over past troublesyou would be from conviction. I would recommend you to disgusted at the picture. Instead of looking strike your colors, and submit gracefully. at what I had to be thankful for, I magnified Your ground is untenable. everything, until I came to think I had car- I will not, indeed. I consider myself ned a load of sorrow that it would be impos- fighting your battle under your banner: sible ever to throw off. I hope I am learn- Who fighteth for the fairest fair ing differently now. Proves bravest of the brave. T1~ere are times in life when we all make Victory or Westn~inster Abbey ! great leaps, said Margaret; if one is con- I would recommend you to choose your scious of them, they never forget them. corner of the Abbey in time, said Frances, Some of those I myself experienced, though seeing you are more likely to take posses- very trivial in themselves, were so great in sion there than here. I will give you song their effect on me, that I never regard them for song: as the trifles they would otherwise appear. A Cameron never can yield! These, Mr. Herbert, her sister contin- A truce, said Margaret. Discretion ued, are what we call stepping-stones. is the better part of the valor; and we all It is a favorite creed of ours, that life is like know it is better to cease in good time, than crossing a river: all the great changes in it afterwards wishing something said were un- are like the large stones that stand out said. prominently after we have passed them by. Or differently said, said Mr. Herbert. Sometimes one is not aware they stood on a Or differently said, repeated Margaret, top stone, till long after. The little ones bowing down her grave face over her work. are covered by the stream, but the large She was thinking of an evening the previous ones stand ever out. Sometimes a book summer, when she stood in the twilight in makes a stepping-stone, in its effect upon the the drawing-room window, watching Mr. mind; sometimes a conversation, a few Herbert carrying Nannie Selwyn down the lightly-spoken words, will remain for years avenue, walking beside Nannies mother, a stepping-stone. Deaths of those we love whose face was turned up, trying to catch are ever great stepping-stones. his words, which, to judge by the last ex- You are speaking truly, was gravely and Iwession the fading sunset showed on their slowly said. faces, were more earnest words than those Many are very painful, though not all, so lightly spoken here. Ah! if people were said Margaret. only true and upright, how much easier the I have beea thinking over some of mine, world would be to walk through! Her said Mr. Herbert. I am beginning to un- thoughts made her silent~ some, not unsimi- d~rstand them a little better. My coming 57 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. to live at home was one, or rather the effect plans for the future. On my return, passing of one. I would like to tell you of it. Will through the village street, I met my aged I tire you? friend with his little companion. Something Oh, no. constrained me to go and speak to him; so About a month before my return here, I I went forward and said, Sir, I wish to was in Germany, in a very retired country speak to you, to thank you for what you said village, where I had gone on foot, and in church to-day. You do not know what stopped to spend the Sunday. In the vil- good you have done me, and it is unlikely I lage there was a little plain building, and shall ever see you again. He was much understanding it to be a church, and a Luth- touched, but seemed~ greatly pleased, and eran one, I strolled in just before the service after a few minutes conversation we parted, commenced. You could not imagine a he bidding me farewell in the words of Mar- rougher, more unfinished, more dreary-look- tin Luthers version of the 116th Psalm ing building than it was; a few deal benches Nicid uris, Herr, nicht uns, sondern deineni for pews, rough walls, and a plain pulpit, Namen gib Ehre urn deine Griade und also deal, with steps leading up to it. I do Wahrheit. not know what I could have been about for It was not very long after that till I the first hour, for I do not recollect anything landed in England, and, after seeing my striking me much, until just before the ser- little girl, I came home, certainly without mon, I saw a little boy about nine or ten any definite plan, but sufficiently ashamed to years old assisting a very infirm old man up be ready for any suggestions your good to the pulpit: his white hair and stooped father might throw out, or for any work that figute arrested my attention, and made me might come first. I am conscious of having watch him, and listen attentively. His text done very little as yet, but I am in hopes of was the Parable of the Talents, and his fitting better by and by, when the people treatment of it a different one from any I and I begin to know one another. That is ever heard. He began by speaking of his my stepping-stone. There is one point I own age and infirmities, and how unlikely have often wished to ask your advice upon. that his hearers would ever meet to hear him May I ? again, and begged them to note well what Margaret assented. he would wish them to remember and act on It is about my little girl. Mrs. Selwyn as his last commands. He said, that though mentioned her to you? the parable spoke of every man receiving She did, Margaret said, wondering what according to his ability, yet as to what ~ve was coming. had received, he would prove that we had I do not know what to do with her. She each been sent the united gifts that had been is growing very pretty, very passionate, very severally given to the servants: the first, the disobedient; and what can I do with her? five talents, he called Time, and you can, I I asked Mrs. Selwyns advice, but she sent am sure, suppose how wide a field that gave me to you. She thought you would have him to speak of its uses and abuses, consid- good judgment. ering it as synonymous with life, here Where is she now? and hereafter: the second, the gift of two, D~ you not know? About six or seven he termed Thought, a noble gift to be miles from Chester, with an elderly friend of worked in conjunction with time, as being my mothers. She is a kind, motherly old the origin and source of all action; and the lady, but not fit to manage the child; and third, he said, differed in different individuals then it is so far away, though I go very often in some, speech; in others, position; in to see them, I do more harm than good. I his own case, the power of speaking to them would not spoil her, if I were always with there; and wound up all with a prayer so her; but I cannot help it, as matters are beautiful, that I felt awed and condemned as now. I never had been before; and as my foolish Why not ha1~e her to live with you? lifemy abuse of all three giftsrose before No. I was afraid, for fear she would me, I left the church, scarcely conscious grow up to hate me. I have heard of cail- where I was going, ai~d walked up the hills dren inheriting likes and dislikes, and I for several miles, revolving and resolving judged it best to let her grow up at a dis EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. tance from me. Now I begin to fear I was wrong. What ought I to do? Margaret did not wish to give any opinion, so she merely asked, What says Mrs. Sel- wyn? No! what says Miss Wyndham? it is a trifling thing to speak a few words; may I not hear them ? Margaret spoke slowly. I cannot see why the little one should grow up with feel- ings of dislike or even indifference, except indeed you wish for the last. You are tak- ing the most certain means to bring it about, by leaving her among strangers. I beg your pardon, hut you would have my opin- ion. Thank you, he said gravely, and, after a few minutes silence, bade them good-morn- ing. I must confess, said Frances, who had kept an unusually long silence, it is rather odd in that gentleman asking your opinion about the hringing up of his daughter. You did right to ask him what Mrs. Selwyn thought. I consider her the most proper person to ask such a question of. I am afraid I spoke too l)lainly, hut it will have the effect of ta- booing the suhject; and on the whole I am not sorry. Next day, Mrs. Selwyn came to ask whither Mr. Herhert was gone, for his travelling-car- riage had passed through the village early that morning, with himself inside, destination unknown. Margaret hardly judged it right to connect their conversation with the circumstance, but she mentioned something of what had passed, and Mrs. Selwyn at once decided he was gone to Chester. Mr. Herbert thinks you know all his story from me, but I did not like to do so without special permission; but I see I may now tell you freely of it. The late Lady Charlotte Herbert had a brother who married an Italian lady, and lived in Italy until his death. When his only daughter was eight or nine years old, the mother ih the course of three or four years more died, and then Lady Charlotte brought their child here to adopt her, and bring her up with her own children. I never saw so disagreeable a child as Iota wasfor she was called after Lady Charlotte cunning, vindictive, passionate. It was a sorry day for me when she came among us, She tried to undermine my influence with her cousins, and prejudice her aunt by falsehoods against me, besides marring every l)leasure~ party or play we engaged in by her wicked temper. But the boys had high honorable feelings, and principle stood in good stead of Italian intrigue; and as they always watched over my interests, and rendered their parents straightforward details of all the petty squab- bles we had, I never suffered as I might have done from Iotas evil propensities. When ILady Charlotte died, Lota ~as in Italy on a visit to her mothers friends, having her edu- cation completed; and, by her own wish it was arranged she should live there. Some months after her aunts death, Vernon had a letter from Lota, begging him to come over and iclease her from some dreadful misery. He had ever a kind heart; and a letter which had been found in lady Charlottes desk, ad- dressed to her sons, begging, in case any thing happened to her, they would make their cousin their especial care, seemed to compel his acquiescence; and Mr. John Her- bert being abroad, he went alone. Of what took place on his arrival at Verona, I never heard the particulars, but my surprise was unbounded when I received one morning an intimation from him that he was married to his cousin Iota. The letter was a sad enough one. It spoke of Iota surrounded by arbitrary relatives, miserable from the life they led her, and denying Vernons right of interference. The thought of his mothers letter seemed present to him, for he used in his letter many phrases I knew were in it; and seeing no other means of extricating her from her painful position, the step was taken. He wrote in one place, It has been a hasty step; but she is truly attached to me, and I hope we may be very happy. That was my last letter for a long time. I wrote, congratu- lating him, and giving as a reason for a sus- pension of our correspondence that he was married now, and I about to be. I have sinee heard from another channel how miserable the succeeding year was. Her affection was but feigned, for I believe she hated him, and in many a bitter domestic scene scrupled not to tell him so. At last the child was born at Florence, and, before Mrs. Herberts recovery, she one day flew into a violent passion, re- proached and even cursed her husband, which violent paroxysm brought on fever, of which 58 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. 59 she died. In one respect he was happily re- from which you all remember his retura last leased, but those last scenes brought on a spring. brain fever, from which he was many months A long talk ensued after this, before Mrs. in recovering. The child he called Florence, Selwyn took her leave; and Frances if not after her birthplace, and sent home to Eng- Margaret, began to understand a little more land, and then started on his wandering, of Mr. Herbert. CHAPTER XXII.ANOTHER STONE LAID. I breathed a song into the air: It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song Long, long afterward, in an oak, I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found egain, in the heart of a friend. T~ days elapsed, and no tidings of Mr. herbert. No one wondered but the Wynd- hams; for others were so accustomed to his sudden flights, that they caused no wonder; but the Wyndhams had become habituated to such daily intercourse, and he so confidential in his communications of his usual proceed- ings, that the ten days unexplained absence became hourly a greater marvel. On the eleventh, Margaret and Frances were in the garden, when they saw Mr.. Herbert leaping over the stepping-stones. Springing up the bank, he stood before them, and set down upon the walk a pretty, bright, dark-eyed little girl, whom he had carried over in his arms. There, Miss Wyndham; allow me to in- troduce my daughter. Your advice has been taken. And not repented of, I hope ? said Mar- garet, stooping down to caress the child. Very nearly, he said. Three fits of passion in one morning are enough to startle an inexl)erienced person. But you are good now, Florence? Not very, she said, sulkily. I do not like ladies. Presently, said Frances; things may improve. It was a vain hope. Florence did not seem, either on that or on many consecutive occasions, to improve. She rather grew worse, and poor Mr. Herbert was in despair. No one could manage her, neither nurse or father, and the fame of the little vixen spread over the parish. Her arrival had been a source of astonish- ment, to many, and it was quite pleasant to hear Mrs. Simpsons charitable remarks upon her, always comparingi~er to her own angels. Quite enlivening to the good people of Ian- dens were these little anecdotes. Matilda Jones alone could tell fresh ones for an hour by Shrewsbury clock. She was held up as a warning to all the naughty children in all the nurseries for miles round, and you are as bad as Miss Herbert became a term of the keenest reproach. She should have been a pretty child, but the expression of her face was dark and louringso much so, that many very clever people discovered her temper as they said, in her face. Mr. Herbert had plenty of advice given him. He hated that any one should inquire for her: it was the sure preliminary to some unpleasant queries, and still more unpleasant suggestions for her improvement. Every mother wrote him a letter, and every old maid sent him a book, until, in his very weariness, dearly as he loved the child, and to have her with him, he was half inclined to send her back to her Chester home. The Wyndhams alone were excep- tions to this custom. They made no remarks, and left him to manage her as best he chose; for Margaret felt that in a measure she had been the cause of much of it, inasmuch as her remark was the immediate cause of Miss Herberts introduction to Landeris. The only advice he ever took was Mrs, Selwyns; and I am sorry to say, that well as her sug- gestions might have suited Nannie, they were far from producing beneficial results on Miss Florence. One morning Mr. Herbert came over to consult with Mrs. Wyndham. How strange he had never thought of doing that before! lie was going to London on business: he could not take Florence, but would Mrs. Wyndham go over once or twice, and see. how she and her nurse got on? Mrs. Wyndham thought of a much better arrangement than that. Florence and her nurse should cod~e to the Rectory and remain until he came back. how his face brightened up! The very best plan in the world! He thanked Mrs. Wyndham from the bottom of his heart; and secretly he hoped some of the 60 quiet influence that house seemed to have on himself might fall on the turbulent spirit for its improvement; and, light of heart, he started off to tell Mrs. Selwyn of the arrange- ment. Of course she said she was very glad: she could not avoid it; and confessedwhat was, indeed, truethat she had longed to ask the child to her own house, hut dared not arouse the tongues of the townspeople. I am sure, said the little ladys papa, that Floy will he greatly improved by her visit. Rose and Lucy have had such careful training. They are dear little girls : I wish Florence was like them. A deep sigh. I think, suggested Mrs. Selwyn, it would he well to tell Johnson always to go to one of the ladies when Florence goes be- yond bounds. I have seen her look greatly ashamed when she was caught by Mrs. Wyndham in a passion. I cannot do that, without first asking them if they will submit to the annoyance Johnson and her charge will thereby give. I am only afraid they will have too much al- ready. No matter; it is worth the trial. I will depend on you to write me candidly how matters go on. Conceal no truths, how- ever unpleasant; for, if I find the arrangement not satisfactory to our kind friends, I must return to make some change. I will. At Paris you will hear from me, and at London first, if you wish it. You may depend on me. And you will go often to the Rectory? Indeed I will. Mrs. Wyadham had been and gone and done it. In spite of her better judgment, and against resolutions made in cooler mo- ments, she had asked Mr. Herberts daughter to her house for a home-like visit. She could not have helped it. Her warm heart yearned over the poor, motherless, neglected child; and had she been many degrees worse than she really wasa contingency most people thought impossibleshe could not have re- sisted the pleading conscience that said over and over again Love and kindness we should measure By this simple rule alone Do we mind each others pleasure Just as if it were our own? As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them~ and the thought arose Had I died many years ago, who EDDiES ROUND THE RECTORY. would have trained my children for their father? And the thought comforted her, but only herself, for she feared to make known to her family the seemingly injudicious step she had taken. Frances more than all she dreided; for Frances, with a strong liking for Mr. Herbert, disapproved of the intimate footing he had gradually gained in the family. Many a hint she threw out to her mother that his attentions to Margaret were pointed, and that. his conduct was not quite honorable, in speaking particularly to one lady, and pay- ing real, tangible devotion to another. Mrs. Wvndham accordingly took the hour when they were all assembled after diimer to make her announcement, trusting to the presence of Dr. Wyndham and the little ones to prevent any very pointed remarks from Frances until she had become cooler upon it. The doctor was delighted; it was just such a thing as he liked done, and he entered heart and soul into the childrens anticipations of the amusement they hoped to have with her. Margaret did not speak at all, nor did Frances. The one sister did not wish to speak, but the other was only reserving her fire for some future occasion; there was no use in wasting it, when it neither would nor could be of use. Dr. Wyndham arose to stroll down the lawn, and his wife volunteered her company, fearing the remarks which might fall from her two daughters in his ab- sence: one at least being made up on the subject. Good Dr. Wyndham was so hospitable, and Mr. Herbert was so willing to avail him- self of the general invitation so constantly reiterated, that there was nothing unusual in Mr. Herbert spending his last evening at the Rectory. He came early, and took his seat among the group round the fire. Rose and Lucy were stringing beads, and chattering to Margaret of their intended arrangements for hurrying their lessons every day while Flor- ence ~vas with them, to have plenty of time for playing with her. You could scarcely believe, Margaret, what a dear little babe in the wood she makes, if she would only lie still a little longer till we getall the leaves dropped over her, but she very seldom will. Nannie does what we want her, but Florence will not, without a piece of sugar for every thing. Florence bears a bad character, 1 fear, said Mr. Herbert. EDDIES ROTJND THE RECTORY. It appears to me, said Miss Wyndham, as if she only wanted more of the society of children like herself. It is very new to her to have to yield, but after a little she will do it of herself with a better grace. This seemed a favorable moment to prefer the request, that they would all try their training powers on the suhject of their con- versation while she was with them; and timidly, but very unmistakably, the words were hrought forth. He had hut a faint idea of the astonishment he had created; Frances looked up from her netting at her mother, one indignant glance, as if his presumption had reached a climax; Margaret, though the words might seem to have been addressed to her, gave no reply; but Rose and Lucy were in ecstasies. It was just what they had often wished, that they might cure her of her pas- sionate fits; but, as they had been forhidden ever to interfere between her nurse and her, they had been obliged to stand aloof; and, besides, Rose had great faith in the efficacy of some hymns, which both sisters agreed it was high time she should learn to repeat. Dr. Wyndham answered too: He had been putting Nannie Selwyn through a course of instruction, and it would be very much to the improvement of better acquaintance between himself and Florence if she were included. Mr. Herbert looked disappointed that no one else spoke on the subject, but he let it pass without any more remarks. During tea, some conversation arose about the view to be seen from Dollington lull; Dr. Wyndham holding steadfastly to the opinion that Landeris lay to the east of the hill, and Mr. Herbert as pertinaciously argu- ing it lay to the west. Why my dear sir, Mr. Herbert would say, making an imaginary road with plates, knives and spoons, here is the gate from which you started that morning; here is the turn down the Plimton road; here is I beg your pardon, I do not think we go on the Plimton road at all. Certainly not; I merely mentioned it as a landmark; here is the bill from which you see the trees round Clare Abbey; here is the first view of the ruins on the bill Exactly; then we made a circuit to gain the pathway, which took us round to the other side of the Yes, but the path winQs round again; and when you reach th& summit, if it be the 431 evening, you will see the sun set over Lan- dens Hill. Dr. Wyndham sat considering. Chil- dren, what say you? East, said Margaret. West, said Frances. Proof, proof, said both gentlemen. Would not your sketch show, Frances? said Mrs. Wyadham. What sketch ~ inquired her father. One I took very hastily the day we were there. After we left the dining-place, I got Lady Clare with me; the scene spread out below was so lovely, so Turnerish, that we were tempted to try it. I cannot say we flat- tered nature in our representation of her sun- set, but we pleased ourselves extremely. Do you give private exhibitions? said Mr. Herbert. Of course, said Dr. Wyadham, taking consent for granted. Rose ran off with alacrity for the portfolio; it was an opportunity she had long desired of displaying her sisters accomplishment;. and often and often had she begged permis- sion to bring them forth. It is very hard, she would say, that Frances light is to be under a bushel. The tea-table was cleared, and Mr. Herbert, relieving her of her burden, laid it down be-- fore Frances, saying, It seems a perfect treasurehouse.~~ In bulk, at least, was the owners reply. That is the sketch, papa; I was trying it in water-colors, but daylight is more favorable for its appearance.~~ It is as well to be honest, said Dr. Wyndham, and yield heroically. I half- contemplated diverting my adversarys atten- tion by the inspection of these scraps, but have relinquished it on second thoughts. Mr. a Herbert~ I say west. Thank you; but I hope your submission is not to deprive me of my treat; I assure you it is not the first time I have longed to turn it over. You and Frances settle that; I am off to my sermon. You do not allow me to apolo- gize to you, so I proffer none. May I untie this bundle? or are they thus fastened to ~event the eye of the vul- garly curious peeping at them? Open, if you choose; I believe they are more interesting to ourselves than to any one else. We call them sketches of stepping- 62 stones; they refer to many passages of our past lives that we have since come to know were stepping-stones. Mr. Herbert turned them over. Here Margaret gave explanations, there Frances; some they let pass in silence, and when so, no questions were asked. There were many graveyard scenes, with tombstone and inscrip- tion prominent of some dearly-loved friend or relative who had passed away. There were some of dead brothers and sisters resting- places, with a little note attached of name or age; these were laid reverently down in silence, and another taken up. That is a pretty spot. Yes; a glen near Cardiff, where Margaret and I spent a summer. While I drew that, Margaret read me Longfellows Poems. That large tree always brings back the old clock on the stairs ; there was but a slight breeze, makin ~ the branches move a little to for ever, nevernever, for ever; and the and the water flowed over the stones to the words of the Psalm of Life; and that shady, cool spot, with the branches arching overhead, brings again that lovely of lovely poems, The Prelude. It is just the place to read it in. Yes, and Lend to the rhyme of the poet The music of the voice. But do you consider that intense enjoyment, lovely as it may have been at the time, a stepping-stone n No; after Margaret had read, we talked; and in what grew from that conversation the resolutions we there made, and aftewards carried outwe learned, long afterwards, it was a stepping-stone. It was the greatest step we ever individu- ally took, said Margaret; sitting there, we planned it all. I understand you. The next was a garden-scene, trim walks, and flower-beds, with merely the initials E. C.F. XV., and the date. Mr. Herbert being given no further information, had discrimina- tion enough to ask no question. He laid it down; if he had but looked, one young ladys heightened color at least would have betrayed the fact. The stepping-stones were finished, and the gentleman turned on. That is the drawing we were taking from your grounds, the first time we had the plea- sore of seeing you. iDo you remember? That is the rough copy. EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. Perfectly; but will you not give it a place among the stepping-stones? Why? Why not? IDo you not consider your first meeting with me one? If I were you, and this were mine, I. would. Miss Wynd- ham, would you admit it? It is a matter of opinion, she said gravely; if it was a very important event to any one, they would be right to place it so. I had hoped it would have been that to you, as my first knowledge of you has been a momentous one to me. As he spoke, he lifted absently another paper. It was his mothers monument. Ab, yes, there is mine; how beautifully you have rendered it! A long pause. Ah! Miss Wyndham, you played with real soul that night. Whether it was the scene, or the hour, or the music, or all combined, I never knew; but the whole has been like some pleasant dream, that one waking longs to grasp, and hold for ever. He caught the look of astonishment on both faces. Did I never tell you I was in the church that evening? That was my first acquaint- ance with youa happy one for me; for there I learned at once what I might have been months learning, might never have learnedsomething of a spirit of goodness and purity, that took me at first by surprise, but which every day and hour since has only deepened and confirmed. I can never tell you how you touched me; if ever in after life I am good for any thing, or do good to any one, to you I owe it all. What I told you of my old German pastor was but digging the foundations; you laid the solid stones. I have never heard the evening-hymn since, but a thrill of pleasure recalls the singing of it then; and it is the one dream of my life to hear it so again. Will it ever be? There was silence for a few momentshe went on again. Can you wonder these two occasions have been steps to me? Is it too much to hope that what so concerned me, though a trifle to you that I may be so far joined in spirit to you as to have my two stepping-stones bound up with yours? There was no answer; the silence must have been accepted as acquiescence, for he took the two papers, arid tied them in with their life-scenes. The re-entrance of Mrs. Wyadham and EDDIES ROuND THE RECTORY. 63 the little girls ended the conversation; but Miss Wyndham, when I made the request on both sisters it had fallen heavily. To to-night about Florence, it was your answer I Frances came the indignant words, passing looked for, and you gave me none. and repassing through her mind: I had none to give. I know one who is fair to see, None! And it was from you I hoped so He can fair and false be; much! I knew the power you could have; Beware, beware, he is fooling thee. and in you lies my last hope for her. I am To Margaret came a choking sensation, with confident you could make her all, and more one only well-defined wish, that the earth than all, I could ever wish or dream of, if you would open and swallow herany resource would. to escape from herself and the thoughts that You are quite mistaken. I could do little were thronging too fast upon her. It was a with her, certainly nothing that any one else relief when her mother sent her to the piano; could not do just as well. I have no influence she felt a longing to pour out her whole soul over herI never had; so do not look for in some strain that would carry all those con- any improvement to come from any interfer- flicting thoughts far away from her home and ence of mine with her. her. Yet it seemed, to-night, as if one tor- At least she will live under the same roof ture was to succeed another. She had played with youthat should do her good, said Mr. but a little while, when she saw Mr. Herbert Herbert, with a sigh, as he turned away from crossing the room, over to the piano. There the piano, stung by the unwonted harshness ne stood; then he stooped down, resting on of Margarets tone, and too grieved even to it in such a position as he could best catch a ask for the Requiem. glimpse of her face. CHAPTER XXIILN(IWE ARE ALL EVIL. Bat let patience have her perfect work. I hardly know so melancholy a reflection, as that parents are necessarily the sole directors of the management of children, whether they have, or have not, judgment, penetration, or taste, to perform the task I GREVILLE. FOR two days, Florence went on to admira- tion. The entire household at the Rectory were loud in their praises. Such an im- proved little girl 2 said the seniors. Such a little love! said the juniors. Such an angel I said the servants. All this was very pleasant, and very promising; but on the third morning, when the family assembled for morning prayers, Johnson notified that Miss Herbert would not rise; and consequently she absented herself, with a curtesy. Nothing was said till the servants had left the room. Rose and Lucy sat bursting with impatience to hear what their elders would say; for such an occurrence as any one refusing to rise, ex- cept in case of illness, was unknown in the annals of the Wyndham family. Mrs. Wynd- ham and her daughters looked at each other; Dr. Wyndliam laughed. Now, mamma, let us see what you can do. Mamma rung the bell. Send Johnson to me. Johnson appeared. You do not think Miss Florence is ill, Johnson? No, maam, she is quite well ; but this happens.very often. She will not rise until she chooses, without a great deal of coaxing and bribing. What do you do with her generally? Her papa, maam, always takes up his breakfast, and has it beside her. She bid me ask for Miss Lucy this morning, but I think it is a very bad plan; if you please, I think she will get over it much sooner if left alone. I think so too; and I would be very much inelined, if I were you, to let her stay as long in bed as she chooses; perhaps, if she in- dulges her self fully this time, she may have less inclination to do it again. Now, chil- dren, she continued, as Johnson left the room, you are not to go in to Florence at all, except I give you leave, remember. She changed the conversation; so no more was said till she and Margaret and Frances were alone. Poor little soul, she is lost for want of care; and you see that we were unfortunately compelled conscientiously to try and improve her; I do think she will be better on the whole after this; one week is nothing. I am afraid sl~ will manage Mrs. Selwyn, instead of Mrs. Selwyn managing her, said Margaret. I sincerely hope she will worry Mrs. Sel- wyn well. said Frances, in an indignant tone; 64 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. all her indignation blowing out afresh, as she Yes; when I was dressed I got it. thought on various incidents which had oc- That is right; for I have had mine long curred lately. No! no! indignantly from Margaret. Poor child, from Mrs. Wyndliam, who had mistaken Frances speech. When Lucy did not attend Miss Herberts summons, that young lady became exceed- ingly indignant, flew into a violent passion, ate her breakfast, and having screamed out a little, went to sleep. The day was far ad- vanced when she awoke, and saw her nurse sitting in the window at work. Too sullen to ask for what she wanted, she lay silent for some time, but finding that very dull, she called Johnson to dress her, which was done, and she went down stairs. Into the drawing- room, empty; into the parlor7 empty; into every room in succession, with a like result: only on the study-table she saw the Bibles and catechisms which the Rectory children and Nannie Selwyn used when at their Scrip- ture lesson with Dr. Wyadham. This brought a fresh pang, for she knew Nannie had been there, and that, besides, she had missed hear- ing all the stories Dr. \Vyndham had made her first lesson the day she came. She ~vent out to the garden, but no one was there; and, lonely as she had never felt before in her life, she returned to the house. All the time Johnson had been watching her, and seeing her at last safe in Miss Wyadhams room, looking at pictures in a book, and knowing that, by keeping the door open, she could not leave it without her being aware, she returned to her work. The pictures lasted a little while, then peeping into all the drawers and boxes lasted a little longer; but finally the petted little girl, missing the obsequious ca- tering for her amusement that she had at home, and overcome with the disappointments that met her at every turn, crept into the bed, put down her face on the pillow, and cried heartily, not loudly nor passionately, but qui- etly and very sorrowfully. Here Margaret found her a few minutes after, on her return from walking. She went over and lifted her up, saying in a kind voice, Why, my little girl, what is the matter? Two or three sobs. You nil went out and left ~ Why did you not come too? I would have taken you very gladly. I was not up. Have you had any d~nner? ago. How long? (between the sobs.) Two or three hours. Where were you since? Down to the village to bring Nannies mamma to tea; round hy the i)ark lane, and up the avenue gate, and into the ball, and up-stairs, into my room, to fbi a little girl lying on my bed, cryinb. That was not a pleasant part of the eveningeh, Florence? No; I was so unhappy. And what made you unhappy? having nobody to speak to. I do not think that was the reason; shall we try to find out? If you please, Miss Wyadham. The best plan is to begin with the morn- ing, and then one is sure to get it all out. When you wakened? I was very cross, and kicked nurse, and lay there. Did you? said Margaret, assuming a look of horror. I did (more sobs); that is being naughty, is it not? I am afraid it is. But I am not naughty now, and I am not happy. Because being naughty brings on things that prevent us being happy. Do you know how it is, or what brought it on you? Every one in this house is good except me. No one is quite good, Florence; hut God can make us a great deal better. I wish He would make me good. Did you ever ask him in your prayers? Sometimes; hut to-day I said none; I was too bad. Now, there is another reason for being unhappy: not having God to watch usnot asking Him, I mean. I do not know what to do, Margaret. Suppose you ask Him now; and we will talk of it afterwards? Florence slid off Margarets knee, and knelt down, after which she rose, rubbing her eyes, and looking more cheerful. I am better now, do you think? I hope so; but it is rather soon to know; if you will help me put away my things, I will tell you some things about being good. While she was running blithely through EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. the room, she suddenly stopped, dropped the shawl she carried, and hurst into a fresh shower of tears. Margaret ran over to her. Dear Florence, what now? Dr. WyndhamI forgot about him; what does he say about me? I am so very, very sorry. About what? All he told me that day in the library, about the men in the Bible who got into all kinds of trouble, because they did not do as they were bid; and I was to do all I was told, and I did that day; and to-day I had forgot- ten all about it; and what will he think? I am sorry, sorry; he will think I have broken my promise. But I forgot it all; indeed, Miss Wyndham, I did. We must just tell him so, and try again. Cheer up, little woman, we will do better the next time. Dr. Wyndham is a very wise man, you see, Florence; his way of beginning to be good is the very right way, always to do what we are told. And must people do what Johnson tells them? I will do every thing you ask me, but I do not like what she tells me. If you had bid me get up this morning, I would have done so; but who would mind Johnson? That is just the thing, Florence; it is not pleasant to have to behave well always, when one has been accustomed to have a great deal of their own way. But, as you and I are going to try a great deal, we must try as much with nurse as with other people. A deep sigh. I hope I will remember to be good. I think a good plan would be for me to remind you of it when 1 see you forgettin0 and whenever you feel going to be bold, run straight to me, if you can, and I will tell you what to do. Florence sealed the compact with a kiss and when Margaret asked her would she not like to go down to the drawing-room, but in- stead of going, she lingered at the door, and at last came up to Margaret~ I would rather wait for you, for everybody will say something to me. So she took Margarets hand, and ~vent down into the drawing-room, hiding her face behind her friends dress; but, after all, there was no one there but Dr. Wyadham, who, on seeing her, called out Holloa, who is this~ strange visitor you have brought? THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 70 But Florence had taken counsel for what she should do, and, dropping Margarets hand, walked up, and with downcast eyes, and a very heightened color, spoke to him. I am very sorry, sir, I forgot all you told me the other day; that was what made all the mischief. My poor little woman, of course you did; many a thing old heads like mine forget, as well as young ones like yours; see if we do not do better the next time. Margaret, get me some pieces of sugar. Margaret also took the precaution of warn- ing every one against saying any thing to her; and when the children come in, Florence slid down from Dr. Wyndhams knee, and went off to join their play, quite gay and light of heart again. Never let me hear her called Miss Hope- less again by any one, or, in spite of my coat, Margaret, I will be sending a challenge. She is a dear child. Right, papa; and when you do, take me for your friendthe congruity will be com- plete. There is good in her, if there ever was in any mismanaged child. Oh that she had some one who could draw it out! Tea passed over, and the elders still lin- gered round the table. The conversation had ebbed down to a low tide, making the conver- sation of the doll party in the bay-window the more audible of the two. Has not mine very pretty hair? said Nannie. Not so nice as Miss Wyndhams, said Florence, rather scornfully. I saw hers, every bit of it, to-night, and it is lovely. Oh, but she is living; that is not to be counted. Yes, I say it is. If it is, then, I can tell you my mammas is far, far nicer. Nicer! Look how little she has., I do not call people with caps and little bits like nurses s nice. But if you saw her without the cap, it is a great deal prettier than any ones here. Is it, indeed? Yes, and .you~ill see some day that it is; for your papa does not like the caps, and he said, Wont you have done wearing those odious caps before I come back? Your hair used to be so pretty. And mamma said she 65 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. would; and I know she will, for she and I al- ways do what he bids us. Mrs. Selwyns feelings may be imagined on finding the proverb of little pitchers so un- pleasantly verified, and sat looking utterly confused and silenced. Margaret, out of pity, tried to talk and drown the childrens voices, and Mrs. Wyndham rose and moved to the other side of the room; but Frances boldly sat it outher secret wish being that the hero cC the anecdote had only been present to hear himself so reported. Before the quarrel end- ed, Margaret had to remind Florence twice about being on the verge of naughtiness; and at last Rose, by a telegraphic sign, was de- sired to break up the dispute, by carrying off one of the belligerents to the next room. Mr. Herberts absence lasted three weeks, during which the widow abandoned the cap retaining, however, the black dress, quite sufficient token to Margaret to call back any wandering thoughts before it became too late. Florence had many a struggle, but out of them all she came with a very fair proportion of victories; and with Margarets help the three weeks became the most valuable of any she had spent in all her little life. From the moment of Mr. Herberts return, when he took Florence back, Margaret studi- ously avoided allowing him to see the active part she had herself taken in the childs im- provement; and, except when Florence was alone at the Rectory, the warm chord between them seemed to have faded out of sight. Still Florence stuck manfully to Margaret. A word from her would produce more ready obedience than if the whole world, father in- cluded, talked themselves hoarse. One morning the Wyndham girls were oc- cupying themselves in the garden, when Mr. Herbert crossed over and joined them. He walked about, now assisting one and now an- other in their work, and at intervals watching the little ones in their play. Florence had learned to be the baby Jane now, and lay laughing under a heap of dry beech-leaves. Suddenly Johnson appeared, to claim her charge, who positively declared her intention of remaining where she was. The uproar brought Margaret to ascertain the cause; and the moment Florence saw her, she burst from them, and seizing Margarets hand, said, I am very nearly naughty now, Margaretdo you think so? Very nearly will not he quite, I hope, said Margaret, stooping to caress her. You will go now, Floy; and remember, to-morrow is your Bible day, so ask Johnson to bring you early. Papa will be looking for his good l)upil. Lucy will go to the bridge with you for company. Good-bye. Florence held up her mouth to be kissed, waved her hand to her papa, who stood in mute astonishment, and ran down the walk. Miss Wyndham, do you think, because I have not mentioned it, that I am insensible to the change you have been the means of work- ing? I owe you more than I have words to tell. It was the want of power to express it kept me silent till now. Margaret tried to stop him, by muttering something of her papa; but he only went on, saying, He knew his debt to Dr. Wyndham also, but to herself first and best of all. How often he had longed to speak freely about. Mrs. and the Miss Beckfords, in the draw- ing-room, said a servant, coming up; and be- fore Margaret knew, she was sitting talking to them. One morning Mr. Herbert brought over his little daughter with him, and ~ey ~vent into the drawing-room. Mrs. Wyndham and Margaret were there. Mr. Herbert was talk- ing to Mrs. Wyndham; Florence had jumped on her friends lap. Good-morning, Miss Wyndham. Papa will not allow me to call you Margaret any more: he says you are Miss Wyndham, and I must say that. I think it is very nasty of him. No, no, Florence dear; whatever your papa tells you to do must he right. You must say exactly what he wishes you always. That is queer; and you once told me yourself no one was quite good. Mr. Herbert colored to his temples. He had heard every word. Well, said Margaret to herself, he might as well have let the child love me in her own way. I would never have presumed on her affection for me, nor used it to push myself into his notice. But I will take very good care to put ~arriers up of my own rais- ing, and not leave them for him to erect. I will go to Yorkshire as soon as I can, and to Ousely; and then he will be saved a great deal of trouble. 66 EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. CIIAPTER XXIY.CAUSE AND EFFECT. I must say, Lizzy, if England expects every man will do his duty, it is more than I do, and very weak-minded of England. For if now and then some one should do it, you may be quite sure it is because they could not help t.A. A. C. ON LOVE AND MATRIMONY. Noch ist Polen nicht verlorcn.POLIsLI VOLYSLIED. Margaret, said Mrs. Wyadham one day, as they were returning from a drive, you have good sight. Is that Sir Stephen who dashed down the avenue on horseback, and turned out of the gate? It must he. What dreadful haste he is in. That is not his usual style of riding. Mamma, said Lucy, as they entered the house, Frances has got a headache, and is gone to lie down. She bid us not go into her room. Why, we left her quite well. Mrs. Wyadham and Margaret ~vent up-stairs. Half-an-hour afterwards, Mr. Herbert sat waiting in the drawing-room. He had sent up his compliments, with a request for an in- terview with Miss Frances Wyadham. Margaret, you must go down and apolo- gizeFrances is not able, Mrs. Wyadham said, sitting by the couch which Frances lay~ upon. Another proposal, perhaps, said Marga- ret, leaving the room. No, said Frances, sitting up, and speak- ing in a decided way; not very likely: we are neither of us Mrs. Selwyn. It is my opinion, mamma, that there is something materially wrong with everybodys love af- fairs in this parish; and I have no patience with the gentlemen; one and all, they are acting infamously. Softly, my dear girl. Why, here is Sir Stephen, who first draws on Annette Holmdon till she is just in the proper state for falling into consumption; then he singles out Margaret in every public place, by paying her the most marked atten- tion; and winds up all by making me an offer of himself. The next enigma is Mr. Herbert. If he was waiting for Mr. Selwyn to he a proper number of years dead, to sat- isfy the widows qualms of conscience, what brings him here continually, telling Margaret she is perfection, and getting us to cure Miss Florence of her tempers before Mrs. Sel- wy a gets her, to save, her intended step- mother trouble? Mamma, I wonder you bear with it all as you do. People must bear many a thing they cannot help, Frances. I am more uneasy about Margaret than I speak of; nor do I see my way out of this web at all. I am. unwilling to speak to your papa, as it might disturb the harmony that exists between him and Mr. Herbert. I cannot speak to Mar- garet either; and what good would it do her if I did? It would only make her uncom- fortable; and she has as good sense as you or I, to see what every one who sees Mr. Herbert and Mrs. Selwyn in the uncon- strained intercourse we do must. That drop- ping of her married name for Annie, when we are alone, is most disagreeable to me. I dislike hearing gentlemen call ladies by their Christian names exceedingly. Of course, they grow up together, it cannot be avoided; but after a girl marries, I do not think it becoming, except among near rela- tives. I like them both, but I do not like their meetings taking place here. It looks as if I were match-making. Not for us; that is one thing. No, indeed; especially not for you, my dear Fan. In the meantime, Margaret bad descended to the drawing-room. Mr. Herbert rose to meet her, and she began her apology for her sister, which Mr. Herbert stopped, by saying be understood she was suffering from head- acheher sisters had mentioned it; but he did not like to go without making the effort. Did Miss Wyadham guess the object of his visit? Margaret, feeling rather uncomforta- ble, had no idea. Something concerning the region of the heart, he said. Margaret winced, and supposed he and Sir Stephen were like the rival brothers in the Rhine legend, who were each to try their chance for a fair ladye. But the quiet answer, Indeed, gave her not even the appearance of having curiosity. Mr. Herbert looked half-provoked at her indiffer- encehe had been so nervous about the opening of his business, and to see her so unmoved! At last a bright idea struck him. Do you think I. am here on my own be- half? How am I to know you are nother gravity almost gone at the expression on his face. He looked in puzzled despair. Mar- garet gave him no assistance; but at last he burst forth with 67 68 Miss Wyndham, you will not understand me. Do you take pleasure in torturing? I am come at the request of Sir Stephen Nor- ris. Of course you are aware of his disap- pointment here to-day. He is in a state of wretchedness dreadful to behold. You would pity him if you saw him. Poor man! I do from my very soul. Yes? inquiringly. You see men do not often expect to he refusedthat is the real truth ;~ and he had so built upon this, and it came with such a sudden blow, that he does not know how to hear up under it. And in the confusion in his mind, he could not mark if there was any thing in your sisters manner that he could cling to, with hope that in time he might make better progress. Is there any such prospect for my poor friend? You will believe how averse I was to undertaking such a delicate mission, but I had to do so at last out of pity. You know your sister very well, I am sure. I am glad I cannot see her, hut you will tell me candidly what message I am to carry back. If you had known my friend as long and well as I have, you would say that a more honest, nobler, better heart never beat in mans breast, than that of Ste- phen Norris. Is there no hope? Gesture and words said, None. An- swer, Poor Norris! Mr. Herbert, will you carry this message hack for Frances to your friend ?Tbat she is grieved to the soul, and truly sorry, to think she ever said or did any thing to lead Sir Stephen to suppose she encouraged at- tentions from him. Till this day, she never dreamed of how it was with him, and that she asks his forgiveness for the pain she has caused him; and she hopes they will still be as friends with all. To this am I to add it must all end now? Oh, Miss Wyndham! does she dislike him, or how is it? I would think him a husband any one might be proud of, and love heartily too. Perhaps it is due to Sir Stephen to give some reason for such a point-blank refusal. I am sure Frances did not tell him; but I ~vill. Mr. Herbert, my sister is engaged was so before we came here. You need not say more, said Mr. Her- bert; that contingency I never contemplat- ed, nor did my friend, I~m sure. Very well, whoever may be the happy man, Miss Fran- ces has my best wishes for her happiness. She is worthy of more than I have words to wish. He is our cousin. He lived with us at Ousely. Now he is out in Soutb America. In a year we look for his return; when, if all be well, they will be married. She is a brave soul: how well she bears it! When first we came here, she felt it very keenly; but she is better now. It was only last autumn he went out. It was a melan- choly good-bye. He was here? said Mr. Herbert, with new interest in her words. Yes. They had some conversation after this, and Mr. Herbert was thinking it was time to be off to Sir Stephen, who was enduring the horrors of suspense in the library at the Hall, when Margaret said As this is the first and most likely last time we shall ever allude to what is past, I should like to ask you a question. If it involves any breach of confidence, let me know to withdraw it. Was there not some attachment at one time between Sir Stephen Norris and Miss Holmdon, or at least the appearance of such? On that subject I never had confidence reposed in me, so there is no breach in saying I think there was. Other people, I know, thou a ht so too; and I scarcely know whether it is your sisters brilliancy which has so charmed Sir Stephen, or a misunderstanding between him and Miss Holmdon, that has put an end to matters. This much I know there was a mistake about some bouquet Miss Holmdon received from him, which she was supposed to prize highly, and which found its way into the hands of some other gentlemanthrough, I have no doubt, some casualty: perhaps the old lady was to blame. But some rather bitter words passed; and that day at Dollington last summer com- pleted the estrangement. Sir Stephen took her absence from the evening party very ill looked upon it as a final expression, and acted thereon. I do not won4er she did not go. I could not help watching her all day, and she seemed wound up to a pitch of madness. She could neither eat nor speak; and after so many hours torture, she must have gone home. To tell you the truth, I was very EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. EDDIES ROUND THE RECTORY. angry with Sir Stephen that day. He did not wish to be inattentive to her; and when he dared not come out boldly, every act was more an insult. Frances was in ratherhigh spirits, and laughed very muchmore than was just judicious under the circumstances, as we now see them; and she has never ceased blaming herself, ever since the idea first occurred that she had given Annette pain. To-day has quite cleared up what we all wondered at with such great regretthat Miss Holmdon latterly avoided us in such a pointed way, and shrunk from all the friendly exchanges of hooks, work, or music, that had apparently given her such pleasure formerly. If we could but do any thing A~r her! But that is impossible. She has too much to for- give us, to leave any hope of our ever being friends. If I stay much longer, Sir Stephen will expect some extraordinary results. How far am I at liberty to repeat our conversation? As far as you think judicious. We put ourselves in your hands. Butifwould youin fact, we should not wish it to go be- yond Sir Stephen. Certainly not. Good morning. Women are so conventional, said Mr. Herbert to himself, as he went home: they are so taught to conceal their real feelings, and act a part, that it becomes second nature. I wonder how far Margaret concealed hers from me to-day. Her manner is so frank, one does not suspect her of it, like most wo 69 men-kind; but all along I wa~s afraid she might fall into the same error the public have done, and think his attentions meant for her- self. Fool of a man, that he could not have courage to speak 6ut boldly to the right sis- ter, instead of acting shadow to Margaret in every company. Then that was the cousin I saw! Well, that information is the only piece of comfort I have got out of my match- making. A pretty business I have made of itinciting This man on, to be thrown back at last! I wish I had not dined at Prender- ley that day, and been made a confidant of! Heigh-ho! nothing but entanglement on all sides. Annie Selwynthere is another scrape I am in for! Did you ever have a cousin, Tom? And Mr. Herbert whistled the air, till, nearing the windows of the library, he repressed it, in compassion for his afflicted friends feelings. The next news in Landeris was, that Sir Stephen was gohe to see his mother; and the first addition made to this was, that Sir Stephen was to bring back a Lady Norris, in the shape of one of his mothers dashing nieces. Many believed it. The Wyndhams were inclined to it too, on the theory that men are never so ready to have a wife found for them, as after meeting with a disappoint- meat; and fame always allowed that Mrs. Westerton excelled in that branch of female diplorna~y which is generally called match- making. THE SUDDEN Tsmou nTA married lady, who was in the habit of spending most of her time abroad, happened one day to be suddenly taken ill, and sent her husband in a great haste for a physician. The husband ran a short dis- tance, but soon returned, exclaiming, My dear, where shall I find you when I get back l To REMOVE Svxmxs FROM. Booxs.To remove ink spots, apply a solution of oxalic, citric, or tartaric acid. To remove spots of grease, wax, oil, or fat, wash the injured part with ether, and place it between white blotting- paper. Then, with a hot iron, press above the part stained. SHIRKIN THE WATER COREThey told us at Graefenberg of a Mexican who came there a year or two before us for the sake of trying the core on his dyspepsia. lie ~vent through his first packing with great indignation, and was then taken down stairs into that horrible abyss of plunge-baths. Priessnitz pointed to the cis- tern and bade him get into it~ Never! he thundered; and, marching up stairs, he dressed himself, and went straight back to Mexico. An- other man, in the same situation, is said to have fallen on his knees before Priessnitz, exclaim- ing, Oh, sir! remember that I have a wife and children THE LION~ S BREATH. From Bentleys Miscellany. XVell, let us have the legend, especially THE LIONS BREATH. if it is very terrible. THERE is a philosophy even in lion-hunting. Terrible and philosophical. The Arabs The monarch of the forest or rather of the are the first philosophers in the worldprac- wilderness, considered by .Michelet as inferior tical philosophers, I mean, naturally. I am listening. to a bird in powers and attributes, as well as in the enjoyment of life, and far too extrava- gantly extolled by the renowned lion-killer Jules Gerard, and the recorder of his exploits Alexandre Dumas, sen., is not a mere ma- chine. He has his instincts~iay, possibly also his passions, his reasonings, and his senti- ments. The magnanimity of the lion has become proverbial; why also may he not have his l)references and his predilections P Jules G6rard and his literary exponent, Alexandre Dumas, have raked up an old Arab legend in connection with the Mauritanian lion, illustrating what has been hitherto an unknown or little noticed peculiarity in that animal; and they have then carried it out in one of those recent instances which seem to he inexhaustible, and which, after filling a volume to their own account, now help to swell the pages of the -fertile romancers so- called Causeries. The legead in question is as curious as it is interesting, and the recent illustration given of the same peculiarity is very striking. The only drawback is that they do not agree. The philosophy is not the same in both. This we suppose is a very minor consideration to a daring slayer of lions and a dashing romancer, but to the naturalist it is much, and we shall be excused then if, after narrating the facts as far as we can gather them, we proceed to give our own siml)le version of the matter. We must premise that Jules G~rard is re- lating the story to Alexandre Dumas. Gerard is speaking. I had, said the indomitable lion-slayer, killed the lioness the 19t.h of July, and from that day to the 27th I had sought constantly, but unsuccessfully, for the lion. I was in my tent with eight or ten Arabs; some of them were followers of mine, others were inhabitants of the donair in which I then was. We were talking. About what? put in the anxious re- porter. About lions, to be sure! When one goes out lion-hunting, one talks about nothing but lions. An old Arab was relating a legend to me which had occurred some centuries back to a girl of his tribe. And to a lion? Yes, to a lion. There was, some hundred years before I came to the tribethere was in that same tribe a young girl who was very proud; not that she was richer than othersher father had only his tent, his horse, and his gun but she was very beautiful, and hence her pride. One day that she had gone to cut wood in the neighboring forest, she met a lion. For all arms she had only a small hatchet, but if she had had dagger, gun, or rifle, as well as a hatchet, she would not have at- tempted to make use of them, the lion was so powerful, so proud, and so majestic. She be- gan to tremble in all her limbs, and en- deavored to cry out for assistance, but her voice, paralyzed by fear, refused its office. What she dreaded most was, that the lion would make signs to her to follow him, in order that he might devour her at his leisure, and in some quiet, select spot; for lions are not only gastronomes, they are also gourmets. It is not sufficient with them to appease their appetites, they take delight also in gratifying themselves under such conditions of sensuality as shall satisfy all the refinement of their organization. I admit all that, my dear Gdrard, but there is one thing you said which I do not understand.~ Which was that? You said, What she dre~ded most was, that the lion would make signs to her to follow him. I did so. Well? Ask Amida (one of G~rards Arabs who accompanied him to Europe) if when a lion meets an Arab, he gives him self the troul)le of carrying him off. Amida shook his head and raised his eyes hea~enx~ards, which might be translated by these words: Ah! indeed he is not so stupid as that comes to. ~ l)ersisted (M. Alexandre IJumas con- tinues), and Amida explained his gesture to me. It resulted from this explanation that a lion is a magnetizer of a very different calibre to Mesmer, M. de~uys~ gur, or even M. Mar- cillet. The lion looks at a man, fascinates him, sends him to sleep, makes him follow him, and the man ~vakes up devoured. It can be readily understood that I was anxious to get at the bottom of this tradition. 70 THE LIONS BREATH. Amida assured me that one day he had met a lion in the company of one of his friends, and that the lion tried to magnetize them both, but that while the effect was per- fect on his friend, it was only partially so on him. It resulted from this that, preserving full command over himself, he did every thing in his power to dissuade the unfortunate victim from obeying the terrible fascinator; but it was in vain that he begged him, prayed him, held him by his burnouse; the Arab in followin c~ the lion ])ersisted , seeing which, Amida, who felt his own powers of resistance growing gradually weaker, prudently made his escape. This point having been settled and ad- mitted, G& ard continued: The young girl stopped there, trembling, and expecting that the lion was going to make signs to her to follow, when, on the contrary, to her great surprise, she saw the lion approach her, smile in his own way, and bow after his own fashion. She crossed her hands upon her breast and said to him: Lord, what do you ask of your humble servant ~ The lion answered her neither more nor less than the Orosmane of M. de Voltaire or the Saladin of MI. Favart could have done. When one is as handsome as thou art, Aissa, one is not a servant, but a queen. Aissa was at once pleased with the strange softness which the voice of her interlocutor had assumed whilst addressing her, and at the same time surprised that this handsome lion, whom she did not know, and whom she thought she saw for the first time, should know her name. Who told you what my name is, my lord P asked the young girl. The air, that is in love with you, and which, after having blown through your hair, carries the l)erfume to the roses, saying, Aissa! The water, that is in love with you, and which, after bathing thy beautiful feet, comes to moisten the moss of my cave, saying, Aissa! The bird, that is jealous of you, and which, since he has heard you sing, sings no longer, but dies of spite, say- ing, Aissa The young girl blushed with delight, pre- tended to draw her hair over her face, but in doing so only allowed the lion to contem- plate her beauty more at his ease. Let the flatterer be a lion or a fox, let the flattered he a young girl or a crow, you see the result of fluttery is always the same. The lion, which up to that moment had hesitated approaching Aissa, no doubt from the same feeling that made Jupiter dread ap- proaching Semele in alj his majestythe lion took a step or two towards the young girl, but as he saw that she turned pale at his terrible neighborhood, What is the matter with you, Aissa? he said with his tenderest and most anxious voice. The young giil felt very desirous of speaking the truth, and saying, I am fright- ened of you, my lord, but she did not dare, and she said: The Tuariks are not far off, and I am frightened of the Tuariks. The lion smiled as only lions can smile. When ~ou are with me, he said, you ought to fear nothing. But, replied the young girl, I shall not always have the honor of your company. It is getting late, and I am far from my fathers tent. I will conduct you there, said the lion. It has sometimes happened in the streets of Paris that a grisette, followed too closely by a student who insisted upon conducting her home, has not only refused her arm, hut has, upon his persistance, given him a box on the ear~ But never has it happened, in the memory of man, that a young Arab girl has answered in a similar way to a lion who made such a proposal to her, however ineon- venient it might appear to her. Aissa then accepted the offer that was made to her; the lion approached her, raised his mane, and the young girl rested her hand upon it as she would have rested her arm on the arm of her lover, and both walked along as we see old mother Cybele, who is the em- blem of fecundity, walk in the Greek has- reliefs, her hand resting on a lion, the em- blem of force; so both walked along towards the tent of Aissas father. On their way they met gazelles that fled, hy~nas that crouched away, and men and women who went down on their knees. But the lion said to the gazelles, Fly not!to the hy~nas, Dont he afraid! to the men and women, Get up! For the sake of this well-beloved young girl, I will do you no harm! Ai~d the gazelles ceased to fly, the hy~nas were no longer afraid, and the men and wo- men got up, gazing in astonishment ht the lion and the young girl, and asking in their idiom of gazelles, in their language of hy~nas, and ~vith their voices of men and women, if this lion and that young girl were going on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Mu- hammad at Mekka. Aissa and her yellow friend arrived thus together at the ~uair; and when they were ~vithin a few paces of her fathers tent, which was the first on entering the village, the lion. stopped and asked the young girl, with all the courtesy of the most delicate cavalier, per- mission to embrace her. 71 72 The young girl stretched out her face, and the lion lightly toeched with his terrible lips the red lips of Aissa. Then making a sign as if to bid farewell, he sat down, as if he was resolved to make ~iite sure that nothing should befall her in the brief distance that she had still to go over. As she went away the young girl turned round twice or three times, and the lion was still at the same place. At last she entered her fathers tent. Oh, is that you! exclaimed the latter, I was getting anxious about you. I thought you might have met with something unpleas- ant. The young girl smiled. But you are here, and that is a proof thatlwasin the wrong. Indeed father, said the young girl, still smiling, instead of meeting with any thing unpleasant, I met with something quite the reverse. What was it! I met a lion. Notwithstanding the usual phlegm of an Arab, the father of Aissa turned pale. A lion! he exclaimed; and he did not devour you! On the contrary, he paid me compliments on my beauty, volunteered to conduct me home, and came with me here. The Arab thought that his daughter had gone mad. Impossible! he exclaimed, indignantly; would you try to make me believe that a lion was capable of such politeness? Come to the door of your tent and you will see him where I left him, or making his way back to the mountains. Stop till I get my gun. What for? said the haughty damsel, are you not with me! And taking her father by his burnouse she drew him to the tent door. But the lion was no longer where she had left it. Nor could she see any thing in the direction by which he had come. Pooh! said the Arab, on re-entering his tent, you have had a bad dream. Father, I swear to you I have him yet before my eyes. A splendid mane, yellow eyes, glittering like gold, and teeth of ivory, only The young girl hesitated. Only what? asked the Arab. Only, she replied, whispering, he has a carnivorous breath. No sooner had she said these words than a loud roar was heard behind the tent, then another at a distance of about five hundred paces, and then a third about half a mile off. Yet there had been scarcely a minute between each roar. It was evident that the lion, being desir THE LIONS S BREATH. ous of hearing what the young girl said of him, had made a circuit to come and listen behind the canvas of the tent, and not having heard that which was agreeable to him, he had gone away terribly mortified and in a most tremendous passion. A month elapsed without the young girl thinking any more of the lion, except it was to relate her adventure to her companions. But at the expiration of that time she went to the same place with her hatchet to cut wood. The wood was cut, and she had tied it in a bundle, when she heard a slight noise behind her, and she turned round. The lion was contemplating her from a distance of barely four yards. Good day, Aissa, he said, in a dry tone. Good day, my lord, replied Aissa, her voice trembling a little, for she remembered what she had said of her protector, and she seemed still to hear the three terrible roars which had followed upon it. Good day, my lord. Can I do any thing that will be agree- able to you? You can do me a service. What is it Come near me. Aissa moved up, hut with considerable trepidation. Now raise your hatchet. The young girl obeyed. Now strike me on the head with it. Oh, my lord! you do not mean it? On the contrary, I most certainly do. Strike? But, my lord Sti~ike, I pray you. Hard or softly? As haFd as you can. But I shall hurt you. No matter. You wish it? I wish it. The young girl struck boldly, and the hatchet left a bloody line between the lions two eyes. it is from that time that lions have that furrow, which is more particularly visible when they frown. Thank you, Aissa, said the lion ; and in three le~sps he disappeared in the wood. Oh! said the young girl, a little annoyed in her turn, he will not conduct me back to- day. It is needless to say that the story of this second rencontre excited as much interest as the first; but, however learned the commen- taries of the most skilful talebs of the douair were, the intentions of the lion remained mysterious and hidden to the most penetrating minds. Another month elapsed. The young girl went back to the forest. But scarcely had she begun to cut the wood when a bush opened before her and the lion came forth out of it, no longer civil as he was the first time, nor THE LION S BREATH. even melancholy as he was the second, but gloomy and almost threatening. The young girl felt an inclination to run away, but the lions look nailed her feetto the ground. It was he that approached her; she would have fallen to the ground if she had attempted to take a step. Look at my forehead, said the lion. My lord must remember that it was he who ordered me to strike. Yes; and I thanked you. It is not of that I came to speak to you. It is to ask you to look at it. I am looking at it. How is it going on? iMiarvellously well, my lord; it is almost healed. That shows, Aissa, said the lion, that wounds inflicted on the body are very differ- ent from those that are inflicted on pride: the first heal after a time; the others, never. This philosophical axiom was followed by a sharp and painful cry, and then nothing fur- ther was heard. ~~rfhree days afterwards, Aissas father beating the forest to discover some traces of his daughter, found the hatchet with which she used to cut wood near a large pool of hlood. But of Aissa, neither he nor any one else ever heard any thing more. The Arab had just finished his legend when the loud roar of a lion shook the nerves more or less of all the auditors. M. Jules Gerard seized his Pevismes and his I)uc dAumalehe names his rifles from the donors or manufacturersand issued forth from the tent. The lion was little more than a mile off. It must, he opined, be the one he had been so long in search of. He had ~eased to roar, but still they made towards him. At half a miles distance they fell in with a crowd of Arabs and dogs. The lion had broken into their douair and carried off a sheep. He was now eating his dinner, hence the sudden cessation of his roars. This was not a pro- pitious moment to attack him; lions do not like to be disturbed at their meals, so M. Gerard contented himself with bidding the Arabs follow his tracks, always easy to mark out when he has carried off a sheep, and he returned to his tent. There is a tradition concerning this, pecu- liarly in the matter of lion and sheep, which deserves to be recorded: One day a lion was talking with the mara- but, Sidi Moussa. If the lion is the most powerful of animals, the marabut was the most holy of d~rvishes. Man and animal conversed, therefore, on~a par. You are very strong, said the marabut to the lion. Yes, very strong. What is the measure of your strength? That of forty horses. Then you can take an ox, throw it over your shoulder, and carry it away?inquired the marabut. With the help of God, I can, replied the lion. And a horse likewise ? With the help of God I can do with a horse as I do with an ox. And a sheep.? The lion laughed. I should think so in- deed! sai(l he. But at the first sheep that he tried to carry off the lion was much surprised to find that he could not throw it over his shoulder, as he did with many animals that were much heavier, and that he was obliged to drag it along the ground. This came from the circumstance, that in his pride he had forgotten to say, in reference to sheep, which appeared too small game to be worthy of notice, what he had said of the ox and the horse with the help of God! M. Gerard had not been long back in his tent before the owner of the sheep arrived out of breath. He had followed the traces and ascertained proximatively the position of lion. It was agreed that the hunt should b g. At take place the first thino nextmornin break of day accordingly, two vigorous, mid- dle-aged Arabs, Bilkassen and Amar Ben Sarah by name, were sent out to reconnoitre, and to ascertain the immediate whereabouts of the animal. This they after some difficul- ties succeeded in doing, and having brought in their reports to the lion-killer he went forth a few minutes before sunset. It is the time when the Arabs, if they have a lion in their neighborhood, invariably keep to their tents. From sunset to dawn, an Arab, who has heard the roar of a lion, has a g;eat repugnance to pu~ting a foot out of doors. It is, on the contrary, the time that I prefer, for this very reason, that it is that at which the lion awakes and begins to move about in search of prey. When I arrived at the spot indicated by Amar Ben Sarah, I had still about a quarter of an hours daylight to enable me to exam- ine the landscape. I stood at the entrance of a narrow ravine in the Aur~s mountains; both slopes of thb mountains, as well as the bottom of the ravine, were clothed with wood pines, firs, and evergreen oaks. Naked rocks, still burning with the heat of day, rose 73 THE LION S BREATH. up above this mass of verdure like the bones of a great giant imperfectly buried. We advanced into the ravine, Ben-Sarah acting as guide. The latter dragged an un- fortunate goat along with him, which was in- tended as a bait for the lion, and which made all kinds of difficulties about accompanying us. At a distance of about fifty paces from the lair there was a little glade. I selected it, as in a duel one selects the place where the combat is to be given. Amar cut down a small tree, stuck it into the centre of the glade, and thea. fastened the goat to it, leaving about a yard and a half of rope. Whilst Amar Ben-Sarah was doing this we beard a prolonged gape at about fifty yards distance. It was the lion, which,~only half aroused, looked at us and gaped away. The cries of the goat had awakbned him. Otherwise he lay quietly enough at the foot of a rock, ~~s~pg his gory tongue over his thick lips. He was magnificent in his calm contempt for us. I hastened to send away my menwho were not sorry for being dismissedand who took up a station at a distance of.about two or three hundred paces behind me. Amida alone insisted upon keeping me company. I then examined the locality closely. I wa~ separated from the lion by a ravine. The glade was about forty-five paces in cir- cumference, and consequently nbou~ fifteen in diameter. It remained to select a position. I p~~c~d myself on the fringe of the wood, keeping the goat between me and the lion, which was about sixty paces off. Whilst I was making these little arrange- ments the lion disappeared; there was, there- fore, no time to lose in preparin~ to receive him, as he might be upon me in a moment. An oak presented me with what I always search for in such a crisisa resting-place. I cut off such branches as might impede my sight or my movements, and sat down at its foot. Scarcely had I done so when I perceived, by the anxiety of the goat, that something was taking place. The goat was dragging the rope with its whole strength in my direc- tion, at the same time that it was looking the opposite way. I then knew that the lion had made a circuit to get into the ravine, and that he was nearing us, favored by the slope. Nor was I wrong. In a few minutes I perceived its monstrous head peeping over the hank, soon followed by his shoulders, and then by his whole body. He advanced slowly, his eyes sleepy. A lion is indeed a sleepy, idle beast. He was now seven paces from the goat and fifteen from me. I had remained seated, keeping my rifle on him. Once having ~ad time to take aim between the two eyes, my finger pressed upon the trigger, and I was about to pull. Had I yielded to the wish I might, in all probability, have saved a mans life. But seeing no dis- position on the part of the animal to attack me, I waited in indulgence of that terrible voluptuousness which is only to be found in the presence of danger and in the sense of braving it. Besides, I have another object in view in prolonging these strange temporizings: it is to study the animal, to make a step farther in the knowledge of its manners, for a single additional discovery in the character of such an adversary is one chance the less of being eaten up by him. For ten long minutes I gave myself up to the enjoyment of a t6te-~-t~te such as few men can boast of. This was all the more permitted to me, as it was now nearly two years since I had found myself face to face with a lion, and this was one of the finest, the strongest, and the most majestic that I had seen. At the expiration of the ten minutes he crouched down, crossed his legs, and, stretch- ing out his head, made a kind of pillow of them for his neck. His eye was fixed on me, and never for a moment did he lose sight of my eyes; he seemed wondrously puzzled to think what that man could come to do in his kingdom, and who seemed not to recognize his sovereignty. Five minutes more elapsed; in the posi- tion that he then lay nothing would have been more easy for me than to kill him. Suddenly he rose up, as if pushed by a spring, and began to agitate himself, making one step in advance and then another hack, turning to the right and~ thea to the left, all the time wagging his tail like a cat that is getting angry. No doubt he did not understand the presence of a cord, a goat, and a man; his intelligence did not suffice to explain such a mystical combination. Only his instinct told him that there was a trap laid for him. In the mean time I remained seated, my rifle up to my shoulder, my finger on the trigger, following the animal in all its mo- tions. One spring on his part, and I was under his claws. Every moment his irrita- tion increased, and it began evea to affect me; his tail swept his sides, his motions be- came more rapid, his eye flamed with ire. It would have been suicide to hesitate any longer. I took advantage of a moment when he presented his lefb~ side towards me; I aimed hehind the shoulder-blade, and fired. The lion shrank under the blow, roared with pain, and curved round as if to bite the wound, but he did not fall. Three seconds had barely elapsed before I fired my second shot. Then, 74 THE LION S BREATH. without lookingfor I was quite sure of hav- ing hit himI threw down my rifle, to take up another near me ready loaded and cocked. But when I turned round towards the lion, the butt-end up to my shoulder, the lion was gone, I remained motionless, dreading a surprise, and looking on all sides. I then heard the lion roar. He had gone down into the ravine. Twice he roared again, each time at a greater distance. lie was going back to his lair. I waited a few minutes longer, perhaps it was only a few secondsone is a bad judge of time under such circumstances. Then hearing nothing further, I rose up and went to visit the spot where the animal had re- ceived my two shots. The goat had lain down and gasped with terror. It was easy to see further that the lion had been struck by both balls, and that both had gone right through its body. There were two jets of blood on each side. Every sportsman knows that an animal bears up better when he is thus pierced from side to side, than when the ball, remaining ia the body, gives rise to internal hemorrhage. I followed his traces; they were easy to find. The road that he had taken was spotted with blood. The branches of the shrubs and plants by which he had passed were also stained with blood. As I had thought, the lion had gone to his lair. At this moment I saw appear over the ravine the heads of Amida, Belkassem, and Amar Ben Sarah. They approached cau- tiously, not knowing if I was alive or dead, and in readiness to fire. Seeing me at the bottom of the ravine, they shouted in token of gladness, and ran up to me. They insisted upon at once, following up the lion; the quantity of blood shed made them exaggerate the gravity of the wounds. But I kept them back. In my opinion the lion was grievously, perhaps mortally wounded, but the heart had not been struck. The lion must still have strength, its agony would be terrible. During the suspense, eight or ten Arabs joined us from the douair, armed with guns. They had heard my two shots, and came, like Amida, Belkassem, and Amar Ben Sarah, to know what had happened. That which had occurred was written for them, as for us, on the soil. Their unanimous exclamation was, He must be followed up.~ But I stopped them, pointing out the dan- ger of such a proceeding. It had, however, no effect. Remain there, they said, and we will bring him to you dead. It was in vain that I stated that the lion was alive, and that by his roar he was still 75 full of strcagth; they persisted in going into the wood. I made a last effort to prevent them going further; I was convinced that if we waited till the next day we should flud him dead, whilst, on the contrary, if we followed him up now, we should go and throw ourselves, at the distance of some hundred paces, in contact with his anger and painand every one knew what the result would. be. But no advice had any effect on their ob- stinacy. So when I saw that they were re- solved to go in pursuit of the lion without me, I made up my mind to go with them. Only I made my arrangements. I re- loaded my Devismes, which I kept in my own hands; I gave my Lepage to Ben Sarah, and my iDuc dAumale to Arnida. It is, after my IDevisihes, the rifle that I ureferit has killed thirteen lionsand I entered into the wood on the traces of the lion. It was now dark. The wood was dense, thick, en- tangled; we had to advance step by step. My three Arabs followed Inc; behind my three Arabs came the men of the dounir. We got over some forty or fifty paces in this way, but with great difficulty, and in about a quarter of an hours time. By that time it was almost quite dark, and we could no longer discern the tracks. There was a glade at a dozen paces dis- tance, and we all made to it to take breath and look around us. Whilst we were scattered about the glade, seeking for the tracks that were lost in the dim light, either by accident or care- lessness a gun went off. At the same moment a terrible roar burst forth, and the lion tumbled down into the midst of us, literally as if be had fallen from the skies. For a moment the panic was frightful. All the guns except mine went off at once, and it is a miracle that we did not kill one another. It is needless to say that not a ball struck the lion. As to myself, this is what I saw amidst the fire and smoke all the Arabs gathered roufid tne, with the exception of Amar Ben Sarah. Then suddenly I heard at a distance of some fifteen paces, on the other side of the glade, a scream, a terrible scream, the scream of death! I rushed towards the scream through the darkness, rendered still more dense by the smoke. Such was its density, that I could neither ~see man nor lion, till 1 came in con- tact with them. ~ Man and lion formed a shapeless, hideous mass. The man was under the lion, who was tearing his thighs with his hind-claws, whilst 76 the whole of his head was buried in his mouth. I felt faint for a moment, my legs trem- bled beneath me, I was nearly falling. But the weakness only lasted a second. The lion felt the barrel of my rifle, and cast a side look with a threatening expres- sion at me. Should I fire at the head of the lion? should I fire at its shoulder? If I fired at the head, I might kill the man. I fired at the shoulder. All this did not occupy a second of time. And then all was lost in fire and smoke. I waited a moment. I will not attempt to describe what passed through my mind during that second of anxiety. At last I could see. The lion had let the man go. The man had fallen like a mass. Was be dead or living; that it was impossible to say. The lion was leaning against a tree, the same that supported the man, and it was evident that he had to depend upon the tree, which was not larger round than a mans a for his sole support. The tree gave way gradually, cracked, and then broke, and the lion fell down on the ground beside the man. I then pulled the second trigger, the capsule failed. What would have happened to me, if this second capsule had been the first? Luckily, the lion was dead. We precil)itated ourselves on the man, he had fainted; but on being touched, he regained his senses. Take me away! he exclaimed take me away! It was in vain that we told him that the lion was dead, he did not hear us. The Arabs say that every man who has inhaled a lions breath goes mad. Amar Ben Sarah was mad. THE LIONS BREATH. I began by examining the wounds as well as I could by the light of a bundle of dry sticks, to which we hastened to set fire. The sides of the sufferers body were hor- ribly torn; he had been fearfully bitten in the flanks. His head also bore the marks of the animals teeth. It was manifest that he was a lost man. We laid him upon a litter made with our guns, and we carried him away from the scene of the disaster. Three days afterwards I left the country ; he was still alive, but without hope. A letter from the Kaid. in- formed me eight days afterwards that Amar Ben Sarah was dead. The inconsistency between the two le- gends, if we may be allowed the expression, is manifest. There is nothing in the strange record of the relations of the fair Aissa with a lion, or in the subsequent magic fate of that unfortun ate damsel, that bears out what we are subsequently told is the received tra- dition among the Arabs, of the influence of the lions breath. Any one intimate with the peculiarity of the Arab mind will feel that the allusion is simply a figurative one. It intimates that persons who are thrown into such close contact with that fierce animal as is implied by coming within the sphere of its breath, are so overcome by terror or fasci- nated by fear as virtually to lose their senses, just as they say, the wounds received from a lion are fatal; meaning thereby, that they are of such a serious character that a person seldom recovers from them. The poetical and figurative language of the Arabs delights in extremes, but it is quite understood among themselves that it is not always meant to convey all that it seems to imply. ENIGMA. Tis seen each day and heard of every hour, Yet no one sees or ever hears its power; It is familiar with the prince and sage, As well as with the peasant. In each age, Since time began, it has been known full well, And yet nor earth, nor heaven, nor even hell Has eer contained it, or eer known its worth. It does exist, and yet it neer had birth; It nowhere is, and yet it finds a home In almost every page of every tome; The greatest bliss to human nature here Is having it to doubt, and dread, and fear. It gives us pain when measuring the esteem Of those we fondly worship in Loves dream. It gives us pleasure instantly to hear, From those we love, sweet friendship it can sear. Thon~ht cannot compass it, yet neertheless The lip can easily its sense express. Tis not in sleep, for sleep bath worlds of dreams, Yet plain and easy to each mind it seems, For men of all degree and every clime, Can speak of it. Eternity nor time Hath it beheld. It singularly sounds To foreign ears. ~Title, wealth, and fame, however great, must end in it the same. It isis not. It can be heard, although Nor man nor angel eer its sound can know. COUNTESS DE BONNEVAL. From The Spectator. LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTONS COUN TESS DE BONNEVAL.~. TUE Count de Bonneval was one of the most worthless characters of that very worth- tess period of the old regime, which stretched from the closing years of Louis. the Four- teenth, through the Regency, to the death of Louis the Fifteenth. As a distinguished officer and gentleman of the French court, he was as a matter of course accom- plished, profligate, unprincipled, pleasant, and lively if not witty. His person was handsome, his air distinguished, his vigor so great that he was called Hercules; his manners are said to have been fascinating, indeed irresistible. He does appear to have had that easy good- nature which can be exercised without cost or trouble; his animal courage and good com- radeship were beyond all question. His re- ligio us opinions were those of most courtiers of the day, infidel, because it was the fash- ion; but Bonneval was not restrained even by those prejudices for class and country which feebly reinforce morality, and serve as a poor substitute for l)rinciples. The old French noblesse had faults enough, but treason was rarely one of them, especially that extreme form of it which consists in deserting and go- ing over to the enemy with arms; and in the exceptional case of the great Cond6, there was the excuse of civil war which might be pleaded. But Bonneval was a double trai- tor. Having levied contributions in the Ital- inn wars, and spent the money, he deserted to the Austrians, when the Ministry of Louis the Fourteenth called upon him for an ac- count, announcing his intention with the wonted audacity of the French school I shall enter the Emperors service, where the Ministers are all noblemen, and know how to l)ehave to noblemen, Chamillart, the Minis- ter to whom he wrote, not being noble. For this crime he was executed in effigy, by order of the King; but was pardoned un- der the Regency of Qrleans, and permitted to return to Paris, coming some thought as a spy of the Emperor. On this occasion he married Judithe Charlotte de Gontaut, daugh- ter of the Marquis de Brion, the match being one of the conditions of the pardon, and his wife, lovely, amiable, and a model of virtue in that corrupt court, and of fidelity to himself; though he left her, and, as it turned out, for ever, soon after the marriage. He ~vent to Vienna, not treasonably on this occasion, for he served the Austrians egainst the Turks, greatly distinguished himself at Belgrade, and was aJ)pointed to command in Italy. ~ The Countess De Bonneral: her Life and Let- ters. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. In two vol- umes. Published by Hnrst~and Blackett. But his reckless disregard of every thing in the shape of tie or duty worked his downfalL He ridiculed the Emperor, offended the Gov- ernor of Brussels, was tried by court-martial and sentenced to imprisonment, challenged his great patron Eug~ne for officially approv- ing the sentence, was again imprisoned for this offence, eventually fled to Turkey, and finally turned Mahometan anul became a pashaan apostacy which that age looked upon with greater horror than ours. In this state of degradation, his thoughts once turned to the wife he had so soon deserted and so long neglected, and he once exhibited a sen- timental feeling scarcely to have been ex~ pected from so selfish and hardened a miscre- ant. Once again, in the course of her remain- ing years, the Countess de Bonneval re- ceived a message from the man whom she had so faithfully, so tenderly loved. He sent her an earnest entreaty that she would write to him a few lines, and she complied with his request. He received that letter, but no one ever saw it, no one ever knew what it con- tained. When he died it was not found with the others amongst his papers; perhaps he destroyed it to stifle an uneasy feeling of re- morse; perhaps he wore it next his heart. and that it was buried with him in his Turkish grave. In the most reckless of recklcss men, in the boldest and most daring offenders against God and man, there lingers a faint reminis- cence of bygone days, which can still be ap- pealed to, and not always in vain. Long after his wifes death, under the dazzling splendor of an eastern sky, in one of the most sumptuous villas of the Bosphorus, Achmet Pasha Comte de Bonneval, in the midst of the luxury of a wholly material existence, had ap- parently sunk in oblivion all recollection of God, whom he had denied, of the country he had forsaken. He treated religion and feel- ing alike with derision. He scoffed at Chris- tianity, and sneered at virtue. The maxim of his youth was the motto of his old age: Jouissons du prdsent, Lavcnir cst aux fous. No traces of remorse, of regret, or of de- spondency were visible in his countenance, or betrayed in his conversation. Gay and witty as ever, time had wrought no change in the licentiousness of his habits, or the indomita- ble energy of his spirits. And yet his biogra- pher relates that on one single occasion that insensibility gave x~y to irresistible emotion, that for once the al)ostate whom nothing seemed ever to subdue or touch was moved even to tears. At a dinner given to him by one of his 77 COUNTESS DE BONNEVAL. European acquaintances, at Constantinople, an Italian artiste, who made one of the party, was requested to sing. When she began one of the melodies of her own land, great was the astonishment of the company to see the Comte de Bonneval hurst into tears. He seems at last to have contemplated re- turning to the bosom of the church, and for that purpose had planned escaping from Constantinople to Rome. Death prevented the scheme, if he really entertained it, and Achmet Pasha Comte de Bonneval died at Constantinople in 1747, having reached the threescore years and ten allotted to man. Every one knows the idea of William Shakspearea biography; and how Charles Knight, taking the real for his foundation, reared upon it an imaginative superstructure. The players visited Stratford on Avon; the youthful Shakspeare probably saw them; let us assume that he did; and go on to describe the strolling performances of the era, and trace their effects upon the mind of the great dramatist; and so the biography proceeds pleasantly enough. Lady Georgianna Ful- lerton has conceived her Countess de Bonne- val on a similar principle. Not very much is known of the details of the ladys life, espec- ially of that part which is treated by Lady Fullerton in the greatest detail; a few of her letters to the Count have been preserved. Upon this basis the authoress has constructed her work, which she describes as not beii~ a biography and still less a novel; hut rather a sketch in which imagination has ven- tured to fill up the scanty outlines of history, following step by step the indications it affords, and seeking rather to guess than to invent, to interpret than to originate. We - should rather have called the hook a novel of manners and character founded on fact. The main purpose is to paint the character of Judithe de Gontaut and trace the manner in which her love for her cousin iDe Bonneval originated from the garrulous description of an old nurse, and afterwards grew from a va- riety Cf circumstances that continually brought him before her youthful fancy in a striking or romantic way. These circumstances are so contrived that they serve to display the man- ners and ideas of the time, as well as its su- perficial life, both in Paris and the country. The hare fact generally rests upon some record, duly quoted in a foot-note; but mci- dent, color, and particulars are supplied by the writer. The task is performed with great clever- ness in point of conception and execution. The incidents designed to cause the love of Judithe are adapted to the purpose; the manners and dialogues, if not very brilliant or vivid, have sufficient verisemblance to sug- gest the age; the style is elegant and ani- mated, though a little diffuse. The effect is not equal to the literary merit displayed, owing, we believe to the subject. The char- acter of Bonneval does not excite much inter- est, or that of his wife much sympathy, be- cause her passion before she sees him is meta~~hysical and against sense if not princi- ple, while afterwards it partakes too closely of the nature of patient Grizzle. The great deficiency, however, is the want of a story; for though the book has marriage and death as its termination, yet the reader meets with a succession of scenes rather than a con- nected tale. What those scenes are is better shown by a specimen. Here is the mother of Bonneval in the evening when her son had been executed par contumac e during the day. The Marquise de Bonneval was one of those persons in whom violent passions lie concealed under the appearance of a co1d and haughty indifference. She shrunk from the pity of others even more than from the very sufferings which called it forth. On the evening of her sons simulated execution, she went as was her habit to the H6tel de Biron, and took her seat at the card-table, which was always made ready for her at one end of the drawing-room. Her cousin the Marquis de Biron, his nephew, M. de Riom, and the lovely Marquise de Simiane, Madame de S6vign~s grand- daughter, made up her party. Neither her countenance nor her manner gave outward token of the storm which was raging within her breast, hut every time that a new comer was announced, at every respectful salutation which was addressed to her, and in which she discerned, or fancied she discerned, the slight- est shade of sympathy, or of compassionto her more galling than the bitterest insult the paleness of her cheeks became visible, even under the thick coating of rouge with which ~he had sought to disguise it. With the stoical courage of pride she went through that fiery ordeal, her hands busy with the cards, a smile on her parched lips, and the while from her heart a secret prayer arising, if that can he called a prayer, which was nothing less than a fierce appeal to Heaven for vengeance on those who had wrought her sons overthrow, an impassioned cry for retri bution on the ads of those by whom she deemed he a cen wronged. Heaven, in 78 COUNTESS DE BONNEVAL. mercy, is often deaf to such prayers; for, if in an evil hour for the suppliant, they reach the Eternal ears, the answer falls back like a curse on the heart that has framed them. When Madame de Simiane left the card- table, she seated herself on a sofa in one of the recesses of the window, and the Due de St. Simon, who had been watching the game, or rather the players, with that keen curiosity which he has himself so well described, imme- diately hastened to her side, and entered into conversation with her. She pointed with an almost imperceptible motion of her fan to- ward the part of the room which he had left, and said to him in a low voice: Have you ever witnessed, my lord duke, a more remarkable display of insensibility, or a more striking example of courage. Which of the two shall we deem it to he P Madame, replied the Duke, in his cold and formal manner, and with his somewhat malevolent smile, I have neyer met with an instance of greater sensibility to grief and shame, and at the same time of a more obsti- nate determination to hide that grief, and to brave that disgrace. THE TELEGRAPH IN WARNever since its discovery (says the Times correspondent at the seat of war in IndiaDr. W. H. Russell) has the electric telegraph played so important and daring a r6le as it now does in India. Without it, the commander-in-chief would lose the effect of half his force. It has served him better than his right arm. In this war, for the first time, a telegraphic wire has been carried along under fire and through the midst of a hostile country. Pan passu, from post to post it has moved on with our artillery, and scarcely has the com- mander-in chief established his head quarters at any spot where he intended to stay for a few days, when the post and the wire were estab- lished also. It is mainly to the zeal, energy, and ability of a young officer of the Bengal Engineers, Lieut. Patrick Stewart, that these advantages are due. He is assisted, it is true, by a few men, but he it is who devises and su- perintends the execution and the extension of the line from place to place. At one time his men are chased for miles by the enemys cavalry: at another time they are attacked by the Sowars, and they and the wires are cut to pieces: again, their electric batteries are smashed by the fire of the gun, or their cart knocked to pieces by a round shot, but still they work oncreep over arid plains, across watercourses, span rivers, and pierce jungles, till, one after another, the rude poles raise aloft their slender burden, and the quick needle vibrates with its silent tongue amid the thunder of the artillery. The wire is thick, and is not protected by non-conducting coatings of any kind: it is twisted round the top of a rude pole, fifteen or sixteen feet high, and, under ordinary states of the atmosphere, it is found to answer perfectly. GUTTA PERcHAThe Council of the So- ciety of Arts have appointed a committee to di- rect the institution of a series of experiments on gutta percha, and the causes of its decay, its dif- ferent qualities, adulterations, and other points of interest or importance in regard to this most useful substance. To these ends, a series of queries are to be issued by the committe for cir culation amongst those most likely to be able to afford the desired information. We would sug- gest that one of the series of experiments pro- jected ought to have for its object the artificial production of gutta percha, by chemical conver- sion of such plentiful substances as bitumen or asphalte, resins, pitch, and albuminous sub- stances, & c. Chemists, as we have more than once pointed out, know well that in certain ex- periments with bitumen, a substance has been produced, bearing a strong analogy to india- rubber; and, when it is considered that now the very perfumes of the finest flowers can be per- fectly simulated, or, in fact, artificially and actu- ally produced, out of such villainous smells as that of coal-tar, and even of something worse, one cannot see why both gutta percha and india-rubber may not be artificially pro- duced from cheaper and more abundant mate- rials, by the protean transformations of organic chemistry. Let us (says the Builder) not be misunderstood: we do not mean merely that some inferior or trashy substitute may be found or manufactured from a mixture of other mate- rials, but that to all intents and purposes the very substances themselves may be artificially produced, by chemical transformation of other organic materialsand that bitumen, for exam- ple, is essentially organic, just as pitch is known to be, there cannot he a reasonable doubt; but whether it be so or not, it is a most promising material for such a purpose as that suggested. DX$Ii~ERE5TED KINDxESS. May I be married, ma? said a little beauty of fourteen to her mother. Why do you want to be mar- ned? returned the mother. Why, ma, you know that the children have never seen anybody married, and I thought it might please them. PRESTO AMostoso.A gentleman was one day arranging music for a young lady to whom he was paying his addresses. Pray, Miss D., said he, what time do you prefer? Oh, she replied, carele~Sy, any time will do; but the quicker the better. 79 THE BURIAL AT SEA.EPITAPH. POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY. Il faut choisir,il faut ~tre on po~te on philoso phe! CONSUELO. I LOVE them both! And must X make my choice I Can I not follow fair Philosophy, Yet sometimes listen to the Muses voice, When the heart longs to speak, and thou art nigh 0 never bid me stifle the loved tone That whispers to our nature, sadly sweet! With power to touch the heart with plaintive moan, Or thrill with tales where love and battle meet, Or purer impulse of the soul to greet. And never ask me to renounce the lore Unfolding to my gaze fair Natnres page. Still be my guides unto the distant shore, The poets heart, the wisdom of the save! Wisdom that scorns the poets tenderness, That cannot love the beautiful and bright, And is not moved by sorrow and distress, Hath never read the page of Nature right. And genius that would scorn the lowly way Which leads to truth, although by millions trod, Might humble violets twine with haughty bay, Ahd learn from children how to soar to God. Theres worldly wisdom and theres poesys art, Both of this earth; but in their nobler sphere The sisters twain may teach an erring heart, Reclaim from sin, and guide in love and fear. Household Words. THE BURIAL AT SEA. MARK LEMON. THE solemn words are said, Let the sea re- ceive the dead! In its vast unfathomd bed, until Time shall be no more: The frothing of a wave! and the good, the kind, the brave, Is in his ocean graveall hiS storms of life are o er. His messmates stare with eyes of dull and long surprise, That where their comrade lies not a trace should now be seen; The waves still roll and leap oer the ebamber of his sleep, Down, down in the great deep, as though he had never been. His messmates walk away, and in hoarse whis- pers say, God rest him! So they pray. Who doubts their prayer is heard I When seated at their mess they find one face the less; Each shows his kind distress, thnugh he does not speak a word. Some think that when again they cross that restless main, Theyll look and look in vain for their mess- mates place of rest, And some will sadly sigh, ~nd wish that when they die In churchyards they may lie, with those they have lovd the best. Death will not come and go without his fitting woe Methinks tis doubly so when he meets us on the sea: The World is then so small, a Ship contains it all The dead man neath the pall! How large a part was he. London Journal. EPITAPH. BY EDMUND cARRINGTON. For the monument erected by Queen Victoria to the memory of the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of Charles I., who died in captivity at Carisbrook Castle, Isle of Wight, 1650, aged 14 years. A CHILD in years, grown old before my time, The shuddring witness of despair and crime: With no fond hopes. to cheer my maiden years, Mid lifes wide gloom, still lookd on thro my tears: By no lovd mothers watchful eye caressd Soothd by her care and by her counsels blessd. The link that bound my heart-strings to her rent in pining sevrance! Lingering, vain lament! Wrung my young heart by stern Afflictions rod, The mercy sought, but foundthe wrath of God. Alas! how taught the dark reverse that flings To dust, not lowlier brows alone, but kings! Scarce won my grief a fathers sought embrace Scarce caught a glimpse of that care-havockd face, Then snatchd from itto weep, where only lives The visions shade, that dear, as sad revives! Wakes the torn smile that strove my heart to stay Grief I see turn to hide the tear away; While veal his parting words on memorys ear, Plead to my trembling soul in accents dear, Lovd one! I bear with me to heavn thy heart, Till thou, to claim it, after me depart. There shall thy sire a fairer kingdom meet There his iovd childs caress unseverd greet!~ I hear him speak! Beyond the tomb I fly To seek him !blessd to live, and not to die. And oh! (if aught my spirit may divine), Perchance some sister of a royal line Oer the pale sod, of my neglected bier Sorrowing, one dby shall pause, and drop the tear~ Twill soothe my shades drear vision of the past, That mourned oer it HER genrous grief at last. so

THE LIVING AGE. No. 737.lO July 1858.Enlargedi Series, No. 15. CONTENTS. 1. Poems by Coventry Patmore 2. Fictions of Bohemia 3. Patristic Theology 4. French Slave Trade 5. England and Sardinia 6. French Army vs. French People 7. Red Sea and Euphrates Telegraph Lines, 8. Mr. Rareys Teaching 9. The Mormon Flight 10. The Eve of a Revolution 11. Cosmos, Vol. 1V. 12. A Human Waif 13. Religious Memoirs 14. The Lady on the Mall 15. Mrs. Hornbys Stamboul 16. The Ether, 17. Uniform Weights and Measures North British Review, Quarterly Review, North British Review, Spectator, N. Y. Times, Household Words, Examiner, Household Words, Blackwoods Magazine, Household Words, Spectator, Household Words, Economist, POEmY.Dust and Ashes, 82. Deeds, not Words, 82. Good Morning, 82. Smile, Sing, 82. Riding Together, 160. Eve of Crecy, 160. Summer Dawn, 160. PAGa. 83 93 104 113 114 116 118 120 121 123 141 133 135 149 152 155 158 Speak, SHORT AwncLEs.Old Presbyterian Rigor, 92. Class Representation, 92. Insects never Grow, 92. Education, 103. Smith and Bentley, 103. Theatre at 4 oclock, 103. Ladys Man, 103. Toleration of White Folk, 122. Bomba, King of Naples, 130. Witchcraft, 130. Hasty Judgment, 132. Poisonous Snakes, 134. Publications of Old Rome, 134. Valuable Enemies, 134. Humility, 151. Apology for Crinoline, 151. Audubons Persever- ance, 159. No Good Lost, 159. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON & Co., Boflon; and STANFORD & DELISSER, 508 Broadway, New-York. For Six Dollars a year, remitted directly to either of the Publishers, 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 neat boxes, 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 nnmbers. Asi NUMBER may be had for 12 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any brokenvolumesthey may ha!e, and thus greatly enhance theirvalue. DUST AND ASHES...GOOD MORNING. DEEDS, NOT WORDS. WHEREFORE bid me say I love you Nay appeal you to the past; If my deeds no tale have told you, Words may to the winds be cast; These, though every hour repeated, Neer had held your heart so fast. Years ago I would not bind you, Though your pledge you bade me take; Lest some future day should find you, For your honors, not my sake, Riveting, before Gods altar, Chains you rather longed to break. Think not that your love I doubted Even in its earliest spring; But I asked myself the question: What will years of waiting bring? God be thanked the trial ended, Both our hearts the closer cling. Why, then, bid me say I love you; Look into the past, and see If each thou,,ht of mine and labor, Were not for usnot for me. Deeds, not words, have bound us may we Still by them united be. RUTH BucK. Chamberss Journal. DUST AND ASHES. I. BETWIXT your home and mine, 0 love, there is a graveyard lying; And every time you came, Your steps were oer the dead, and from the dying! Your face was dark and sad, Your eyes had shadows in their very laughter, Yet their glance made me glad, And shut my own to what was coming after. Your voice had deeper chords Than the Lolian harp when night winds blow; The melancholy music of your words None but myself may know. And, oh, you won my heart By vows unbreathed, by words of love un- spoken; So that, as now we part, You have no blame to bear, and yet tis broken! II. How shall I bear this blow, how best resent it? Ah, love, you have not left me even my pride! Nor strength to put aside, nor to repent it Twere better I had died! You came beneath my tent with friendly greet- ing; Of all my joys you had the better part; Then, when our eyes and hands were oftenest meeting, You struck me to the heart! No less a murderer, that your victim, living, Can face the passing world, and jest and smile! No less a traitor, for your show of giving Your friendship all the while! Well, let it pass! That city churchyard, lying Betwixt our homes, is but a type and sign Of the waste in your heart, and of the. eternal dyin~ Of all s~et hopes in mine! Household Words. GOOD MORNING. OH, I am so happy! a litttle girl said, As she sprang, like a lark, from her low trundle. bed; Tis morning, bright morning, good morning, papa. Oh give me one kiss for good morning, mamma: Only just look at my pretty canary, Chirping his sweet good morning to Mary. The sun is peeping straight into my eyes Good morning to you, Mister Sun, for you rise Early to wake up my birdie and me, And make us as happy as happy can be. Happy you may be my dear little girl, And the mother stroked softly a clustering curl; Happy you can be, but think of the One Who wakened, this morning, both you and the sun. The little girl turned her bright eyes with a nod, Mamma, may I say, Good morning to God? Yes, little darling one, surely you may; Kneel, as you kneel every morning to pray. Mary knelt solemnly down, with her eyes Looking up earnestly into the skies; And two little hands that were folded together, Softly she laid on the lap of her mother: Good morning, dear Father, in heaven, she said, I thank Thee for watching my snug little bed; For taking good care of~ me all the dark night, And waking me up with the beautiful light. Oh keep me from naughtiness all the long day, Dear Saviour, who taught little children to pray. SPEAK! SMILE! SING! SPEAK ! and as melodious winds, agreeing, Flutt9r some Zfiolian harp above, All the sentient fibres of my being Tremble to those thrilling tones of love. Smile ! and as the beams of morning render Iridescent violets brimmed with dew; So thy joyous glance responsive splendor Wakes in tearful eyes that turu to you. Sing! and ah, my fancy, spreading pinions Floats above the sweet seraphic air: Even as the soul to heavens dominions Soars upon the i~cense of a prayer. W. O.K. Dublin University Magazine. 82 83 POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. From The North British Review. human life and history. They see the deeper The Angel in the House. By Coventry Pat- breadths of shadow and of light; they see the more. Books I. and II. Second Edition. masses of color which distinguish the various J. XV. Parker. 1868. groups of men, and the striking aspects of Tamerton Church Tower, and ot1~er Poemr. nature; but the smaller elements of which By Coventry Patmore. J. W. Parker. these are composed they know only rou0hly, 1854. and from an instinctive knowledge of propor. ALL the poetry most characteristic of the tion. Just as a quick ear will catch a tune present century has in it a kind of microscopic though it could never distinguish the separate air. Jtconcentrates the eye on what is near, notes, they see and know the whole before rather than on what is distant ; it bids us see they know the parts. The great epic poets a new world in every fresh point of space, could not have painted for us what they have instead of making us feel that every point ~ painted at all, had not the rhythm of some a fresh position from which to sweep with great passage of human, life caught their new result the broad horizon of the universe, imagination before they had gained any in- And, as the magnifying glass is necessarily of sight into the detailed elements of which it a short focus, and throws into dimness and was composed; and, of course, they sing with mist all that lies beyond its proper range, less of inward detail and more of broad effect and that, too, by the very same property by than the modern poets, because the unit of which it reveals in full the marvellous com- conception with them is far larger than it can plexity of the smallest point within that range, be with the self-conscious singers of our own so it seems that it is the condition of the times. If you gaze on the external world poetic faculty of modern times, to give us without the preparation of self-study, you extraordinary insight into what is near and cannot possibly see all that you see if you apparently insignificant, at the expense of have first studied the deep details of your in- those flowing outlines and comprehensive ward life; but you will partially understand groupings of human life which the poets of and grasp a much wider if a much less com- older days painted for us. The mind, like the plex world. A mind that comes, like Goethes, eye, may be adapted to a near or a distant to its study of society with an imagination range of observation; hut, once adapted, it is already burdened with the richest abundance not easy to alter it; and so, too, the mind of inward experience, will see more than it that has been engaged in observing itself, can- can delineate with any artistic effect in its not be easily accustomed to include a wide pictures. A self~-conscious imagination is a field of view. And there is an obvious reason microscope that enlarges indefinitely the de- for this, beyond the mere illustrative analogy tails of every atom it beholds, and so leads to we have hitherto used, in explaining our mean- a pre-IRaffaelite kind of poetry, which dis- ing; for, though every poet, whether of micro- tracts attention from the grouping and the scopic or telescopic vision, must necessarily outline by the unnatural distinctness of every have experience in order to sing, and can only turn of feeling and every shade of thought. use his own experience in his song, that ex- The consequence is, that poetry is taking perience is very different in kind, and is used more and more minute fields of delineation after a very different fashion by the great every day. A single daisy, a group of daffo- painters of life and human story, such as dils, d4i~ at most a mountain, a child, or a wo- Homer, Chaucer, Tasso, and Milton, to that man, is almost as much as Wordsworth can in which personal experience is used by the endure to deal with as the subject of any one great modern school of poetsGoethe and of his finest poems. Goethe is greatest in Coleridge, Wordsworth and Tennyson. The delineating a few female characters; and former do not, like the latter, gaze into their Tennyson most perfect in his mood of sad- own experiencefirst, and then slowly interpret ness, as it expresses itself in half-despondent by it the signs and symptoms of external self-questionings, or in melancholy song. life. Their imagination is quickened from Since Scott cea~d to write, we have had no without, not from within. They do not see poet whose imagination was kindled by the (simply because they never study) all those outward world, by groups of noble figures, minute ril)ples of thought and feeling which and the drama of event. All our recent poets bear no visible trace upon the broad field of bring to their work the microscope of selI~ POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. conscious experience; and so, unless they wisely limit themselves to comparatively minute themes, they are compelled either to execute some parts with disproportionate accuracy, or to crowd their canvas with dis- tracting detail. Goethes tales are frequently failures, simply because he kept but one figure under his object-glass at a time, instead of the whole action of the tale. But though the modern poetry is minute and microscopic, it is any thing but close and confined. The single point it selects for its magnifying glass, is not only shown to he a thousand-fold fuller of action and feeling than it was known to be hefore, hut is connected on every side with the world around it, and the infinite life beyond. Even Wordsworths daisy or his daffodils are instantly seen, not merely to be springing from the common earth, but to be over-arched by the eternal heavens ;they teach human lessons of all degrees, and the spiritual microscope is never lifted away till they have yielded fresh symbols of the immortality of man, and fresh tokens of the tender mercy of God. The infinitude of life is perhaps felt more deeply in the poems of the modern self-con- scious school than in any other. They have not generally the sunny warmth and glow of stories which paint for us the whole wonder and bloom of the world; they have almost always something of the awe of a world of mysterious shAow in them; for, while they take a very narrow foreground, they always show you the infinite distances into which that foreground stretches ~way on every side. And it is clear that indications of this mysterious infinitude can he given more easily and adequately in a poem on a small theme, than in .a poem on a large theme. A solitary flower may be made the means of expressing the infinite awe of the universe far more effectively than the most crowded drama. The fuller a picture or a poem is of positive life action and feeling, the less room is there left in our finite minds for the strange, unconceived immensity be- yond. Rembrandt fills us with deeper sense of the supernatural world by his rough sketch of Jacobs sleeping form, and the dark ladder lit up by one or two flitting shapes of light, than does all the crowded field of Michael Angelos last judgment. And thus the modern school of minutely penetrating, self-conscious experience~ unveils the spirit- ual world far more effectuallythough, of course, only at single pointsthan the great epic and dramatic poets. Tennyson brings us oftener and far more closely and person- ally face to face with God, and sin, and im- mortal life, than Miltonthough God and sin are the professed subjects of Miltons grand poem, and only the occasional visions of Tennysons poetic world. Mr. Coventry Patmore certainly belongs to the modern school of poetrythe self- conscious or microscopic school, as we have termed it; hut in many respects he differs remarkably from the other members of it. The single topic on which he may happen at any time to dwell, is ~magnified in the same careful way, and enlarged in all its details, by the interpreting light of a self-contem- plating experience. We see many emotions, and learn to distinguish many shades of emo- tion which we had never noted before; and the emotion is not merely delineatedit also throws off prismatic fringes of thought, as happens so commonly in the finer poems of Tennyson. But yet Mr. Patmore has a manner, and merits, and deficiencies of his own, which distinguish him strongly from his contemporaries. It is obvious at once that his favorite study is what we may call the surface of mans deeper life,that stratum of human existence where character passes into manners. lie seldom or never probes the depths of the individual soul. He ha8 no bias to investigate the springs of thought and faith. These he accepts ; and he only begins to watch them keenly where they begin to blend with the influences which man exerts over man. He skims, as it were, the fine superfices of nature and humanity, but seldom cares to penetrate to those deeper and sterner social laws on which are based the ~fair~ traditions of civility, which he sings with so much grace. He has himself told us in some of his finest lines, that sus- tained spiritual effort is not a theme on which his genius loves to dwell And to converse direct with Heaven, Is a great labor in the breast; nor does he choose even to converse di- rect with man. What Mr. Carlyle calls a clothes-philosopl~ is nearest to Mr. Pat- mores characteristic domnin,meaning, of course, by clothes, that spiritual vesture of the mind in which it appearsin all sea- sons of calm weather at leastto the eyes 84 85 POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. of spectators. He does not love to look through and beneath this to what the spirit is in itselfto the unclothed spirit as it is seen by God, or even as it is seen by men in the lightning gleams of tempestuous trial, and in moments when love or faith tempora- rily dissolves the close-fitting shell of social forms. Though Mr. Patmores special theme is love, it is not love in its deeper moods, but in its gentler courtesies ;it is love ceremonious, love the nursling of civility. not love in the mood in which it melts the binding crust of years, and re- veals the hidden depths of personal life to the gaze of another. The following graceful lines are not by any means specimens of Mr. Patmores best poetry, but they exemplify exactly the sphere he chooses for himself in his poem on love Let love make home a gracious court: There let the worlds rude hasty ways Be fashioned to a loftier port, And learn to how and stand at gaze; And let the sweet respective sphere Of personal worship there obtain Circumference for moving clear, None treading on anothers train. This makes that pleasures do not cloy, And dignifies our mortal strife With calmness and considerate joy, Befitting our immortal life. Not only the spasmodic school, but al- most all the modern poetsno doubt herein exaggerating greatly the passionate and ab- sorbing side of lovewould call Mr. Pat- mores poem no poem on love at all. They would find no poetry in a love that learned to bow and stand at gaze; they would have no idea that love ought to recognize the sweet respective sphere of personal worship ; and though we completely appwciate both Mr. Patmores meaning and the grace of his de- lineation, ~ve draw attention to this contrast, simply in order to point out that he advis- edly chooses, for the circle of thought and emotion in which he moves, one much more distant from the personal centre of human life than modern poets usually do. Indeed, this is not only his habit, but his professed desire. He does not write to unveil life,he writes to exercise the poets gift of perfect speech on that which is within most mens ken. Nor voice, nor art, nor plot, nor plan, Nor aught of mine heres worth a toy; Quit praise and blame, and, if you can, Do, brother, for the nonce enjoy. Moving but as the feelings move, I run, or loiter with delight, Or stop to mark where gentle Love Persuades the soul from height to height. And though he disowns expressly any wish to devote his song to mere temporary and tran- sient beauty,though he says, My faith is fast, That all the loveliness I sing Is made to bear the mortal hlast, And blossom in a better spring ; yet, in this, too, he is quite consistent with himself for even spiritual and immortal attri- butes have not only their unfathomable depths, but their shining surfac e,not only their hid- den subterranean spring, but their visible un- dulatn~ course,not only their pools of mys- tery, but their sunny social courses; and the poet may choose the latter, and yet keep as truly to an immortal theme,as if, like Wordsworth, he gave us glimpses of the well- springs of the creative beauty, or, like Tenny- son, he probed awfully, and yet reverently, the secret roots of human faith. This upper stratum, then, of human life, when character assumes the vesture of what we call manners, is Mr. Patmores peculiar sphere as a poet; and it has, of course, both its ad- vantageous and its defective side. On the one hand, it gives more play, more widely-spread- ing color to his theme, than, as one of the microscopic school, he could otherwise, if he pierced deeper, hope to attain; on the other hand, it opens out fewer of those vistas of in- finite depth and wonder which an insight in- to the deeper springs of thought and love always command. His theme is less circum- scribed than it otherwise would be, but it has fewer glimpses of the central and primal life. Interpreting life as he does by his own self- conscious experience, it would follow, that if he took a more searching phase of that ex- perie~ce for what we have called his unit of conception, he could not have had so extend- ed a field. As it is, the thread of his poem winds through many light and gay scenes which would have marred the unity of any deeper theme. At the same time, of course, to go back to an old analogy, the magnifying- glass that admits a larger object at one view must have a lq~ger focal length and a weaker power. In ot~er words, the self-conscious thought which plays over the whole upper surface of a mans spiritual life, instead of piercing into its deepest roots and springs, POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. will miss many openings into that eternal truth of life which a more concentrated power would have detected and explored. Mr. Patmore has said to himself, Lift not the painted veil which those who live call life ; nay, he has said more, and will not even consent to remove the veil of social observances; and his reward is, that, though a self-conscious poet, he has got a wider and more gently un- dulating foreg-round for his poem than most of his contem;)oraries. And first, his gift, as a painter of nature is not slight, but it is limited by the considera- tions we have advanced with regard to his general sphere as an artist. He cannot real- ize his most transient emotions in an imagined landscape of natural beauty that completely expresses a phase of human feeling, like Ten- nyson. He cannot distil the realities of na- ture till they enter into his mind, and spiritu- alize his own moods, like Wordsworth; hut he can take off a very true and lovely picture of what he has seen or conceived, so that we seem to smell the very flowers, and breathe the very breeze of which he sings. Thus he tells us I, in whom the sweet time wrought, Lay stretched within a lonely glade, Abandoned to delicious thought, Beneath the softly twinkling shade. The leaves, all stirring, mimickd well A neighboring rush of rivers cold, And, as the sun or shadow fell, So these were green, and those were gold; In dim recesses hyacinths drooped, And breadihs of primrose cooled the air, Which, wandering through the woodland, stooped, And gathered perfumes here and there; Upon the spray the squirrel swung, And careless songsters, six or seven, Sung lofty songs the leaves among, Fit for their only listener, Heaven. An equally poetical picture is the descrip- tioh of the Deanery of Sarum Close, where the scene of the poem is most often laid Twas half my home six years ago; The six years had not altered it: Red brick and ashlar, long and low, With dormers and with oriels lit. Geranium, lychnis, rose arrayed, The windows all wideopen thrown, And some one in the study plt~yed The wedding-march of Mendelssohn. And there it was I last took leave: Twas Christmas: I rememberd now The cruel girls, who feigned to grieve, Took down the evergreens, and how The laurel into blazes woke The fire, lighting the l~rge, low room, A dim rich lustre of old 6ak And crimson velvets glowing gloom. These, and other still more delicately painted pictures, have all the life and harmony that only a poet can give. We do not say that they belong to the highest poetic class, for they do not profess to interpret, even so far as interpretation is possible, the tender and mystic symbols of natural beauty. Mr. Patmore contents himself with simple deline- ation; he neither constrains the manners of men to yield up the inner secrets of their characters, nor the complex forms of nature to reveal the deeper things of the Eternal Mind. But we cannot look to have the same foun tam of thought for all our poets; and if the power of hills rests upon some of them, till it gives to all they utter the might and freedom of a mountain tone,if Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized inspire others with a special art for translating into human speech the sweet and melancholy music of the air and sea,not the less but the more grateful shall we be to receive from a poet of a different class those soft tran- scripts of nature, which are rather a fitting framework for human experience than a new enlargement of its sphere. This distinctly secondary place Nature certainly takes in Mr. Patmores poems. His images taken from Nature usually come in the distinct form of similessimiles often of the most perfect grace and beauty,but still illustrations of thought rather than its very form and body. The matured stage of exact analogy which the simile implies, points out at once that the thought came first, the illustration following; in short, that there was not that perfect fusion between the mental conception and the image which embodies it, which is given by the ac- tivity of the imagination in its most vivid mo- ments. -A new and perfect simile always implies a more considerate and slower fancy than a new and perfect metaphor. Thus, where Mr. Patmore is describing the polite jealousy entertained by his hero for another young gentleman (who seems, by the way, to have been more deserving but less success- ful in his suit), he sings: A man to please ~ girl! though I Retorting his forced smiles, the shrouds Of wrath, so hid as she was by, Sweet moon between her lighted clouds! Again, when he is recalling t.he noble form and gentle state of the lady he admires, he explains 86 POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. Her dress had brushed this wicket; here She turned her face and laughd, with looks Like moonbeams on a wavering mere. There is genuine poetry in these touches, but clearly the nature is strictly subordinated to the human thought; it does not blend with it, but rather clothes it; there is not that per- fect identity between the thought and the symbol which seems to deepen at the same time that it embodies the feeling of the poet. Nor can we look for the very highest poetry, even of Nature, from any poet who does not work on what we may call the primary strata of human lifethe rugged affections, passions, and faiths which lie even deeper in our na- ture than The fair sum of six thousand years Traditions of civility, of which Mr. Patmore so much loves to sing. There is something so awful, at times even appalling, ahout the mighty symbols and mysterious constancy of Natures life, that it will not amalgamate entire]y with any but the very deepest element in mans. The highest poetry of Nature is not Greek but Hebrew. The mountains and the strong foundations of the earth will give ear only to the Lords controversy. And, among English poets, Natures life has heen the natural embodi- ment of human thought only where that thought has been quarried out of the substan- tial essence of our universal humanity. This cannot truly be said of any poet who draws so largely on the graces of social culture, and even of national manners and habits, as Mr. Patmore. He ~ing~ of pleasant ramblings in a fair and well-tilled garden, not of wander- ings on that primeval earth of forest and wilderness where man first learns to suhdue Nature, and, by subduing, to respect and dimly understand her. And this leads us to the qualifications of Mr. Patmores genius for painting pharacter. He has one of the most distinguishing char- acteristics of a poet, an instinctive knowledge of the feminine cast of mind. His special in- sight into the emotional upper-currents of human experience, of which we have spoken, necessarily implies insight into feminine characteristics for women express their whole mind through their manners far more constantly and adequately (though generaily less openly) than men. It might almost be said to l)e a certain test, though by no means a necessary condition, of poetic genius, for a 87 man to have the power of delineating per- fectly feminine influences, and feminine modes of thought. Mr. Kingsley has it. We do not know one of his masculine characters that is painted to the life, but many of his feminine characters breathe out the very essence of what Goethe used to call womens reine Weiblichkeit und holde Umgebung. Many poets of all but the very first rank are without it; but no man who has it can help being in some degree a poet; for it implies, at least in a man, an imagination so recep- tive, so open to the most delicate impressions, in order to be able to delineate the ethereal essence of feminine influence, that other forms of life and beauty must necessarily enter at the same avenues. No man who can deline- ate woman, can be without power to delineate also the fairer and softer aspects of nature, though he need not, of course, be able to grasp her more rugged and magnificent scenes. Mr. Patmore has the power we have indicated in a very remarkable degree. His only fault is, if we may so express it, that he has a tendency, not to make women too femi- nine, which is impossible, but a little too small. Now, we cannot deny the very obvi- ous fact of a certain limitation of mindlet us say shallownessin a large proportion of women: but assuredly it is not the feminine cast of their character which makes them so. This Mr. Patmore well knows, and on occa- sion can finely sing. Speaking of the nature of woman, he says, with wonderful beauty, No idle thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy chequers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds On noondays azure permanence.~~ But in his actual delineation he does not usually give us that noon-days azure per- manence, but only a very limited sample of it, without indicating, as he should do, the soft bi~adths of sky which stretch far beyond the limits of his picture. This often destroys the beauty of his delineation, which is occa- sionally young-ladyish rather than feminine, and at such times loses sight of the deeper aspects of womans devotion. This is a fault Mr. Kingsley always avoids; the great beauty of his feminine characters lies in the marvel- lous depth he e~r gives them; - Rest comes down upon their souls From the everlasting deep. We do not mean that Mr. Patmore dbes not also at times, give us fine glimpses of this. POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. We have shown that he does. Not in vain does he ask, at the opening of his poem Thou Primal Love, who grantest wings And voices to the woodland birds, Grant me the power of saying things Too simple and too sweet for words. But still the main fault of his poem is, that he makes his heroine a toy. We must con- fess at once that we think poorly of Honoria. We should object to her for a wife. She is prudish, and her nature is on a petty scale. She is worthy of the hero, hut that is not saying very much for her. She is very in- ferior to her sisters, so far as we can catch glimpses of them in the sketch. The second daughter is much the hest; and even Mildred, the youngest, whose daisy eyes had learned to droop, is very much to he preferred to the eldest. We are told at first almost as much about Honoria as it was possible to tell; and here is the young lady with whom we are so ill-satisfied Was this her eldest, Honor; prude, Who would not let me pull the swing; Who, kissed at Christmas, called me rude, And sobbed alone, and would not sing l How changed! In shape, no tall, slim Grace, But Venus; milder than the dove; Her mothers air; her Norman face, Her large, sweet eyes, clear lakes of love. The picture is pretty and true to nature, and is adhered to throughout; hut it is not a picture fitted to hring out the poetic or deep side of love. We have many complaints to make of the pettiness of the character. She does not talk with her lover, she chats. She is dignified on a small scale. When her hand is pressed, she withdraws the rays Which did till then enhance Her fairness with its thanks for praise. After marriage, she ohjects to her husbands songwhat would certainly he no credit to her if true I did not call you Dear or Love, I think, till after Frank was born. In short, she is altogether limited. It is~ quite a relief, in the middle of this very propers love-making, to come across some of the things too simple and too sweet for words, which are interspersed in the pauses of the courtship. You can scarcely believe sometimes, while Mr. Patmore dwells on the small accustomed agonies of love, and explai~~s, with touching fidelity to the imme- morial traditions of his suhject, how pearls and lapis lazuli, and so forth, are her beau- tys fair prerogative,t~at he can write with so much breadth and depth as is shown, not only in special parts of his book, but at fre- quent intervals throughout it. The music of of the following verses, for example, is not easily forgotten; meaning and form take hold of the mind with equal force, and the last two lines sum up the thought with that signi- ficant itidication of an untold depth of feeling beyond, which we miss in the numerous sweet, easy, and flowing verses, of the kind we have just been criticising Love wakes men, once a life-time each; They lift their heavy lids and look; And lo! what one sweet page can teach They read with joy, then shut the hook. And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, And most forget; hut either way, That and the childs unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day. While we are on the subject of Mr. Pat- mores treatment of character, we must note that his incidental sketches are truer, and even more skilful, than his principal figures. The iDean himself is finely described; and and we very much prefer a strong-minded old aunt, who appears once or twice on the scene, to the heroine herself. She is sketched with force and humor, and gives an exceed- ingly good and trustworthy opinion on the hero of the poem, though she is clearly too par- tial to the heroine. We feel a great admira- tion for this old lady, who would certainly have forbidden the banns if she could, and who yet with noble forgiveness of temper presented her niece with a lovely shawl as a wedding present, when she found that she could find no lawful impediment! We recommend her heartily to the notice of our readers. The one great reason why Mr. Patmores poem does not take a wider and deeper range is to be found in his too direct mode of delineating the passion which is the sub- ject of his poem. The natural and highest tendency of that passion is certainly not to set up an idol directly before our eyes, and magnify it after the minute and somewhat heathen tone of adulation into which this poem not unfrequently fallsthough it as frequently rises far above it. Love, said a great thinker, is deepest in those minds in which it is not ~primary but a secondary passion. We believe this to be a very deep truth as regards all human love, and it is a truth of which Mr. Patmore frequently loses sight. Love is never deepest when it comes 88 8~Y POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. first among human motives; for its depth mainly depends on its reverence, and there can be no reverence in a love which does not see many higher ends than its own claims. Moreover, we din-not believe that it is nat- ural to make an express object of the pas- sion itselfto be on the look-out for love. An amarts amare does not deserve to find what he seeks. Love that is the gradual and unconscious birth of blending smypa- thies is far higher and far more common and natural. As we have said, we have no great resl)ect for the hero of his poem; and do not hesitate, therefore, to reject as entirely false to nature, in at least nine cases out of ten, his arbitrary dictum, that every unmar- ried man. worth any thing makes it his chief thought in life when he shall mar- ry I kept the custom; I confess I never went to ball, or fdte, Or show, but in pursuit express Of my predestinated mate: And thus to me, who had in sight The happy chance upon the cards, Each beauty blossomed in the light Of tender personal regards. We confess we thipk if this were so, he de- served nothing-better than to marry Honoria. Honoria seems to have had no interests be- yond those of tender personal regards, in which they could have shared together; and the passion, therefore, to be described is all of it explicit passion for the lady, not that far higher kind of passion which springs originally from common sympathies and in- terests in thoughts and worlds beyond them- selves. Idolatry is always small and poor; and it is the tendency to idolatry in the love- making of this poem which kceps it so often down to the level of the earth. Indeed, idolatry is the stifling element in almost all love-poetry which renders it so intolerable to read continuously; but it is also the unreal element which does not nourish love, but exhausts it. This is, in fact, the weakness of the subjective poetry, that it will dwell directly in the phenomena of passion, al- though an adequate delineation of it can only be given by its indirect influence on the other currents of thought and feeling. Mr. Felix, going about like Coelebs in search of a wife, precludes himself from finding all that he ought to want. The direct gaze of the mind weakens the delicate truthful- ness of natural sympathies. The hig~ est love is, we must repeat, not indeed uncon- scious, but certainly not of self-conscious origin; it springs from spiritual affinities, and tends to the delight of deeper sympathy rather than of constant mutual admiration. The theme of Mr. Patmores poem is far too much the love of admiration. And con- sequently, the parts of it are the most no- ble and poetical, are those in which the eye is lifted away from the lovers altogether into general contemplation. The destined maid sickens us. It is all very well to hear occasionally of the gusts that shook her curls and vexed the ribbons at her waist, but we cant stand too much of it. A poem such as Mr. Patmore has set himself to write should not be content with delineating per- sonal fascinations. Especially in the books he still proposes to give us must he beware of this. What may be pardonable up to the wedding, will be intolerable afterwards; and we shall exl)ect in the future books to see the horizon of his poem expandto see the blending of the religious and intellectual life of his hero and heroineto see the mingling of waters between the river and the lake, and to see them mingle not merely as if they were drawn together by mutual attrac- tion, but by those deeper currents, at work in them both, which force their waters to seek a common issue from the narrow banks within which they are confined. Mr. Pat- more seems to delight, like some other poets Shelley for instancein keeping the object of passion distinctly and separately in view; nay, he seems almost to dread~ the sympathy which might unite two minds in an uncon- scious identity of faith and love. He says, wibh much beauty, in one of his earliest poems, in the name of a man on the eve of his wedding He dreads lest time should make them twain,, o use should let them run With undistinguished heart and brain, Like dew-drops, into one; Not prescient of the strong defence Of thoughts that still perplex With all the countless difference And sweet consent of sex. And again, in this later poem And in the warmth of hand to hand, Of heart to ~ieart, hell vow to note And reverentl ~ts ndcrstand How the two spirits shine remote; And neer to numb fine honors nerve, Nor let sweet awe in passion melt; Nor fail, by courtesies, to observe POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. The space which makes attraction felt; Nor cease to guard, like life, the sense Which tells him that the embrace of love Is oer a gulf of difference Love cannot sound, nor death remove. This is finely said, as well as true; but it is not true, that to gaze over the gulf between mind and mind at the opposite shore is the course of action which makes attraction felt. The difference is, in fact, the source of the at- traction, hut it can be felt only as the source of attraction in the act of exercising the powers and gifts which are so different; and of course it can be delineated only through a faithful delineation of such intellectual and spiritual differences as find their complement and completion in union. No doubt such a delineation is a difficult task. But this is, as we understand it, the great purpose of Mr. Patmores poem; and it certainly is not an- swered by merely making his readers feel that Felix~ thought Honoria an angel, and Honoria thought Felix a god. This direct gazing at each other is not that marriage of true minds which he has undertaken to sing. lie is bound to show us the unity of moral and intellectual difference, and that the ground of unity does not consist in the deficiency on either side, hut in that completeness to which each helps the other to attain. Mr. Patmore exercises the minds and hearts of his charac- ters far too little on objects outside themselves. It is love in idleness all through his poem, and therefore not unfrequently degenerates into idle love. This is quite unworthy of his powers. There is no incident, no grief, no suspense, no spiritual doubt, no tasking effort, to bring out the sustaining strength of mutual love,nothing that helps us to see how much greater is the union of love than the love of union. Love is blind only when it is self-con- sciously mistaking the part for the whole-the single ray of beauty for the entire splendor of perfection. But in action, in life, in the indi- rect strength it pours into anothers soul, it is not blind; because the great realities of life and faith are kept full before the mind,thus rectifying the partialities, while rejecting none of the help that purified love can give. Mr. Patmore has a greater work before him than he has yet attempted, if he is to make his poem worthy of his theme. He must show us the growth of the affection, after the flut- terings of gratified vanity and worshipping admiration have subsided; he must show it us in the keen fire of grief, and strengthened by self-sacrifice; he must show it us modifying the intellect, enlightening the conscience by mutual gleams of light and confirming trust. He is deeply impressed with one great truth, which he has finely expressed in the following lines. The rainbow, he reminds us, can only be seen by one who stands outside the glit- tering shower. If you try to get too near it, you are enveloped in the cloud With whatsoevers lovely, know It is not ours; stand off to see; Or Beautys apparition so Puts on invisibility. But there is another equally great truth which his poem does not express,the truth that seeing, after all, is not the way to assimilate spiritual beauty, nay, is often the way to lose all hold of it; for mere sight, even the poets sight, constantly substitutes the partial for the perfect glory, where life, with its anxious toil and want, would reject none of the blessing, and yet would recognize all the deficiency. Mr. Patmore seems to us to take at once an exaggerated view of womans natural graces, and a very depreciating view of their capacities for growth. Let us admit freely that women are often quite as dull, and, if dull, a vast deal more insipid and wearisome than men. We think there must be some- thing of strange idiosyncrasy in Mr. Patmore constitution if he can truly say Yet if I come where women are, How sad soever I was before, Then is my sadness banished far. At least our experience is not similar. The sudden polar spring comes to us quite as often from the influence of men as from that of women, if we are to speak generally and in the rough. On the other hand, while flattering thus their sunny influence, he treats theitr a~ if they had no more capacity for moral and intellectual growth than a flower or a bird; and, in his very fine ~ between men and women, assigns all the gradual progress to those, and attributes an involuntary blossoming to these: Where she succeeds with cloudless brow In common and in holy course, He fails, in spite, of prayer and vow, And agonies olifaith and force. . . Her spirit, compact of gentleness, If Heaven postpones or grants her prayer, Conceives no pride in its success, 90 POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. And in its failure no despair; But his, enamored of its hurt, Baffled, blasphemes, or, not denied, Crows from the duaghill of desert, And wags its ugly wings for pride. Hes never young nor ripe; she grows More infantine, anroral, mild, And still the more she lives and knows, The lovelier shes expressed a child. Or say she wants the patient brain To track shy truth: her facile wit At that which he hunts down with pain Flies straight, and does exactly hit. Were she but half of what she is, He twice himself, mere love alone, Her special crown, as truth is his, Gives title to the loftier throne: For love is substance, truth the form; Truth without love were less than nought; But blindest love is sweet and warm, And full of truth not shaped by thought. This is very beautiful and full of insight, but it is one-sided insight, which, if carried too far, will injure the poem Mr. Patmore is writing. It would be truer to say that justice is more native to men, and self-devotion to women; and as both justice and self-devotion are equally mingled in that Divine and highest love which St. Paul calls charity,the uni- versal sympathy, that is, with the fair spirit of goodness, innocence, or penitence,we cannot fairly say that either has the substance, while the other has the form. All love is, no doubt, full of implicit truth, as Mr. Pat- more says; but often a great deal more than the mere shaping of thought is needed to distil from the concrete feminine love of which he is singing, the Truth which it really con- tains in solution. We have criticized freely Mr. Patmores poem, because we think it every way worthy of careful and close criticism. Mr. Patmore is clearly a poeta poet, we mean, by voca- tion, who has indeed received The power of saying things Too simple and too sweet for words. And he is not only a poet, but a poet whose mind has grown visibly and rapidly since his earliest productions. There are, no doubt, in the volume of poems called Tamerton Church Tower, many indications that he was not merely one of those who, in the opening years of youth, feel the necessity for some deeper expression of their feelings than ordi- nary speech permits, but whose powers, when expanded and developed, tend either to ab stract or practical pursuits. Almost all young men of sensitive temperament write verses, of more or less merit, as a kind of safety-valve for emotion, in that intensely subjective period of life when, living as they do in a subjective era, they may be called (by a slight twist of the detestable transcendental phrase- ology of the day), subjecto-subjective; sub- jective in the first degree by inheritance, and doubly subjective through the self-conscious temperament of youth. Mr. Patmores early verses were not of this kind. They showed the happy discriminating insight and tact of expression which are so conspicuous in his later poem. Still, they had all the limpness, the want of firm texture, purpose, sustained thought, and clear conception, which dis- tinguish the turbid period of the intellectual life. You can see in them, as in the chrysalis, what he himself has finely called The blind uneasy motions That foretell the higher life. As far as the art of expression goes, his genius will probably go no further. The simplicity, the taste, and harmony of his verse, is all that we could wish. But he has yet to gain much of the grasp of truth, and the power of more melancholy wisdom, which distinguishes the maturest life. We do not wish him to become abstract, for that a poet can never be; but the same mental tendency which, in ordinary men, tends towards ab- stract modes of thought as they advance to- wards maturity, may be of great use to his genius. A little more of the primeval rock on which our life is based, and a little less of the overlaying flowers and sod, would add dignity and interest to Mr. Patmores land- scape. This, we think, it will be the natural tendency of age, and of that decision and even inflexibility of thought which age brings with it~~to give. There is no fear that it can do him any harm. He never analyzes, he never reasons; he ahs~ays delineates, in a living form, the intellectual truths he wishes to enforce; and if these truths should, in future, occupy a somewhat greater share in his mind, and the little accessories of delines- tive skill a somewhat less share, the effect of his pictures can only be enhanced. Indeed, we would gladly~ee the sequel of his poem even more full than the introduction, of 91 POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. thoughts so noble and so exquisitely presented as we find in the following lines: Would Wisdom for herself be wood, And. wake the foolish from his dream, She must be glad as well as good, And must not only be but seem. Beauty and joy are hers by right; And, knowing this, I wonder less That shes so scorned, when falsely dight In misery and ugliness. Whats that which Heaven to man endears, And that, which eyes no sooner see Than the heart says, with floods of tears, Ali! thats the thing which I would be V Not childhood, full of fears and fret; Not youth, impatient to disown Those visions high, which to forget Were worse than never to have known. Not these; hut souls found here and there, Oases in our waste of sin, When everything is well and fair, And God remits his discipline, Whose sweet subdual of the world The worldling scarce can recognize; And ridicule, against it hurled, Drops with a broken sting and dies. They live by law, not like the fool, But like the bard who freely sings In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule, And finds in them not bonds but wings. OLD PRESBYTERIAN RIGoRIn 1598 we find the presbytery of Glasgow concerning itself about a young man who had passed his father without lifting his bonnet. He was judged a stubborn and disobedient son to his father. About 1574 the kirk-session of Edinburgh was occupied for some days in considering the case of Niel Lang, accused of making a pompous convoy and superfluous banqueting at the mar- riage of Margaret Danielston, to the great slan- der of the kirk, which had forbid such doings. The absence of external appearances of joy in Scotland, in contrast with the frequent holiday- ings and merry-makings of the Continent, has been much remarked upon. We find in the records of ecclesiastical discipline clear traces of the process by which this distinction was brought about. To the Puritan kirk of the six- teenth and seventeenth centuries every outward demonstration of natural good spirits was a sort of sin, to be as far as possible repressed. To make marriages sober and quiet was one special object. The kirk session of Cambusnethan, in September 1649, ordained that there suld be no pipers at bridals, and who ever suld have a piper playing at their bridal, sail lose their con- signed money. And in June next year, the same reverend body decreed that men and wo- men guilty of promiscuous dancing, should stand iu a public place and confktss their fault. Chamberss Domestic Annals of Scotland. CLASS REPREsENTATION. The popular idea is that class representation would produce class legislation. The truth is exactly the re- verse. The idea seems to be that by distrihuting a class in fragmentary portions among a number of constituencies you neutralize its power, and make it harmless by dilution; just as has been sometimes done with a mutinous regiment. But, in point of fact, it is this very distribution which gives it such an enormous power of obstruction. Few members in these days hold their seats with such certainty as to be able to disregard the wishes of any tolerably influential section of their constituents. The section may be a small one, but it may he strong enough to turn a close election; and therefore its behests must be obeyed. A small section thus wields the power of the whole constituency; much in the way la which, some six or seven years ago, the Irish members tried to wield the power of the Eng- lish government. No one can have watched the utter impotence of Parliament to raise its hand against the attorneys or the licensed victuallers, or the extreme difficulty with which even so small a body as the ecclesiastical lawyers have been dealt with, without perceiving how effec- tively these tactics operate. Now, if any such class had a number of members proportioned to its importance wholly given over to it, and were debarred from any other suffrage, their power in the House of Commons would be limited to that number of members. Whereas, now they command, or at least greatly influence, the vote of every member,~ of whose constituency some of them form a part; and from this position it is impossible to dislodge them, until some po- pular ferment arouses the inert mass of the elec- tors to overbear the active and interested few. Lord R. Cecil on Parliamentary Representation. INSECTS NEVER GRowMany people fancy that a little fly is only little because it is young, an4thst it will grow up in process of time to be as big as a blue-bottle. Now this idea is en- tirely wrong; for when an insect has once at- tained to its winged state, it grows no more. All the growing and most part of the eating is done in its previous states of life, and indeed there are many inseets, such as the silk-worm moth, which do not eat at all from the time that they assume the chrysalis state to the time when they die. 92 FiCTIONS OF BOHEMIA. From The Quarterly Review. 1. Sc~nes de la Vie de Boh~me. Par Henry Miirger. Paris, 1854. 2. Les Buveurs dEau. Par Henry Miirger. Paris, 1855. 3. Les Aventures de Mademoiselle Man- ette. Par Champfleury. Paris, 1857. 4. Friends of Bohemia; or Phases of Lon- don Life. 2 vols. By E. M. Whitty. London, 1857. THE Bohemia of which we are about to treat is not that rich and pleasant province that lies between the Moravian and the Giant Mountains, and which, even in these its days of dependency, stifl retains as its metropolis the third city of continental Europe. Neither are the Bobemians of these pages the inhab- itants of that border-land of the Sclavonic and Teutonic peoples whose energetic ances- tors grasped and lost the prize of Protestant liberty, nor even that strange nomad race, the refuse of some oriental migration or in- vasion, that has been invested with this among other psuedo-historic names by the more western nations, who have desired to connect these mysterious intruders with some locality from which it was supposed they had wandered. The metaphor has since been taken a step further; the appellation of that singular remnant of a distant world which has now remained for centuries an alien spot in the midst of our most advanced communities, has been transferred to the men of every race and age who, by affinity of tempera- ment and similar eccentricity of habits, are led to exhibit the same moral characteristics or to adopt an analogous mode of life. The history of this Bohemia, if properly written, would he as long, and ought to be as learned as Mr. Buckles History of civilization, for the one is the inevitable reverse of the other, and although in earlier times the territory is less distinct and the population less definite, yet, as mankind leave the tent and the kettle and imprison themselves in houses and kitch- ens, the Bohemian, under one title or other, will always he found outside. Multiple, in- deed, are the forms of the out-of-door resist- ance of mankind to the unceasing develop- ment of the wants and the satisfactions of their species ; various as the physical ener- gies that have sustained the children of Na- ture in health and delight, from the days of the Satyrs, the country-gentlemen of ancient Greece, to the British deer-stalker on the Highland hills ; various as the powers of genius and the faculties of art, that have kept gay and glorious the minds of men under all privations and through all the chances of fortune,the Homeyic rhapsodist, the vagrant troubadour, the poor scholar, the free-mason, the strolling player,Blake at his easel and Burns at the plough; various as the basest and the loftiesI~ affections of the human heart,the love of license and anti- pathy to order that make the robber and the rebel, and the aspiration after a purer law and a higher order that drives the prophet into the desert. As might be expected from the curious satisfaction with which even the honest follow the intricacies of fraud, and even the gentle the violences of crime, the details of the hostility of this people against the elemen- tary ordinance& of society as exhibited in the fillibuster whose life is ever on the hazard, or in the rogue whose repose is the prison, have been in all times especially attractive. It is difficult, in truth, to make the adventures of the most virtuous mariner as interesting as those of the buccaneer, or the pecuniary ven- tures of the most fortunate merchant as amusing as the tricks of Guzman de Alfara- che or the raids of Rob Roy. It is not the first French novel we read that reveals to us this disposition of our minds, but the first story book in which we look out for the mis- haps of the naughty boy. No prince of Abyssinia, however wise, can compete with the solitary prince of BohemiaRobinson Crusoe, and even the ruffians of Alsatia have acquired a romantic esteem and taken rank as belonging to a Bohemian dependency. But there is another district of Bohemia, the interest in which is less readily acknowledged but which assuredly deserves it still more. If ~pur imaginations are touched and our sympat~iies affected by the dark faces that come upon us under the secluded hedgerow, and the waggon-tents that startle the rider across the open moor, what shall we say to the fate of the Gipsy, dissociated from all the requirements of his nature,the free air, the clear light, the liberty of movement, and earning his daily bread in the factory or the mine? Sur~y the romance and pathos of his destiny must increase in proportion as he is encumbered and closed in by the de- mands and powers of an antagonistic soci- ety, and yearns towards some distant and 93 94 FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. unknown Peshawur, the cradle, and it may of the best French poetry and the proper be yet the habitation of his race. And this ancestors not only of Clement Marot (the is the condition of the intellectual Bohemian, favorite of that royal Bohemian, Margaret the Artist, or the Man of Letters, to whom de Valois), but of Ronsard, Regnier, and a certain moral freedom seems a necessity of Moli~re. The rough reality of Rabelais existence, who instinctively rebels against the holds its own beside the gentlemanlike nicety established rules of society, more because of Montaigne, and, above all the courtly and they are established than for any other rea- accomplished literature of later times sounds son, who conceives little comfort in the elab- the wail of Rousseau, the pitiful and terrible orate luxuries which other men spend their cry of the ill-conditioned outcast against the lives in toiling to possess, who claims a large society which he hated quite as much for its field for the exercise of his talents and affec- artificial graces as for its inherent vices. tions, and feels nothing but trammels in the That society,.indeed, had been and then was ordinary methods of cultivating the one and more of a fixed institution, strictly regulated regulating the other. If such natural inch- and formally defined, than existed in any other nationsand they are common to genius in part of the globe. It was a beau monde, all places and periodsare combined with a enlightened by belles leltres, protected happy physical temperament and a humor- against intrusion by lofty and time-honored istic perception of common things, their barriers, outside of which every thing was possessor may find in some port of Bohe- deemed vulgar and uncouth. Between this mia, not only a refuge from his own isola- dominion and Bohemia the relations for a tion and from the contempt of the world long period were those of civil wars, varied which would tread him down to the dull level by occasional truces, during which the fa- or drive him into the outer darkness of in- mihiar intercourse was more dangerous than sanity or crime, but a community of feelings the customary hostility; the roues of the and an identity of interests far above all his Regent were no better than the desperadoes expectations. No wonder, therefore, that the of misery, and the sham classicalities of Bo- relations of Bohemia afford continual aspects hemia were sometimes as unnatural as the not only of amusing contrast with the exter- wigs of Corneille or the Garden~~ of De- nal social state, but of true and independent lille; and so it went on till at last Bohemia, interest. Without a daily exercise of cour- in the fury of poverty and envy took Marat age and endurancewithout a consciousness for its hero and the P~re Duchesne for its of some intrinsic dignitywithout some ideal literature, and so completely guillotined So- of a higher beingthe Bohemian existence ciety, that it has never since appeared in the can suggest little else but comic situations integrity of its power. Society in its turn and ludicrous incidents; and thus it is well was soon avenged by the great renegade of not to overlook such representations of Bohemia, who mercilessly drove back his the better characteristics of this portion of countrymen within their natural borders, and mankind as are agreeably portrayed by the appropriated to himself and his own the ad- hand of Henry Miirger in the volumes now vantages of their extravagance. hefore us, which profess to describe the man- The ~ohemian is too much of a cosmopoli- ners and sentiments of this community as it tan to be an earnest politician in any country; appears in Paris within the first half of the but he participated in the advantages which present century. all classes derived from the exercise of con- If instead of the hyperbole that Bohe- stitutional liberty under the two branches of mia is only possible at Paris, our author the Bourbon dynasty, and found his intelli- had said that the French character was pe- gence stimulated by the contests of impor- culiarly adapted to receive and develop the tant interests and the rivalries of able men. Bohemian nationality, and especially so in The rise and growth of the romantic school Paris, the concentration of France, no one was the triumphant proof of this develop- could have doubted the correctness of the ment, for not only did Bohemia become the assertion. The vagrant professors of the legitimate field of poetry and fiction, but with gaie science and the mendicant composers of her wildest eccentricities and most sordid ac- the pieuses et d~votes .r~ties, were the fathers cidents she all but monopolized the press and FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. the stage; a fact which should not he forgot- ten in our estimation of the honest and healthy feeling in Miirgers works. Neither will any one deny the appropriate- ness of the locality of Paris for all the phases of Bohemian nature. Take, for instance, its stronghold in the Quartier Latin, notorious for centuries for its lax academic discipline and its frequent defiance of the Police, the Court, and even the Church. Those lofty and massive edifices, caravanserais of real or pro- fessing students, secluded even from the in- quisition of that paternal care which the railroad now brings to hear with invidious speed on the alleged sickness or pleaded pov- erty of its offspring, stood almost the same as when Hamus fell, the victim of his intro- duction of the free competitive system and a warning to Mr. Gladstone, or when the battle of the Gallicai~ liberties was fought with Bo- hemian vigor and license against the Jesuit army of absolutism and Rome. That was a nursery of every open thought and every happy promisea scene of First love, first friendship, equal powers, That marry with the virgin heart and which in truth verse can describe so much more becomingly than prose, as Gustave Na- dand has shown us There stands behind St. Genevi~vc, A city where no fancy paves With gold the narrow streets, But jovial Youth, the landlady, On gloomy stairs, in attic high, Gay Hope, her tenant, meets. There Love and Labor, hand in hand, Create a modest fairy-land, And pleasures rarely pall; Each chamber has its own romance, And young Ambitions frenzies dance Along the plastered wall. Enchanted cells of solid stone, Where hermit never lives alone, Or heats the moody breast; Where each one shares his bed and board, And all can gaily spend the hoard That never is possest. Delightful battle-fields of strife Between the hot redupdant life And boyhoods tender awe.; Between the lecture and the dance, The lassies and the lore of ]~rance, The pipe and Roman Law. But taste improves and Mammon gains, And the old city wastes and wanes, And, each succeeding year, Must some warm nest of young desire, Some hearth-stone of the sacred fire, Crumble and disappear. Until some ancient demoiselle The strippling of her choice will tell, With tears and faltering tongue, Twas there the Pays Latin stood, Twas there the world was really good, Twas there that she was young. Yes, the Quartier Latin may fall, Paris may be improved, till not a trace of its ancient self remainsthe monotony of Munich may replace the streets, where every house was a history, but Bohemia will survive, perhaps all the more vigorous and the more dangerous for the loss of its cloisters and its castles. A chronicler of Bohemia should assuredly be a Bohemian, and Henry Miirger has a fair claim to that nationality. His parents were concierges of some great family, and were turned into the street by the proprietor whom they had served thirty-five yearsa strong anti-social lesson to the child who accompa- nied them. The father set up as a tailor at the top of a large house, in which Garcia the father of Malibran, and afterwards Lablache occupied apartments. His mother, from some odd fancy, dressed him in blue from head to foot. Malibran fondled and Pauline Garcia played with the little bluet. From an ele- mentary school he passed to an attorneys office, from which he was rescued by his old neighbor Monsieur de Jouy, who built a tem- ple to Voltaire in his garden, and who kept on his table, in a glass case, the Toga and the wig in which Talma had performed the dole- flu tragedy of Scylla. By his influence Miirger became the private secretary of Count Tolstoy, the confidential correspondent not only of the government but of the Emperor of Russia, the effect of which employment was to make him a very decided democrat, and his first literary essays were in that di- rection. The veteran diplomatist, however, seems to have btwne no grudge against the young man on account of his free opinions, but to have liberally assisted him, even after he had left his service and started in literature by some radical verses, entitled Via Dolorosa. The name of the poem was emblamatic of its course, and it went the round of Paris with- out getting a publisher. The author, in~ desperation, took to painting, in which he was equally unsuccessful, and was diverted into writing vaudevilles for the The& tre de Luxembourg by his friend Champfleury. How the literary adventurers lived together 95 FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. at this time will best be shown by a pleasant letter in Champfieurys Nuits d Automne. It is now nine years since we were living together, and between us were in possession of seventy francs a month. Full of confi- dence in the future, we bad hired in the iRue de Beau Girard a small apartment at three hundred francs. Youth is no arithmetician. You gave the porti& e such a magnificent notion of our furniture, that she let it us on the strength of your good countenance, with- out a word about references or character. You brought there six plates (three of them dunn), a Shakspeare, the works of Victor Hugo, a superannuated chest of drawers, and a Phrygian cap.. By the strangest chance I had two mattresses, a hundred and fifty volumes, a sofa, two chairs and a. table, and a skull besides. The first week we passed most delight- fully. We never went out; we worked hard, and smoked hard. I find amongst some old papers a scrap, on which these words are written, Beatrix, Drama in five acts, by Henry Miirgcr, acted at the Theatre, the = 18 = . This was a page torn out of a large blank book, for you had a bad habit of wasting all our paper in writing out the titles of plays. You always seriously added the important word acted, to see how the title looked. Then came the days of great scarcity. After a long discussion, each heaping reproaches on the other for our insane prodi- gality, it was agreed that as soon as the in- come of seventy francs came in we should keep a strict account of the outgoings. Now this account-book I have also found among my papers: it is simple, laconic, affecting, rich in memories. Nothing could exceed our exactitude the first day of every month. I read on the first November, 1843, Paid to Madame Bastion for tobacco supplied, two francs. We also paid the grocer, the restau- rant (a real restaurant), the coal merchant, & c. The First is quite a holiday. I read spent .in coffee thirty-five centimes, an ex- travagance which brought down upon me a string of remonstrances during the evening; but that very day you invested, to my horror, sixty-five centimes in pipes. The second of November we paid the washerwoman a large account, five francs. I walked across the Pont des Arts as if I were an Academician, and proudly entered the Caf6 Momus. We had lately discovered that benevolent establishment which furnished a demi-tasse for twenty-fire centimes. The third of November you decided that, as long as our seventy-five francs lasted we should cook for ourselves. In consequence you bought a marmit~ (fifteen sous), some thyme, and some bay-leaves. As might be expected from a poet, you did use too much bay; the soup tasted so strong of it. We also laid in a stock of potatoes. Tobacco, coffee, and sugar, as usuaL It was with strong interjections and gnash- ing of teeth that we wrote down the expenses of the 4th of November. Why did you let me go out with my pockets so full of money? You went into iDagniaus and left twenty-five centimes there. What could you get for twenty-five centimes when the smallest pleasures are so dear? I went to Belleville to see a play gratis, and I took two omnibusesone to go, the other to return; I Was well punished for my prodigal- itythree francs seventy centimes dropped through a hole in my pocket. How did I dare go home and encounter your indigna- tion? The two omnibuses of themselves de- served the severest reproach, but the 3, 70! If I had not begun with the plot at Belleville to disarm you, I was done for. And yet the next morning, without a thought on these terrible losses, we lent our friend G, who always seemed to look upon us as his bankers (the house of Miirger and Co.), the enormous sum of thirty-five sous. I have thought over by what insidious means G had succeeded in winning our confidence, and I can find none except our fresh and foolish youth. For, t~vo days after, he coolly came again and asked for exactly the same sum. Up to November 8th we placed the sum- total correctly at the bottom of each page. It was then forty francs sixty-one centimes. There the addition stops. We could not bear to look the whole in the face any longer. On the 10th of November you bought a thimble. Now, without being a great observer, it is impossible not to suspect a momentary ap- pearance of a female, although, no doubt, many men do know how to mend their own clothes in their leisure moments. On the morning of the 14th Monsieur Cr& lit ~returned. Monsieur CHidit pays a visit to the grocer, to the tobacconist, to the coal-chandler; he is fairly received, I may say well, by the daughter of the grocer, for you accompanied him. Did Monsieur Credit die about the 17th, for I find written under receipts frock-coat three francs? Those three francs came from the Mont de Piete the Mont sans Mete, as I would call The brute, whose agents seem bent upon our humiliation. Yes, it was my o~ly frock-coat that ~vent, and that to lend half what I raised on it for the insatiable G. On the 19th we sold some booksfortune favored us, and we boiled the pot with a fine fowl and plenty of bay leaves. 96 FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. Monsieur Credit seems to continue his circuit in search of supplies with a dignified composure. He shows himself daily up to the 1st December, when, to the universal as- tonishment, he pays his debts. How I regret to see this little register limited to one month only that one November! Why not more? If we had only continued, there might have been so many landmarks to survey the distan-, ces of our Youth. Happy time! when from our little balcony we could catch one tree of all the garden of the Luxembourg, and that by leaning over. The Sc~nes de in Vie de Boh~me and JAes Buveurs dEau are the fruits of this and similar experience. The first presents a group of Bohemians accidentally brought to- gether and sharing in the happy brotherhood, the occasional luxury, and the habitual indi- gence; consoling each others vanity in the frequent failures of their art, and exaggerat- ing each rare success into fortune and fame. But the charm of the Society was an unfailing gaiety, making necessity a storehouse of in- genious mirth, looking upon life as a panto- mime, in which the main object is to secure the part of Harlequin, and regarding their bitterest enemies in no worse light than Clown and Pantaloon. Within the class of antago- nists to Bohemian happiness must be included all those respectable persons whose supply, sooner or later, is followed by demand, and though the right-minded reader will recog- nize the abstract justice of their claim, yet it is difficult for him not to rejoice in their fre- quent discomfiture. The Sc~nes de la Vie deBoh~me open with Schaumard, a musician whose chief work is a symphony descriptive of the influence of the color blue on art, seated on the side of his bed, with a spangled pink petticoat for a dressing-gown, meditating on the means of paying his landlord seventy-five francs before twelve oclock. He tries to compose a ballad, but the multiplication-table haunts him till he sets it to music. He looks over the register in which he has alphabetically noted down all his friends and acquaintances, with the sum that they might reasonably be required to lend to a brother in difficulty opposite each name: when the maximum of any one had been ex- ceeded, he had always scrupulously borrowed from some other to pay off the excess. At this moment, alas! he finds only three per- sons who have not paid the full tax, and one of them lives far in ~he suburbs. But he THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 72 97 starts on the hopeless crusade, and in the mean time, at noon, the propri& aire ar- rives, and begins fuming at the departure of his lodger. In a few moments an orderly from the War-office rides up; the propri6- taire, in an agony of delight, exclaims to the porter that it is clearly his nomination to the Legion of Honor, but instead it is the an- nouncement from Schaumard that better times will come for Frsnce and for himself, and that at present it is impossible for him to pay one sou; and he takes the opportunity of writing this at the desk of a clerk of his acquaintance, and forwarding it by the soldier, who is going that way. As the day ad- vances Schaumard betakes him~self to a caf6, where he has a small credit, and there culti- vates an intimacy with the philosopher Col- line, who teaches all the sciences and spends his pay in buying odd volumes on the quays, and with Rodolphe, the editor of the Cast ~r, ou 1 Ecliarpe d Iris. After a jovial even- ing, Schaumard, forgetful of the circumstances of his domicile, invites his friends to supper, and finds to his astonishment his room let meubl& to the painter Marcel, whose origi- nal picture of the Passage de Ia Mar Rouge bad been thrice rejected by the jury of the Salon, before whom it had successively ap- peared as Passage du Rubicon and Pas- sage de la B~r~sine (by the transformation of Moses into Ctesar and Napoleon)the in- domitable artist declaring that the following season it should appear as the Passage des Panoramas but meanwhile it is purchased by a marchand de comestibles, who inserts a steamer, and hangs it up before his shop as Port de Marseilles. Schaumard claims the apartment; Marcel recognizes his rights over the furniture, and proposes to pay the arrears and set up a united household, which arrange- ment is consecrated by a splendid qrgie. cxin ~.te compress, in this colorless fashion, the chasse of Rodolphe, the man of letters, after five francs, absolutely necessary for him to treat to the Grands-Eaux de Versailles a brilliant conquest he had just achieyed P He has five hours to get them intwenty sons per hour; and his first visit falls on an influential critic, who is in an agony for an ar- ticle. You sa the new piece at the Od6on yesterday? I am the public of the Odion. Do you remember the incidents? Like a creditor. Can you write me an analysis? In a moment and he does it. It is too FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. short. Put in some dashes and your criti- cism. I have no time for any criticism, and its too short if I had: put in an adjective every three words. Wouldnt it he better for you to appreciate the piece? You can have my opinions on Tragedy; but I have printed them three times. What does that mat- ter? there is nothing new but virtue; lend me forty lines. Here goes, says Rodoiphe, adding to himself he must give me five francs for this. Admirable, says the critic; but I still want two columns; have you any paradoxes? Ive a few, but not my own: I paid a poor friend fifty centirnes a piece for them; soliloquising, that will be ten francs they should be as dear as partridges. They take up thirty lines, and, with the addi- tion of the touching sentiment It is only at the galleys that one really tests the honesty of mankind, the article is complete. But th,e critic has not a farthing in the house, and poor Rodolphe is glad to borrow two francs on a Bossuet and a bust of Odillon Barrot which he carries off. For the remaining three francs, consult the original. The Bohemians have a club at a certain restaurant, where their conversation drives the gar~con into idiotcy in the flower of his youth. After some weeks the maitre pres- sents a formal remonstrance of several arti- cles against their proceedings, and demands redress. They have forced him to take in a paper which nobody reads, by always halloo- Ing, Le Castor, ILe Castor! There is only one trictrac, and when any one ~vants it they cry, Le trictrac est en lecture. M. Marcel has brought his easel, and M. Schaumard his piano, into the salon, and placarded the win- dow with Cours gratuit de lilusique vocale et instrumentale, ~r lusage des deux sexes. They bring a machine and make their own coffee, on the ridiculous pretext that they cannot countenance an immoral connection be- tween mocha and chicory, and thus discredit the establishment. Not content with having destroyed the intellect of the gar~on, they have corrupted the unhappy boy to the ex- tent that he has addressed some passionate verses to the impeccable matron who presides at the comptoir; and for these and other reasons the Society is requested to transfer its revolutionary manners to another locality. Apologies and promises heal the breach; and on Christmas Eve, being accidentally without any money whatever, th.y propose to have a banquet that shall cost a hundred thousand francs, and have just entered on that specula~ tion when they meet a young man of pro- perty, whose sole object in life is to become a citizen of Bohemia, and who begs humbly to be permitted to pay their bill. The more private arrangements are equally interesting. One of the friends is asked to dine with a depute; the habit noir (it is blue), which belongs to one of the company, and serves for all, is gone to be mended. What is to be done? The scene is at Mar- cels: a respectable citizen arrives to have his portrait taken; the Roman costume is recommended and he is invested with a robe- de-chambre, while the invited guest offers to hang up the coat in an ante-room, but puts it on and goes off with it. The pretexts by which the bourgeois is detained till the guest returns are of the highest genius, and only parallelled by the contrivance recounted in another story where two fi~iends get wet out a and the host they are visiting in- vites them to change their dress, and come to dinner; having no change of clothes, they dry what they have on, and then, each assum- ing the others garments, they literally obey the injunction, and produce the impression that they are somehow different from what they were before, which is quite satisfactory. The grisette naturally has her place in this volume. Moiti~ abeilles, moitib cigales, as Miirger draws themtheir merry industry, their facile pleasures, their personal devotion, and their endurance of every thing but un- kindness, has the additional value of an his- torical picture, now that Paris knows them no more, and that such a race of Bohemian womanhood is only to be found in Bordeaux and some other southern cities. Mimi urging I{odolphe to write her a gown, and tiring him out to add to it so many sentences of breadth and so many flounces of peroration; and Francine confounding the cold of disease with the want of external warmth, and set- ting her heart on a muff, which the self-pri- vation of her friend procures only in time for her to die and be buried inare acquaint- ances that are not easily forgotten. But the Mademoiselle Mariette of Champfleury re- mains the authen~c chronicle of the Life and Fall of the Grisette, and may take rank in French fiction with Manon Lescaut. It is in this story that Champfleury intro- duces the following account of a Bohemian 98 FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. 99 iournal, which must have been a formidable everywhere through the influence of the rival to the Castor, and is a good speci- ~)aperacolytes of the painters, poets, and men of the more serious occupations of the actors, whom they were never tired of incens- fraternity. We recommend this description ing; there were the cleverest fellows, and some who could not spell. There were very of editorial management to the authorit.ies many besides who did not know French, in- of every similar enterprise eluding Russians, Italians, Germans, and This journal was in the hands of an old Poles, who brought useful material to the man, who had passed all his life in similar workshop, but difficult to make up, and more undertakings. Though sixty years of age, he difficult to mend. There were Frenchmen contrived to surround himself with fresh and un- who wrote worse than the Germans; there used talentto persuade others to spend their were men about town, lawyers, ladies of fash- youth and their genius for his secret profit. ion, members of the jockey-club, little at- The old Saint-Charmay had preserved tach~s who sent little notes that looked im- the literary habits of the Restoration, but he portant, and were meant to increace the admitted the new forms of intellectual activ- importance of the author. ity which come up every ten years. And the It was a notable part of Mons. de Saint- b~dy of young men who thus started in lit- Charmays system to allow no personal friend- erature were able to give the paper an origi- ship to interfere in his journal. He admitted nal color that made it a puissance for the the most violent attacks on any celebrity, but moment. he did not approve of enthusiasm. Each Mons. de Saint-Charmay employed many contributor was obliged to send in at least means to hold in and master these fervent ten crushing articles before he could get youths. One was, to pay them very low inserted one agreeable to anybody; 4he salaries, that they might not have time for writer, who anticipated some social advan- idleness. Those who produced much were tage from the favorable article, impatiently paid no more than those who produced little, awaited the day of its appearance but the the articles of both being mysteriously stored next morning his jealous colleagues generally up in the red morocco portfolio with which contrived to get up something so insulting to the editor walked up and down the Boule- t1 .e object of the laudation, that the previous yards, convinced he was taken for a Minister panegyric only served to irritate him still on his ~vay to the Chambers. more against his intentional benefactor. The Another method was to detail the great same plan was acted upon with regard to the deeds of the celebrities that had passed new social schools, which had their followers through the hands of Mons. de Saint-Char- everywhere. If the adept had the indiscre- may on their road to honors, office, and tion to write sometimes in favor of an Utopian wealth. It was also his habit to seem entirely philosopherof Fourier, for instanceFour- to despise his contributors, to treat them with ierism became the butt of the whole paper insolence and brutality, and to make them for the next week. It may be imagined how believe that, once out of his magic circle, animated was the conversation of the young there was no hope for them with any other men, who carried into their loves and hatreds journal, all the fire of their twenty years. More than Seldom had there been seen such an as- once all the staff came to blows, and the semblage of youngsters, meeting there from repaired chairs remained memorials of the the most opposite directions, with the most ardor of the discussion. Mons. de Saint- different and conflicting ideas. As they all Charmay, as an old Guardsman, encouraged agreed pretty well on the demolition of the this high tone, and contributed considerably I)resent, they formed a new school for the to these literary hurricanes in spite of his demolition of the future. Each looked upon sixty years. himself as the chief of a literary movement With all these shifts and troubles, the to come; some seasoning their literature with Scenes de Ia Vie de Boh~me do not leave those political notions which ten years after wards brought on the Revolution; others upon the reader any very gloomy impression wrote on every subject with indiscriminating of the pains of poverty. Often, indeed, we levity and ridicule. There were boys who, are reminded of the n-xirn, Il ny a de with a logical facility, anonymously attacked n~eessaire que he superflu, and the remem- the greatest poets, stinging them with perfidi- brance of the dais when the Bohemians seem ous tril)lets and venomous stanzas. There to be dining a a, almost compensates for were idohaters who only knew one man in the those when there is a general relache of world, and never put their pen to paper ex- the dishes. The most philosophic treatment cept to talk of Him; there were the disap- pointed, who criticized every thing; there we know of the question, What are really were young intriguers, who made their way the necessities of man? occurs in a little FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. novel by Ludwig Tieck, translated by the accomplished Colonial Secretary of Ceylon, Sir Charles Macarthy, in Frasers Maga- zine, for 1842, under the title of the Super- flu ies of Life. Two young people marry on nothing, and are determined to live on next to it. They take an apartment at the top of an old house, get a few common flowers for the window-sill, and an old woman to bring them bread and water every day; a store of potatoes and such luxuries is laid in, but soon exhausted. Winter sets in severely and enchants them by the study of the icicles on the glass, but annoys them by the sugges- tion that their stock of wood will soon be ex- hausted. They pass their days delightfully, reading, not books for they have sold all they had, but their thoughts, memories, and imag- inations, to one another, and record im- mensely, without pen, ink, or paper. But the cold is an annoyance, and the fuel is all but gone bear wife, says Henry, we live in a civilized age, in a well-~overr among heathens n ~ed land, not and cannibals; ways and means must present themselves. If we were in a desert, I would, of course, like Robinson Crusoe, fell some trees. Who knows whether there are not woods where one least expects them? Birnam-wood came, after all, to Macbethto his own destruction, to be sure. Islands have often emerged on a sudden from the ocean; in the midst of cliffs and desert rocks there often grows a palm-tree; the thorn robs the sheep and lambs of their wool when they come too near it, but the linnet carries off these spoils to his nest to mane a warm bed with them for its tender young ones.~~ The next morning the young wife hears a noise as of workmen about the place, and, on entering the room, finds her husband sur- rounded by the most beautiful logs of the driest wood. He had some time ago found an old saw, and now it had struck him that as nobody comes up their stairs but that one old woman and they never go down them, the massive oaken bannisters are indeed a su- perfluity of life. There is warmth in the very process of destruction, and the house- hold is again in a position that leaves nothing to be desired. Their nest is overlooked by no other house, and out of the window noth- ing is visible but the roofs and chimneys which their fancy transforms into rocks and ridges: for weeks one chimney-sweeper had alone disturbed the diviif~ solitude. As the months wear on, Clara every day expects that the bannisters will be exhausted; but no, the store burns merrily; only the old servant comes in no longer: she sends the bread and water by some other hand. At length one morning a tremendous tumult is heard below; she rushes to the door; her husband follows, and catches her by the gown For Gods sake, take care, or you will fall down! She gazes from the open portal, and, instead of the wide oak staircase, she beholds an abyss with half-a-dozen stairs suspended in the air the rest had followed the bannisters. The quondam staircase had been, in fact, a sort of coal-mine, which yielded up its treasures, not without toil; Henry descending into the shaft, and continually depositing the extracted stair on the one that remained. The only painful moment had been when, on breaking off the third stair, he had held out his hand to the faithful old woman, and had bidden her an eternal farewell, though she continued after- wards to attach the daily bread to a rope he let down to her. Some iDeus cx machina appears to calm and compensate the indignant Philistine of a landlord, and to force back to the world of wealth and wants these happy eremites of this Bohemian solitudethis Egyptian Laura. There is a considerable and somewhat painful transition from this anecdote of Ger- man Bohemia, with its bright ideal illustra- tions, to the stern realities of the Buveurs dEau of Miirger. These are a small mon- astic community of the devotees of art, bound by a rule as strict and a discipline as severe as ever Carmelites or Franciscans. Each member must contribute out of his own scanty means to a common fund, from which the poorest may be supplied with all that is requi site for the natural or intellectual develop- ment of, his Arta passionate desire, for instance, for the sight or study of any partic- ular object being considered just as requisite for the artists production of his idea as the pencil or the l)aint. No meml)er of the soci- ety is permitted to degrade his art into decoration or furniture, or to use it for the purposes of temporary excitement, whatever may be the inducement or the remuneration; every member mus~regard the fame or the profit of a colleague as his own, and as only subordinate to the absolute and ever-ruling principle of Art for Arts sake, to which they are to sacrifice even their purest affec 100 101 FICTIONS OF BOhEMIA. tions. The results of this association agree life, ~vhich came from the pen of Miirger, with our general experience of over-strained under the title of the Pays Latin, and theories. Shut up in his own self-conscious- which, at any rate, should never he taken up ness and excluded from all open criticism, after the two hooks we have noticed. the artist degenerates into conceit and man- Our English literature abounds with veridi- nerism, and the man into a selfishness reflected cal and fictitious narratives of all kinds of from many forms of self. The virtue of en- Bohemian adventure, and the interest in the durance is choked up with pride, and the highwayman has almost survived the high- dignity of independence is damaged by the way; hut in the Bohemia of literature and very ostentation of penury. The passion of art it is rather the remarkable individual than love itself hecomes an instrument of art. any special association which is remembered. Lazare, one of the brethren, who, at twenty- Otway choking with his crustSavage and five, has so ripened his life that he looks on the biographer of Savagethe boy-clerk from every hour given to love as stolen from the Bristol poisoning himself in his smart clothes high purpose of existence, and who has kept Goldie cowering over his small modicum of off every sort of passion from his thoughts coalsHazlitt, living to himself,~~~ in his hut as he would the draught of wind that might on Winterslow HeathHaydon seeing the scatter his papers over the room, falls at last taste and opportunities for historical painting under the influence he had so long resisted; rising at the very time he was conscious of but., unable from honorable motives to attempt the decay and waste of his own powerssuch to possess the ori~inal, he makes the execu- are the associations of this nature which the tion of her portrait by memory the test of his past suggests to us, rather than the wits in affection, and, when his imagination fails to the coffee-house gathering to hear Mr. Dry- give the perfect representation, he resigns den talk, or any fraternity in Grub-street, or himself tranquilly to the extinction of his the famous club of which Bozzy was a mem- love. Antoine, the founder of the Order, ber, and which was ruined by the admission remains uncontaminated by the moral disease of Adam Smith, or even the Leigh-Huntian engendered by this factitious mode of being, gatherings in the Vale of Health. The spirit and continues worthy of the beautiful charac- of association is not rife even in Bohemian ter of the grandmother, who, after a life of England: the independence of character, which independence, accepts a servile ppsition that isolates our countrymen in their pleasures she may earn for her artist-children enough and their sorrows, cannot be neutralized by to support them in their high ideal of exist- any similarity of situation or even by any con- ence, and of the girl who dries up her young geniality of pursuits. We have never had an blood in virile studies to screen the old age Academy of Literature, and there have been of her foolish father from the effects of the always notable artists who have remaineQ ruin his imprudence has brought upon his apart from time Academy of Arts. If Bohe- family. mia has its elements of attraction in the free Few readers, we believe, have laid down sympathy and easy intercourse it encourages, this volume without regret that the characters it has also those of dissension in the supercimi- and incidents connected with this association ous temper it fosters and the self-consideration have not beenmore fully produced to the public it enjoins. Our Pre-liaphaelites are perhaps view. The principal characters of the Vie nearer the Buveurs dEau than other de Boh~me are said to represent real per- artists; but they get prices for their pictures sonages, who took no affront at the witty which would enable them to drink the best travestie under which they appear; but the vintages if they chose so to do, and what be- graver tone of the Buveurs dEau is rather comes of Bohemian fellowship, when Mr. that of fiction founded on general observation Ruskin himself turns against them? than on the study of any personal idiosyncra- Yet there was much to expect from the cies, and so rich a mine of human nature title of Frien4s of Bohemia by the writer would have well borne a further search when whose hard and Vgorous.portraits of what he it had been once made accessible by so acute calls the Governing Classes had indeed and judicious an explorer. At the same time ~ Vide his delightful essay 0mm Living to One- it is impossible to de~y the signal inferiority self, written at Wintersiow Hut, January 18, of a pale representation of Bohemian student- 1821. 102 FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. caused the experienced reader to regret that enlightenment which much resembles what they too often were founded on an imperfect knowledge of the conditions of the society he undertook to describe, but which were unde- niably the freshest, and, in many ways, the justest of the political personalities of our time. But this book is disappointing, mainly because there are no Friends in it, and very little Bohemia, in any sense in which that word is more than a negative of what is established and respectable. There are but two scenes in the whole story in which the character of Bohemian conversation and man- ners is sustained; the rest is a mixture of dark improbable character and painful im- probable fable. The hero is a spirited gene- rous fellow, whose spirit gets him shot down in the fulness of his youth and prosperity by an unmitigated rascal, and whose generosity costs him nothing, because he is as mon- strously and mysteriously wealthy as Monte Christo. He lives a roving sensual life, and acts as a sort of Wilhelm Meister to other personages, who abuse the present state of society, from the highest to the lowest, in a grim radical tone, betraying an anxiety for violent change, which is entirely at variance with the dignified indifference of true Bohe- minus to the rest of the world. By way of encouraging interest and care for the people, he objects to Sydenham and Hampton Court, and fresh air, because The multitude, after tasting paradise, doesnt like to go home to the lower regions, and John sees no resemblance to Jane in the statue of Venus Victrix, and Jane thinks of the flower-beds when shes scrubbing the dirty floor. If there are always to be masses thats the phrasealways to be kept down, as a foundation for national greatness, why, better not give them a glimpse outwards. The masses always have toiled and been spent, and always will toil and be spent, and the as- piration that has sufficed to induce them to do this is that upwardsof another sphere, when the lunacy and horror of this have been done with. Education, indeed! If the whole adult male population could read and could understand the argument of an orator, do you think this sort of thing would go on ? And the indignant Bohemian l)Oints to a crowd of St. Giless flock warming their naked feet over a particular square yard of the pavement which covers a bakers cellar and ovens if they could not have bread, they could have the heat used in making bread,a view of the effects of intellectual we remember having heard a distinguished popular writer assert, viz., that the peace and safety of this great city were due, not to the sense of law and order, not to the compara- tive well-being of the majority, but to the habitual intoxication of the hungry and the hopeless, to whom gin supplied, both food for the body and dreams for the minda dreary theory, which we will not investigate further than to say, that, if this be true, the hostility between Bohemia and civilization is only a matter of time, and the former must reign triumphant over ruin, like the Last Men on each side of Behrings Straits in Eug~ne Sues novel, or the New Zealander on London Bridge in Lord Macaulays Essaya con- summation which a little observation of the ways of Providence is sufficient to refute. The prejudices of men and the intolerance of man- ners may do their worst to separate the in- terests and affections of mankind; hut the intelligent Bohemian will hardly see the future destruction of society in the very at- tempts which some are making to mitigate the evil. We are reforming our predatory Arabs, and who knows but we may annex Bohemia at last, and not be the worse for the conquest. We give Mr. Whittys notions of a peculiar class of London Bohemiansthe cabmenas a happier specimen of his manner: What an injured race are the cabmen! They are the sailors of great cities; sailors in the uniformity of their reckless attire, and their countenances reddened and hardened by weather exposure, and in the peculiar slang with which, using professional terms, they speak of all mundane affairs. They are sailors in republican contempt for worldly dignities and dignitaries. As sailors have deep contempt for all who do not understand ships, cabmen despise every intellect uncon- cerned with horses. They are sailors in their intense acuteness and decided inclination to swindle. Yet sailorsdirty, improvident, dis- honesthave a poetical position among men, and, except among shipowners and captains, Jack has the merit of a jolly dog, innocent as a puppy, prettily playful. Jarvy has no novelists and no defenders; for the street is not the sea, and we miss the sixpences ex- tracted from ourselves. When we sit in the cab and look at the statue-like heap of old clothes on the box, steering us through the traffic of London, we feel towards him as if he were the inevitable foeas Cape soldiers regard a Kaffiras Christians once regarded FICTIONS OF BOHEMIA. 103 the Jews. IHis affecting devotion to his horse, admiring friends and obsequious followers whom he drives slowly in conviction of the cannot be overrated. The problem how to risks of a rapider pace, meets with no sympa- retain his self-respect and to do justice to the thy from us: we consider the quadruped as motives and intentions of others who are as in league with the driver. really desirous to esteem and honor him, is It would explain very much the faults and one that every man in this position must the merits of this book if the author turned solve as he best can, and we believe that a out to be an American. There are in it views fair combination of genial Bohemian inde- of society which in an Englishman would pendence and of gentlemanly feeling is requi- suppose a very offensive cynicism, but which site to do it successfully. Genius will never any one, not a native, might entertain, out of find the path of life smooth, for it has to make mere indiscriminating indignation at the strong the road it travels; but let every man in our contrasts of our social life, and express or day believe that if he has greatness within imply, as he does, without a consciousness of him, his time will not fail to arrive. We their exaggeratian. But if, instead of por- probe deeplywe test jealouslywe reject traying scenes and characters which would cruelly; but we are hero-worshippers of all l)e odious and repulsive anywhere, and hold- high faculties as well. Chatterton passed ing up to observation sentiments and conduct away in the agony of unrecognized power which are just as destructive of happiness and unanswered demands on the interest of and unsatisfactory in their results in Bohemia his fellow-men, and years afterwards multi- itself as they would be in the inmost circles tudes of eager eyes and sympathetic hearts of respectability, the novelist had given us a crowd for months together round the repre- true picture of the peculiar relations to gene- sentation of that death-pallet in the Man- ral English society of literary men and artists, chester Exhibition, while over the entrance of he would have done a good work. The diffi- that palace of art were inscribed in gigantic cnlty in which a man of ability and sense is letters the first words of the chief poem of placed between the indignity of being lion- John Keats, who prayed that on his tomb ized by foolish and unsympathetic people, might be written, Here lies one whose name and the injury to his own intellectual and is writ in water. moral nature from the habit of living with EDUcATIONAn educated man stands, as it publisher came to tell him that he had profited were, in the midst of a boundless arsenal and by the hint, and resolved on calling it Bent- magazine, filled with all the weapons and en- leys Miscellany. Isnt that going a little gines which mans skill has been able to devise too far the other way f was the remark.A. from the earliest time; and he works accord- Haywards Essays. ingly with a stren~th borruwed from all past ages. How different is his state who stands on ~ OF THE THEATRE QUEN AT FOUR the outside of that storehouse, and feels that it5 OCLOcK. They were at the doors of the gates must be stormed, or remain for ever shut theatre before thrce, and had the high satisfac- against him! His means are the commonest tion to stand there an hour before the doors were and rudest: the mere work done is no tneasure opene4, and with great difficulty, after such a of his strength. A d ~arf behind his steam-en- tedious time of waiting, got into the pit.IDr. gine may remove mountains; but no dwarf will Dodds novel, The Sisters, vol. i., p. 241. hew them down with the pickaxe; and he must Notes and Queries. be a Titan that hurls them abroad with his arms. __________________ Carlyle. A LADYS MAN. How much at home was Charles in all JAMES S~srrn (OF TEE IREJECTED An- The talk aforesaid, nicknamed small; DRESSES. )Mr. Bentley proposed to establish Seldom embarrassed, never slow, a periodical publication, to he called The Wits His maxim always touch and go Miscellany. Smith objected that the title From grave to gay he ran with ease, promised too much. Shortly afterwards the Secure alik~n both to please. 104 From The North British Review. 1. The Bight Use of the Early Fathers; Two Series of Lectures Delivered in the University of Cambridge. By the iRev. J. 3. Blunt, B. ID., late Margaret Professor of Divinity. London: John Murray. 1867. 2. An Introduction to the Study of Dog- matic Theology. By the Rev. Robert Owen, B. D., Fellow of Jesus College, Oxford. London: Joseph Masters. 1868. 3. (Jhristianity in the Three First Centuries; Historical Lectures delivered at Geneva in February, March, and April 1867. By Dr. Merle DAubigne, Dr. Bun- gener, Count Gasparin, and M. Viguet. London: James Nisbet and Co. 1868. LET no injustice be done to the Fathers; nor let either the theologian or the philoso- pher of the nineteenth century withhold from his predecessor of the fourth whatever of honor may be due to his name. If we can- not afford to be fair, we ma~r begin to suspect the goodness of our cause or the purity of our motives. Truth does not change with time. It may exl)and, but it cannot alter nor grow rusty; it does not die, nor need to be buried out of sight. Neither does it know old age, hut is always young, always elasti~, always fruitful. What was once true is true forever, though man may lose sight of it, or cease to value it. Though not, perhaps, consciouly referring to it, we are always making use of it. The pearl is the pearl always, wherever it is found, and of whatever age: so the truth is always true, though written centuries ago, amid the mists and marshes of cloudier ages; and the false- hood is always false, though elaborated amid the sunshine of a scientific age, and adapted to the progress and intellectual enlarge- ment of these bolder and, as is supposed, less fettered times. Error is unjust and irritable: truth is calm and generous, hating injury, and loving to do justice to an adversary. It will profit us nothing to wrong the memories of those who, even though they may have spoken untruly, were yet as free to speak and write as we, and who are as well entitled to a fair judg- ment upon what they haVe promulgated as we. if, as has been said, all violence is loss to him who makes use of it, no less is all un- fairness a wound inflicted upon truth. There is a sect in our d~y (as in other days) PATRISTIC THEOLOGY. which refuses to judge the Fathers, and avows itself a mere listener to their instructions; nay, which refuses to listen to nny thing else (even the Bible), save in so far as in harmony with patristic teaching. Of course these Churchmen must go the length of under- standing the propositions of doctrine that come before them, otherwise they could not discover the di