The Living age ... / Volume 64, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0064 /moa/livn/livn0064/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Note on Digital Production 0064 000
The Living age ... / Volume 64, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 814 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0064 /moa/livn/livn0064/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 814 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 7, 1860 0064 814
The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 814, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

LITTELLS hYING AGE. CONDUCTED BY E. LITTELL. 11 Pwsuaus UKUX. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the chaff thrown away.~) Ifade up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. THIRD SERIES, VOtIUME VIII. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOLUME LXIV. JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, 1860. BOSTON: LITTELL, SON, AND COMPANY. Lithotyped by Cowles and Company, 17 Washington St., Boston. Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery. L ge; 1~ 0 K TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME LXIV. THE EIGhTh QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE THIRD SERIES. JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, 1860. EDINBURGH REVIEW. Seniors Journal kept in Turkey and Greece, . Lord Macaulay Madame IRdcainier, Acclimatization of Animals, QUARTERLY REVIEW. Life and Works of Cowper, 139 570 643 719 579 NoRTh BRITISH REVIEW. Memorials of henry VII., . . . 67 Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect, 87 The Silence of Scripture, 677 Erasmus as a Satirist, . . . 707 CIutISTIAN REREMBRANCER. The Authorized Version in America, NATlONAL REVIEW. The Poetry of the Old TestamqAt, Mr. Kingsleys Litera Cs, BENTLEYS QUARTERLY REVIEW. Modern English, The Earl of Dundonald, 131 259 515 389 478 BLAcKWooDs MAGAZINE. _Luck of Ladysmede, . . 213, 549, 662 Voyage of tile Fox in the Arctic Seas, 375 FRASERS MAGAZINE. Pitt and CanningFifty years of Political History, 3 Sir James Stephen 22 Hoimby house, . . . 94, 300, 434, 735 Hallucinations, . . . 119 Leaders of the Reformation, 195 Earthquakes 289 Disappointment and Success, . . 451 Thoughts QB Reserved People, . . 695 DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE. The Twin Mutes: Taught and Untaught, TITAN. 237 My Early Days, . 798 NATIONAL MAGAZINE. I publish the Banns of Marriage, 623 172 LADIES COMPANION. Une, MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. Sea Dreams: An Idyl. By Alfred Tenny- son CONSTITUTIONAL PRESS. The Vicar of Lyssel ENGLISHWOMANS JOURNAL. La Sceur Rosalie CORNHILL MAGAZINE. Man of Letters of tile Last Generation, Tithonushy Alfred Tennyson, Nil Nisi BonumIrving and Thackeray, ExAMINER. The Pope and the Congres5, Ihe Suez Canal Lord Macaulay What is to he done with the Pope 1 The Pope and the Emperor, The Social Evil, SPECTATOR. Mrs. Murrays Morocco, Spain, and the Canaries Allihones Dictionary of Authors, Lord Macaulay, . . The New Planet and its Discoverers, 501 340 529 421 578 636 371 373 428 511 621 754 234 363 509 693 ECONOMIST. Moral Strength of England, . . Is a triumph over China desirable I . 52 Descriptive Ethnology, . . . 188 Dictionnaire Universel des Contemporaiues, 241 Count Cavours Return to Office, . 690 Breach between the Emperor and the Pope, 763 Piedmont, France, and Savoy, . 764 Propositions of England on the affairs of Italy 766 Iv CONTENTS. PRESS. Royal Geographical Society,Sir John Franklin 57 The Great Tribulationor the Things coin ing upon the Earth, in Women Artists 245 Napoleon and the Pope, . . . 618 SATURDAY REVIEW. France and Italy 49 European Difficulties 50 To Pekin and Back Again, 53 Queen Bees or Working Bees? 181 The Intellect of Women, 184 A Visit to Rochdale 190 Trollopes West Indies, 209 Mind and Body 230 Turkish Polygamy 315 The Decline of Quakerism, 317 Gil Bias - 323 Ladies end Gentlemen, - - 337 The Mothers of Great Men, 360 Tale of Two CitiesCbarles Dickens, 366 Austria Morihunda 370 Lord Macaulay 506 Notes on Nursing, Religion in Italy, - .: 575 Russia and Austria 691 Psychology of Shakspeare, . . . 700 - ATHEN~EUM. Life of Baron Steuben, . . . 126 The Roman Alphabet applied to the Lan guages of India, . . - 286 The Great Pyramid,.... 431 CHAMBERSS JOURNAL. Cuban Literature, . 37 Leech Merchant of Marash, 353 Shetland Marriages 703 ALL THE YEAR ROUND. Subterranean Switzerland, - . . 165 Leigh Hunt and Mr. Dickens, . 504 Cleopatras Needle, . . . $21 ONCE A WEEK. Last Voyage of Sir John Franklin, The Lost Childa Chinese Story, Coldstream The First Playhouse, The Blind Woman of Mauzanares, EVERYBODYS JOURNAL. Walter Savage Landor, NOTES AND QUERIES. Hoop Petticoats NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER. The Republican Court, INDRPENDRNT. Yo-hamite Valley, Californh~, CANADA ECHO. The Caribs, . . N. Y. EVENING POST. The Rosetta Stone, - HOME JOURNAL. Miss Hosmers Zenobia, - 25 - 43 106 - 249 320 - 357 256 60 62 239 365 640 N. 0. DELTA. The MeDonogh Estate, - . - 756 BANNER OF THE CROSS. Franklins Pew and Grave, - . . 757 INDEPENDANCE BELGE. Letter from the Pope to the Emperor, . 760 CONSTITUTIONNEL. Emperors Reply to the Pope, , . 761 INDEX TO VOLUME LXIV. Authorized Version in America, 131 Artists, Women 245 Allibones Dictionary of British and Amer ican Authors 363 Austria Moribunda . 370 Arctic Seas, Voyage of the Fox to, 375 Austria and Russia 691 Acclimatization of Animals, . . 719 Andes, Railway across, . . 754 Bible, Authorized Version of:, in America, 131 Body and Mind, 230 Blind Woman of Mauzanares, . . 320 CHINA. Is a triumph over her Expedient? To Pekin and Back Again, 52 53 Canning and Pitt, 3 Cuban Literature 37 Canaries, The, Spain and Morocco, 234 Caribs, The, 239 Crinoline 256 Cowper, Life and Works of,. 579 Count Cavours Return to Office, 690 Cleopatras Needle 821 Dorset Dialect, Poems in, . . . 87 Dictionnaire Universel des Contemporaines, 241 Dickens, Charles 366 Disappointment and Success, , 451 Dundonald, Earl of 478 England, Moral Strength of, . . 48 Propositions of, on the Affairs ot Italy 766 European Difficulties 50 Ethnolo~y Descriptive, 188 Earthquakes, 289 English, Modern 389 Erasmus as a Satirist 707 France, 50, 764 and Italy, . . . 49, 610 Piedmont, and Savoy, . . 764 Franklin, Sir John, Last Voyage of, . 25 Fate of, . . . 57 Search for, . . 114 Voyage of the Fox in search of, 375 Benjamin, Tomb of, 757 Fine Arts 759 Germany 50, 370, 690 Geographical SocietySir John Franklin, 57 Great Tribulation, The, . . . 111 Greece and Turkey, Seniors Journey in, 139 Gil Bias Gentleman and Ladies, 32.3 337 Henry VII., Memorials of, . . . 67 Hopes and Fears: or Scenes from the Life of a Spinster, 77, 147, 200, 275, 327, 403, 467 Hallucinations 119 Hoop Petticoats 256 Holmby House, . 94, 300, 434,735 Hunt, Leigh, 504 Hosmers, Miss, Zenohia, . . . 640 Italy, . 50, 371, 511, 690, 760, 762, 763, 766 and France, . 49, 610 Religion in 575 Intellect of Women, . . . . 184 India, The Languages of, Application of the Roman Alphabet to, . 286 I Publish the Banns of Marriage, . 623 Irving, Washington 636 Jews under the Papacy, . . . 75S Kingsleys Literary Excesses, 515 Kossuth 759 Lost Child, The, A Chinese Story, 43 Luck of Ladysmede, . . 213, 549, 66~ Ladies and Gentleman, . . . 337 Leech-Merchant of Marash, . . . 353 Landor, Walter Savage, . . . Mind and Body, . . . . 230 Murrays Morocco, Spain, and the Canaries, 234 Mothers of Great Men 360 Modern English 389 Man of Letters of the Last Generation, 421 Macaulay, . . 428, 507, 509, 571, 637 McDonogh Estate 756 My Early Days 798 Napoleons Letter to the Pope, Popes Letter to, Reply to the Pope, Quarrel with the Pope, Notes on Nursing, . Pitt and Canning, Pekin, There and Back Again, Playhouse, the First, Poetry of the Old Testament, Polygamy, Turkish, Pope, The, and the Congress, Pyramid, the Great, Popes The, Allocution, Pope, The, and the Emperor, 618 760 761 763 572 3 53 249 259 315 371, 611 431 618 619 VI INDEX. Planet, The New, and its Discoverers, 693 Psychology of Shakspeare, 701 Papacy and the Jews 758 Pope, Letter from to the Emperor, 760 Emperors Ans~ver to, 761 and the Times 762 Quarrel with the Emperor, 763 Piedmont, France, and Savoy, . . 764 Queen Bees or Workin~, Bees I . . 181 Quakerism, Decline of, . . . 317 Republican Court 60 Rochdale, a Visit to 190 Reformation, Leaders of the, 195 Rosetta Stone, The, 365 Rosalie, La Smeur, 529 Religion in Italy 575 Rdcamier, Madame 643 Russia and Austria 691 Reserved People, Thoughts on, . . 695 Stephen, Sir James, . . . 22 Steuben, Baron, Life of, . . 126 Seniors Journal in Turkey and Greece, 139 Subterranean Switzerland, . 165 Spain, Morocco, and the Canaries, 234 Sttez Canal 373 Success and Disappointment, 451 Silence of Scripture 677 Shakspeare, Psychology of, 700 Shetland Marriages 703 Social Evil The 754 Turkey and Greece, Seniors Journal in, 1 9 Trollopes West Indies, 209 Tesiatnent, Old, Poetry of, 259 Turkish Polygamy 315 Tale of Two Cities 366 Telegraph, Wheatstones, . 757 Une . 172 Vicar of Lyssel, Women, Intellect of, . West Indies, Trollopes, Women Artists W~isliington, Monumental Inscription to, Winters Journey, a Terrible, Wheatstoues Telegraph, Yo-hamitd Valley of California, Zenobia, Miss Hosmers, SHORT ARTICLES. Amazon, Steam Navigation of, 42 African Le~end 59 Artificial I)iamonds 118 Anglo Saxon Antiquities, . . . 288 Alexander, Dr. Joseph A., Death of, . 569 Ages of English Writers, . . . 576 Art-Union Prints, . . . . 753 Auld Lang Sync, Illustrated by Harvey, 753 Bacon, Works of, . . . . 364 Burton, Win. E., Death of . . . 699 Central America 118 Christmas in America 171 Germany, 240 Cross, Signature of 316 Curious Marriage, 505 Cedant arma togme 609 Chinese, Picture of, . . . . 661 Disinfectant, 21 De Staill, Madame 192 Dissertations and Discussions, 244 Egypt, Lain in 299 Espy, Prof., Death of . . . 427 Pollen, Mrs. Eliza Lee, Death of, . 574 Gospels, Oldest Manuscript of, . . 274 Gilpin, henry D., Death of, . . . 576 Grandiloquence, . . . . . 609 Guiccioli, Countess, Portrait of, . . 704 Heart of the Andes 248 Hammer Cloth 432 Hallams Literary Remains, . . 448 Hume, David, Tomb of . . 500 Italy, Letters from, . Kentish Longtails, . 340 184 209 245 386 755 757 62 640 233 374 Liquid Silver Mine 124 Love and Friendship 240 Libraries in the United States, 255 Lawrence Tragedy, Episode of, 336 Lapps and Norwegians, 359 Letters sent by Post 374 Mediterranean 47 Mecca, Pilgrimages to, 255 Macaulay, Funeral of 364 and Opium Eating, . . 383 and the Encyclopmedia Britannica, 622 Noahs Ark and the Great Eastern, 113 Necrology of 1859 596 Nu~get, adventure of 718 Oyster Beds, Natural 661 Photography Pious Negro, Pun-gent Purkess Family Precedence Political Gamut River Banks, Revolutions in English History, Richmond and its Maids of Honor, General Convention in, Symbolic German Dictionary, Speech before the Flood, . 76 105 299 326 448 477 233 274 374 574 59 326 INDEX. VII Silicia, Applications of, . 362 Unfermented Brea~ 138 Ste Ampoule, 420 Unburied Ambassadors, . . . 374 Scavengers I)au~hter, . 432 Siam, Tim King of, Vesuvius to be put down, . . . 718 Sewinb Machines, . 718 Water Gas at Wilmington, . . . 42 Teeth, Irregularity of, . - 59 Warren, Dr., and Louis Napoleon, . 333 Talma and the Bishop of Troyes, 146 Womens Wages in California, . . 528 Toads and their Skins, . 339 POETRY. Another Rolling Year, . . 578 Now-a-Days, 64 North Winds 503 Bachelor, 92 Burns 93, 706 Our Dead 130 Bookworld 130 One trace Left 768 Babys Shoes, 514 Ode to Messrs. Galen and Glauber, 770 Church Time, 183 Public Worship, 183 Christmas Carol 238 Pathways in Palestine 187 Changes in English Social Life, 285 Palimpsest, . 194 Christmas Story, 313 Prayer of the Poor 238 Cupid upon Blackstone, 322 Path throu~ the Corn, 322 Cloister Mood 450 Pilgrim of Earth, 433 Cloud on the Way 512 Reader on a Head stone, 88 Day of Death, 64 Risen Saviour 183 Drenched by the Wintry Sea, 125 Remembrance of the Gulf Stream, 258 Defence not Defiance 194 Resolve Dream Life 304 Rainbow at Sea 706 December, 1859 724 Scotch Argument for Marriage, 61 Effie Campbell 66 Song of the Survivor 66 430 Saviours Praise 183 Evening Sun is Crowning happy Hills, . . 451 Friends to Back 61 Sea Dreams: An Idyl, 501 Father come Home 89 Serenade 512 Flower of Night 238 Spirits Enigma, 770 Farewell to Life 312 Three Phases, 2 Future, 322 Tears 64 Twin Mutes: Taught and Untaught, 237 Gentleness 699 To-morrow 448 To a Lady I know 514 Heart of the Andes 248 Tithonus, 578 Hidden Comforters 768 Upward Tendencies 312 Idyl of a Western Wife, . . . 724 Union and the Constitution,. . . 364 Juggling Jerry, Last Words ~, 56 Unspoken Dialogue 642 Word with Brother Jonathan, 146 Lifes Shipwrecks, 125 Withered 258 Love, 125 Wasp 326 Lost Love 187 Widows Wake 432 Little Girls Song, 384 Winter, 448 Little Sleeper, 433 Wife, A 398 Waiting for Christ 706 ~IIy Times are in Thy Hand, 258 Wish 68 TALE S. Coldstream 106 Lost Child, a Chinese Story, . 43 Luck of Ladysmede, 262, 549, 662 Ilopes and Fears: or Scenes from the Life of a Spinster, 77, 147, 200, 275, My Early Days 199 327, 403, 467 Holmby House, . . . 94, 300. 434, 735 Une, . . . . . . . 172 I publish the Banns of Marriage, . 623 Vicar of Lyssel, . 240

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 814 1-64

THE LIVING AGE. No. 814.7 January, 1860. CONTENTS. lAGE. 3 1. Pitt and CanningFifty years of Political History, Frasers Magazine, 22 2. ~sir James Stephen, 3. Last Voyage of Sir John Franklin, by Capt. Os.. born, R.N., Once a Week, 25 4. Cuban Literature Okamberss Journal, 37 5. The Lost ChildA Chinese Story, . . Once a Week, 43 6. Moral Strength of England Economist, 48 7. France and Italy Saturday Bevzew, 49 50 8. European Difficulties 9. Is a Triumph over China Desirable P . Economist, 52 1Q. To Pekin and Back Again Saturday Review, 53 11. Royal Geographical SocietySir John Franklin, Press, 57 12. The Republican Court, . . . National Intelligencer, 60 13. Yo-hamit6 Valley, California Independent, 62 t~OETRY.Three Phases, 2. The Last Words of Juggling Jerry, 56. The Friends to Back, 61. Scotch Argument for Marriage, ,61. The Day of Death, 64. Loves Young DreamNowadays, 64. Tears, 64. SHORT ARTIcLES.Disinfectant, 21. Water Gas, Wilmington, D., 42. Steam on the Amazon, 42. The Mediterranean, 47. Symbolic Anglo-German Vocabulary, 59. An Af~ rican Legend, 59. Causes of the Irregularity of Teeth, 59. ~ In the next number we shall begin to pubis a Story by the Author of The Heir of Redclyffe, etc. NEW BOOKS. STORIES OF HENRY AND HENRIETFA. Translated from the French of Abel Dufresne. By H. B. A. Illustrated by Billings. T. 0. H. P. Burnham, Boston. APELLES AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES. A Novel. By the Author of Ernest Carroll. T. 0. 11. P. Buraham, Boston. THE KING OF TEE GOLDEN RIVER, or The Black Brothers. A Legend of Stirin. By John Ruskin, M.A. Illustrated by Richard Doyle. Mayhew & Baker, Boston. How COULD HE HELP Iv? or The Heart Triumphant. By A. S. Roe. Derby & Jackson, New York. hITS AT AMERICAN THINGS, AND HINTS FOR HOME USE. By Frederic W. Sawyer. Walker, Wise, & Co., Boston. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Living Age will he punctually for. wardedfree a/postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six vOumes. 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. Aav vos~usss~may be had separately, at two dollars. bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANT NuEssa may be had for 1~ cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. 2 THREE PHASES. PHASE I. Fut oer the azure depths, in which the earth Reposes now as at its primal birth, Imagination takes a daring flight, And penetrates to realms remote and bright. Thought chases thought, and in the crowded race, A bridge of beauty quivers over space; Au arc created in youths golden dreams, As fragile as the floating web which seems A skein unravelled from an Iris-bow, To glisten on the summer air below. But tho so fragile, oer it fancies fly, And mock the limits of earths boundary; Within the furnace of the brain they burn, And darting upward into space, return Bright with attrition of some lustrous sphere, Or laden with the treasures gathered there. Or some have caught, from wing of astral breeze, The mystic whispers of the Plejades, And then, deep-shadowed in yonths glances, dwell Those dreamy looks the painter loves so well. But other fancies from his teeming brain, Fly ocr the void, and neer come back again: They find within that far ethereal sea, Beauty with theirs, in strange affinity; Aforce mysterious lures them to the shore, And they are lost to youth for evermore. But soon these visions mystical depart, And Love assumes his throne to rule the heart; And tho a despot, yet his soft control, Like sweet bells, chimes within an inner soul. Deep, deep within, a bliss he bids arise, And all things range themselves in melodies; The streams of life to musics murmurs flow, And in youths heart there falls loves purple glow. Then do emotions new exert their might, And song translates the language of delight; Een as the skylark bathes her soaring wings In balmy waves of air, and, ravished, sings In wanton joy: so youth, with passion new, Sends up his glad notes to the heavens blue; Sends up his wild notes upon pinions strong, And scatters happiness in shreds of song. Yes, sweetest Eoline, he sings to thee, In accents soft as that low melody Which evening breezes whisper in the ear Of bending reeds, when not a sound is near. PHA5E II. Oh man, arise, before thee lies the goal; Arise! cast off the lethargy of soul, Which poesy and song around thee fling; Put by thy trembling lyre, thy harp unstring, Bid music cease, and fold thy poets wing: Life is the call. Thy manhood doth demand a sterner theme Than beauteous phantoms of thy early dream, THREE PHASES. Turn thy rapt vision from yon distant star, Recall thy mystic thoughts, which wander far. For here on teeming earth thy duties are: Here stand or fall. Wring from the stirring world some prize to prove That thou art worthy of that higher love, Who dwelleth not for aye in Pathian bowers, But gathers riches from the toiling hours, And binds his brow with laurels, not with flowers: Do thou the same. Forge on the glowing anvil of the world, Some manacle for vice. Thy flag, unfurled, Let flutter wide where human energy Enrols within its ranks the brave, the free, For action is lifes noblest poesy, And work is fame. The ceaseless toil of muscle and of mind Ilfumines life, and lights and leads mankind. Then, onward ever! and amidst the din, With hope and strong heart plunge thou fearless in, And Fortunes guerdon thou shalt surely win For Eoline. Then, if thou wilt, in leisures peaceful hours, Find happy solace in thy minstrel powers. And oh! when life has borne good fruit for thee, how doubly sweet those tender words will be Which woo, and win her with their melody, And she is thine! PHASE III. Deeply we have quaffed together, Passion fervent, love sincere; But the chalice is not empty Some bath gone, but much is here. In vain the world has brought us sorrow, You have been my solace true; Every wave of adverse fortune Hath h~en bravely stemmed by you. Ecstasy of joys departed Leaves behind no feeble light; Chastened love is love augmented There is strength in gentle might. What tho now a line of silver Glistens in your raven hair l In playful mood, with loving finger, Time too soon bath placed it there. At this moment, orange-blossoms Midst your tresses seem to t~vine, And their perfume lingers sweetly Round the brow of Eoline. Yet, dear love, tis twenty summers Crown the term of wedded life, And garlands hang all down the vista, Placed there by a perfect wife. All 771e Year Round. PITT AND CANNING. From Frasers Magazine. PITT AND CANNING. FIFTY YEARS OF POLITICAL HISTORY. WE are glad that Mr. Stapleton * has given us these memorials of the last of our authen- tic political leaders. Canning was the heir of great ancestors, and he was not unworthy of his heritage. Yet the oblivion which afflicts the great actor or the great speaker, has to the pupil of Pitt proved even more destructive than to others. Stet nominis umbra. A few brilliant trifles are all that remain of a poli- tician unrivalled among his contemporaries for sagacity and vigor. Canning possessed in perfection that clear, quick, resolute, nervous grasp which we find in Chatham, in Pitt, in Fox. At present, oscillating between rash- ness and timidity, we drift helplessly into peace or war; then we went knowing what we wanted, and determining (he course we were to follow. How much the history of a great man is the history of a nation, how little valuable is opinion, and how invaluable genius and char- acter, is the moral of the fifty years we now propose to reviewthe half century which terminated with the death of Canning. The great commoner is the most imj)osing figure which the last century produced. His shadow stretches across it like the shadow of a colossus. Chatham was by no means, in- deed, a completely furnished, or well-balanced statesman. A certain splendor and slovenli- ness mingle in his character. His sister used to say that her brother knew nothing accu- rately except the .Faery Queen. But a poli- tician who, in the eighteenth century, could muse with delight over the purest and most noble work of the English imagination, prob- ably stood very much alone among his con- temporaries, and must have owned certain rare and elevated virtues, and a generous and vivid genius. What his speeches were can now be at best vaguely guessed; but even yet these shreds of unconnected eloquence remain in their way unrivalled. They are struck with the authentic fire of the imagina- tionof the imagination in the full sweep of excited and eloquent emotion. Half a dozen of these luminous sentences are ahiiost all that continue notable to us ia fifty years of political history. They are the masterful ~ George Canning and his Times. By Augustus Granville Stapleton. London - John W. Parker and Son. 1859. words of a great manhaughty and arrogant words oftenbut haughty and arrogant be- cause the speaker, in the pride of his integ- rity, scorned all meanness and baseness and finesse. I come not here armed at all poinis with law cases and acts of parliament, with the statute-book doubled down in dogs- ears, to defend the cause of liberty! he ex- claimed, with fine scorn, in answer to Gren- villes argument on our right to tax the colonies. Such are your well-known char- acters and abilities, he said, addressing the government of Lord North, that sure I am that any plan of reconciliation, however mod- erate, wise, and feasible, must fail in your hands. Who, then, can wonder that you should put a negative on any measure which must annihilate your power, deprive you of your emoluments, and at once reduce you to that state of insignificance for which God and nature designed you? Again, when Lord Rockinghams administration solicited his support, Pardon me, gentlemen, he said, bowing to them with that superb and haughty courtesy with which, more than with any other characteristic, we identify him; confi- dence is a plant of slow growth in an aged bosom. Most of the speeches he made in~ d?fence of the revolted colonists are grand and vehement. As an Englishman by birth1 and principle, I recognize to the Americans their supreme inalienable right to their prop- ertya right which they arejustified to defend till the last extremity. To maintain this prin- ciple is the common cause of the Whigs on the other side of the Atlantic and on this. Tis liberty to liberty engaged, that they will defend themselves, their families, and their country. In this cause they are immov- ably allied; it is the alliance of God and natureimmutable, eternalfixed as the fir- mament of heaven. The assurance which he entertained of our ultimate failure was pressed home ~vith the earnestness of supreme conviction. ii say we must necessarily undo these violent oppressive acts; they must be repealed, you will repeal them; I pledge myself for it, that you will in the end repeal them; I stake my reputation on it; I will consent to be taken for an idiot if they are not finally repealed! Yet he would not consent to compromise the imperial author- ity, nor agree to Franklins proposal, that the, kings troops should not be quartered in America without the consent of the provin a PITT AND CANNING. vial legislatures, and he enshrined his argu- ment in a noble metaphor. Such a condi- tion, he exclaimed, plucks the master feather from the eagles wing. Yet Lord Chathams career, judged of by the ordinary criterion of ministerial success, may be said to have comparatively failed. He was far oftener in opposition than in office: his own ministry was feeble: on many of the most important questions of the day the king and the nation refused to sanction his l)olicy. But Chatham, during the four years between 1767 and 1761, when with splendid firmness and sagacity he conducted the great war against France, did what no other statesman of his age did, or could have done. For sev- enty years England had been a nation divided against itself. The affections of one-half of the peol)le were fixed upon an exiled house stxva Pelopis domus. The spirit of active re- bellion had been at length extinguished, but the old animosities still burnt on; and the winning party itself did not feel veryproud ofthe throne it had gained for an alien and unl)ol)ular dynasty. It was Chatham who re- called the old national feeling. He made the Englishman again proud of his country. He revived the sense of patriotism, of national union, of a combined corporate life. The restoration of that spirit of loyal obedience and dutiful attachment to the state, without which, as Burke eloquently said, your army would be a base rabble, and your navy noth- it~g hut rotten timber, was directly due to the genius and character of Lord Chatham. He was a great man, and he communicated his rare manhood to the nation. The picture of the great minister wielding the thunder- bolts of war, and again, as in the old times, vindicating the authority of the English name, fired the imagination of the people, and made them come together as one man. He found England divided and dispirited: he left it united and exultant. As the veteran gladiator was borne from the arena, two youthful athletes appeared upon itCharles James Fox and William Pitt. Lady Holland writes to her husband in 17.67 I have been this morning with Lady Hester Pitt, and there is little lATilliam Pitt, now eight years old, and really the cleverest child I ever saw, and brought up so strietly and so proper in his behavior, thatmark my wordsthat little boy will be a thorn in charles side as long as he lives. A curious womanly intuition, fulfilled to the letter! William Pitt was indeed a thorn in Foxs side as long as he lived. It has of late become customary with cer- tain writers to depreciate the services and the wisdom of Pitt; they admit, indeed, that he was a stately minister, gifted with copious and weighty eloquence; but they assert that he cannot be regarded as a subtle or sagacious leader, and they see in his unrivalled success only a succession of fortunate accidents. On the other hand, it is asserted in the same quarter that Fox in this very capacity was eminently distinguished; and that the reason why his labors were so seldom crowned with official recognition, is to he traced to a com- bination of disastrous mischances over which the most forecasting I)rudence could have ex- ercised no control. This estimate appears to, us singularly unhappy. Pitt was a thorn in Foxs side, no doubt; but he was so because the Whlg leader recklessly left his advances open and unguarded. Foxs attacks upon Pitt always recoiled without effect: the Whig leaders impulsive and desultory genius was no match for the cool and prescient sagacity of the minister. Foxs career was a failure: Pitts, from the very beginning, a splen~d success. The prolonged authority of the son of Chatham was not an accident. What is the explanation? The nation admired the lavish gifts of the one; but it had confidence in the other. It is the triumph of character. A hrief survey will make this clear. Neither the public nor the private character of Fox was calculated to inspire the people with confidence. His private life was against him. TIe pos. sessed, indeed, many amiable social qualities, warm affections, a placable and forgiving disposition, a sweet and winning temper, which nothing could sour. He was thus im- mensely popular among his associates. But his reputation with the country was had; and the reputation was not unjustified. his early career was profligate; and even his connec- tion with Mrs. Armistead ~~which probably did much to reclaim himwas foreign to the feelings of a strictly moral l)eople. His father introdu6ed him to the gaming-table at Spa before he was fourteen; and he quickly be- came one of the most fierce and reckless gaul- blers in a gambling age. The purchase of the annuities which he had granted to cover ~ Mrs. Armistead afterwards became Mrs. Fox.. 4 ?ITT AND CANNING. his losses at play, cost Lord Holland more than a hundred and forty thousand pounds. As he mixed much in society the details of his interior life were well known to the public. He rose late, and before he had quitted his bedroom in St. James Street was surrounded by a group of pleasant, witty, and accomplished disciples. Many men who were very famous then, and some who will be very famous forever, attended these matutinal levees. Wrapped in a foul linen night- gown that only partially c.oncealed his black and bristly person, his hair matted, and his hands unwashed, the profligate dic- tator marshalled the forces of the opposition, and devised the tactics of the campaign. The day he spent at Newmarketin the evening he attacked the ministerthe night was con- sumed at Almacks. This celebrated club in Pall-Mall had been established by himself; and within its walls, their faces muffled, their laced ruffles protected with leather-straps such as footmen wear, the youthful aris- tocracy of England scattered, with a cast of the dice, the wealth which centuries had ac- cumulated. Long after daybreak, the Whig leader once more landed in St. James Street that is, when he could reach home, and it was not necessary to leave him under the supper-table in what Grattan called Foxs negligent grandieur! This was terrific work only a most vigorous and elastic constitu- tion could have stood it. Fox, physically and intellectually, braved it with splendid impu- nity: to his associates, the wild dissipation seemed only to add a fresher charm to his eloquence, and a keener point to his wit; but at the same time it effectually alienated the mass of the I)eople from him. Nor was hi~ public life more re-assuriflg. The first Lord Holland was utterly destitute of principle. According to his creed, every patriot had his price, and every vote in the House of Commons could be bought. En- dowed, like his son, with warm affections, and a serene and equitable temper, which he pre- served to the last( If Mr. Selwyn calls again, he said to his servant when he was dying, let him in; if I am alive, I shall be very glad to see him; and if I am dead, he will be very glad to see me )he was yet utterly untrustwotthy. The political latitudi- narianism of the father was suppQsed to have descended to the son. The impression was false indeed; for Fox, especially in later life, had many strong and even vehement convic- tions. But his conduct undoubtedly often gave a color to the imputation; and he suf- fered in consequence. Gibbon has asserted that Fox was a great and sagacious leader Fox, who, in the con- duct of a party, approved himself equal t9 the conduct of an enipire. The words were written towards the close of the historian s life, and when ample materials for judgment were beside him. But surely no man can be regarded as a great chief whose tactics alien- ate his party and the people; and ~t the time when Gibbon wrote, the nation had lost all confidence in the wisdom and capacity of the Whig leaders, and the Whig party was di- vided against itself. Fox was looked upon as a reckless debauche who sPent his days in drinking and gambling with the Prince of Wales. Sheridans want of application and steadiness was universally acknowledged, and had been piquantly illustrated. No ap~ plications,a notice, it was said, stuck on the door of his office during the time he was secretary to the treasury, announced no apl)lications can be received here on Wednes- days, nor any business done during the re- mainder of the week. And when the party~ with its traditional exclusiveness, could find no place for Burke in his own administration, it seemed tacitly to sanction the PoI)ular im~ pression that his great schemes of domestie and imperial policy were impracticable. Its recent manoeuvres, moreover, had created an impression that the men ~were not only in.. competent but unprincipled. Office was re- garded as the sole object ot their mercenary ambition. The tactics of the opposition from a Whig point of view especiallywere certainly for many years particularly unhappy. The junction with Lord North, the conflict of 1784, the question of the regency, and the French Revolution, ~vere the l)rincil)le events that took place between 1782 and 1792. What was Foxs conduct in relation to these events? Was it consistent ~vith his l)osition as the leader of the Whig party,the party calling itself the popular? The junction with an ultra-Tory like Lord North was censured by his personal friends as an unnatural alli.~ ance, and he himself admitted that it was a measure which only success could justify. In 1784, the conflict ~vas one substantially be- tween the parliament and the people.. The right to an ultimate verdict vested in the peo 5 PITT AND CANNING. pie was surely a doctrine entirely in conso- nance with the historical traditions of the Whigs. But this right Fox obstiRately de- nied. AgRi~,in 1788, on the question of the regency, what course did he adopt? He a~- serted that the Prince of Wales was gifted with an inherent and inherited authority, which he could under circumstances like those which had then occurred, assume, without the sanction or intervention of the Houses of Par- liament, an authority so unmitigated that its existence was challenged by a Tory minister! Was this monarchical right a doctrine recog- nized by the Whig revolution of 1688a rev- olution ~vhich detected a divine right not in the king, hut in the people P Finally, his conduct in regard to the French Revolution is admitted, even by his strongest partisans, to have been characterized by a reckless dis- regard of the peculiar duties and responsibili- ties that his office imposed on him. We do not mean to question his sincerity. lhere is ahundant evidence to the contrary in the let- ters which Lord John Russell has published. But was it cautious or politic in a party leader? He must have known that the rev- olution was an event hostile to the sentiments of the great body of the nation, and repug- nant to the opinions of the most important members of his own party. There was no necessity, to say the least, why he should have assumed the uncompromising position he thought fit to maintain, or voluntarily united himself with those who were regarded with suspicion and dislike by the most power- ful classes of English society. Of all his polit- ical blunders, none were freighted with more malignant consequen~es to himself and his party than this; for it thoroughly thinned the ranks and weakened the influence of the liberal opposition during half a century. The first act of the revolution was consum- mated in 1789; but it was not until the 6th of May, 1792, that the schism in the opposi- tion became publicly known. The revolution absolutely exasperated Burke. He took it in the light of a personal insult. There was un- questional)ly a tinge of insanity in the angry vehemence with which he assailed it. During the last session, upon this very subject, bitter recriminations had passed between him and Sheridan, which might have been spared, if only for the ghost of a departed friendship. And a yet earlier and dearer fellowship was now to be sacrificed. Fox ha risen during the evening, had denounced the enemies of lil:~rty, and lauded in eloquent words the re- generated society of France. Burke found it iml)ossible to remain silent any longer. He was, he said, no friend to tyranny. He hated tyranny, but he hated it most where most ~vere concerned; for he knew that the tyr- ann~ of a multitude was a multiplied tyranny. Nor was he an enemy to liberty; but the liberty that he loved was a liberty associated with order and honesty, that not only existed along with virtue and justice, but that could not exist without them. This was not the liberty that had been asserted by the French Republicans; on the contrary, they had been urged on by a ferocious indocility that seemed to have destroyed their social nature, and made them little better than the brutes. Be- fore Burke had finished his harangue, Fox exi)ressed a confident hope that though they might differ as to public affairs, there would be no loss of private fellowship. But Burke publicly refused the proffered amnesty. There was something, he declared, so malignant in this detested constitution that it seemed to envenom every thing that it touched, and he knew that in doing his duty he had lost his friend. When he resumed his seat Fox rose to speak, but for some time was too much agitated to address the House; then, in a burst of passionate tenderness, he appealed to his revered and venerated friendto the memory of their old affectionto the re- membrance of their inalienable friendship! But Burke was inexorable. He would hold no communion with any one who sympathized with France. Her friends should be his ene~ mies, and her enemies should be his friends. And, henceforth, the old comrades were part- ed by a gulf more bitter than the bitterness of death. Thus the result of Foxs leadership was to extinguish Whiggism as the leading power in the state for wellnigh fifty years. From 1784 until the era of the Reform Bill the party was politically extinct. No doubt, un- lucky accidents did occur, whose evil conse- quences the severest prudence could not en- tirely have obviated; but the Whigs were banished from office because Fox, alike as a man and as a politician, had failed to concili- ate the confidence of the people. As a man he was pronounced profligate; as a politician 6 PITT AND CANNING. and victory won. The conflict between the youthful premier and the combined opposition of North and Fox is one of the most bitter recorded in the annals of parliamentary warfare. That Pitt asserted the doctrine of the constitution can- not now be questioned. That the ministers of the crown are entitled to -appeal to the constituencies against the verdict of an ad- verse parliament has been admitted and en- forced by Lord John Russell himself.* But in 1784 the opposition, secure in the support of a majority of the House of Commons, de- termined to guard against a dissolution, and in the attempt did not hesitate to employ the most violent and arbitrary expedients. To withstand so powerful and unscrupulous a confederacy must have required) as we have said, a force of moral courage with which few men are gifted. Against the minister were arrayed the genius and the authority of the most accomplished statesmen, the parlial mentary influence of Lord North, and the philosophical sagacity of Edmund Burke, Foxs vehement invective, and Sheridans bitter pleasantry, which, as old Robert Boyle found the toothache, though it be not mor- tal, is very troublesome. The ministers were at one time denounced as a set of desperate miscreants, who persisted in holding office against the confidence of the Commons; at another ridiculed as arrogant young gentle- men, who required to be taught that govern- ment was too serious a business to be made the plaything of children. The premier was The virgin ministerthe Heaven-born youth; and the charge of precocious and profligate ambition was hurled against the hew Octa- vious. But Pitts courageous pertinacity proved equal to the crisis. Animated espe- cially by the resolute sul)port of the king and the IDuke of Richmond, he continued to main- tain his difficult position with a proud humil- ity that is not without its charm. To the ar- guments of the opposition he replied in skilful and eloquent speeches which displayed a pro- found acquaintance with constitutional law Lffe and Times of Cherles Jeases Fox. Vol. ii. p. 66. London: 1869. PT unsafe; and neither versatility nor eloquence hardihood to enter deliberately into a life-and- could retrieve the position which want of death conflict with the turbulent and despotic character had forfeited. Commons of England. Had he then fallen Pitt, in either respect, stands out in striking he would have fallen irretrievably; but he contrast to his rival, never faltered, never wavered, never laid His domestic life was blameless. The tone aside his arms, until the enemy was routed of his mind was singularly pure and elevated. Like the Arthur of romance, William Pitt was a stainless gentleman. Nor was his purity, as his enemies asserted, exclusively due to the reserve and coldness of his tem- perament. It is known that he was at one time deeply attached to Lady Eleanor Eden, and that the conviction that the ties of do- mestic life were inconsistent with the engross- ing claims of public duty alone prevented him from making her his wifea sacrifice dictated by a fine sense of duty no doubt, but still in many respects to be lamented. Lady Elean- ors noble beauty and grand and thought- ful brow would not unfitly have associated with the austere memory of the incorrupti- ble statesman. Sueb a union, too, would prob- ably have proved beneficial to Pitt himself. His integrity was somewhat icy. There was a certain hardness in his character which this union might have relaxed. But when he had once decided he never relented.* And so his life went on, cast in the same mould, till its closecold, simple, incorruptible, wanting in the finer lights and subtler perceptions of the affections, but fascinating by its grand, imposing, and sombre masses. The last scene the dead minister lying alone and unre- garded in the (leserted houseis very sad, but not out of keeping with the rest of the incidents, and with the cheerless burden of ambition he ha~l voluntarily undertaken to bear. Pitts public no less than his private career compelled confidence. He undoubtedly en- joyed many natural advantages. The House of Commons could not behold unmoved the son of the great commoner. A noble oppor- tunity, moreover, opened to him on the very threshold of his parliamentary career; but even his enemies admitted that he turned it to account with infinite skill and tact. It needed indeed marvellous nerve and moral ~ Pitt had few friends or intimates. Dundas, and subsequently Canning, were the only men he thoroughly trusted. Even his own chancellor in- trigued against him. V hurlow, indeed, with pon- derous hypocrisy denied the charge When I forget my king, may God forget me! Hell see you dd first! retorted Wilkes. The best thiug that can happen to you, said Burke. PITT AND CANNING. and the history and practice of parliament. Its taunts and its reproaches he treated with haughty silence and that superb contempt which is described by those who knew him as a marked feature in his character. When the contest had lasted for nearly four months, when the government had undergone ~ suc- cession of ignominious defeats, when invective and argument had been alike exhausted, the majority was at length forced to admit that the House of Commons had been discomfited in a desperate conflict by a minister not five- and-twenty! In all my researches in mod- em and ancient times, is the testimony of the great English historian of Rome, I have nowhere met with his l)arallel, who, at so early a l)eriod of his life, discharged so im- portant a trust with so much credit to him- self and with so much advantage to his coun- try. When Pitt had succeeded in defeating the coalition, his task was scarcely more than begun. He had still to give his party a bond ~f cohesion and a principle of unity. He had to detect the exact place it was necessary to occupy between the rival political sections on the one hand and the mass of the people on the other. He had to inaugurate and work out a policy which would keep the nation with him. That he did so must ever, we think, be regarded as his peculiar triumph. The material of a party, as we have seen, lay ready to his hand; but in itself it certainly was not very promising. It was chiefly com- posed of the old Tory connection, which had acquired a renovated influence through the vices and blunders of its rivals. But there was no vitality in its creed; it had retained the dry form, while it had lost the religious energy of its early convictions. The Toryism of Divine right and passive obedience had manifestly answered the end it was meant to serve, and now it seemed that the sooner it was dismissed the better. But the claims of its rival were equally loose and unsatisfactory. The lofty and abstract patriotism of the Whig had practically ministered only to the selfish- ness of the nobility. The liberty he desired was the liberty of the oligarchy to govern England, not the liberty of the people to govern themselves. His aristocratic leaders were utterly ignorant of the popular sympa- thies and of the I)opular necessities. It was with those sympathies and those necessities that, at the close of the coalition conte~t, Pitt identified Toryism. Feudal England had become the England of mercantile and me~ chanical enterprise, and under the directiox~ of the infant Atlas of the State, conserva- tism ceased to be a feudal, and became a commercial, principle. Granting the people the only freedom they really cared for at the timethe freedom to create and accumulate capitalhe relieved the springs of national industry and augmented the sources of na~ tional wealth. He was the first minister of, the crown who recognized that the philosoph- ical genius of Adam Smith furnished the l)est solution to every question connected with the history of commerce and with the sys- tems of political economy. He was the first chancellor of the exchequer who brought with him to office the principles of a scientifi. finance. When he came into power the in- come of the country, after the prolonged. drain of the American war, did not supply the means of supporting even a moderate peace establishment. Within a single year his tariffa tariff constructed upon the prin; ciple that has dictated all our recent legisla tion, the increase of the revenue through an. increase in the consumption rather than through an increase in the taxationpro- duced a magnificent surplus. But while he profited England, he saved conservatism. Constructing his policy on wise and liberal princil)les, he incorporated with a worn-out creed a new and vital element of strength, and imparted to a powerless and unimagi- native party tha force and the refinement of genius. In the popular interests of a mer-, cantile community, and in the maxims of an enlightened finance, he sought for it a more permanent l)re-eminence than could be de-~ rived from the wealth of an aristocratic con- nection or the influence of a shattered tradk tion. More than once, even within our own memory, has Toryism been in this way res-, cued by a subtle, profound, and prolific in- tellect; and if even now it can with truth he said to exert any perceptible influence upon our l)ractical l)olitics, it is because it has been, thus redeemed from its mercenary instincta~ and its more literal associations. The first ten years of Pitts administration present a marked contrast to those whick~ succeeded. His genius and his sympathies were pacific,; he was fitted to make a great peace minister; but he was forced to become the minister of war. Forced, we sa~r4 8 9 PITT AND CANNING. J.ecaaise there can be no doubt that he re- the aggressive shape an Englishmans moral garded war with dislike, and that those who protest generally takes. attribute to his ambition the participation of The war was indeed protracted and disas- England in the Revolutionary War speak trous; before it was finished Fox and Pitt without knowing the facts. He struggled ear- were in their graves, and a new generation nestly to keep the country aloof, and he re- had arisen. But to attribute these disasters fused to join the coalesced kings in their to the policy of the minister is surely most ill-advised atteml)t to regulate the internal unjust. The fate of battles was against him; organization of France. That question, he the genius of Napoleon was against him; but always declared was one which the French he did his part with a lavish hand and an peol)le alone were competent to decide. If, unshaken heart. He did not starve the ~var; said Canning, in 1794, describing and vindi- he did not practise any of the small econo~ ~ati ng the policy of the ministry, it had inies that are no~v so much in vogue: he been a harmless, idiot lunacy, which had con- bent the undivided energies of the country to tented itself with playing its tricks and prac- the conflict and strained them to the utmost. tising its fooleries at home, with dressing up Chatham himself could not have conducted 8tru mpets in oak-leaves and inventing nick- a war with more magnificent prodigality; names for the calendar, I should have been and it can at least be said that, from first to far from desiring to interrupt their innocent last, England remained mistress of the sea. amusements; we might have looked on with The opposition alleged that after he had hearty contempt indeed, but with a contempt once embarked in the ~var Pitt would never not wholly unmixed with commiseration. listen to any overture for peace; but the It. was not until Dumouriez had made the Ar- charge, though no doubt to some extent cor- 4ennes forest the Thermopylm of France; rect, can hardly be made matter of reproach it was not until the war on the part of the to the minister. Pitt accurately estimated Convention had ceased to be a war of defence the malign nature of the conflict. He was and become a war of aggression and propa- opposed to a great captain, for whose safety gandism; it was not until the king had been war was as needful as the encasing air. put to death, that Pitt came to see that neu- Napoleons power rested upon a military trality could no longer be preserved. It was basis; and such a power was in its very not Pitt, it was the French and the English nature a perpetual menace to Europe. To people, who made war inevitable. When make peace with this foe was, as Pitt felt, vir~ the Convention, on the 19th of November, tually impracticable. A truce was more un~ 1792, decreed that it would assist with arms safe than a war, even though the war might all nations who wished to recover their lib- be burdensome and disastrous. The opposi-~ erty, it virtually declared war against the tion thundered against the bloody and am~ constituted governments of Europe. But bitious minister; but when the opposition England was by no means willing to partici- itself succeeded to powei, it was forced to ac- pate in the contest. The coalesced kings knowledge that Pitt was right, and that s~ threaten us, shouted IDanton, and we cast long as Napoleon and the French army lay at their feet, as our gage of battle the head like a thundercloud over Europe, it was im~ of a king. The English people eagerly ac- possible to patch up even a provisional IJeace. cel)ted the challenge. The atrocities of the Such were the two men who for twenty revolution had horrified them, its successes eventful years divided the admiration of the bad scared them; and horror-stricken and House of Commonswho still on either hand panic-stricken they threw themselves blindly salute the stranger as, with uncovered head~. into the battle, and dragged the minister he enters the temple of the state. Pittthe along with them. The Revolutionary War superb Commoner, who has refused the blue has been called a war of principle: it was ribbon, and will never accept of any reward rather, in so far as England ~vas involved, a for his great services, either from his king or war of sentiment and passion. The moral his countryfrom childhood superior to pleas- sense of the country had been outraged by ure, temperate, abstemious, and with a repu- the indecent and ferocious excesses of the tation for unblemished integrityfluent, clear,. republic, and it j)rotested accordingly, and in correct, and commanding as an oratorwith 10 arguments that appeal rather to the reason than to the imaginationseverely just and coldly inflexiblewe recognize in him a great constitutional minister, a haughty defender of the ancient order, a fitting representative of the most august and powerful monarchy in Europe! Fox, on the other hand, with the light-heartedness of a boypassionately en- amoured of lifeloving pleasure intensely, and quitting it with difficulty and regret wanting, indeed, in the patient courage, fore- sight, and energy of the disciplined intellect, but wielding with matchless skill a burning eloquence, searchingly argumentative even in its most irresistible vehemenceto us he re- calls the simI)le and courageous tribune of a degraded l)opulacethe old orator, who could weep for very shame that they will not be stirred, as high above the crowd he thunders against the insolent dictator, and casts down fiery words upon the upturned faces of the peol)le! The lines of opposition between the two statesmen are for the most part strongly marked; but at length, as the end approaches, as the curtain drops, they approximate and unite. The life-long rivals are reconciled. Each is exhausted with the conflict; the fire burns low; the wine of life is on the lees. The l)rillciples to which they had clung are worn out by their vehement advocacy. One after another the positions they had succes- sively taken up have been abandoned. They had espoused opinions wide as the l)oles asun- der; and now it has come to this,that both are as one. Each had had his special the- ory of the universe; but the universe had de- clined to be theorized about, and taking its own course, had placidly brushed the theories aside as it passed. They were strong men both; but events had proved too strong for either. They spent their lives together, and in death they were not divided. Pitt died of old age at forty-six; a few months elapsed, and Fox was laid by his side. The noble lament in Marmion was uttered over the sel)ulchre where rest the ashes of both the rivals. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, The trumpets silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill! Pitts mantle fell upon Canning. Canning was his pupil and his heir. To one man, PITT AND CANNING. while he lived, I was devoted with all my heart and all my soul. Since the death of Mr. Pitt, I acknowledge no leader; my politi~ cal allegiance lies buried in his grave. * In very early life Canning had given indica- tions of high talent, and of the qualities of mind ~vhich afterwards distinguished him. Even in the Microcosm of his Eton days he displayed, along with much literary cleverness, a tact, moderation of judgment, and fastidi- ousness of taste which are seldom met with at that immature period of life. The Anti- Jacobin confirmed his literary reputation. His contributions to its columns will live with the language. They i~re very slight, but their classic polish and finish, their refined, subtle; and stealthy irony, their perfect mimetic grace, give them a high l)lace among the exquisite trifles of art which inherit immor- tality. Most of his impromptus have disap- l)eared with the society in which they floated; but the few that remain are sufficient to indi- cate the skill and felicity with which he spoke and thought. What can be more perfect in ~ Mr. Cannings speech at Liverpool on the so- casion of his contest with Mr. Brougham: Mr. Brougham retorted in a powerful passage of elo- quent invective: Gentlemen, I stand up in this contest against the friends and followers of Mr. Pitt, or ,as they partially designate him, the immortal statesman now no more. Immortal in the miseries of his de- voted country! Immortal in the wounds of her bleeding liberties! Immortal in the cruel wars which sprang from his cold, miscalculating ambi- tion! Immortal in the intolerable taxes, the count- less loads of debt which these wars have flung upon uswhich the youngest man amongst us will not live to see the end of! Immortal in the triumphs of our enemies, and the ruin of our allies the costly purchase of so much blood and tress- ure! Immortal in the afflictions of Eubland, and the humiliation of her friends, through the whole results of his twenty years reign, from the first rays of favor with which a delibhted court gilded his early apostasy, to the deadly glare which is at this instant cast upon his name by the burning metropolis of our last ally! But may no such im- mortality ever fall to mylotlet me rather live in- nocent and inglorious: and when at last I cease to serve you, and to feel for your wrongs, may 1ha~e an humble mouument in some nameless stone, to tell that beneath it there rests from his labors in your service, ass enemy of the immortal statesman a friend oj peace and of the people. Lord Brougham has criticised Mr. Canning; Mr. Stapleton tells us Mr Cannings opinion of Mr. Brougham. I recollect one day, when riding on the grounds near Brighton, telling him that 1 had received a letter from London, stating that Mr. Brougham was dangerously ill. Poor fellow, said Mr. Canning,I am very sorry to hear it; and then after a minutes pause, lie added, If he should be taken from the House of Commons,- there will be no one left to pOund end mash, P. 28. PITT AND CANNING. 11 their way than his pleasantries on Mr. Whit- He was called a traitor and an apostate, a bread? Here is one of themless known Judas, who for the loaves and fishes had sold than his Anti-,Jacobin sallies, and therefore his faith. For many years whenever he rose justifying reproduction to speak Grey and rfjerney left the House. FRAGMENT OF ~ ORATION. Such conduct was absurd. To make a boy Part of Mr. Whitbreads speech on the trial of reslionsible for the immature opinions which Lord Melville, put into verse by Mr. Canning, family tradition or youthful vanity may lead at the time it was delivered : him to adopt, is ridiculous and offensive. Nor is there any proof that Canning had expressed the sentiments im1)uted to him. lie originally sympathized with the French reformers, but their excesses quickly alienated his moderate temper and his refined tastes, and the com- manding genius of Pitt at an early period at- tracted his admiration. Were I in parlia- ment, he writes to one of his Oxford friends, where I sometime hence hope to bemy support and opinion ~vould go with Mi-. Pitt. In 1793, he entered the House of Com- mons; and in the following session made his first speech, which was subdued but effective. The narrative of his feelings on this occasion, as given by Mr. Stapleton, is very graphic. Im like Archimedes for science and skill, Im like a young prince going staight up a hill; Im like (with respect to the fair be it said), Im like a young lady just bringing to bed. If you ask why the eleventh of June I remem- ber, Much better than April, or May, or Novem- ber, On that day, my lords, with truth I assure ye, My sainted progenitor set up his brewery; On that day, iu the morning, he began brew- ing beer; On that day too commenced his connubial ca- reer; On that day lie received and he issued his bills On that day he cleared out all the cash from his tills On that day he died, having finished his sum- ming, And the Angels all cried, Heres old Whit- -- bread a-coming!~ So that day still I hail with a smile and a sigh For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I; And still on that day, in the hottest of weather, The whole Whitbread family dine all together. So long as the beams of this house shall sup- port The roof which oer-shadows this respectable court, Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos; So long as the sun shall shine in at those win- dows, My name shall shine bright as my ancestors shines, Mine recorded in journals, his blazoned on signs ! Cannings early associations were with the Whig party. At the house of his uncle, Mr. Stratford Canning, he became acquainted with its most eminent members. The beautiful and vivacious Mrs. Crew, who, with the Duchess of Devonshire, adorned and inspired the Whig society of the metropolis, was one of his personal friends. Before he had left Oxford, he was looked upon as one of them- selves, and Sheridan, on the occasion of Mr. Jenkinsons first speech, announced his com- ing to the House of Commons. When, there- fare, he entered parliament as a supporter of the minister, the resentment and mortification of the connection were angrily manifested. I intended to have told you, at full length, what were my feelings at getting up, and be- ing pointed at by the Speaker, and hearing my name called from all sides of the House; ho~v I trembled lest I should hesitate, or mis- place a word in the two or three first sen- tences; while all was dead silence around me, and my own voice sounded to my ears quite like some other gentlemans; how, in about ten minutes, or less, I got ~varmed in collision with Foxs arguments, and did not even cure twopence for anybody or any thing; how I was roused, in about half an hour, from this pleasing state of self-sufficiency, by accident- ally casting my eyes towards the ol)l)osition bench, for the purpose of paying compliments to Fox, and assuring him of my resl)ect and admiration, and there seeing certain members of ol)position laughing (as I thought) and quizzing me; how this accident abashed me, and, together with my being out of breath, rendered me incapable of uttering; ho~v those who sat below me on the treasury bench, see- ing what it was that distressed me, cheered loudly, and the house joined them; and how, in less than a minute, straining every nerve in my body, and plucking up every bit of resolu- tion in my heart, I went on more boldly than ever, and getting into a part of my subject that I liked, and having the house with me, got happily and triumphantly to the end. Pp. 1617. Canning had almost every quality fitted to make him a favorite with the House of Com- mons. His manner was always indeed some- PITT AND CANNING. what haughty and authoritative; he was an Lins~)aring antagonist; he exhausted himself at all timesthese are his own words in endeavors to give vigor and sharpness to po- litical hostility. The Whigs, moreover, as we have seen, regarded him at first with bitter aversion; but they constituted at that time a small minority in the house, and their influence was not sufficient to make their hostility very prejudicial to its object. Cannings presence was singularly graceful. His figure was slight and wiry; his features, finely cut and decisive, ~vere at the same time very mobile, and capable of a subtle play and variety of expressiona union seldom met with. There is a lighting up of his features, and a comic play about the mouth, Wilber- force said, when the full force of the ap- proaching witticism strikes his own mind, which prepares you for the burst which is to follow. His head, altogether, was one of great intellectual power and beauty; the kind of head that is more frequently found on Greek statues than on English members of parliament. His voice was !ow, but so rich and clear, and perfectly modulated, that it was heard distinctly in every part of the house. There was an air of high-breeding and aristo- cratic culture in every gesture, which those who dubbed him an adventurer did not sometimes possess. His eloquence was calm, serene, and lu- minous. He was seldom passionate; rarely yielded to excitement or emotion; but when he did the effect was electrical. The vehe- mence struck all the more keenly, from the contrast it presented to his passionless de- ineanor, his sarcastic temper, and his habitual reserve. With the lighter artillery of par- liamentary defence and attack he was com- pletely furnished. His irony was swift and stealthyit stabbed like the stiletto. I can excuse him, lie said when Mr. Windhams military measures were suI)l)orted by his col- leagues on grounds which he himself had re- ~udiated, for having disdained to answer the attacks of his opponents, but I am surprised that he should not have vindicated himself from the supI)ort of his friends. He particu- larly excelled in that refined pleasantrythat indirect and gentlemanly quizzingwhich is so much relished by the House of Commons. The heavy Falmouth coach conveying the succoz of Lord Nu~ents person to Spain the government discovering that there really was something like a war between France anti Prussia, by the trifling circumstance that the Prussian army was annihilated the ac- count of Mr. Windhams expeditions[ a firework before Boulogne and yet that wanted confirmationan embarkation on the Paddington canal. But for the uncommon openness of the weather, it is probable that his army ~vould have been frozen up at lix- bridge,] are capital specimens of this vein of grave and good-humored banter. Mr. Stapleton gives some very interesting details of the manner in which he prepared for a great speech. His whole mind was absorbed in it for two or perhaps three days beforehand. He spared no labor in obtaining and arranging his materials. He always drew up a paper (which he used in the house) with the heads, in their order, of the several tol)ics on which he meant to touch, and these heads were num- bered, and the numbers sometimes extended to four or even five hundred. Some of these headings have been pre- served, and they are very curious. We have only room for onethe unused notes of a speech in reply to Mr. Hobhouse, who, Mr. Canning believed, had, in an anonymous pam- phlet, suggested his assassination. 391. But in or out of office. 392. The constitution is my object of wor~ ship. 393. And in this her temple. 394. For that obloquy. 395. For that demonstration. 396. For that designation, and I pretty well know by what peii, to the dagger of the assassin. 397. But it is pastthe danger and the scorn. 398. Let them rail, or let them repent. 399. My course is the same. 400. And while I have the strength, I de- sire no other duty than that of doing my best in defence of a form of government which, if destroyed, could not he replaced, and which may yet aff6rd shelter and glory to genera- tions who will know how to value and pre- serve it. Not only were these adjuncts in his favor; the tempeP of his mind was peculiarly fitted tO win the confidence of the House of Commons. He was brave, intrepid, and honorable; no stain of baseness ever soiled his reputation. To such a one an assembly of English gen- tlemen can forgive much. And the modera- tion of his character attuned with their own. This moderation was intimately allied with his 12 fastidiousness. His severe and dainty taste, the extreme care with which he lingered over the structure of a sentence, or the exact ety- mological significance of a wordsometimes, perhaps, degenerated into prudery. He scanned a royal speech till the faintest tinge of color was bleached out of it. The kings message upon the affairs of Portugal was dis- covered at the eleventh hour to contain a slight grammatical error: Mr. Canning would not present it to the house until the inaccu- racy had been carefully erased. Some people may be disposed to resent this jealous atten- tion to verbal niceties; we are not. Mental slovenliness is as obnoxious as bodily; and scrupulous neatness, hoth in dress and lan- guage, is a virtue of the first magnitude. Confusion in speech is commonly the index of confused thinking; and the philosopher and the statesman should ~veigh the precise im- port of words as rigorously as the lawyer. A man so constitutionally fastidious as Canning was, could not help being temperate. He hada horror of excess in every shape; ivhau ever shocked good taste was repugnant to him; the extravagances of enthusiasm were regarded with critical dislike by his fair and unim1)assioned intellect. A shade, of medita- tive irony runs perhaps through his mind; but he had no very deep convictions, nor the stuff of which bigots and martyrs are made. Yet with nil his el)icurean delicacy and meteor- like brilliancy he possessed a remarkably sound understanding, and a rare fund of com- mon sense. His great speech upon the bul- lion question showed the most profound ac- quaintance with the intricacies of practical finance. He played, says Homer, with its most knotty subtleties. This moderation was the key-note of Can- nings character, and determined his political career. He was liberal and yet a Tory, the adversary of reform, and yet the ardent ad- vocate of toleration. Wherever a tangible grievance existed, he devoted his energies to its redress; but he opposed every scheme of theoretical amelioration. He was the life- long advocate of Catholic emancipation: he was the life-long opponent of constitutional change. During the time he was in office, the question of Greek independence arose. The attitude he assumed towards it strikingly illustrates the habitual temperance of his dis- position. When all Europe had gone crazy about the degenerate offspring of the free, PITT AND CANNING. 13 Canning maintained the even tenor of his mind. He was a fine scholar, and was not insensible to the classical associations which the struggle evoked; but he would not allow his imaginations to take his judgment cal)tive, or divert him from prudent and temperate counsels; and he expressed nothing save con- tempt for those who, to reconstruct the base- less fabric of a vision, blindly perilled the practical well-being of Europe. I have traced Chateaubriands agents, he writes, scornfully, perplexing the unhappy Greeks with I know not what absurd fancies of elec- tive monarchies, and crusades against the in- fidel, with new knighthoods of Malta, at three shillings and sixpence a head. He himself tried to accommodate the dispute between the Greeks and their Mussulman masters by a reasonable compromise. He negotiated a treaty which provided that, on the payment of a moderate fixed duty to the Porte, the Turkish army should be removed from Greece. But this wise and politic middle course was of course unacceptable to the imaginative politicians who, except the repul)lic were re- stored in its antique integrity, were content to abet the ambitious designs of Russia. On his foreign policy the fame of Mr. Can. ning must ultimately depend. He was the ablest foreign minister that England has had for a century. The l)rinciples on which his policy rested were admirably conceived, and most skilfully executed. From the beginning to the end of his career they are evolved with dramatic consistency. We must briefly justify this assertion. Canning entered heart and soul into Mr. Pitts contest with France. He held that the conflict was unavoidable, and that it had been forced upon a minister whose fame as well as power rested upon the basis of the finan- cial prosperity of the country. The indecent excesses of the French Republicans, more- over, shocked his taste; and when the repub- lic was at length destroyed by one of its own offspring, he bursts into an lo paean of tri- umph. Huzza! huzza! huzza! (he exclaims, in 1799) Buonaparte, an apostate from the cause of libertyBuonaparte, the avowed tyrant of his country, is an object to be contemplated with enthusiasmto he held up to the ad- miration and gratitude of mankind. Tell me not that he will make France more powerful that he will make war with more vigor, or peace with more dexterity than the exploded 14 PITT AND CANNING. Directory have done; I care not. No! no! it gen, the fleet was captured, and conveyed to is the thorough destruction of the l)riflciple.s Portsmouth. of exaggerated libertyit is the lasting ridi- This was a daring blow; one which a fear- cule thrown U~Ofl all systems of democratic less uid audacious genius alone could have equalityit is this that makes the name of IBuonaparte dear to methis his one act has dictated; one, therefore, which the timid and done, let him conduct himself as he may the sanctimonious have not been slow to con- hereafter; let him be a general, or a legisla- demn. Heavy sermons have been preached tor, or a monarch, or a captive, crowned or upon the violation of the law of nations which beheaded, it is all the same for this purpose. it involved; ponderous speeches have de- Buonaparte may flourish, but the idol of Ja- nounced the man who sanctioned this prof~ cobinism is no more.P. ~ ligate attack upon a friendly or at least a. Like Pitt, he did not believe in the possi- neutral power. The world has declined to bility of peace. The conflict, he held, was endorse these vapid platitudes and weak sen- unapl)easable until its cause was removed timentalisms. Emergencies unquestionably The military despotism of Napoleon was ~ arise, alike in the life of men and of nations, volcanic power which, even when at rest, per- for the solution of which the ordinary rules petually threatened the tranquillity of Europe. of moral action do not serve. The conduct The peace of Amiens the never, never to of the men who have to encounter these crises be excused or atoned for, this most disgrace- must he estimated by another standard and ful and calamitous treaty of peace he bit- by a chiferent code. 1 hat code has justified terly condemned. I would never have Mr. Canning. It is possible to kill without signed it, he wrote; I would have cut ~ff being guilty of murder; it is possible to rob my right hand rather. without being a thief; and a man may break Both the great leaders of the great Eng- the law of nations without becoming a bucca- lish parties died in 1806,Fox with his last neer. The great man sees through the thin breath urging the vigorous prosecution of the sophistries and fictions which society has war he had so often denounced; and towards erected for its protection. The Danish fleet the close of that year the Portland adminis- was the property of Denmark, with whom we tration was formed, in which, for the first were at peace; but it was practically in the time, Canning occupied the post of Foreign possession of the allies, with whom we were Secretary. at war. If it was not used by us, it would The times were times of peril and disaster, certainly be used against us. Strength fin- Napoleon was at the climax of his power. poses certain obligations, l)ut so does weak- The whole continent lay at his feet, and the ness; and if a feeble government neglects imperial dictator had remodelled the map of to observe these obligations, it must take the Europe. The only government, except the consequences. Denmark was unable to resist English, which had hitherto opposed an oh- the coercion of the continental poivers; and stinate resistance to his ambition had at length if she chose to retain a weapon of offence.. succumbed; and the French and Russian au- which she could not herself use, but which tocrats were now, to all appearance, firmly could be used by others, we were entitled to united. England alone remained, and the take it out of her hands, and place it beyond secret article of the treaty of Tilsitby which reach of danger. England was in great and Napoleon and Alexander agreed that the imminent peril; to the supreme moral fear- fleets of the neutral powers should be taken lessness of Mr. Canning she owed in no small possession of by themaimed a blo~v at her measure her deliverance. naval supremacy which, had it taken effect, The effect of the blow was great. It would have irretrievably crippled her resources. stunned the Russian autocrat into his Fortunately the ambitious intrigue was dis- senses. The French emperor was exasper- closed to the English government. The sit- ated beyond measure. Since the death of. uation was one of instant peril. VYhatever Paul, says Fouclu~, I never saw Napoleon was to be done mu8t be done at once. Mr. abandon himself to such violent transports of Canning did not hesitate. The Danish fleet passion. While the issue hung in the hal- was the object of the confederates; an English ance, Canning remained in a state of keen force was instantly despatched to Copeaha- anxiety. It is a most wearying suspense, PiTT AND CANNING. he writes in one letter. In another Noth- ing yet. It is very extraordinary; and very, very anxious. At length, after an interval of intense disquietude, the news of complete victory arrived. The Foreign Secretary had effectually deranged the aggressive policy of u~[jlSjt Canning felt keenly that either England or the emperor must go down; and so, disre- garding all subordinate friendships and enmi- ties, he bent the whole force of his mind to defeat the ambition of Napoleon, and deliver Europe from the incubus which smothered her. It is evident his head is turned; it is for us to cure the vertigo; Whoever is the enemy of Napoleon is the friend of England; were the mottoes of his policy. The capture of the Danish fleet had saved England; the revolt of the Spanish people .saved Europe. The whole significance of that Outl)urst was immediately apprehended by Canning. A nation like that, he said, may be extermi- nated, but cannot be subdued: and he confi- dently backed the sluggish and tenacious pat~- riotism of the Spaniard against the rapid sweep and brilliant genius of the Corsican. Money and troops were forwarded to the Peninsula; and Sir Arthur Wellesley, whose pre-eminent military capacity Canning ~vas among the first to recognize, ~vas despatched to take the command. No disasters could shake the ministers confidence. While Cadiz is safe, Spain is not lost; and while., all is not lost, all is ultimately retrievable. A noble confidence nobly redeemed. But though Canning organized the policy which ultimately proved fatal to the empire, he did not remain to complete it. After his unlucky duel with Lord Castlereagh he re- signed the foreign secretaryship, and did not, until 1822, again hold the office. The inter- regnum was unfortunate, both for his own fame and for England. For himself, because the years between were years crowded with brilliant military achievements and important diplomatic transactions, which would have crowned the ministers reputation. For Eng- land, because on his retirement Castlereagh assumed the conduct of our ioreign relations. Had Canning remained in office, we may rest assured that he would not have sanctioned the settlement of 1815. Had he remained in office the Holy Alliance would have been nipped in the bud, and the struggle we have lately witnesseda struggle to re-adjust on a better defined and more natural basis the distribution of power in Europemight have been averted. On Lord Castlereaghs death Canning re- turned to the Foreign Office. Great changes had taken place since he had quitted it. The mighty deluge by which the continent was overwhelmed had subsided; the limits of nations were again visible, and the spires and turrets of ancient establishments had re- appeared above the subsiding wave. But a new peril now threatened Europe. Three of the allied sovereigns had been frightened out of their wits by the monstrous progeny of the revolution, and they entered at Paris into an offensive and defensive alliance. The pro- gramme of the Holy Alliance was suspi- ciously vague and fantastic, but its real mo- tives ~~ere quickly penetrated. Its authors elected themselves the constitutional police of Europe. Whenever a popular insurrection against a tyrannical ruler broke out, whenever a free government was demanded, whenever a liberal institution was established, the alli. ance was up and doing. These and similar movements were pregnant with danger to the pe~ce of the world; and it was the duty of the constitutional l)olice to secure order and~ to preserve tranquillity. Such was the spe- cious scheme which the craft of the Bohe- mian, the ferocity of the Tartar, and the obstinacy of the Vandal, * had devised, and which for many years arrested the expression of independent thought and national life over the continent of Europe. Castlereagh had tacitly acquiesced in the policy of the alliance. The prestige and au- thority of the ancient monarchies represented in the association, had produced their natural effect upon a mind obstinately hostile to lib- eral institutions. But to Canning the alliance was utterly repugnantrepugnant to his Eng- lish feelings and to his liberal inclinations. Gradually, imperceptibly, with fine skill, he detached England from the connection. He thwarted its policy, he ridiculed its anger, he defied its threats. He won, but it was a hard fight. The king was against him; the Duke of Wellington was against him. Met- ternich, the great champion of legitimacy, employed all his vast influence and all the ~ The complimentary epithets used by Mr. Brougham to describe the members of the alliance the king of Prussia, and the emperors of Austria and Russia. 15 16 arts of courtly intrigue to procure the Foreign Secretarys dismissal, and raised in Cannings breast a feeling of bitter but contemptuous suspicion. I am quite clear, he says to Lord Liverpool, that there is no honesty in Metternich, and that we cannot enter into joint concert with him without a certainty of being betrayed. It is not only his practice, but in our case it will be his pride and l)leas- ur~e. Again, writing to Lord Granville, he expresses his opinion in even stronger lan- guage. You ask me what you shall say to Metternich. In the first place you shall hear what. I think of himthat he is the greatest rogue and liar on the continent, l)erhal)s in the civilized world. But Cannings perse- verance, caution, and will, triumj)hed over every obstacle, and the foreign I)olicy o~ Eng- land has ever since retained the iml)ress of the priiciples he then stamped ~ it. During the years between 1822 and 1827 when he held the seals of the Foreign Office he withdrew the English l)leniPoten tiary from the congress of Verona, he recognized the independence of the Spanish colonies, and be despatched a force to the Tagus to aid the Portuguese. Each of these acts was intended to disengage England from the alliance, and to manifest ho~v radically ~ve were opposed to the l)tinciples it promulgated. The congress of Verona sanctioned the oc- cupation of Spain by France. Spain had tried the exl)eriment of liberal institutions, and the alliance naturally resented the exl)eriment. So the French king was deputed to bring his refractory neighbor back to reason, and to right ways of thinking and governing. When, however, this resolution was arrived at, the Duke of Wellington, who re l)resented Eng- land in the ccngress, l)rotested and withdrew. Canning was satisfied with a dignified piotest we were not boumid by any specific treaties to assist Spain and until a question of national faith or national honor should arise, he was resolved that England should neither origi- nate nor particil)ate in a war the limits of which, as he said, no mortal sagacity could determine. The French occupation was no doubt keenly resented by the Foreign Secretary; and though he did not allow his feelings to hurry him into war, he speedily and effectually retaliated. In the following year England recognized the independence of the Spanish American col- onies. PITT AND CANNING. Mr. Canning eagerly pressed the recogni tion. Various motives impelled him to do so. By recognizing the independence of the col- onies he conspicuously disavowed the p~i~~ci pIes of the alliance; and he deprived France of the moral weight and preponderance which it might otherwise have derived from the pos- session of the Spanish kingdom. It was obviously a heavy blow and great~ discouragement to the alliance. The alliance~~ had been instituted to aid distressed kings in reducing refractory populations, and now on the first opportunity England l)roclaimed, not~ merely that the populations were entitled to: suit themselves, hut that she would officially recognize any institution, monarchical or re- l)ublican, under which they choose to live,: Moreover, the recognition prevented France: from reaping any disproportionate influence from the possession of Spain. France might keep Spain if she liked, but at least it should not be Spain with the Indies. This was the argument Mr. Canning urged, and which, in his great speech on Portugal, lie illustrated with surpassing eloquence. I called the~ New World into existence to redress the bal- ance of the Old. The argument appears simple and obvious, hut it was attacked, shortly before Mr. Can flings death, with peculiar acrimony, by Earl Grey, who with all the narrow sectarianism of the Whig aristocrat, disliked the ambitious ad... venturer under ~vhose colors his party was then proud to serve. Mr. Canning intended to answer the speech, but the opportunity. never came; and indeed, excel)t in regard to one or two subordinate accusations, any an- s~ver would have been quite superfluous. The: earl asserted that the recognition of the col- onies had not been made with the view of re- dressing the balance of power by diminishing the influence of France. This was the grava- men of the chargethe sting of the sl)eech. It was ungenerously but distinctly insinuat- ed that Cannings striking vindication of his American policy was an after-thought. The documents published by Mr. Stapleton com- pletely refute the insinuation; for they prove conclusively that the French occul)ation ma- teriaHy influenced the decision of the English Cabinet. In the report, for instance, which the Foreign Secretary submttted to the king on the subject, the argument is explicitly al- luded to as having been already fully dis- cussed. That consistently with the situatio~a PITT AND CANNING. in which Spain is placed by the indefinite oc- cupation of her strong places by the arms of a foreign power, she cannot be considered as a free agent, and that of course Spain is es- sentially French in her foreign policy, it be- comes our duty to prevent Spanish America from being brought within the same subjec- tion, are points which appear to your servants to be so conclusively argued in Lord Liver- pools pal)er, that it would be unpardonable to trouble your majesty with any further dis- cussion of them. So that the Foreign Sec- retarys eloquent vindication was no trick of artful rhetoric, no piece of idle bravado, but a literal and unembellished account of thefact. All Mr. Cannings anticipations of the ef- fects of measure have not indeed been real- ized. Spanish America is free, he ex- claims, and if we do not mismanage our matters sadly, she is English, and Novas suclorum nascitur ordo. Liberated America, & ike to her own citizens and her allies, has proved rather a worthless possession. Its decay was probably too in- veterate to admit under any circumstances of healthy re-organization ; and Mr. Canning at least is not responsible for the failure of the experiment. The responsibility rests not with me. Liberavi anirnam meam. Mr. Cannings Portuguese policy was the corner-stone of the wise and sagacious sys- tem he inaugurat ~d. It elicited, moreover, in the most marked manner, the enthusiasm of his contemporaries. The emperor of Brazil, in resigning the crown of Portugal, had ac- companied his abdication with the grant of a constitutional charter. The much-suffering alliance angrily protested ; and as its protest remained unheeded, recurred to its old wea- pons. An army of Portuguese deserters, se- cretly organized and disciplined in Spain, were invited to invade their native country. But Mr. Canning was prepared for the emer- gency. lie had perceived at an early period that Portugal was the ground on which the Holy Alliance meant to fight England, and he was ready to lift the glove. Portugal was our most ancient ally, and many treaties bound us to defend the integrity of her do- minions. We had not interfered when Spain was occupied; but the time had come when the policy of non-intervention could no longer be persevered in, and when it was necessary to show that, though moderate, we LIVING AGE. THIRD SERIES. 401 were not pusillanimous. Hitherto we had diplomatically and passively resisted the alli- ance; now the faith of treaties, the dictates of national honor, and the l)ri1~cil)les of the independent policy we had adopted, demanded an active and armed intervention. An Eng- lish army was instantly despatched to the Tagus, ~vhere it was received with frantic joy by the population. But the ovation which the army received from the people of Lisbon ~vas equalled by that which awaited the minister in the House of Commons. The kings message respecting Portugal was taken into consideration on the 12th December, 1826. Mr. Canning in a most luminous and statesman-like speech extraordinary and unprecedented in this house, was Mr. Bronghams testimony, un- precedented (and I can give it no higher praise) even in the eloquence of the right honorable gentleman described the cir- cumstances which rendered it, in the ol)iniofl of ministers, imperative that Portugal should not be left unaided. We go to Portugal, he concluded, not to rule, not to dictate, not to l)rescribe constitutions, but to preserve and defend the independence of an ally. We go to plant the standard of England on th~ well-known heights of Lisbon. Where that standard is planted, foreign dominion shall not come. The speech is a model of calm and elevated argument, tersely and vigorously expressed. Certain passages, that, for instance, in which he likens England to the ruler of the winds Cels~ sedet Lolus arce, Sceptra tenens; inollitqne animos, et temperat irns; Ni faciat) maria ac terras cielumqnc profundum, Q uippe ferant rapidi secum, verrantque per auras__ rise without embarrassment into a grave and thoughtful eloquence. rrlie speech was ve- hemently applauded; but the great triumph was reserved for a later period of the evening. A feeble opposition had been threatened by Mr. Hume and one or two other members, and after a vigorous oration from Mr. Brougham, the Foreign Secretary rose to re- ply. That reply is a masterpiece of argument and eloquence; and to it alone, if need were, the vindication of the orators fame might be left. The passage which explains the policy of the government in not declaring war when Spain was occupied, is perhaps the most 17 PITT AND CANNING. striking. The effects of the French occupa- tion, the speaker said, had been infinitely ex- aggerated; but he did not blame these exag- gerations, for he was aware that they were the echoes of sentiments which in the days of William and of Anne the best times of our history animated the debates and dic- tated the votes of the British Parliament. But Spain was then a great maratime power, and she was no longer so. Again, sir (he continued), is the Spain of the l)resent day the Spain of which the statesmen of the times of William and Anne were so much afraid P Is it, indeed, the Spain whose l)uissance was exl)ected to shake Eng- land from her sphere ? No, sir; it was quite another Spainit was the Spain within the ~imits of whose empire the sun never setit was Spain with the Indies that excited the jealousies and alarmed the imaginations of our ancestors. But then, sir, the balance of poWer? The entry of the French army into Spain dis- turbed that balance, and we ought to have gone to war to restore it. I have already said, that when the French army entered Spain, we might, if we chose, have resisted or resented that measure by war. But were there no other means than war for restoring the balance of power? Is the balance of l)o~e1 a fixed and unalterable standard? or is it not a standard perpetually varying, as civilization advances, and as new nations spring ul), and take their place among estab- lished I)olitical communities P The balance of po~er a century and a half ago was to be adjusted between France and Spain, the Netherlands, Austria, and England. Some years afterwards, Russia assumed her high sLation in European politics. Some years after that, again, Prussia became not only a substantive, but a preponderating monarchy. Thus, while the balance of power continued in l)ritlciPle the same, the means of adjust- ing it became more varied and enlarged. They l)ecame enlarged in l)roportion to the increased number of considerable statesia proJ)ortion, I may say, to the number of weights which might be shifted into the one or tbe other scale. To look to the policy of Europe, in the times of William and Anne, for tbe puipose of regulating the balance of power in Europe at the present day, is to disregard the progress of events, and to con- fuse dates and facts which throw a reciprocal light on each other. It ~vould be disingenuous, indeed, not to admit that the entry of the French army into Spain was in a certain sense a disparagement an affront to the pridea blow to the feel- ings of England; and it can hardly be sup- posed that on that occasion the government did not sympathize with the feelings of the people. But I deny that, questionable or censurable as the act might be, it was one which necessarily called for our direct and hostile opposition. Was nothing, then, to be done? Was there no other mode of resist- ance, than by a direct attack upon France or by a war to be undertaken on the soil of Spain? What, if the position of Spain migl)t be rendered harmless in rival hands harmless as regarded usand valueless to the possessors? Might not compensation for disparagement be obtained, and the policy of our ancestors vindicated, by means better adapted to the present time? If France, oc~ cupied Spain, was it necessary, in order to avoid the consequences of that occupation, that we should blockade Cadiz? No. I looked another wayI sought materials of compensation in another hemisphere. Con- tem~)lating Spain, such as our ancestors had known her, I resolved that if France had Spain, it should not be Spain with the In- dies. I called the New World into existence to redress the balance of the Old. The effect which this memorable speech produced on the House of Commons is ad- mitted, both by friends and foes, to have been quite unprecedented. It was an epoch i~ a mans life to have heard him, writes a mem- ber who was l)resent. When, in the style and manner of Chatham, he exclaimed,. I looked to Spain in the Indies; I called a New World into existence to redress the balance of the Old ; the effect was actually terrific. It was as if every man in the I-louse had been electrified. Mr. Canning seemed actually to have increased in stature, his attitude was so majestic. I remarked his flourishes were made with his left arm ; the effect was new and beautiful; his chest heaved and expand- ed ; his nostril dilated, a noble pride slightly curled his lip; and age and sickness were dis- solved and forgotten in the ardor of youth- ful genius. The whole House were moved, says Mr. Stapleton, as if an electric shock had passed through them; they all rose for a moment to look at 1dm! This effect I wit- nessed from under the gallery. And Mr. Canning himself, writing two days afterwards to Lord Granville, says, If I know any thing Qf the House of Commons from thirty-three years experience, or if I may trust to what reaches me in report of feelings out-of-doors, the declaration of the obvious but unsuspected truth, that I called the New World into ex 18 PITT AND CANNING. istence to redress the balance of the Old, has been more grateful to English ears and to English feelings ten thousand times, than would have been the most satisfactory an- nouncement of the intention of the French government to withdraw its army from Spain. Such was Mr. Cannings foreign policya policy admirably conceived and admirably ex- ecuted. Its success was coml)lete. England, under his administration, became the first power in Europea model and an uml)ire. it discomfited the alliance, which, after a suc- cession of angry and ineffectual remonstrances, quietly subsided. We cannot resist the teml)- tation to quote a letter published by Mr. Sta- pleton, which, though somewhat lengthy, gives a must amusing account of the manner in which the secretary treated that devout body when it undertook to lecture him. The last three mornings have been occu- pied partly in receiving the three successive communications of Count Lieven, Prince Es- terhazy, and Baron Maltzahn, of the high and mighty displeasure of their courts with respect to Spanish America. Lieven led the way on Wednesday. He began to open a long de- spatch evidently with the intention of reading it to me. I stoJ)ped in limine, desiring to know if he was authorized to give a copy of it. He said no; UI)Ofl which I declined hear- ing it, unless he could give me his word, that no copy could be sent to any other court. He said he could not undertake to say that it would not be sent to other Russian missions, but that he had no notion that a copy of it would be given to the courts at which they were severally accredited. I answered, that I was determined either to have a copy of a despatch which might be quoted to foreign courts (as former despatches had been) as having been communicated to me, and ic- maining unanswered, or to be able to say that no despatch had been communicated to me at all. It was utterly impossible for me, I said, to charge my memory with the expressions of a long despatch once read over to me, or to be able to judge on one such hearing whether it did, or did not contain expressions which I ought not to pass over without re- mark. Yet by the process now proposed I was- responsible to the king and to my col- leagues, and ultimately perhaps to parlia- ment, for the contents of a paper which might be of the most essentially important character; and of which the text might be quoted hereafter by third parties, as bear- ing a meaning which I did not on the instant attribute to it, and yet which upon bare rec- ollection I could not controvert. Lieven was confounded. He asked me what he was to do? I said, what he l)leased, but I took the exception now l)Cfore I heard a word of his despatch, because I would not have it thought that, the contents of the despatch, whatever they might be, had any thing to do with that excel)tion. I must, however, own that. I was led to make it now, the rather because I had learned from St. Petersburg that he, Count Lieven had been instructed not to give me a COJ)~ of the despatch on Turkey and Greece, which instruction his own good sense had led him to disobey; that in that instance it was absolutely preposterous to refuse a copy, that the (lesl)atch professed to be a narrativeof which dates and facts were the elements; and that to have read such a stat~ient to me, and then circulate it throughout Europe as what had l)een communicated to me, and acqui- escecl in by my silence, would have been an unfairness such as it ~vas ~vell to let him know, once for all, I was determined to resist. Might he state to m~ verbally ~vhat he was ordered to state, without reference to his de spatcli ? Undoubtedly, I was prepared to hear any thing he had to say to me. I must afterwards take my own way of verifying the exactness of my recollection. He then proceeded to pronounce a dis- courseno matter for the substance at pres- entafter ~vhich lie left me. I instantly wrote do~vn the substance of what I understood him to have said to me, and sent him my memorandum, with a ietter requesting him to correct any inaccuracies. The result is, that I have a document in spite of all their contrivance. Yesterday the same scene with Esterhazy, who hind not seen Lieven in the interval, and therefore came unprepared. He too made me a speech, and to him I immediately sent a memorandum of what I tinderstood him to have said; I have not yet received his answer. To-day Maltzahn came, evidently pre- l)ated; for he produced no paper, but set off at score. - This rather provoked me (for he is the worst of all), but I was even with him. For, whereas with the others, I merely lis- tened and l)ut in no word of my own, I thought it a good opportunity to pay off my reserve upon Mahtzalin ; and accordingly said to him a few as disagreeable things as I could, upon the h)rilicil)le of legitimacy as exemplified in the read mess of the allies to have made peace with Buonaparte (in 1814), and failing Buona- parte to have hut some other than Louis XVIII. upon the throne; and also in the general recognition of Bernadotte, while the lawful king of Sweden is wandering in exile and begging through Europe. I asked him how lie reconciled these things with the high principles which lie was ordered to proclaim 19 PITT AND CANNING. about the rights of Spain to her Spanish Americas? He had nothing to answer. I have sent him a memorandum too, in which my part of the dialogue is inserted. Of course, I havQ not yet his answer. He left me only two hours ago. I think I shall teach the Holy Alliance not to try the trick of these simultaneous ser- mons again. We have described the general l)rinciPles of his foreign policy; one or two minor points remain to be noticed. Canning was person- ally a very skilful diplomatist. His tact, pen- etration, and judgment were conspicuous; and he played his antagonists with the ease of a master. His apparent frankness and unre- serve disarmed the most astute; while he de- lighted to tease and perplex the dull and the pretentious with knotty j)roblems and intricate complications. But when in earnest his tone was at once manly and moderate. He never bullied, or threatened, or stormed. I ab- hor menace, till one means action, he said. A thorough Englishman both in taste and temper, he was the first Foreign Secretary who insisted that English, not French, should be used in our diplomatic correspondence. Whatever we may have to say hereafter, be it high or humble, soothing or threatening, warlike or pacific, I trust we shall never again submit to speak any language but our own. When he came to the Foreign Office in 1822, he wrote to the ambassador at St. Petersburg You know my politics well enough to know what I mean when I say, that for Eu- rope I shall be desirous, now and then, to read England. This is indeed one of the most characteristic features of his official life. In whatever he said or did there is the magna- nimity of the English statesman, the modera- tion of the English gentleman. The last months of Mr. Cannings life though the most brilliant, are also the most painful. His elevation to the premiership on the death of Lord Liverpool was not effected without great opposition. The Duke of New- castle called on the sovereign and threatened to withdraw the support of the Tory aristoc- racy from the government if Mr. Canning were 1)laced at its head. The Duke of Well- ington, Mr. Peel, Lord Eldon, and several other members of the cabinet, simultaneously resigned, on the ground that on the question of Catholic emancipation they differed from the premier. It was confidently expected that, under these discouragements, Mr. Can- ning would be forced to abandon the task. But his enemies had misunderstood their man. He quickly succeeded in forming an adminis- tration compose(l of the more tolerant section of the Whigs, and of the representatives of that great moderate middle party which his genius had created alike in the country and in the legislature. The resentment of the de- feated Tories knew no bounds. The language which they employed to denounce the minis- ter would have disgraced Billingsgate. Night after night he was attacked with an acrimony ~vhich recalled the more discreditable features of the conflict of the coalition ~vith Pitt. Canning maintained his l)osition with simplic- ity, with manliness, with a Pitt-like hauteur. At length, after having answered, fully and tem~)erately, all the charges directed against him, he declined to protract the controversy. Until a direct vote of censure was moved, no threats, no expostulations, no entreaties, would induce him, he declared, to open his lips. fhe subordinate members of the pack who bayed him to death are now forgotten; but the conduct of Sir Robert Peel to his old colleague still invokes the justifications of his friends. These have been numerous an~.l el~b- orate; successful they have not been. Upon the whole, it is better, we fancy, to admit that Sir Roberts treatment of Mr. Canning was the fruit of a very natural jealousy, than to trace it to the influence of high-toned and scrupulous motives. Even great statesmen are not exempted from the vindictive frailties that affect ordinary mortals. Peel disliked Canning, and under Canning it ~vas virtually impossible that he could serve. That is the plain explanation of the whole matter, and posterity will not construe too hardly an in- evitable antipathy. The contest killed Canning. That virulent and unscrupulous hosjtility proved too much for a constitution already shattered by disease. During the whole session he had been miser- ably ill; he rose from a sick-bed to deliver his great speeches on Portugal; a cold caught at the Duke of Yorks funeral, in the chapel of St. George at Windsor, aggravated his disorder. He continued, however, to fight the enemy with indomitable resolution to the end. But it was l)lain that his exhausted sys- tem could not for any long time sustain the strain. On the 3rd of August he was de- clared to be in imminent danger; on the 20 PITT AND CANNING. morning of the 8th he died. Sir M. Tier- ney felt his pulse, thought for a second that he was gone, but he still breathed. In a few seconds there ceased to be any sign of breath- ing. He passed away so quietly that the ex- act moment could not be ascertained, but it was between twelve and ten minutes before four. Almost the last intelligible words he uttered were This may be hard upon me, but it is harder upon the king. And so he died. My road must be through character to power; I will try no other course; and I am sanguine enough to believe that this course, though not perhaps the quickest, is the sur- est. Mi.. Canning wrote those words in 1801; and it is because we believe that they illustrate his career that we are grateful to Mr. Stapleton for his recollections of the man who used them. The book is a very interest- ing one; it contains an admirable selection of Mr. Cannings letters, memoranda, and official despatches; and the authors com- mentary is concise and graphic. SHIRLEY. DISINFECTANT. A medical discovery of much value, destined to effect a great ameliora- tion in the treatment of ulcers, ~.bscesses, flesh wounds, etc., has lately been made, by two for- mer internes or house surgeons of the Hospice de la Charite, and by them generously offered to the world, without fee or reward. At the last sitting of the Academy of Sciences, the cele- brated Dr. Velpeau demanded permission to make an important communication, and an- nounced that the two young practitioners in question, Messrs. Corme and Demeaux, had paid him a visit for the purpose of presenting to his notice their discovery, and explaining to him its results. Messrs. Corme and Demeaux have found a process for the complete and instantaneous disinfection of animal matter. The action of the disinfecting agent arrests the progress of decomposition, and effectually pre- vents tile generation of insects. The substance prepared for use, costs here about one franc for a hundred pounds, and the expense in America would probably be still less. The following is the formula, as given by the inventors them- selves Plaster of commerce, reduced to a fine powder, one Ilundred parts; coal tar, one to three parts. The mixture of the two substances is effected with ease by the aid of a mortar, or by any other appropriate mechanical means. The ap- plication of this composition to the dressing of sores or wounds requires a particular prepara- tion. A certain quantity of the powder, pre- pared according to the formula, is diluted with olive oil to the consistency of a paste or oint- ment. This species of paste or salve is of a dark brown color, has a slightly bituminous odor, and may be kept in a closed j~ for an indefinite period. Tile oil unites tile powder without dissolving it, and the composition has the property of absorhing infectious liquids the instant it is applied to the sore which produces them. The application may be mediate or im mediate. In the latter case, tilat is to say, placing the composition directly in contact with the sore, no pain whatever is produced; on the contrary, the salve Ilas a detersive action, cleanses the sore and favors cicatrization. In the course of his remarks, Dr. Velpean, mentioned the case of a patient at the Charite, to whom the new process ilad been applied with perfect success. This person was afflicted with a fri~htful abscess in the thigh, from which exuded a purulent matter of a most infectious odor, rendering tile oi)erations of tile surgeon 1)0th painful and difficult. Tilis matter, mixed with a powder held in readiness by the two cx- perimentalists, was disinfected in one minute, touched with impunity by the spectators, and applied beneath their noses, without leaving a trace of unpleasant odor. As has been seen, tile elements of this com- position are of the simplest character, and though intelligence of the discovery could not have reached the medical faculty of the United States in advance of this letter, your own sur- geons will doubtless receive, by the same mail which carries this, every corroborating particu- lar. My desire is to make known the event tllrougllout our country, and I sincerely hone tilis paragrapll may be widely copied by your exchanges. As Dr. Velpean himself observed at the close of his observations before the Acad- emy, too much publicity annot be given to so valuable a discovery, as well, as the disinterest- edness of its authors. In their own report, Messrs. Corme and Demeaux state that the composition may be applied in the form of a poultice, or cotton, and laid on the wound. They demonstrate that their mode of dressing possesses tile double property of disinfecting morbid products and of absorbing their liquids. This last circumstance entirely obviates the necessity of lintwhiell is one of the most im- portant features of the discovery.Cor. N. Y. Express. 21 SIR JAMES STEPHEN. From Frasers Magazine. SIR JAMES STEPHEN, K.G.B., LL.D. IN MEMORIAM. THE young men at the opening of the present century who were to become its great men have nearly all passed from among us. Among the politicians of this class, the veter- ans Lyndhurst and Brougham are still in their place. But the stream has carried away nearly all beside. The two great e~t-chancel- lors lift their heads almost alone. Among our literary men, representatives of the same period, Rogers and Leigh hunt had outlived nearly all their fellows, and with the late Sir James Stephen the last of the race may be said to have disappeared. The days with which those men of the past had been familiar were memorable days. The courtier conventionalities of the preceding century had come to an end. The outburst in France was felt every~vhere as a great dis- turbing power. Antagonism at home and war abroad grew up in all directions. Those men could remember the invasion of Egypt by the first Napoleon; had seen mail-coaches rush through towns and cities, decorated with laurels and blue flags, bringing news about the siege of Acre and the battle of the Nile, and had listened many a time to the half- muffled bells which told so often how victory and death went together. In his later life- time, Napoleon spoke of the Englishman ~vho had defeated his policy at Acre, as the man who had marred his destiny; and the Englishmen about Sir James Stephen in his schoolboy days believed as much. But brave men get no harm from a sense of danger. Perilous times render them wake- ful, stimulate them to action, and show what is in them. In the early years of this cen- tury, the great death-struggle to which all Europe became committed, was allied with a struggle in this country, hardly less deter- mined, in behalf of great principlesprin- ciples of freedom and humanity. Negro emancipation was one of the many questions which Englishmen, with such a war upon their hands, took up, and could prosecute with a strength of purpose which we may be sure would not have been so great had they been men with no other work to do. The great coadjutors of Wilberforce in that con- troversy, were Mr. Zachary Macaulay, father of the nobleman who has since done so much honor to that name; and Mr. James Stephen, Master in Chancery, father to the truly emi~ nent and estimable man of whom we wish to speak in this place with the respect and affec- tion due to his memory. The late Sir James Stephen was some ten years older than Lord Macaulay, but the friendship which had bound the sires to each other descended to their sons. Sir James was not wanting in rever- ence to~vards the great historian, but we still hear, and have no wish ever to forget, those affectionate tones in which he sometimes spoke of him as dear Tom. Sir James Stephen was educated at Trinity Hall, Cambridge, and took his degree of B.A. in 1812. He was called to the bar at Lin- coIns Inn, and practised as a Chancery bar- rister from 1812 to 1823. During nearly all those years he had been connected officially with the public service as Counsel of the Col- onial Department. On retiring from the bar in 1823, he retained this office during the next ten years, conjointly with that of Coun- sel of the Board of Trade. He subsequently became Assistant Under-Secretary, and soon afterwards permanent Under-Secretary, for the Colonies, and he continued in that posi- tion until 1847. On his retirement from the Colonial Office he received the honor -of knighthood, and in 1849 was appointed Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge. The facts especially observable in his history arethe combina- tion, on a scale so large and so successful, of the man of business with the man of letters; and still more, the combination with those qualities, of a religious culture, so broad, so deep, and so refined, as may be traced, in part, in his writings, and as was more fully known to those who had a place within the circle of his friendships. The experiences of our Colonial Office must often have been not a little ungenial to a man of such a temperament and of such habits. Our countrymen who seek their fortune in the colonies consist largely of two classes officials whose selfishness generally takes the form of indolence and avarice; and adventur- ers whom the same feeling prompts to rash- ness and insubordinationso that the negli- gence and wrong are likely to be the greatest, where the disposition to submit to them is sure to be the least. Hence, the storms so often coming up in colonial history. We all know that the most restless blood of the mother country commonly finds its way to 22 SIR JAMES STEPHEN. the extremities. And here is a man with the clearest perception of the ethical relations of things, and the most trained and sensitive feeling in regard to them, having specially to do with a department the least likely to be observant of such distinctions, or even to un- derstand them. To say that the Under-Sec- retary was eminently successful is to say that he must have had many enemies. The name of King Stephen, cast at him as expressive of the sway which he long exercised, was the highest compliment that could be paid to that ceaseless labor, and scientific skill, with which he mastered, not only the great elements, hut the smallest details, relating to our vast and varied colonial empire. To be abreast with all that was doing, he often burnt his lamp far into the nightor lighted it long before the world about him was afoot; and only thus could he have been what he was. When a field-day approached in either house on a colonial question, heavy was the demand made on the Under-Secretary for the needful ammunition. As round after round came off within the ring, the lookers-on rarely sus- pected how much of the flooring that took place was due to the bottleholder who had been so attentive to his duties in the lobby. With all this stress of occupation, Sir James Stephen was a domestic man, and so apportioned his time, that when certain hours of the evening came, he might generally he found at the flieside with his family. The friend who dropped in upon him at such times often saw him at his best. The topics of the day were sure all to interest him, if not from the ordinary l)oint of view, from some l)Oint of his own; and he not only spoke concerning them as few men could have spoken, but he discoursed, delivered essays upon them. In- deed, it was a fault of his conversation when the listeners were few, that it ran so much into this form. As a friend of our own once said of Coleridge, it was versation, not con- versation; and mild, intelligent, and often beautiful as it was, you sometimes felt it would have been more satisfactory if larger space had been left for interrogation, if not for exception. It was at such moments that you became aware how much this man, living as amidst a pyramid of memorials and despatches, was a man of reading in all sorts of literature, and a man of exquisite literary taste. Some of the magnates connected with the Edinburgh Review were well known to him. He once ventured, in after-dinner talk with the said magnates, to complain of the cavalier style in which they were wont to dispose of relig- ion ~vhenever it happened to come in their path. The sinners pleaded that they were not conscious of their sin, and challenged their censor to join their confederacy, and to show them how to mend their ways. Suffice it to say, that in 1838 Mr. James Stephen began to write in the Edinburgh; and from that time the old scoffing spirit of the huff and blue may be said to have been exorcised. The attraction which the genius of Mr. Ma- caulay had given to the Review for many years previously, Was in a great degree perpetuated, for some years to come, by the genius of his friend. The writings of the two contributors, indeed, possessed only a limited resemblance. Both are largely historical, but there is a marked difference between them. Lord Ma- caulays convictions have respect almost ex- clusively to what is true in literature and politics. Sir James Stephens are concerned mainly with what is true in religion and phi- losophy. The one, accordingly, was a fitting successor to the other, as covering grourrd further in advance. But even Sir James has left room for a successor. It was impossible not to admire the largeness and candor with which he habit- ually looked on men, on parties, and on prin- cil)les. lie had his own way of seeing some- thing to commend almost everywhere. He al)peared to see all error as having relation to some truth, and seemed inclined to deal softly and cautiously with it for the sake of that truth. This disposition gave a singular amia- bility to his character as a man, hut it in a great measure disqualified him for the work of a reformer. It was at times a strange, al- most a perplexing thing, to see in the same mind, so strong an adhesion to great l)rinci- ples, with so little of a tendency to do real battle for them. He could admire energy, decision, even the work of destruction, when perpetrated by othersas in the case of a Luther or a Knox, but always seemed to feel that his own vocation did not lie in that direc- tion. Hence, he never brought the force and thoroughness to the side of religion and phi- losophy, ~vhich Lord Macaulay has never failed to bring to the side of literature and politics. 23 SIR JAMES STEPHEN. We are satisfied, however, that his modesty, along with the kindliness of his nature, had much to do with this peculiarity. As a man of letters, he had come too late into the field, and it was in accordance with his notions of good taste that he should bear his faculties meekly. As an ecclesiastical historian, too for it was in such history that he found what was most congenial to himhe never seemed to forget that he was a layman whose life had been largely given to the worlds business, and not a man whose days had been separated to such studies. These considerations, act- ing on one of the most benevolent of hearts, taught him to judge leniently as a critic; and when he did take upon him something of the function of the divine, he was disposed by such recollections to do so most reverentially. When we call to mind what is being done every day through our periodical press by the merest novices in literature; and the manner in which men wholly incompetent to concern themselves with religious subjects are con- stantly meddling with them, such refinements of feeling seem hardly to belong to our sort of world. On the whole, the mind of Sir James Ste- phen bore a nearer resemblance to the mind of Mr. Gladstone than to that of Loid Ma- caulay. But here again the likeness is with a strong difference. Mr. Gladstone is both statesman and scholara man capable of hard secular work, while possessing genuine literary sympathies. He is also esJ)ecially in- fluenced by Christian forms of thought. The great and good men of Christian history are so present to his imagination, amidst the shadows of the past, that he is always pre- pared to uncover before them and to do them homage. Their sanctity, their learning, their humane influences, when contrasted with what is around them, and would come into their place if they were absent, raise them, in his vie~v, almost to the l)lace of incarnations of wisdom and goodness. In all these respects the resemblance is strong between the late under-secretary for the colonies and the pres- ent chancellor of the exchequer. But here the resemblance ends. Mr. Glad- stones faith in the fixedness of the machinery of the church, and in the sin of schism as consequent on a departure from it, had no place in the mind of Sir James Stephen. He believed that the religious truth of which the New Testament is the record, and the relig- ious heart as there delineated, were designed to be perpetual, and will so be to the worlds end. But he found nothing more in that book of which so much might be said. The broils between churches, accordingly, were to his mind only so much evidence of the weak- ness of human nature. This was the root of his large religious charity. lIe reverenced the lawn which, to use his own words, was without a spot, and he could reverence the man no less, whom he knew to be equally pure, though no lawn had ever been seen upon his person, and though it would not have been accepted had it been tendered to him. It is not a common mind, therefore, that has passed from among us. What a model to the official man is l)resented in such a life. What a rebuke does it administer to the mul- titudes who plead the pressure of occupation as an excuse for the utter neglect of mental culture. What a chasm separates between the temper of such a critic and our tomahawk school of literature. What an elevation in such views of religious and Christian life, compared with the narrow bigotries, the fa- naticism without bowels, still so prevalent among tis! The ~vorks of Sir James Stephen, so rich in ripe thought, in riper feeling, and in pic- turesque beauty, brief as they are, will be his safe memorial to the times to come. His biographical sketches will be most read; but his volumes on the History of France, are the only publication in our literature bearing a resemblance to Guizots lectures on the Progress of Modern Civilization, that may be placed beside that admirable work. R. V. 24 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. From Once a Week. THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. BY CAPTAIN SHERARD OSBOEN, R.N. THERE is yet one thing left undone, whereby a great mind may become notable, wrote worthy Master Purchasthat one deed was the discovery of a north-west passage to the Indies. Many long years afterwards, the words of the good dean of St. Pauls sounded like a trumpet-call to his country- men, and many an aspiring spirit essayed to do that deed whereby bright honor and im- 1nortaliy were to be won. The veil which hid from human ken the mysteries of the Arctic zone was not to be rent by one hold stroke; it was to be the test of British perse- verance, patience, and hardihood. The frozen north would only reveal its wonders slowly and unwillingly to the brave men who de- voted themselves to the task. The dread realms of frost and silence were only to be penetrated by the labors of two generations of seamen and travellers. The consumma- tion of the discovery of the north-west pas- sage was to be obtained but by the self-sacri- fice of a hundred heroes. From 1816 to 1833 England sent forth her sons to the north in repeated expeditions by sea and land. The earnestness of many emi- nent 1)ublic men, members of the Royal Soci- etvsuch as Sir John Barrow and Sir Fran- cis Beaufortkept general interest directed to those regions, in which Frobisher, Baf- fin, Davis, and Fox had so nobly ventured. There were no faiterers; every call for volun- teers was nobly responded to by officers of the royal navy; and John Franklin, Richard- son, John and James Ross, Parry, Back, and King, with much devotion, toil, and suffering, forced open the portals beyond which the Elizabethan school of discoverers had not been able to l)enetrate, and added much to our knowledge of the geography and physical condition of the Arctic zone between Green- land and Bebrings Straits. Fifteen years of labor had failed, however, to solve the ques- tion as to the actual existence of a water communication between the Pacific and At- lantic. Repeated disappointment had damped public zeal. Just at this juncture, between 1838 and 1843, the success of Captain Sir James Ross in an expedition to the Antarc- tic Pole with H.M.S. Erebus and Terror, as well as the completion of the northern goast line of America by the Hudson-Bay Com- panys servants, Dease and Simpson, caused the attention of the nation to again revert to its old channelthe North-west Passage. Anno Domino 1844 found England with a surplus revenue, a vast body of naval officers begging for employment, and eager for any opportunity of winning honors and distinc- tion; and the Erebus and Terror, safe and sound from the perils of Antarctic seas, riding at anchor off Woolwich. All was most pro- pitious for carrying out the darling object of the then venerable secretary of the admiralty. A mind like that of Sir John Barrows, richly stored with the records of his countrys glories in the exploration of every quarter of the globe, was keenly alive to the importance of keeping her still in the vanguard of geo- graphical discovery; and it must be remem- bered that he had lived in a century when men, in spite of a long and terrible ~var, were almost yearly excited by the world-wide fame of the discoveries of Anson, Cooke, Flinders, and Mungo Park. Was it not natural, there- fore, that he, and such as he, should desire to add to those triumphs the achievement of the greatest problem man ever undertook to solve. Ho~v siml)le an undertaking it appeared to connect the water in which Parry had sailed to Melville Island, in 1819, with Pease and Simpsons easternmost position off the coast of America in 1838. The summer of 1844 saw many an eager face poring over that Arctic chart. Whis- perings were heard that Sir John Barrow, Beaufort, Parry, Sabine, Ross, and Franklin himself, had exl)ressed strong opinions in favor of another effort. The Royal Society, through its president, the Marquis of North- ampton, was known to have ur0ed the re- sumption of Arctic exl)loration upon the government and admiralty. Many an enthu- siastic officer strove hard by zeal and interest to insure being one of those selected for the glorious work. Then it was that Fitzjames, and such men as Graham Gore, Fairholme, Hodgson, and Des Vwux, succeeded in en- rolling themselves on the list of the chosen few who were next year to sail for the far north-west. We see them now, as they told us so, and ~vith glistening eye prophesied their own success. Gallant hearts! they now sleep amidst the scenes of their sore trial, but triumphant discovery. 25 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. It was at one time intended that Fitzjames (whose genius and energy marked him as no ordinary officer) should command the expedi- tion; hut just at this time Sir John Franklin was heard to say that he considered the post to he his birthri0ht as the senior Arctic ex- plorer in England. He had recently returned from his post as governor of Van Diemens Land: his sensitive and generous spirit chafed under the unmerited treatment he had experi~ enced from the then Secretary of State for the colonies, and sick of civil employment, he naturally turned again to his l)rofession, as a better fi~ld for the ability and devotion he had wasted on a thankless office. Sanguine of success, fore etfu 1 of past suffering, he claimed his right to command the latest, as he had led the earliest, of modern Arctic expedi- tions. 1)irectly it was known that he would go if asked, the admiralty were of course only too glad to avail themselves of the experience of Franklin; hut Lord Haddington, then first lord, with that kindness which ever distin- guished him, suggested that Franklin might well rest at home on his laurels. I might find a good excuse for not letting you go, Sir John, said the peer, in the tell-tale record which informs me that you are sixty years of age. No, no, my lord, was Franklins re- joinder. .1 am only fifty-nine! Before such earnestness all scruples yieldedthe offer was officially made and acceptedto Sir John Franklin was confided the Arctic expedition, consisting of H.M.S. Erebus, in which he hoisted his pendant, and H.M.S. Terror, commanded by Captain Crozier, who had recently accompanied Sir Jameis Ross in his wonderful voyage to the Antarctic seas. rhe 18th of May, 1845, found the Erebus and Terror at Greenhithe in the Thames. On board of each ship there were sixty-nine officers and men, every possible corner was carefully filled with stores and provisions enough, they said; for three years; and, for the first time in Arctic annals, these discovery vessels had auxiliary screws and engines of twenty-horse power each. Hope rode high in every breast, and the cry of Hurrah! for ]3ehrings Straits! succeeded their last hearty cheer as the gallant ships weighed on the morrow for Baffins Bay. A month they sailed across the Atlantic be- fore they reached their first halting-place, Disco, or the Whale Fish Islands, on the west coast of Greenland, in latitude 69~ north. Thither a store-ship had accompanied them from England, in order that the expedition might be completed with every necessary up to the latest moment before entering the polar ice. That voyage of thirty days had served to make the officers and men thoroughly ac- quainted with their chief, and with each other. Of him the warm-hearted Fitzjames writes: That Sir John was delightful; that all had become very fond of him, and that he ap- peared remarkable for energetic decision in an emergency. The officers vere remarkable for good feeling, good humor, and great tal- ents ; whilst the men were fine, hearty sailors, mostly from the northern seaports. Love already it is apparent, as much as duty, bound together the gallant souls on hoard the Ere- bus and Terror. Away from Disco they sped with all haste; the Bay of Baffin is fairly entered, and their long and arduous labors commence with an Arctic tempest so severe that their hrother seamen of the store-ship, hastening home- ward, think with anxiety of the deep-laden Erebus and Terror. He who is strong to save guides the gallant barks, however, l)ast the dangers of an iron-bound coast, aiid amongst the huge, ghostlike icebergs which glimmer through the storm. We see them, in better weather, urging under all sail their strong but clumsy ships, before a favorable gale, along that coast of Greenland, every headland of which has its record of human trial and noble endurance. There the lofty headland of Sanderson-his-Hope (of a North- west Passage) rears its crest of black granite, rich with crimson lichen, and crowned with snow. Norsernan and I)ane and Englishman have alike sailed under its stul)enclous cliffs, or sought shelter in quaint Uppernavik which nestles at its feet. The Erebus and Terror may not delay. Greenland has no charms for men whose leader already talks sanguinely of the yet far-distant Mackenzie and Copper- mine rivers. The floes and broad masses of the middle- ice now rise upon their sight; the nortnern horizon gleams with reflected light from the frozen surface of the sea; the south wind fails; the ships sail from the black mists and fog-laden atmosphere common to open water in the Arctic regions, into the bright skies, smooth lanes, and mirror-like pools generally found amongst the pack during the summer 26 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. season. The ice is streaming southward; the eager novices in either ship look forward with delight to the first onset with the foe they have come to do hattie with. Wiser heads know that mother-wit will do more than dash- ing gallantry in the conflict with packed ice; the sails are taken in so as to reduce the speed, and the experienced ice-master from the crows nest at the masthead selects the weakest looking point through which to force the ships into a lane of water, that winds snakelike along the landward edge of the pack. So-ho! steadysteer her with a small helm, my lad! bawls out, in strong north- country dialect, the honest old ice-pilot, who has grown gray killing whales in Greenland. Stand by to brail UI) the after-sails, if you please, sir; and to pack all the canvas upon her directly we break through the ~)ack-edge, ne urges to the officer of the watch. The churning and growling of the ice now strikes upon the ear, and at the same moment the Erebus and Terror take it manfully. There is a shock : for a second the pieces of ice hold their ground, but they yield to the weight of the ships: one mass tilts up, and slips over another; another sinks under the bows, and is heard scraping along the bottom of the ship: the road is opening. Hard up with the helm, shouts the ice-master, and at the same time the sail is set forward to urge the ship faster through the pack; the speed acceler- ates, and in a few minutes they are fairly in the ice. We need not follow them in their daily labor. Ice is now on every hand: open water scarce. The crews often drag the ships for hours with ropes along the edge of the land floe that is still fast to the face of the glacier which curves round Melville Bay. Now we see them perfectly beset, the vessels secured to the lowest icebergs that can be found: they studiously avoid those lofty masses which, with spires and domes and steeples, resemble huge catl~edrals of crystal,for they know that such icebergs are prone to turn over, or break up suddenly, and would infalli- bly crush any ship that might be near them. For a while the discovery ships meet the whaling-vessels of Aberdeen and Hull, striv- ing, like themselves, to get through the loose ice into the waters of Ponds Bay. On July 26th, they part company from the last of them, and pursue their solitary course alone. Again they pass from the northern edge of the pack into open water,if such may be called an open sea, where icebergs are strewn plenti- fully. The course is now shaped for Lancas- ter Sound. August has set in; the sun, which has hitherto wheeled round the heavens with- out setting, again commences to dip l)elow the horizon ; its absence and already declin- ing power is marked by the nightly formation of thin, glasslike ice, known as bay-ice. The south wind freshens; the Erehus and Terror press on, staggering in a heavy sea, all the more remarkable that a hundred miles of ice have just been passed through behind them. The great entrance of Lancaster h~s Sound breaks out of the clouds to the westward. Capes Warrender and Hay frown grimly over the angry sea, backed by lofty mouht4n ranges, whose dark precipices, streaked with snow, look as if they were formed of steel and inlaid with silver. On, on ! to the westward is the cry. Why need to stop and erect cairns, and de- posit records of their progress. Do they not intend to pass into the Pacific next year? Have not they ordered their letters to he directed to Petropaulskoi and the Sandwich Isles? Why lose one 1)recious hour at the threshold of their labor? The ice is again seen: it extends along the southern side of Barrows Straits, and is streaming out into Baffins Bay; the ships haul in for the coast of North Devon. The scene changes considerahly from what our ex- plorers have seen in Greenland. No glaciers stretch from the interior, and launch their long, projecting tongues into the sea: no icy cliffs reflect there the colors of the emerald and ttirquoise: Arctic vegetation, wretched as it is, does not gladden the eyesight in even the most favored spots. They have passed from a region of primary rock into one of magnesian limestone. Greenland is J)ara- dise, in an Arctic point of view, to the land they have now reached: it is desolations abiding place; yet not deficient in the pictur- esque. The tall and escarped cliffs are cut by action of frost and thaws into huttresses and abutments, which, combined with broken castellated summits, give a Gothic-like aspect to the shores of North Devon. Valleys and plains are pnssed, all of one uniform dull color; they consist simply of barren lime- stone. The barrenness of the land is, how-~ ever, somewhat compensated for by the plen. tiful abundance of animal life upon the water. 27 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. The seal, the whale, and the walrus abound; whilst wild fowl in large flocks feed in the calm spots under beetling cliffs or in shallow lakes, which can be looked down upon from the masthead. It is not far to the entrance of Wellington Channel: they reach Beechey Island, and mark the value of the hay within it as a wintering place, and its central position with respect to the channels leading towards Cape Walker, Melville Island or Regents Inlet. Ice again impedes their progress. Their first instruc- tions from the admiralty were to try to the south-west from Cape Walker. They cannot now advance in that direction, for it is a hope- less block of heavy floes; but Wellington Channel is open, and smiles and sparkles in blue and sunlit waves, as if luring them to the north-west. Why not try a north-about passage round the Parry Islands? urges Fitz- james. Franklin agrees with him that any thing is better than delay, and at any rate they determine to exl)lore it, and ascertain whither it led. Awey they press northward, until what we know as Grinnel Land rises ahead, and they have to turn more to the west. From Wellington Channel they pass between Baillie Hamilton Island and the striking cliffs of Cape Majendie. Eager eyes are straining from the mast- head; is it a mere bay, or is it a strait they are sailing through P Water, water !large water! replies the ice-master from his eyry to the anxious queries of the veteran leader. Away, away they pressevery studding sail alow and aloftthe old ships never went so fast beforeno, not on that great day in their history when they were the first to sail along the Victoria continent of the Southern Pole. From 74 1-2~ to 770 north latitude they pushed up this noble strait, but not, as they hoped, to reach an open or navigable sea, but to find as we found in 1852a wide expanse of water perfectly choked up with ice, extend- ing from the head of Wellington Channel far to the westward for hundreds of miles. Baf- fled but not beaten, the prows of the stout ships are again turned southward, and aided by a greater share of success than has fallen to the lot of those who have come after Sir John Franklin in those same quarters, the gallant Erebus and Terror sailed down a channel which is thus liroved to exist between Cornwallis and Bathurst Islands and entered Barrows Straits at a point nearly due north of Cape Walker, in which direction Franklin was now constrained to alone look for a route whereby to reach the sea off the coast of North America. It was well known that this southern course was that of his predilection; founded on his judgment and experience. There are many in England who can recollect him pointing on his chart to the western entrance of Simp- sons Strait and the adjoining coast of North America, and saying If I can but get down there my work is done; thence its all plain sailing to the westward. Franklin might well say this, since he and Richardson had explored nearly all that coast of Arctic America towards Bebrings Straits. The fortnight, however, which had been spent in Wellington Channel, ~~as the short period of navigation common to the ice-choked seas within Lancaster Sound. September and an Arctic autumn broke upon them. Who that has ever navigated those seas can ever forget the excitement and danger of the au- tumn struggle with ice, snow-storm, and lee- shores. We see those lonely barks in the heart of a region which appears only to have been intended to test mans hardihood, ai~xd to show him that, after all, he is but a poor weak creature. Channels surround them in all directions, down and up ~vhich, let the wind blow from any quarter, an avalanche of broken floes and ugly packed ice rolls down, and threatens to engulph all that impedes its way, checked alone by the isles which strew Bar- ro~vs Straits and serve, like the teeth of a harrow, to nI) up and destroy the vast floes which are launched against them. Around each island, as well as along the adjacent coasts, and especially at projecting capes and headlands, mountains of floe-pieces are piled mass on top of mass, as if the frozen sea would invade th~ frozen land. The Erebus and Terror, under the skilful hands of their noble ships companies, flit to and fin; seek shelter first under one point, and then another. Franklin, Fitzjames, and Crozier, are battling to get into Peel Channel, between Capes Walker and Bunny. The nights are getting rapidly longer, the temperature often falls fifteen degrees below freezing point, the 1)o01s a of water on the great ice-fields as well as on the land are again firmly frozen over. The wild fowl and their offspring are seen has- tening south; the plumage of the ptarmigan 28 29 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. and willow grouse are already plentifully sprinkled with white; the mountain-tops and ravines are already loaded with snow which will not melt away for twelve long months. ~Enough has been done to satisfy the leaders that a further advance this season will be im- possible. Winter quarters must be sought; there is none nearer that they know of than Beechey Island; the Erebus and Terror bear away for it. Fortune favors them, they are not caught in the fatal grip of the winter- pack, and drifted out into the Atlantic, as many subsequent voyagers have been. Their haven is reached, and with hearty cheers the ships are warped into Erebus and Terror Bay and arrangements rapidly made to meet the coming winter of 184546. Under the friendly shelter of Beechey Island, Franklin and his followers reposed from their arduous labors of 1845, and looked forward confidently to the success which must now attend their efforts in the following year. And had they not reason to be confident? Did they not know that, in their remarkable voyage up Wellington Channel and down the new strait, west of Corn~vallis Island, they had explored three hundred miles of pre- viously unknown channels leading to the north-west? Could they not point to Cape Walker, and say, Assuredly it will be an easy task next season to push our ships over the two hundred and fifty miles of water which must intervene between Cape Walker ~nd King Williams Land. Of course, they thought thus. And that their hopes were fulfilled, though they lived not to wear their honors, we know, alas! too well. The polar winter came in upon them like a giantit ever does so. No alternate frost and thaw, sunshine and gloom, there delays the advent of the ~vinter. Within the frigid zone each season steps upon sea and earth to the ap- pointed day with all its distinctive character- istics strongly marked. In one night winter strikes nature with its mailed hand, and silence, coldness, death, reign supreme. The soil and springs are frozen adamant: the streamlet no longer trickles from aneath the snow-choked ravines: the plains, slop~s, and terraces of this land of barrenness are clad in winter livery of dazzling white: the adja- cent seas and fords can hardly be distin- guished from the land, owing to the uniform- ity of color. A shroud of snow envelopes the stricken region, except where sharp and clear against the hard blue sky stand out the gaunt mountain l)recipices of North Devon and the dark and frowning cliffs of Beechey Island cliffs too steep for even snow-flake to hang upon. There they stand, huge ebon giants, brooding over the land of famine and suffer- ing spread beneath their feet! Day after day, in rapidly diminishing arcs, the sun at noon ap1)roaches the southern edge of the horizon. It is the first week of No- vember, and I see before me a goodly array of officers and men issue from the ship, and proceed to scale the heights of the neighbor- ing island: they go to bid the bright sun good-by until February, 1846. At noon, the upper edge of the orb gleams like a beacon- fire for a few minutes over the snow-envel- oped shores of North Somersetand it is goneleaving them to three months of twi- light and darkness. Offering up a silent, fer- vent prayer for themselves, who were standing there to see that sunset, and for their dear friends in the ice-beset barks at their feet, that they might all be spared to welcome back the life-imparting planet, we see these pilgrims to the God of light turn and descend into the darkness and gloom now hanging over the bay of the Erebus and Terror. The tale of energetic battle with cold pri- vation and festering monotony has been often told : why repeat that the officers and men under Franklin in their first winter within the frozen zone, a~ nobly bore the one and cheer- fully combatted the other ? rfhe ruins and traces left behind them all attest it. The ob- servatory, with its double embankment of earth and stones, its neat finish, and the lavish expenditure of labor in pavement and pathway: the shooting gallery under the cliff, the seats formed of stones, the remains of l)leasant picnics in empty bottles and meat- tins strewed about; the elaborate cairn upon the north.point of Beecheya pyramid eight feet high, and at least six feet long on each side of the baseconstructed of old meat- tins filled with gravel: all tell the same tale of manful anxiety for physical employment to distract the mind from suffering and solitude. On board the ships ~ve picture to ourselves the arctic school and theatre : the scholar and dramatist exerting themselves to kill mo- notony and amuse or instruct their comrades. There are not wanting traces at Cape Riley to show how earnestly the naturalists Goodsir and Stanley labored to collect specimens~ THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. now was their time to arrange and note upon their labors. I1here is more than one site still visible of tents in which the magnetical observations were obtained: now was the time to record and compare such observations. And, in addition to the charming novelty of a first winter in the frozen sea, the officers in so scientific an expedition had abundance of employment, in noting the various phe- nomena which were daily and hourly occur- ring around them. But at length darkness and winter pass away, sunlight and spring return; pale faces again recover their natural rosy tint. Only three of the original party of one hundred and thirty-eight souls have succumbed * the rest, though thinner, are now inured and hardened to all the changes of the arctic climate, and exhibit no lack of energy or strength. As soon as the temperature will admit of it, l)arties are despatched from the shij)s in various directions with sledges and tents; some have scientific objects in view; others are directed to try and procure game for their sickly comrades, or to eke out the store of lrovisions, now reduced to a two years stock : and, sad it is to record it, nearly all their l)1eselved meats were those of the miscreant Gold tier. Exploratory parties were likewise not wanting; and those who came on their footsteps in after years saw the signs of their lost comrades zeal and industry on every side. From Caswells Tower, which looks towards Lancaster Sound, to Point Innis up Wellington Channel, the marks of camping l)laces and the trails of their sledges were frequent. It was sad to remark, from the form of their cooking places, and the deep ruts left by their sledges over the edge of the terraces which abound in the neighbor- hood of Beechey Island. how little Franklins people were iml)ressed with the importance of rendering their travelling equipment light and portalle, 1)0th as a means of exploration whilst their ships were imprisoned, and to enable theni to escape if their ships were destroyed. The anxiety for their fate, ex- pressed by many in Captain Austins expe- dition, when remarking upon the fearful ex- tS Alt the traces alluded to in these articles, were discovered at and about Beechey Island, in 1850 51, by the expeditions under Captain H. Au~in. C.B.. Captain Penay. and Captain de Havcn. Tombstones recorded the deaths of two seamen, on January 1st and January 4th, 1846, and that 6f a marine, who died on Aprit 3d of the same year. penditure of labor which must have been entailed on Franklins men in dragging about such sledges as they had evidently had with them, has only been too truly verified. The longest journey made by sledge parties from the Erebus and Terror at Beechey Island, so far as we know, does not exceed twenty miles; whereas three and four hundred miles outward has been recently done by our later arctic explorers. Franklins experience of travelling in the Hudsons Bay Territory was evidently at fault in the rugged and desert region in which he was now sojourning; and he had no MClintock at his side to show him how, by mechanical skill and careful attention to weights and equipment, sledges might be constructed on which men might carry boats, tents, clothing, food, and fuel, and travel with impunity from February to August, and ex- plore, as he himself has done in that time, nearly fourteen hundred miles of ground or frozen sea. However, no anxieties then pressed on the minds of those gallant men; large water was all they thought of; give them that, and Behrings Straits in their ships was still their destination. The sun has ceased to set, night is as the day, the snow has long melted off land arid floe, the detached parties have all returned to their ships, yards are crossed, rigging set up, sails bent, the graves of their shipmates are neatly paved round, shells from the hay are prettily arranged over the sailors last home by some old messmate. Franklin, with that, Christian earnestness which ever formed so charming a trait in his character, selects, at the request of his men, epitaphs which ap- peal to the hearts of all, and perhaps no finer picture could be conceived than that firm and veteran leader leading his beloved crews on to the perilous execution of their worldly duty, yet calmly pointing to that text of Holy Writ in which the prophet warrior of old reminded his peol)le of their God, Choose ye this day, whom ye wifl serve. The garden on Beechey Island refuses to yield any vegetables from the seeds so care- fully sown in it; but the officers have brought and transplanted within its border every tuft of saxifrage and pretty anemone and poppy whi~h can be found. The pale pink of the one and the delicate straw color of the other form the only pleasing relief from the monot- onous coloring of the barren land. Sportt- men return and declare the game to be too 30 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. wild for further sport; but cheer all by saying that the deer and hare have changed their coats from white to russet color; the ptarmi- gans brood have taken wing, the wild duck has long since led her callow young to the open lakes, or off to holes of water which are rapidly increasing under cliffs and project- ing headlandsall the signs denote that the disruption of the frozen surface of the sea is at hand. The day of release arrives: in the morning a black sky has been seen over the eastern portion of Barrows Straits, that together with a low barometer indicates a S.E. breeze. The cracks which radiate over the floes in every airection gradually widen, then close again, and form heavy nips, in which the fear- ful pressure occasions a dull, grinding noise. Presently, the look-out man on Beechey Is- sand throws out the signal. The floes are in motion! A loud hurrah welcomes the joyful signala race for the point to see the de- struction of the ice. It moves, indeed. A mighty agency is at work; the floe heaves and cracks, now presses fearfully in one di- rection, and then in another; occasionally the awful pressure acting horizontally upon a huge floe-niece makes it, though ten feet thick, curve up in a dome-like shape. A dull, moaning is heard as if the very ice cried mercy, and then, with a sharp report, the mass is shivered into fragments, hurled up one on top of the other. Water rapidly shows in all directions, and within twenty-four hours there is quite as much sea seen as there was of ice yesterday. Yet the ice-fields in bays and inlets are still fast; this is the land-floe, and in that of Beechey Island the ships are still fast locked; but anticipating such would be the case, all the spring long, men have been carefully sprinkling ashes, sand, and gravel over the ice in a straight line from the Erebus and Terror to the en- trance of the bay. The increased action of the sun upon these foreign substances has oc- casioned a rapid decay of the floe beneath them, and it only needs a little labor to extri- cate the expedition. Hands cut out ships! pipes the cheery boatswain. A hundred strong hands and a dozen ice-saws are soon at work, whilst loud song and merriment awaken the long-silent echoes of Beechey Island. The water is reached, the sail is made, the ships cast to the westward, and again they speed towards Cape Walker. If we open a chart of the Arctic regions.* it will be observed that westward and north- ward of the Parry Islands there is n wide sea ~vhose limits are as yet unknown, and the ice which encumbers it has never yet been trav- ersed by ship or sledge. All those navigators, Collinson and MClure in their ships, and MClintock and Mecham with their sledges, who have with much difficulty and danger skirted along the southern and eastern edge of this truly frozen sea, mention, in terms of wonderment, the stupendous thickness and massive proportions of the vast floes with ~vhich it is closely packed. It was between this truly polar ice and the steel) cliffs of Banks Land that Sir Robert MClure fairly fought his way in the nwmorable voyage of the Investigator. It was in the narrow and tortuous lane of water left between the low beach line of North America and the wail of ice formed by the grounded masses of this fearful pack that the gallant Collinson car- ried, in 1852 and 1853, the Enterprise by way of Bebrings Straits to and from the further shores of Victoria Land; and it was in the far north-west of the Parry group that MClin- tock and Mecham, with their sledges in 1853 gazed, as Parry had done five-and-thirty years before, with astonishment on that l)ack-ice to which all they had seen in the seas between Prince Patricks Land and the Atlantic ~vas a mere bagatelle. It is not that the cold is here more intense, or that the climate is more rigorous, but this accumulation of l)ollderous ice arises simply from the want of any large direct communication between that l)ortion of the Polar Sea and the warm waters of the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. Bebrings Strait is the only vent in a south-westerly direction, and that strait is so shallow that this l)olar ice (which has been found to draw as much as sixty and eighty feet of water, and to have hummocks upon it of a hundred feet in height), generally grounds in it, until thawed away by the action of the Pacific gulf stream; and, on the other hand, towards the Atlantic Ocean, the channels, as it will be observed, are most tortuous and much barred with is- lands. The grand law of nature by whica ~ Mr. Arrowsmith, of Soho Square, has pab- tished an excellent and cheap general map, on a small scale, which will be found very correct. 31 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. the ice of our Northern Pole is ever flowing towards the torrid zone, holds good, however, within the area to which we are alluding; and in spite of all obstacles, and although the accumulation of ice every winter exceeds the discharge and destruction, still the action is ever southerly, as in the seas of Spitzbergen and Nova Zerabla. The slow march of this ice-stream is, however, far more like that of the ice from some huge parent glacier than of any thing else, for lanes of water, or clear spaces of sea, are seldom if ever seen amongst it; indeed, so coml)act, so impenetrable is its character, that as yet no navigator has ever succeeded in crossing any of the ice-streams from this sea of desolation. One of these impenetrable ice-streams flo~vs down between Melville and Banks Land, and impinging with fearful force upon the exposed western shores of Prince of Wales Land and the islands across Barrows Straits, curves down what we hope will be called MClintock Channel, until it is fairly blocked up in the narrows about King Williams Land. Here the southern edge of the ice-stream comes in contact with the warm waters flowing north- ward from the rivers of the continent of America, and undergoes a constant and rapid disintegration, the rear of the ice- stream ever pressing forward, yet constantly melted away, * as it reaches the limit which Providence has set UI)Ofl it. As Franklin sailed to the west from Beechey Island, he fell upon the edge of this ice-stream in about the longitude of Cape Walker; then to the west of it, and of Lowther, Young, and Hamilton Islands, he observed the floes being broken up, and rapidly disintegrated by meeting the warm waters of Barrows Straits; but within and amongst that l)ack there could have been no hope of a passage, whilst on the other hand the ridges of l)1essed up shingle and off-lying shoals round the land west of Cape Walker threatened destruction to the Erebus and Terror if they attempted that route; whereas, as far as they could look southward between Capes Walker and Bunny, there stretched away a fair and promising channel leading direct to the American conti- nent, and with ice in it of no very aged ap- pearance. Who that has stood as they did ~ Takin~ the drift of the lost Erebus and Terror from September, 1846, to April, 1848, as our guide, this ice-stream moves at about the rate of a mile and a-half in a month. on Cape Walker can doubt which route Frank- lin preferred under such circumstances? The middle of August, and a fortnight of navigation are before them. A lead! a lead! and large water! away to the south, calls the ice-master from the crows nest, and from un- der the friendly shelter of Cape Walker the expedition bears away, and they progress a-pace dowa what we know as Peels Chan- nel. On the eastern hand rise the steep black cliffs of North Somerset, cut here and there with deep cleft and snow-filled ravine; along the base a ridge of ice is piled up; full forty feet high, it gleams in white and blue against the granite cliff, and is reflected in the calm waters of an Arctic summers day,how still, how calm, how sul)limely grand !but the ex- perienced seaman is not beguiled by the de- ceptive beauty of such a scene, but thinks of the dark and stormy nights when, and that before many short days are past, the north- ~vest hurricane will again launch against those cliffs, the ice-fields of Melville Strait. On the westera hand, the sandstone cliffs, and the sheltered coves of Prince of Wales Land, have donned their brightest looks, and siren- like, lure the discoverer, by many an unex- plored bay and fiord, to delay a while and visit them. It may not be; the Erebus and Ter- ror press on, for is not Cape Herschel of King Williams Land and the American con- tinent ahead? are they not fast nearing it? Once there, will they not have discovered the long-sought passage? Will they not have done that one thing whereby great minds may become notable? Two degrees of lati- tude are passed over; the passage contracts; for awhile it looks as if they ~vere in a cui-de- sac; islands locked in with one another, excite some anxiety for a channel. The two ships are close to each other, the eager officers and men crowd gunwale and tops. Hepburn Is- land bars the way: they round it. Hursab, hurrah! the path opens before them, the lands on either hand recede, as sea, an open sea, is before them. 1hey dip their ensigns, and cheer each other in friendly co ngratuia- tion: joy, joy! another one hundred miles, and King Williams Island will rise in view. The prize is now within their grasp, whatever be the cost. The sailors prayer for open water is, how- ever, only granted in a limited sense, for di- reetly the coast of Prince of Wales Island is lost to view, and that they are no longer 32 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. shielded by land to the west, the great ice- stream from Melville Island again falls Uj)Ofl it. The Erehus and Terror pass a channel leading into Regents Inlet, our Bellot Chan- nel; they advance down Lhe edge of that ice- stream as far as latitude 710. The only pas- sage to the coast of America that Franklin knows of, is now nearly south-west of his position, it leads between King Williams and Victoria Land. For, alas! in his chart King Williams Land was represented to be con- nected with Boothia by a deep bay, called Poets Bay. It is true that to the south-west the hopeless looking ice-stream bars his way, and that to the south-east the road looks clear and promising; but then, did not his chart say that there ~vas no channel east of King Williams Land, by which to reach the American shore? There was no alternative, they must enter the pack or ice-stream, and go with it to the south-west. Had they not already l)assed over two hun- dred out of the three hundred miles between Cape Walker and Cape Herschel? Were they the men to flinch from a struggle for the remaining hundred miles? That struggle commenced as the winter closed in, and just as King Williams Land was in sight, the Erebus and Terror became beset, and eventu- ally fixed for the winter of 18467, in latitude 700 6 north, and longitude 980 23 ~vest, about twelve miles due north, of Cape Felix. More dangerous and unpromising winter- quarters could hardly have fallen to their lot, but they were helpless in that ice-stream. Sixteen years previously Sir James Ross had stood UI)Ofl Cape Felix. He travelled on foot in the early spring of 1830, from Victoria Harbor in the Gulf of Boothia, and explored the northern coast of King Williams Land, and standing on the 29th of May, on this very Cape Felix, remarked with astonishment the fearful nature of the oceanic ice, which was pressed upon the shores; and he men- tions that in some places the pressure had driven the floes inland, half a mile beyond the highest. tide-mark! Such the terrible winter- quarters of those lone barks and their gal- lant crews; and if that season of monotony and hardship was trying to them in Beechey Island, where they could in some measure change the scene by travelling in one direc- tion or the other, how infinitely more so it must have been with nothing round them, but ice-hummock and floe-piece, with the ships THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 402 33 constantly subjected to pressure and ice-nip, and the crews often threatened during the depths of winter with the ~)robabi1ity of hav- ing their ships swallowed 01) in an arctic teml)est, when the ice-fields would rear, and crush themselves one against the other under the influence of the awful pressure from the north-west. The God of storms, who thus lashed the wintry north with his might, shielded however those brave men; and now, inured to the dangers of icy seas, they slept and labored not less pleasantly because the floes were rocking their wooden homes; and consoled themselves, that they were only then ninety miles from Cape Herschel, and that even a sledge palt could reach it next spring (1847), before the navigation would be open. Thus their second winter passes. King Williams Land sho~vs out here and there from its winter livery; for evaporation serves to denude those barren lands of snow, long before any thaw takes l)lace. May comes in; the unsetting sun in dazzling splendor l)00~5 its flood of perpetual light over the broken, shattered blocks of ice, while, from the great ice-stream, drops of water form on the black sides of the ~veather-beaten ships, and icicles hang I)endent from the edge of hummocks; yet it is still intensely cold in the shade. Lieutenant Graham Gore, and Mr. F. Des Vaux, mate, both of the Erehus, are about to leave the ships for the land ; they have si~ men with them. Why do all grasp them s& fervently by the hand? Why do even the sick come upto give them a parting cheer? Surely, they ivent forth to bring hack the as~ surance that the expedition was really in the direct channel leading to those waters trav- ersed in former years by Franklin ; and to tell them all that they really were the dis- coverers of the long-sougl~t passage. One footprint was left by Gore and Des Vaux, in a cairn beyond Cape Victory on the west coast of King Williams Land; it tells us that on May 24th, 1847, all were well on hoard the ships, and that Sir John Franklin still com- manded. Graham Gore probably traversed the short (listance between his cairn, and that on Cape Herschel in a week; and we can fancy him and the enthusiastic Des Vaux, cast- ing one glance upon the long-sought shores of America, and hastening back to share their delight with those imprisoned in the ships. THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. Alas! why do their shipmates meet the flushed travellers with sorrow imprinted on pale countenances? Why, as they cheer at the glad tidings they bring, does the tear suf- fuse the eye of these rough and hardy men? Their chief lies on his death-bed; a long ca- reer of honor and of worth is drawing to its close. The shout of victory which cheered the last hour of Nelson and of Wolfe, rang not less heartily round the bed of the gallant Franklin, and lit up that kind eye with its last gleam of triumph. Like them, his last thought must have been of his countrys glory, and the welfare of those whom he well knew must now hope in vain for his return. A toll for the bravethe drooping ensigns of England trail only half-mast; officers and men with sad faces walk lightly as if they feared to disturb the mortal remains of him they love so much. The solemn peal of the ships bell reverberates amongst the masses of solid ice; a group of affectionate followers stand round a huge chasm amongst the ice- stieam, and Fitzjames, who had sworn only to part from him in death, reads the service for the dead over the grave of Franklin. Oh! mourn him not, seamen and brother Englishmen! unless ye can point to a more honorable end or a nobler grave. Like an- other Moses, he fell when his work was ac- complished, with the long object of his life in view. The discoverer of the North-west Pas- sage had his Pisgah, and so long as his coun- trymen shall hold dear disinterested devotion and gallant perseverance in a good cause, so long shall they point to the career and fate of Admiral Sir John Franklin. * * * * * The autumn comes. It is not without anx- iety that Crozier and Fitzjames contemplate the prospect before them; hut they keep those feelings to themselves. The Pacific is far off; the safe retreat of their men up the Great Fish River, or Coppermine, is fraught with peril, unless their countrymen at home have established dep4ts of provisions at their em- bouchures; and worse still their provisions fail next year, and scurvy is already showing itself amongst the crews. At last, the ice- stream movesit swings to and frothe ves- sels are thrown into one position of danger and then another. Days elapsenh! they count the hours before winter will assuredly come back; and how they pray for water water to float the ships in; only one narrow lane through this hard-hearted packone narrow lane for ninety miles, and they are saved! but, if not - . . Thy will be done! The ice-stream moves south; the men fear to remark to each other how slowly; the march of a glacier down the Alpine pass is almost as rapid. Yet it does move south, and they look to heaven and thank their God. Ten miles, twenty miles, are passed over, still beset; not a foot of open water in sight, yet still they drift to the south. Thirty miles are now accomplished; they have only sixty miles of ice between them and the sea, off the Amer- ican coastnay, less; for only let them get round that ~vest extreme of King Williams which is seen projecting into the ice-stream, and they are saved! September, 1847, has come in; the new ice is forming fast; the drift of the ice-stream diminishes,can it have stopped P Mercy! mercy! It sways to and fro ;gaunt, scurvy- stricken men watch the daily movement with bated breath; the ships have ceased to drift they are now fifteen miles north of Cape Vic- tory. God, in his mercy, shield those galla~it crews! The dread winter of 184748 closes around these forlorn and now desperate men; disease and scurvy, want and cold, now deed press them heavily. Brave men are suffering; we will not look upon their sore trial. The sun of 1848 rises again upon the im- prisoned expedition, and never did it look down on a nobler, yet sadder sight. Nine officers and twelve men have perished during the past season of trial; the survivors, one hundred and four in number, are assembled round their leadersCrozier and Fitzjames a wan, half-starved crew. Poor souls, they are going to escape for their lives by ascend- ing the Great Fish River. Fitzjames, still vigorous, conceals his fears of ever saving so many in the hunger-stricken region they have to traverse. As the constant friend and com- panion of Franklin, he knows but too well from the fearful experiences of his lamented chief, what toil, hardship, and want await them before a country capable of supporting life can be reached. All that long last win- ter has he pored over the graphic and touch- ing tale of Franklins overland journeys in Arctic America, and culled but small hope; yet he knows there is no time for despon- dency; the men look to their officers for hope and confidence at such a juncture, and shall 34 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. he be wanting at such a crisis P N~o, assur- edly not; and he strives hard, by kind and cheering wordsto impart new courage to many a drooping heart. The fresh preserved provisions on hoard the ships have failed; salted meat is simply poison to the scurvy- stricken men; they must quit the ships or die, and if they must die, is it not better that they should do so making a last gallant struggle for life P and, at any rate, they can leave their bleaching skeletons as a monument upon Cape Herschel, of having successfully done their duty. Yes, of course it is. They pile up their sledges with all description of gear, for as yet they know not how much their strength has diminished. Each ships company brings a large whale-boat ~vhich has been carefully fitted upon a sledge; in them the sick and dis- abled are tenderly packed; each man carries a great quantity of clothingcare is taken to have plenty of guns, powdei:, and shot, for they can drag. at the utmost but forty days pro- vision ~vith them, and at the expiration of that time they hope to be in a country where their guns will feed them. Every trinket and piece of silver in the ships is carefully divided amongst the men; they hope to conciliate the natives with these baubles, or to procure food, and so far as foresight could afford the party every hope of safety, all has been done; but one fatal error occurred,the question of weight to be dragged, with diminished physi- cal power, has never been taken into. consid- eration; or, if considered, no proper remedy applied. On the 22d of April, 1848, these gallant men fell into the drag-ropes of their sledges and boats; the colors were hoisted on their dear old ships, three hearty cheers were given for the stout craft that had borne them so nobly through many perils, and without a blush at deserting her majestys ships Erebus and Terror, Captains Crozier and Fitzjames lead the road to the nearest point of land, named Cape Victory.* Poor souls! they were three days traversing the intervening distance of fifteen miles, and the sad conviction was already pressing upon them, that they had over-estimated their physical strength and powers of endurance. Around the large ~ So called by Captain Sir James Ross in his exploration of 1880. It was the furthest point reached on King Williams Land by that indefat- igable arctic traveller. cairn erected upon Point Victory the shiver- ing diseased men cast away every thing that could be spared; indeed, perhaps much that, at that inclement season, they still needed to shield their half-starved frames from the bit- ing blast. Pickaxes, shovels, rope, blocks, clothing, stores of all sorts, except provisions, sextants, quadrants, oars, and even a med- icine-case, expressly fitted up for the journey, were here thrown away. Unrolling the re- cord left here in the previous year by the good and gallant Gore, Captain Fitzjames proceeded to write round its margin those few, alas! too few; but graphic words, which tell us all that we shall ever know of this last sad page in their touching history. The ink had to be thawed by fire, and benumbed must the hand have been that wrote those words; yet the writing is that of the same firm, self-reliant, light-hearted man who, three short years previously had been noted at Greenhithe as the life of the expedition. In spite of frostbites and fatigue, the party presses on. They must keep marching south- ward towards the mainland where they hope to find deer and salmon, for upon their sledges they have only got forty days provision, and th~it store will be expended by the 7th of June, at latest.* How are they to live after that, is a sad thought which flashes across the mind of many. They sigh, but will not impart their anxieties to each other. Seamen- like, the light joke and merry laugh still flashes from mouth to mouth, and seems for the while to lighten the poor heart of its load of misery. Poor lost ones! we mark them day by day, growing weaker under the fearful toil of drag- ging such ponderous sledges and boats, as well as their disabled comrades, through the deep snow, and over rugged ice; we hear the cheering appeal of the gallant officers to the despairing ones, the kind applause heartily bestowed to the self-sacrificing and the brave. #E Franklins expedition had no pemican, the most portable and nutritious of food; but even had they had some, it is well known by the experience of arctic travellers that forty days is the maximum quantity of food, in addition to other weights, that the best-equipped party could have dragged on their sledges, and as the Great Fish River was known not to open before August, it must have been dire necessity alone that induced Croxier and Fitzjames to quit their ships at so early a period of the year that nearly six weeks must have inter- vened between the expenditure of the provision upon their sledges and the disruption of the ice upon the Great Fish River. 35 THE LAST VOYAGE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. Bodily endurance has its limits; devotion to ones brother man its bounds; and half-way between Cape Victory where they landed, and Cape Herschel, it becomes apparent that if any are to be saved there must be a division of the party, and that the weak and disabled must stay behind, or return to the ships. One of the large boats is here turned with her bow north~vard, some stay here, the rest push on. Of those who thus remained, or tried to return, all we know is, that in long years afterwards, two skeletons were found in that boat, and that the wandering Esquimaux found on board one ship, the bones of another large man ~vith long teeth, as they described him. On the fate of the rest of the sick and weak, and they must have formed a large proportion of the original party of one hundred and six souls that landed on Cape Victory, we need not dwell. The rest push on ; they have tried to cheer their shipmates with the hope that they will yet return to save them~vain hope! Yet we see them with bending bodies, and ~vith the sweat-drops freezing upon their pallid faces, straining every nerve to save sweet lifethey pass from sight into the snow-storm, which the warm south wind kindly sends to shroud the worn-out ones, who gently lie down to die; and they died so peacefully, so calmly, with the mind sweetly wandering back to the homes and friends of their childhood; the long-remembered prayer upon their lips, and their last fleeting thoughts of some long- treasured love for one they would some day meet in heaven. The cairn on Cape Her- schel was reached, no one had been there since Dease and Simpson in 1839, except themselves. Here the last record was placed of their success and sad position, and then this forlorn hope of desperate men pushed on towards the Great Fish River; and, if we needed any proofs of Franklins Expedition ha~ing been the first to discover the north- west passage, or of the utter extremity to which this retreating party were reduced, we need but l)oint to the bleaching skeleton which lies a few miles southward of Cape Herschel; that silent witness has been ac- corded us, and he still lies as he fell, on his face, with his head towards his home. His comrades had neither turned, nor buried him. But why pursue the subject further P why attempt to lift the veil with which the All MercifuV has been l)leased to shut out from mortal ken, the last sad hour of brave men l)attling with famine and disease. All we know further of this forlorn hope is that Dr. Rae, from Esquimaux report, states that about forty white men were seen early one spring, dragging a boat and sledges south upon, or near, King Williams Land. The men were thin, and supposed to be get- ting short of provisions ; the party was led by a stout middle-aged man. Later in the season, after the arrival of the wild fowl (May), but before the ice broke up, the bodies of thirty persons, and some graves, were dis- covered on the continent, and five other corpses on an island; some of these bodies were in a tent, others under the boat which had been turned over to afford shelter. Of those corpses seen on the island, one was supposed to be a chief; he had a telescope over his shoulders,and a double-barrelled gun beneath him. The native description of the locality where this sad scene was discovered agreed exactly with Montreal Island and Point Ogle, at the entrance of the Great Fish River; and knowing what we now do of the position of the ships, the date of abandon- ment, and taking all circumstances into con- sideration, it is now vain to suppose that any survivors exist of the crews of the Erebus and Terror; nor is it likely that records of their voyage will now be found, as we may be assured that no Christian officers or men, would for one moment think of dragging logs, books, or journals with them when they were obliged to abandon their dying com- rades on King Williams Land: and, indeed, when it is remembered that they neither cached journals or books of any description at Cape Victory, or the deserted boat, it is not probable that any were ever taken out of the vessels at a juncture ~vhen the sole object must have been to save lifeand life only. We shall soon learn, from the publication of Captain MClintocks journals, how a womans devoted love, and a generous na- tions sympathy, at last cleared up the mys- tery which once hung over the voyage of her majestys ships Erebus and Terror, and se- cured to Franklin and his followers the honor for ~vhich they diedthat of being the First Discoverers of the North- West Passage. 36 CUBAN LITERATURE. From Chamberss Journal. CUBAN LITERATURE. DOUBTLESS the majority of my readers will be surprised to hear that Cuba has any liter- ature at all. When we consider how com- pletely the island has been enveloped in the colonial system of a government which has always acted upon the resolution frankly pro- claimed by Charles IV. when he suppressed the university of Maracaybo, that informa- tion should not become general in America; and how exclusively the energies or the creole mind have been directed to what is called epractical lifethat is, to eating, drinking, sleeping, and traffickingit certainly is as- tonishing that Cuba should have produced any writers cal)able of interesting mankind seriously, by the vigor, dignity, or beauty of their ~vorks. Yet such is the case. I know ho~v aI)t we are to overestimate any thing which has any flavor of caviar. Superiori- ties of this sort are sad snares. Those oysters we had at Venice have spoiled the appetite of many an untravelled friend, who was beginning to be ignorantly jubilant over the choicest I)roducts of Princes Bay, and the oldest thoughts clothed in a foreign tongue affect us like a familiar landscape seen through stained windows. ~ut after all deductions made, and judging them in the most impar- tial sl)irit, some of the Cuban authors deserve, it seems to me, this high praise, that they have been thinkers and artists in a land in- different to thought and to art, apdl true lovers of liberty in an atmosphere of op- pression. Particularly must this l)raise be awarded to three menHeredia, Milanese, and Placido. These all are l)oets, and the best productions of the Cuban mind must be sought in the field of poetry. The J)oet is everywhere the morning-star of mind, in ~vhose light tyrants see only an- other ornament of the night they love, while the oppressed hail the harbiiiger of day. No prose-writer could ever have secured the publication in Cuba of the thoughts and feel- ings which her poets have given to the world. The government, in every case, indeed, has awakened sooner or later to recognize the patriot in the minstrel, and there are few of the noteworthy bards of Cuba U~Ofl whom the hand, of authority has not fallen more or less heavily. The works of most of these writers are now contraband at home, and cannot easily be procured. Formerly, there were several journals and magazines in the island, which used to be enriched with melo- dious sedition, but the censors of the press have succeeded in purifying even the poets corner. The 1?esista de la havana is now as decorously dull as the Giornale di Boma itself. A brief sketch of the character and temlier of the poets whose names I have mentioned, will show the reader how much there is to be re1)ressed in the iInl)ulses of the higher class of Cuban minds. I select them, not merely because they seem to me the first in point of literary excellence, but because they sprung from three different classes of the city popu- lation. Jos6 Maria Heredia was a gentleman by birth and l)osition., The son of a patriot, whose patriotism made him an exile, Heredia, born in 1803, at Sai~tiago de Cuba, was car- ried in his childhood to Mexico. There, at the age of 8ixteen, he lost his father; and re- turning to Havana, was admittec?, in 1823, to 1)ractice as an advocate by the supreme court at PuertQ Principe. His opinions and con- duct soon attracted the suspicions of the gov- ernment, and in November of the same year h& was obliged to flee to Ameri~a. lie pub- lished the first collection of his poems at New York in 1825. In 1826, lie was invited to Mexico, where he ~vas appointed assistant- secretary of state; soon afterwards he became a judge in the supreme court, and was sent to the senate of the rel)uI)lic. lie died at Mex ico in the prime of life on the 6th ~f May, 1839. An edition of his works was 1)ublished at Toluca in Mexico in 1832, and another at Barcelonathe Marseille of Spainin 1840. As a man, Heredia is honorably remembered for the generosity, integrity, and amiability of his character. As a poet, the dignity of his thought, the harmony of his versification, and the graces of his language, well supl).ort his claim to the high rank which his country- men have assigned to him. As a I)atriot, his love of country seems to have been not less wise than fervent. The following lines from one of his unpublished poems, The Exile8 hymn, vibrate with the genuine thrill of po- etic feeling, and with the manliest passion Fair land of Cuba! on thy shores are seen Lifes fair extremes of noble and of mean; The world of sense in matchless beauty dressed, And nameless horrors bid within thy breast. 87 CUBAN LITERATURE. Ordained of Heaven the fairest flower of earth, False to thy gifts, and reckless of thy birth! The tyrants clamor and the slaves sad cry, With the sharp lash in insolent reply Such are the sounds that echo on thy plains, While virtue faints, and vice unblushing reigns. Rise, and to power a daring heart oppose! Confront with death these worse than death- like woes, Unfailing valor chains the flying fate; Who dares to die shall win the conquerors state We, too, can leave a glory and a name Our childrens children shall not blush to claim; To the far future let ns turn our eyes, And up to Gods still unpolluted skies! Better to bare the breast and undismayed Meet the sharp vengeance of the hostile blade, Than on the couch of helpless grief to lie, And in one death a thousand deaths to die. Fearst thou to bleed I Oh hetter, in the strife, From patriot wounds to pour the gushing life, Than let it creep inglorious through the veins Beaumbed by sin and agony and chains! What hast thou, Cuban Life itself resign Thy very grave is insecurely thine! Thy b!ood, thy treasure, poured like tropic rain From tyrant hands to feed the soil of Spain. If it be truth, that nations still must bear The crushing yoke, the wasting fetters wear If to the people this be Heavens decree To clasp their shame, nor struggle to be free, From truth so base my heart indignant turns, With Freedoms frenzy all my spirit burns, That rage which ruled the Romans soul of fire, And filled thy heart, Columbias patriot sire! Cuba! thou still shalt rise, as pure, as bright As thy free airas full of living light; Free as the waves that foam around thy strands, Kissing thy shores, and curling oer thy sands! Heredias fine poem of Niagara must he known to many of our readers through Mr. Bryants excellent version. It has always seemed to me one of the very best utterances ever called forth by a scene whose l)raise ex- pr& ssive silence best can sing. Even UI)Ofl the brink of the mighty cataract, the palm- trees of Cuba sigh through the wanderers thought, whispering sadly of the grievances and misery that flourish in their shade. The Season of the Mothers insl)ires some natural and musical verses, in which the dreams of the patriot still mingle with the blest reality of the husbands happy love. My happy land! thou favored land of God, Where rest his mildest looks, his kindliest smiles, Oh! not forever from thy soil beloved May cruel fortune tear me! but he thine Th~ latest light that on these eyes shall shine! How sweet, dear love, to listen to the rain, That patters softly on our humble home; To hear the wild winds whistling oer the plain, And the deep booming of the oceans roar, Where shattering surges lash the distant shore! There, by thy side, on softest couch reclined, My throbbing lyre shall rest upon thy knees, And my glad heart shall sing the boundless peace Of thy fair soul, the light of thy dear face, My happy lot, and Gods surpassing grace. Clearly, Heredin was a man to be seriously discouraged hy any despotic government. Milanes, horn in a more humble rank of life, and hound by his occupation to the mer- cantile class, was not less warm and sincere in his patriotism than Heredia. But the temper of his mind was melancholy, and his sweet strains are full of a sad, mystical fervor. His brother says of him, in tl2e preface to an edi- tion of his works published at havana, that he was inspired with the noble enthusiasm of accomplishing a great social mission, and, possessed of faith and hope, selected for the subject of his songs moral or philosophical ideas. He is, indeed, a ,very plaintive poet; and in rending his verses we are haunted with a continual indefinite sound of waiting. Cer- tainly there is not much in the condition of Cuba which can inspire her bards with pride and pleasure. But the intense melancholy of Milanes has a tone of personal suffering like that which pervades the sonnets of Camoens, or the complaints of Tasso. The gloomy ten- dencies of the temperament of Milanes, ag- gravated by private troubles, and still more, no doubt, hy the consciousness of his impo- tence to redress those wrongs of his country which he so keenly felt, finally overpowered his reason. The story of this young man, the purity of whose character, the elevation of whose aims, and the delicacy of whose genius have secured for him a real and beneficial in- fluence in his own country, sad as it is, is by no means the saddest to be found in the brief literary history of Cuba. Gabriel de Ia Conception Valdes (not un- known by his nom deplume of Placido) was a mulatto of Matanzas, a comb-maker by trade, whose education was of the very rudest kind, a pariah of society, bearing in his very form and color the ineffaceable badge of die- 38 CUBAN LITERATURE. grace and servitude. Yet this man triumphed over all the obstacles in his way, and, after establishing a high reputation as a poet, set the seal to his fame by a dignified and heroic death. In 1844, particulars of an intended insurrection of the colored population came from various sources to the ears of the su- preme authority of Cuba, and seemed to de- mand investigation. Every thing like a rep- resentative body having been abolished by Tacon, there was no apparent way open for consulting with the creoles on the subject. The captain-general coolly resolved to settle the business by military commissions, and im- mediately let loose upon the island a horde of inferior officials, who proceeded to collect testimony, and to inflict punishment after the fashion of the process of the Templars, or Jeffreys campaign. Numbers of free per- sons of color and of slaves died under the lash,* many others were summarily shot, and such infamous excesses were committed by the fiscals as beggar belief. The victims of this dreadful persecution were stripped of their property, and the crown officerswith a few honorable exceptionssoon converted their system of terror into a grand financial expedient. White creoles and foreigners were not exempted from the pestilence of power, and the planters were compelled to ransom their slaves at great cost, from a tribunal which arrested without accusation, and con- demned without inquiry. The conspicuous position of Placido among his people marked him out as an early victim. It is not improbable that Placido may have been concerned in the conspiracy which there is really reason to suppose was then organiz- ing, and though he contemptuously denied many of the charges brought against him, he does not appear to have shrunk from main- taining the right of the negroes to rise against oppression. lie was found guilty, and sen- tenced to be shot. He behaved in prison with great propriety and composure, and won the admiration of numbers who visited him. In the intervals of his preparation for death, he composed some of the finest of his poems, particularly his Prayer to God. Can we deny the honors of genius to the Cuban mulatto who could so feel and speak? 0 God of love unbounded! Lord supreme! In overwhelming grief, to thee I fly; The British commissioner, Kennedy, says three thousand. Rending this veil of hateful calumny, Oh, let thine arm of might my fame redeem! Wipe thou this foul disgrace from off my brow With which the world hath sought to stamp it now. Thou King of kings, my fathers God and mine Thou only art my sure and strong defence; The polar snows, and tropic fires intense, The shaded sea, the air, the light are thine; The life of leaves, the waters changeful tide, All things are thine, and by thy will abide. Thou art all power; all life from thee goes forth, And fails to flow obedient to thy breath; Without thee, all is naught; in endless death All nature sinks, forlorn and nothing worth. Yet even the void obeys thee, and from naught, By thy dread word, the living man was wrought. Merciful God! how should I thee deceive ~ Let thy eternal wisdom search my soul! Bowed down to earth by falsehoods base control, Her stainless wings not now the air may cleave. Send forth thine hosts of truth, and set her free! Stay thou, 0 Lord, the oppressors victory. Forbid it, Lord, by that most free outpouring Of thine own precious blood for every brother Of our lost race, and by thy Holy Mother, So full of grief, so loving, so adoring, Who, clothed in sorrow, followed thee afar, Weeping thy death like a declining star. But if this lot thy love ordains to me To yield to foes most cruel and unjust, To die, and leave my poor and senseless dust The scoff and sport of their weak cumity Speak thou! and then thy purposes fulfil; Lord of my life, work thou thy perfect will A letter which Placido sent to his wife on the night before his death is worthy of a place beside the more famous one which Pudilla wrote in circumstances so similar. Thus the despised laborer bade eternal farewell to his mother. The appointed lot has come upon me, mother; The mournful ending of my years of strife; This changing world I leave, and to another, In blood and terror, goes my spirits life. But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weep- ing, And let thy soul her wonted peace regain; I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweep- ing Across my lyre, to wake its dying strain 39 40 A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing, All glorious and holy, pure, divine, And innocent, unconscious as the wailing I uttered at my hirth: and I resign, Even now my life; even now, descending slowly, Faiths mantle folds me to my slumbers holy. Mother, fdrewell! God keep thee, and for- ever! On the morning of the 28th of June, Pla- cido was led, with nineteen others to the Plaza of Matanzas. He passed to his death like an Indian chief, chanting for a death-song his own noble Prayer. I-Ic was to suffer first; stepI)ed into the square, knelt with unhand- aged eyes, and gave the signal to the soldiers. Mrhen the smoke rolled away, it was seen that he had only been wounded, and had fallen in agony to the ground. A murmur of pity and horror ran through the crowd ; l)ut Placido slowly rising to his knees, drew up his form proudly, and cried, in a broken voice Farewell, worl& ! ever pitiless to me! Fire here! raising his hand to his temples. Possibly this dark history may not yet have rOun(led to its close. Men like Toussaint and Placido fall not obscurely nor unavenged. Their friends are Exultations, agonies, And love: and mans unconquerable mind. A Spanish traveller in Cuba, Sdlas of Quer- oga, says of Placidos poetic merits I know. no American poet, Heredia included, who ap- proaches him in genius, in polish, and in dig- nity. The same critic, after analyzing Pla- cidos poetry, writes thus It is truly wonderful to hear a l)oet, es- teemed humble by the society in which he lives, addressing himself to the queen-regent of Spain in language like this Some one there is, who, with his golden lyre, Worthier thy sovereign ear, shall chant To the vibrations of its jesvelled strings More grateful songs, perchance, but not more free! And these lines are equally bold and dar- ing:. And heats not thy heart too I Therefore will I, While the jure dawn her snowy canopy Hangs on the orient sky, Bid my rejoicing hymns to God on high, Upborne by gentlest breezes, swiftly fly: Let them who fear be dumb, for not of them am I! If thou with pleasure hearest, let thy prayers Swift seek the eternal, that my soa~s may rise CUBAN LITERATURE. Even to his throne, and then on Cuba fall, Impearled in blessings from the echoing skies ! It was important for me to l)aint the poetic character of Placido, to bring into clearer re- lief his astonishing merits. I fear, neverthe- less, that my readers will not sufficiently ap- l)reciate the true condition of a miserable laborer in the island of Cuba; and only by such an appreciation can they fully estimate the great value of the lines I have quoted. The vigor of Placidos versification corre- sponds to that of his thought. It is surpris- ing to see the facility with which he manages the tenderest themes, arid some of his corn- positions touch the deepest emotions of the soul. My task would be endless should I at- tempt to extract all the beauties of these l)oems, for if there are very fe~v that can be quoted in full, there is not one unrelieved by the light of genius. Their faults arise from the poets want of instruction; their inspira- tion is celestial. This man, be it once more remembered, was a person whom many an American lady would have thought sufficiently honored with a place behind her chair at the dinner-table, where he might have listened to edifying con- versation about the insulted genius of Burns and the prejudices of a snobbish nobility! I must not dwell here upon the names and works of Cuban l)OetS of various merit, nu-. merous enough to furnish ample matter for a grand division of the poets and poetry of Spanish America. It is enough if I have clearly indicated the existence, in various ranks of Cuban civic so cietv, of nobler thoughts and higher aims than the press or the prevailing character of social life reveals. The chief interest of the litera- ture of Cuba is indeed (lerived from the proofs which it affords us that the seed of liberal thoughts and pure desires, which the winds and waves have somehow wafted even to those blockaded shores, have germinated, and are bearing fruit. As works of art, the Joems which have fallen under my notice cannot, in general, he highly commended, The literature of Spain, since the days of Cervantes and Calderon, has been fertile chiefly in bad models. The vast majority of the later Spanish poets oscillate between the trivial and the dreary. The Spanish Pegasus has been broken to a tyrannous manage. The influence of a system of versification not CUBAN LITERATURE. much less absurd than the rules of the mas- ter-singers is felt by the most careless reader, in the indescribable tediousness of Spanish poetry. The study of the French Romanti- cistsfor France is the true teacher of the enlightened Cubanshas indeed somewhat relieved the Cuban poets from this thraldom. While Volney and iDe Tracy have taught the Cubans materialism in morals and philosophy, Victor Hugo and Lamartine have disclosed to them new secrets ot poetical composition. But the prevailing temper of the tropics is hostile to the highest forms of poetry. In that eternal summer, the voice grows languid as the mind. Out of their few warm days, says Landor, the English, if the produce is not ivine and oil, gather song and garner sensibility. Out of their un- changing heats and splendors, the sons of the trol)ics gather tears and garner senti- mentalism. The Cuban Muse rarely tries the flights of the Theban eagle, as rarely the soaring ral)ture of the English lark: she sits in the heavy foliage of her delicious home, and there her sad song mourneth ~vell, or ill, as the case may be: The names of the Cuban poetsthose rich, sonorous Spanish names, which you cannot utter without an unconscious inflation of the voice, and an involuntary wave of the hand tempt one to expatiate upon this subject; but I shall forbear. The titles of some of these works will convey a sufficient idea to the judicious reatler of the school to which they should be referred. Leaves of My Soul, Heart-beats, Whirlwinds of the Tropics, Passion Flowerssuch are the haptismal phrases in which Cubans delight. Gleams of manly aspiration are not wanting in these writings, nor the comfortable light of a true respect for what is trust in womanhood. Milanes is not alone in the faith that Still in womans heart the true Eden lingers, Bearing fruit of Loving Feeling and Belief. Vivid descriptions of natural scenery, much in the glowing Portuguese manner, illuminate these pages. Imaginative, these poets rarely are. With that quality none of them was so richly gifted as Placido. His images are often pathetic in their originality; as, for in- stance, when he compares the sudden passing of the moon from behind the cliffs into the open starlit sky, to the advent into the ball- room of a beautiful woman, superbly dressed, and wearing a Cashmere shawl. Quaintly barbaric as this image seems, yet how charged it is with the sad history of gorgeous dreams and warm visions, prisoned in the poet-brain of an outcast and a pariah The prose literature of Cuba may be quickly reviewed. I-low can we speak, who have no freedom to will, cried Jacques de Molay to his judges; for with the loss of freedom to will, man loses every thinghonor, cour- age, eloquence ! No l)lea of l)oetic li- cense avails the Cuban whose words are not tagged with rhymes. The Havana book- stores contain nothing to indicate that the University of Havana has borne any more fruit than El Azhar, the Oxford of the Arabs. The periodicals are trashy in the extreme. The newspaper press is, of course, entirely in the hands of Spaniards. In the feuiileton, the ladies are generally furnished with a translation of some French novel. The leading articles are often able, but the body of the l)~l)C~ is filled ~vith very much such matter as one finds in the columns of the newspapers which young ladies at hoarding-schools sometimes concoct. The current news of the island is only picked up by hearsay in Havana, and chiefly on the crowded quay at the moutlr of the harbor, where every morning the merchants most do congregate. The old Spaniards are very chary of their communications, and the creole hatred of the government acts like a mordant, biting in the blackest shades of every l)icture. While I was at Havana, the garrotte ~vas several times erected at the Punta, and twice for the pun- ishment of political offenders. The news- papers made no allusion to any of these events. In one instance, I happened to be dining on board a man-of-war, when an offi- cer in the company gave us the history of one of the political prisonersboth of whom, by the way, were reprieved at the l)lace of execu- tion, and sent to the galleys at Ceutatelling us that his name was Garcia, and that he was a miserable old creature, at whose house two of the Lopez party, badly wounded, had been left. He treated them very well, but they died. Shortly afterwards, the news of Las Pozas reached him, and our Cuban Falstaff instantly produced his dead l)irates, alleging that he had slain them for queen and coun- try. He was rewarded with a decoration; but the truth coming to light after a while, 41 CUBAN LITERATURE. Seflor Garcia was compromised, and finally brought into the shadow of death. One or two days after the reprieve, there appeared in the Diario what purported to be a sort of jubilate from the wife of one Garcia, who ought to have suffered something, but had been spared by the queens mercy. No one who had not in some surreptitious way heard of Garcia and his story, could possibly have comprehended this singular communication. Two mutinies of troops, at least, accom. panied with fusillades, came to my knowledge one at Villa Clara, and the other at Santi-. ago de Cuba. They were only darkly glanced at in leaders laudatory of the firm justice of Spain, and contefnl)tuous of the scandal which something not stated might cause in a neigh- boring nation. The Cuban press is, indeed, no transcript of the Cuban, but only of the Peninsular world. WATER GAS AT WILMINGTONOn Saturday the neighboring city of Wilmington was splen- didly lighted with gas made from water, under the patent of Professor Sanders, of Cincinnati. The charges were drawn from the retorts; the supply of coal-gas was turned off; the water- gas was run through the pipes, and Wilmington had a li~ht thrice as brilliant, thrice as pure, as any it had ever known before. The operation was observable to the citizens of Wilmington in its results, while its practical workin,., was witnessed by several journalists, many inhabitants, and some parties who are actually interested in the production of coal-gas. Among these last were the Superintendent of the Philadelphia Northern Liberties Gas Works, and the President of the Financial Board of that company. All a~reed it was a decided success. The theory of Sanders process is this: Water, as steam, is decomposed by being passed over red-hot charcoal, and the resulting gases (hy- drogen, carbonic oxide, and li~ht carburetted hydro~en) are chemically combined with heavy carburetted hydrogen, or light-giving gas, by the decomposition of rosin or coal vapor simul- taneously with, and in the presence of the de- composition of the vapor of water. At Wil- mington gas works are now three water gas re- torts, aggre~ ating only one twenty-seventh of the cubical area of their coal-gas retorts, yet more productive than the whole of their present coal gas apparatus, making one thousand two hundred to one thousand eight hundred feet per hour. The gas manufactured is superior in color and strength of flame to that produced from coal. Rosin is used as the carbonizing element, requiring from twenty-five to forty pounds for every one thousand feet of gas, which is free from sulphur or nitrogen, and has an odor rather agreeable than otherwise. Will it pay l The price of coal gas in New York is $2.50 per one thousand cubic fe t. In Philadelphia it is $2.25 for the same quantity. The cost of.making one thousand cubic feet of such water gas as illuminedwe might say, as illumiuatedWilmingtou on Saturday, ranges from thirty to fifty cents per one thousand cubic feet. Rosin alone need not be the basis, for Sanders process covers the use of bituminous coal, lignite or any of the multitudinous forms of hydro-carbonaceous material. There need be no expensive erecting of large gas works, and the gas produced makes neither a bad smell nor blacks. The gas itself, by a simple adap- tation, actually can make red hot the charcoal which assists iii decomposing the water which supplies it. The Great Eastern, in point of fact, might be li,,hted with water gas made on board, and have the heat thus generated used in lieu of coal for her engines. The quantity of coal-gas annually used in th~ city of Philadelphia is estimated at six million cubic feet, for which the public pay $13,500,000 per annum. Say that the water-gas be supplied at $1 per one thousand cubic feet, and our pub- lic save $7,500,000, for light alone every year. New York, it is estimated, consumes twice as much coal-gas as Philadelphia; therefore,twelve million cubic feet now cost $30,000,000 a year. Should the water-gas be substitued, the saving would be $18,000,000 a year. Philadelphia Press, 3 October. FOR the steam navigation on the river Ama- zon Mr. Laird, of Birkenhead, has just com- pleted a vessel for a company formed under the auspices of the Baron de Mana, of Rio Janeiro. This vessel is named the M~sndos; she is two hundred and twenty-five feet long, and twenty- five feet beam. Her tonnage, old measure, is six hundred and eighty-one, and she is intended to combine great capacity with, speed. In order to test this vessels capabilities for speed and sea-doing qualities, she was despatched from Liverpool to Beaumaris on Monday last, and made the passage from the Rock Light (a dis- tance of forty-eight statute miles) in three hours, giving an average speed of sixteen miles per hour. She returned from Beaumaris to Liver- pool on Wednesday in two hours and fifty min.~ utes, being an average speed of seventeen miles per hour.Press, 12 November. 42 THE LOST CHILD. From Once a Week. THE LOST CHILD. A CHINESE STORY. [The tale, entitled Sea-lou (Little-cham- ber) the Lost Child, is one of the most pop- ular of Chinese fictions, and fairly indicates the state of intellectual activity prevailing over that extensive and thickly populated em- pire. The very inanity of the story, with its marvellous coincidences, is significant to our Western minds, while its details afford inter- esting glimpses of the semi-civilized state of the Chinese peol)le. It is abstracted, rather than translated; hut the spirit, characteristic phrases, and curious Chinese tone of thought of the original have been preserved as closely as possible in the following version.] IN a certain district, in the province of Kwantung, there lived a gentleman named Lien, possessed of considerable wealth; not acquired, however, by official exactions, or the chicaneries of traffic, but by his ancestors and his own industry in cultivating the soil. He was married to a lady of great domestic virtues: ~vealth established their house, pru- dence regulated their conduct; and the calm current of their happiness was unruffled, save by one unfortunate circumstancethey had no children. Attributing this misfortune to the unpropitious form of his abode, Lien added to the l)aternal mansion a small apart- ment, having many lucky angles and corners; and, accordingly, in course of time, in this very room, a son was born to him. In grate- ful acknowledgment of the beneficial effect of the lucky corners, Lien named his son Sea-lou the Little-chamber. The boy grew, and thrived apace, till between three and four years old, when, happening one evening to go out to play with other children, he did not re- turn home at night. Search was immedi- ately made in every direction, and continued for many days, but without success; so, at last, the disconsolate parents were reluctantly forced to conclude that their darling son had been devoured by a tiger then infesting the district. Lien, being a wealthy man, had many friends to condole with him in his dis- tress. They advised him to pray to Buddha for another son; but he replied, that he had already wearied his mouth in fruitless prayer. Then they advised him to adopt a son; this he also refused to do, alleging that an adopted child could never essentially become like his own, and would ultimately found a family on his wealth; moreover, that, at his death, the adopted, though becoming the master of his household, would not grieve for him. It is not right, he continued, that I should give the property acquired by myself and ancestors to an entire stranger. But I will ~vait till I find a young person who has a true affection for me; and I will not adopt one before I have received ample proofs of such affection, and satisfied my heart that I really have secured it. Liens friends were not altogether disin- terested advisers: they all had children, and any one of them would gladly have allowed the rich agriculturist to adopt a son. Several boys, too, about this time seemed all at once to become wonderfully fond of the childless old man. So, one day, Lien said to his wife, The people of this l)lam, knowing that my property is fat and thick, and that I have not decided on adopting a child, are continu- ally pestering me with advice upon the mat- ter, and letting down all manner of baits and hooks to deceive me and catch my wealth. I intend, therefore, to travel into a distant country, in order to endeavor to find some one, by land or water, who may evince a true affection for me. I may be lucky enough to find a suitable person, who by showing a sin- cere heart towards me, may, on his part, be lucky enough to become my adopted son. The project meeting his wifes approbation, Lien, as soon as he had settled his plums that is to say, arranged his affairs,started off on his journey. When he had reached a considerable distance from home, he threw off the garb and character of a well-to-do Chinese gentleman, and assumed the npl)earance of a I)eggar, who wished to sell himself as a slave. The various persons he met by the way, rea- soned with him, saying that he was unfit to be either a laborer, domestic servant, or tutor, that, in short, no one would purchase a helpless old man like him. To this Lien in- variably replied It is true my years are many, and that I am not worth a hair as a laborer, domestic servant, or tutor; but the purchaser I seek is a wealthy orphan, to whom I could act in the capacity of a father, by taking care of his money and property, managing his affairs, and regulating his household. Then the strangers with much laughter, would say 43 THE LOST CHILD. You have an oily mouth, old man; but you will not succeed in this country ! And passeo on their way, wondering whether he were a rogue or a simpleton. After long and painful travel, Lien, not finding a wealthy orphan to purchase him, determined to try another course. Buying a piece of white cotton cloth, he wrote on it, in large and distinct characters, the following words TIllS ELDERLY GENTLEMAN IS DESIROUS TO SELL HIMSELF TO SOME YOUNG MAN, IN ORDER. TO BECOME HIS FAThER. THE PRICE IS TEN DOLLARS ONLY. FROM THE DAY OF SALE THE SELLER WILL ENTER INTO THE MOST FRIENDLY RELATIONS WITh THE PURCHASER, WHO SHALL NEVER HAVE REASON TO REPENT OF HIS BARGAIN. Lien l)laced this placard on his breast; and, travelling onwards, was saluted by deriding shouts, coarse jeers, and contemptuous laugh- ter from all who met him. Nothing dismayed, however, he still kept on his way, passing through towns and villages, though hooted and pelted at by all the rabble. One day, at length, as he ~vas sitting in the marketplace of the city of liwan-Shing, surrounded as usual by an insulting mob, a tall, well-dressed, young man, of l)enevolent countenance, pushed through the crowd to learn what might be the matter. The young man presenting a flesh but for the vulgar witticisms of the mob, they cried to him Hallo, sir! you are very charitable and coml)assionate to widows and orphans. Pull out your j)urse, pay ten dollars, and have a father. While others cried What does the greedy old rogue want with ten dollars? since whoever may be fool enough to buy him will assuredly have to keep him! The young man, however, was too much struck by the shrewd but amiable features of Lien, and the extraordinary nature of the placard, to pay any attention to the rude rib- aldry of the rabble. Musing, he thought: If this old man should really prove a true father to me! I ought to buy him, and thus obtain a renown for benevolence for one hun- dred years. But he may have relatives, who might some day recognize and claim him. To the question if he had any relatives, Lien answered that he had not. To all other questions he did not answer, but merely l)ointed to the words on the placard The purchaser shall never have reason to repent of his bargain. Without saying more, the young man gave lien ten dollars. Then the latter tore the placard off his breast, and put it in the hands of the young man, as a receipt in full, thus consummating the bargain after the Chinese fashion. Then the young man, seizing his newly purchased father by the arm, led him through the uproarious crowd to the nearest wine-shop, where, seating him in the l)lace of honor, he put a pot of rich, warm wine in his hands with all clue filial rever- ence. The rabble followed, shouting as they ran Is this old man a god, a devil, or an ass, that he should lead the sharpest young broker in our city into so foolish a bargain P But the broker soon quieted them, by giv- ing the ivine-shop keeper some silver to treat them all round in honor of the joyous occa- sion; and then, calling a sedan-chair, he took lien home to his house. Lien was well pleased to find that his new sons house was evidently the dwelling of a prosperous merchant. On entering, the young man led him to the seat of honor; and, after j)erforming the four reverences which Chinese etiquette demands from a son to a father, begged to inquire his name and history. But Lien was a genuine Chinaman, and accord- ingly gave a very patchy and muddy, or, in plain English, a very false account of himself. The young man, in return, and speaking truth- fully, said that his name was Yaou, and he was the son of one Kwe, formerly a rice-mer- chant in the city of Hwo-Kwang. He had lost his parents when young, and, conse- quently, began the world early in life as an al)l)rentice to a travelling silk-dealer. Hav- ing acquired a knowledge of the business, and a peculiar skill in estimating the value of different qualities of silk, his master fre- quently entrusted him with small ventures and commissions; so, by care and industry, he was soon enabled to set up for himself; and now, though only twenty-two years of age, he was one of the leading silk-brokers in Hwan-Shing. Lien was highly gratified to find that he had ol)tained so promising a son; but, with the characteristic cunning of his race, lie de termined to learn more about Yaoti, before he disclosed his real name, great wealth, and high position in society. Day by day, how- 44 THE LOST CHILD. ever, the silk-brokers excellent disposition and energetic business habits became more apparent, and Lien was almost tempted to reveal his true history when, all at once, news arrived that the rebel army was in full march towards liwan-Shing, with the intention of sacking, if not totally destroying, the doomed city. Yaou, on hearing this alarming intelli- gence, asked Liens advice as to how they should act. Lien advised that Yaou should sell off all his goods as soon as possible, and with the proceeds concealed on their persons, the two should travel about, disguised as beg- gars, until tranquillity should be restored. 17o this Yaou warmly replied, that the hardships and fatigue of such a mode of action would seriously injure, or perhaps kill, so aged a man as Lien; and that, for his own I)art, he would rather remain in the city, and endeavor to coml)ound with the rebels, even if he lost all his property, than allo~v his venerable father to suffer such privations. This melted Liens heart. He acknowledged that he was a wealthy gentleman, and declared that Yaou should be his heir. Their plan ~vas soon ar- ranged. That very day Yaou sold all his goods, and the two embarked in a passage- boat, their destination being Liens house. When the boat had started, and the adopted father and son had once more, after the hurry of their departure, an opportunity of quiet converse together, Lien asked the other how it was that he had ne~ei maiuied. Yaou replied that he had intended to marry a certain lady, but now of course he must be entirely ruled by his respected parents wishes. Lien rejoined that if the rank and fortune of the lady were suital)le, he could have no pos- sible objections. Yaou then told him that the ladys name was Faw-wang, and she was the daughter of his old master, the silk-mer- chant, that they had long loved each other, hut on account of his youth and want of for- tune her l)arents would not allow their mar- riage to take place. After some further con- versation on the matter, it was agreed that, as there was a landing-place, at ~vhich the boat stopped to take in and discharge passengers, close by where Faw-~vang lived, Yaou should take the opportunity to run up to see her; and if she ~vere still unmarried, and willing to come ~vith him, he was to bring her to the boat, and they would all go home to Liens house merrily together. But, on reaching the landing-place, the other passengers, alarmed by reports of the proximity and dreadful atrocities of the rebels, would not allow the boat to stop any longer time than was merely necessary to land such travellers as wished. To the expostulations of Lien, who spoke of his sons pauticular business, the passengers turned a deaf ear, exclaiming that time pressed, and every one had his own business to do; that the traveller never knew whether life or death, preservation or destruc- tion, depended on the rate he travelled; and they concluded by observing When we took our passage we made no bargain abbut waiting for you. This last was decisive. So, as nothing better could be done, under the circumstances, Lien, who in his capacity of father, carried the joint purse, gave Yaou one hundred ounces of gold, with which he jumped on shore to arrange the marriage; while the old gentleman proceeded home~ wards, in the boat, to prepare a grand fes- tival for the recel)tion of the bride and bride- groom. But scarcely had the boat again started, when Lien, with great vexation, rec- ollected the very patchy and muddy account he had given of himself to his adopted son; and, also, that though he had since ac- knowledged his wealth and position in so- cietv, he had never told Yaou his real name and place of residence. His natural shrewd- ness, however, did him good service in this dilemma. When the boat reached its desti~ nation, he caused a number of placards to be printed and juosted, in various conspicuous positions, on the roads most likely to be trav- elled by his adopted son, and these placards, couched in ambiguous language, so as to be understood by Yaou alone, were intended to inform him respecting his adopted fathers real name and addu?ess. Having accomplished this, Lien proceeded on his homeward jour- ney. Yaou, as soon as he had landed, hurried off on the wings of expectation to the dwell- ing of the silk-dealer; but, to his consterna- tion, soon found that it had been burned by the rebels; and, on making further inquiries, learned that all the family had been mur- dered, with the exception of the fair Faw- wang, whom the rebels had carried off in captivity. Sorrowfully enough, then, Yaotu turned his steps towards his adopted fathers 45 THE LOST CHILD. house, as he thought; but, in reality, in quite another direction, according to the false state- inent made by Lien. After travelling a days journey he came to the bank of a river, where is large crowd was assembled. On asking what caused the as- semblage of so many persons in that particu- lar spot, he was told that a party of the rebels were then and there holding a hong, or market, to dispose of their plunder and pris- oners. Thinking, that Faw-wang might prob- ably be among the captives, Yaou entered the market, hut soon discovered that the rebels were keen dealers. For, apprehend- ing that if their female captives faces were seen, the l)urchasers would invariably select the youngest and best looking, the rebels placed a sack over the head of each prisoner, drawing it down as far as the hands, and sold the whole for one l)rice all round. As there was no help for it, Yaou purchased one that seemed to him the youngest and most likely looking of the ~captives; but, to the great and vociferous amusement of the by-stan ders, when the sack was taken off her head, she proved to be a venerable matron, between fifty and sixty years of age. Still, as the appearance of the old lady ~vas respect- able, and her countenance betokened an ami- able disposition, Yaou did not altogether repent of his l)argain. Taking into consider- ation that he had purchased a wealthy father for only ten dollars, he thought that possibly this bargain might turn out a good one also. Moreover, recollecting that Lien had pos- itively declared that he had no relatives, Yaou considered that the respectable-looking old lady might make a capital wife for his adopted father. Accordingly, he asked her if she had a son, and being answered in the negative, he proj)osed to adopt her as his mother. She agreeing, he immediately per- formed the four reverences to her, and the other ceremonies of adoption. The old lady, then, to show her gratitude drew Yaou to one side, and informed him that among the captives still unsold there was a maiden as beauteous as the day. It may be so, mother, he replied, but how am I to find her. I cannot see through a sack. Listen, rejoined the old lady, the dam- sel of whom I speak has an implement of jade-stonefrom which, I heard her say, nothing but death should part herthis she has concealed in one of the sleeves of her dress. Go, then, among the captives, use your eyes discreetly, and jrobably you may discover some indications of this jade imple- ment. Yaou vent, and soon perceived the end of the jade-stone peeping out, as it were, at the place where the sack ~vas tied round one of the cal)tives wrists. Nay, more, he recog- nized it to be a jade silk-measure that he had himself given to Faw-wang in former and happier days. He, at once, purchased the cal)tive, and sure enough, when the sack was taken from her head, she proved to be Faw- wang herself, to the great delight and happi- ness of them both. Accompanied by his bride and adopted mother, Yaou again set off with the intention of proceeding to Liens house; but, as before, and from the same reason, going in quite a contrary direction. After travelling a short distance, howevel, he espied one of the pla- cards that had been put up by Lien, which, from its ambiguous wording, being utterly unable to comprehend, brought him to a standstill. His adopted mother, perceiving he was in a dilemma, then said Why should my son travel further, if he be uncertain of his way? My house is but a short distance from this place, let us go thither for the present. Yaou agreed to this proposition, and they all embarked in a boat, which soon took them to a wide lakeso wide that the shades of the evening closed round the party, ere they had crossed it. At last, as the boat neared the opposite bank, Yaou was surprised to hear the voice of Lien cry out from the shore Is that my son Yaous boat? But he was still more astonished when he immediately afterwards heard his adopted mother exclaim That is my dear husbands voice 1 For the old lady that Yaou had so fortu- nately purchased was no other than Liens wife, who had been carried off by the rebels, previous to the old gentlemans return home. After the first happy greetings and hurried explanations on the bank of the lake, Lien led the way to his house; and, having ushered Yaou and Faw-wang into the little apartment, with the many lucky corners, gave them for- mal possession of it, for their own use. On entering the room Yaou was struck with sur- prise; his eyes eagerly glanced over the win 46 THE LOST CHILD. dows, doors, tables, seats, bed, and bed-hang- ings. How strange! he exclaimed. I have frequently dreamt of a room, exactly resem- bling this; every thing here is quite familiar to me. Am I awake, or do I still dream! I remember, too, that in my dreams I have fre- quently gone to a recess, concealed by that very curtain at the foot of the bed, and taken from thence a box of toysa little I)orcelain horse, a hammer, a ball, and other things, such as children play with. Lien, too much agitated to speak, drew back the curtain, disclosing the recess and the box of toys; which were immediately rec- ognized by Yaou. Of a surety, then, said Lien, you can- not be any other than my own son, who, es- caping the calamity of the tiger, was picked up by a kidnapper, and sold to some childless family. But Yaou strongly insisted that such could not be the case; for no one had ever told him that he was not the son of Kwe, the rice-mer- chant, in the city of Hwo-Kwang. Then Faw-wang, who had not previously spoken, said to her husband Everybody in our town well knew that you were not the son of Kwe, the rice-mer- chant, though nobody liked to tell you so to your face. When you first propQsed mar- riage to me, my parents, seeing you were an industrious antI well-disposed young man, would gladly have consented if you had been the true offspring of Kwes house, and not a mere purchased brat. That was the true reason why they would not permit our mar- riage to be solemnized. And now, when you have heard all this, how can you doubt that you are the son of this worthy couple ? that this is the very room in which you were born? For some minutes not one of the party could speak. At last, Lien, ~vith an effort, breaking the silence, said We need not long remain in doubt upon this matter. There is a certain means of identification, by a peculiar mark my child had upon his body. On examination, the mark was found upon Yaou, and then Lien said This day the Imperial Heaven and Queen- like Earth, taking compassion on our collected virtue, have brought us all together to com- plete our imperfect circle. Then all, with one accord, having bowed and thanked Heaven and earth, Lien sum- moned the servants, and ordered them to make preparations for a grand feast. Four pigs and four sheep were killed in honor of the gods, and to furnish a repast for all the neighbors; before whom Lien acknowledged Yaou to he his legitimate son and heir, who, consequently, took from that time his original name of Sea-lou, or the Little-chamber, though he is still more generally known over all the great celestial, central, flowery empire as Losv CHILD. WILLIAM PII~KEItTON. THE MEDITEIUtANEAN.NOne can gainsay the wondrous beauty of the Mediterranean, nor, though hues equally lovely of their kind dye the billows of more northern latitudes, the ex- treme richness and changeableness of its gor- geous sun-borrowed colors; yet I think any one accustomed to live by the seaboard of the Eng- lish Channel, and to watch with enthusiastic admiration the magnificent rollers of the Atlan- tic coming in with a stirring breeze and rising tide, must be impressed with tbe want of gran- deur in tbis comparatively tideless sea. Even when some of its famed winds have lashed the usually silver and lapis lazuli surface into seeth- ing foam, there is to all who love natural ma- rine pictures of a boldly varied cast a strange sameness in its appearance and voice as it breaks in ceaseless crashes on the shingle ridges; while the utter absence of that fresh briny odor of the veritable ocean, so invigorating on our own coasts, helps to give to the Mediteranean its lakelike character. Nevertheless it is a noble in1aj~d sea fraught with classic associations, though, if one may so speak, impulsive, pas- sionate, treacherous, as in these degenerate days of Greece and Italy are too many of the inhab- itants peopling its beautiful shores, causing one to look back with a fonder and more reverential emotion than ever to the Channel scenery, so grand in repose, so terrible in tempcstay, and to the bracing climate, too, the local influ- ence of both of which may be traced in the energy, daring, and hardy endurance of the brave old Anglo-Saxon race, whether the indi- vidual lot be cast on the sultry plains of ha- dostan or the ice-bound banks of Hudsons Bay. Not that the Ni~ois are to be disparaged or de- spised: wherever hills other than mere mounds rear their heads, you can mark in some measure their mind-elevating effect on the men and wo- men who dwell among them. Nor should one reflect upon Italy while living in the only part of her fair land, th~ t from the liberal character of its sovereign can boast of being free. Frasers Magazine. 47 THE MORAL STRENGTH OF ENGLAND. From The Economist, 2 Nov. THE MORAL STRENGTH OF ENGLAND. Siit G. C. LEWIS pointed out, truly enough, in his speech at the Mansion House on Wed- nesday, that, while England is in a condition of the highest internal Inosperity, there are grounds for anxiety respecting foreign affairs which must press on the present generation of Englishmen. The state of the continent is a new one; there are grounds for caution and anxiety which are peculiar to it, and which we have no experience in dealing with. The government of Fiance is of a very strange kind; it has many singular features which are new to the world and formidable to its neigh- bors. The character of the French emperor is an anomalous one; his natural disposition was probably a peculiar one, and his career has been so exceptional as to make it still more J)eculiar. The only feeling which for- eign observers can rationally entertain with respect to the intentions of such a man in such a position, is one of suspense, if not dis- trust. It would be irrational to hold a posi- tive and conclusive opinion as to ~vhat he will do or will not do. The data for a confident judgment are not open to the ~vorld. We must be pre~)ared for the course he may adopt, whatever that course may he. But., though we are very anxious that these~ grave causes for care and watchfulness should be borne in mind, we are also desirous that we should not be believed to countenance any species of timorous apprehension or panic. Such feelings have always heen found to de- feat their own object. They are too extreme to last long; they are not of a nature to find a vent in important action; they commonly pass away after inducing us to talk and write in a manner which is provoking to foreign nations. Any kind of caution to be rational, must be continuous. Moreover, there are two reasons which must tend to strengthen the hands of Eng- land in any struggle which we might now have with any of the despotic governments on the continent. We are a united people; we are so in a very remarkable sense. Almost all nations are united against a foreign inva men; as soon as the foot of a foreigner touches the soil of a country, all intestine differences, except the very greatest, are overlooked, and the nation resists the invasion as one mass. Whenever powerful party in a state has combined with a foreign enemy, it has almost always found that it lost more in moral strength by opposing its country, than it gained in pl~sical strength by the aid of the invaders. Most nations, therefore, are united in moments of great peril. But England is united in a much deeper sense. If a war with any despotic government were forced upon her, if she had good confidence that it could not have heen honorahly avoided and she be- lieved that the Princil)les of freedom were staked upon the issue of it, there would not he a single dissentient voice on the subject. We should not wait to l)e united till the in- vaders were on our shorestill our national existence was threatenedtill 1)atriotism had suspended all other feelings whatever. We should be united at once. rrlie principle of our government has the confidence of the whole nation: we are attached to it; we think highly of its structure, and have confidence in its decisions. In France, on the contrary, the fact that the government is in favor of war, or of any thing, tends and must tend to prejudice many of the educated classes against it. In the nature of things, it must be so. A government cannot found itself upon the con- fidence of a single class, however numerous it may be, ~vifftout wounding the feelings of all other classes. Certain not uninfluential per- sons in France will be prejudiced against every thing which Louis Napoleon does, sim ply because it is he who does it. In the case of ~varespecially of a predatory and aggres- sive ~varthe consciousness of this strong but latent feeling could not but depress his energies and hamper his decisions. From the nature of his government, he never could know how far it extended. The unexpressed but well-known protest of a large educaCed class cannot he despised by any ruler. Nor, perhaps, is the French emperor the man to set himself in ol)l)osition to it, as mony rulers, who are as ahsolute as he is, might, from some momentary feeling, l)e incline(l to do. He has seen much of the world, and has learnt from it the probable tendencies and the inevi- table influence of public opinion. He will feel that in a struggle ~vith us, in a quarret qf Isis seeking, England ~vill be united and France ~vill not. Another feeling of the same nature would contril)ute its influence in the same direction. In such a struggle as we have supposed, Eng- land would have the support of all liberal ol)inion throughout the whole civilized world. Here and there an ultramontane enthusiast, or a professed adherent of de~potism, might try to raise a petty argument against us; but, on the whole, the generous sympathies, and the natural instincts of all thinking men in all countries, ~vould be with us; and, though these are no substitutes for materhil strength, they are the greatest aids to material strength that can be imagined. They are a daily en- couragement to those on whose side they are, and a daily discouragement to those against whom they l)rotest. The conclusion to he drawn from these considerations is a plain, simple one. We should not be deterred from doing any thing 48 FRANCE AND ITALY. which we believe to he right from any kind of terror or panic. The strength of England being a strength that is based upon opinion, the most courageous is at this moment really the l)rudent course for her. By being false to liberal opinion in a moment of trial, she would lose its sympathies, she would excite its animosity, she would lose her moral po~ve1. We have now one of the greatest opportuni- ties ever afforded to us of strengthening our moral influence. We have the advocacy of Italian freedom thrown almost exclusively into our hands. Prussia excepted, the great con- tinental statcs must be unfavorable to it. The French emperor has told us what he wishes, and we know that no one else wishes it. It is with us to take such stel)s as may be ia our power for obtaining,we had nearly said for preserving,the freedom of Central Italy; and it is indisputable that, in so doing, we shall incidentally, but greatly, strengthen ourselves. From The Saturday Review, 19 Nov. FRANCE AND ITALY. THERE is nothing surprising in the control which France assumes over the affairs of Italy, but the tone of insult in which the imperial communications have lately been couched would seem to be gratuitous, and even short- sighted. rFlme natural repugnance which is produced by the necessity of unwilling obedi- ence is greatly aggravated when an arbitrary command is accompanied by a frivolous rer~- son. Stet pro ratione voluntaslet Central Italy prolong its condition of uncertainty and helplessness, because the emperor of the French does not choose that an independent state should arise from the free union of kin- dred poI)ulations. It is a gratuitous affront to place a veto on Prince Eugene for fear of a Neapolitan invasion, and to annul the appoint- mnent of Buoncompa ni on the ground that a regency would interfere injuriously with the functions of a congress. Not long since it was officially announced that the annexation of the duchies was inexpedient because the welfare of Italy required that a balance of power should be maintained between the northern and southern divisions of the Penin- sula. The pretence that the nomination of a Piedmontese plince would lead to the march of a Neapolitan army was not less chimerical, and even more insulting. Few Italian patriots would object to rest their hopes on the issue of a conflict ~vith Naples. if the king is strong enough to keep down opposition at home while he reconquers the legations for the Holy See, he will at least confer on the restored government that kind of right which ari~ies from the possession of superior might. Italian liberty, once suppressed by Italian arms, will lose a large J)ortion of the sympa- thy which it has hitherto commanded in En- rolme, nor will it be material to inquire whether the al)pointment of a regent chosen from a royal house constitutes a lawful cause of war between Central Italy and Naples. The sting of the French remonstrance cbnsists in the assuml)tion that Piedmont and Naples stand as foreign powers on the same footing in rela- tion to Florence and to Bologna, yet it is ab- surd to say that the appointment of the l)rimice of Carignan would be legally an act of inter- vention on the part of Piedmont. On the same principle, Holland might have declared war against Saxe Coburg when Prince Leo- pold accelited the throne of Bel,,ium. The objection that the appointment of a regent anticipates the decision of the congress is scarcely less nugatory and vexatious. The great po~vers meet, not to dispose at their pleasure of the territories of smaller states, but to take cognizance, as ajudicial tribunal, of the facts and rights of l)ossessiomi which have already succeeded in establishing them- selves. A congress anterior to the war must have assumed the rights of the ducal houses in their respective states, and it would have confined its interference with the legations to barren recommendations of ad ministrative reforms. It now becomes the duty of the same powers to recognize the state of thiengs which has been established by the deliberate will of the native population; and yet the French protest implies that Tuscany amid Ho- magna are to blame because they furnish the l)lenipotentiaries who are to decide on their fate with the materials which are in(lispensa ble to the formation of a rational judgment. Even according to the most extravagant the- ory of tIme po~ve~ whiclm could be assigned to a congress, the states and provinces wimich are to be the objects of its care mmmst adopt some provisional form of existence while they are expecting the irrevocable decision. Parma and Modena, Tuscany and the legations, have taken the liberty to anticil)ate the con- gress by dismissing their rulers, amid, in the case of Tuscany, the revolution was honored by the p. esence of a Fremich l)rimice, escorted by a division of the French arniy. Fimidimig~ the inconvenience of hivimig under four tem- porary govermiments, the lirovinces of Central Italy have agreed on the nomination of a joint regent, and their choice naturally represented their ulterior purpose of amalgamation with the Sardinian monarchy. It is difficult to be- lieve that the domineering opposition which they have experienced arises from an amixious care to reserve the rights of Russia, of Pins- sia, and of England. One, at least, of the parties to the expected congress would gladly abstain from dictating that union of Cemitral and Northern Italy which, voluntarily adopted~ LIVING AGE. THIRD SERIES. 403 49 50 EUROPEAN DIFFICULTIES. solves all the material difficulties of the ques- the French or the Austrians; and the e~. lion. Count Wnlewskis circular, as well as ploits of Garibaldi proved, not only the gal- the official or semi-official declarations of the lantry of Italian soldiers, but the popularity French pnpers, would seem to imply that the of the national cause with that part of the con~ress is expected to adopt measures in population which had often been calumniated which it is impossibfr for England to concur. as friendly to the Austrian rule. For six The insolent system of agitation by which the months all Central Italy has maintained peace animosity of the French Peol)le has lately and order, under every discouragement which been excited against their unoffending neigh- could be imposed on a liberated l)eol)le and bors is j)robal)ly intended to deter the English on a provisional government. The country government from any imprudent opposition to which, according to Mr. Disraeli, was honey the imperial will. The practical result will combed by secret societies and ignol ant of be found in the difficulty which Lord Palmer- political moderation, has steadily offered to ston and Lord John Russell may experience Europe, through a ruling aristocracy of prop- if ths~y have occasion to make any ostensible erty and education, the pledge of order which concessions to France. The contempt of Eng- is furnished by union with a constitutional lishmen for a public opinion created and cir- monarchy. culated by l)refects is not incoml)atible with a If argument and reason prove ineffective, wholesome resentment when any form of in- accomplished facts will still necessarily influ- timidation is attempted. ence the decisions of the congress. Without Notwithstanding all the discouragements an intervention on the part of France or Aus- which they have experienced, the Italians, if tria, the five powers will have no means of they have firmness to persevere, have still carrying into execution any measures which many chances in their favor. Of the five the majority may approve for the suppression great powers, Austria alone is openly and of Italian independence. No English or Prus- J)rofesse(lly hostile to the national cause; sian or Russian army will march upon Ro- England is friendly; Prussia leans rather to magna under the banners of the Pol)e. France England than to France; and of Russia it is will not allow Austria to interfere; and the only known that her hostility to Austria has only remaining alternative is a wanton and not relaxed with the renewal of friendship be- brutal attack upon Italy by the very army tween the late belligerents. The Italian gov- which lately conquered Lombardy from Aus- ernmeots will occupy an anomalous position; tria. ilie inhabitants of the Legations ~e for Piedmont, Naples, and the Holy See, perfectly cajiable of dealing with the l)apal divided among themselves by irreconcilable troops, arid Piedmont is more than able to differences, will leave a fourth part of Italy keep Naples in check. The alternative, there- nominally unrel)resented. The enigma of fore, of independence or of foreign coiiquest French policy still remains, and it may possibly still remains for Italy, notwithstanding the admit of a favorable solution. It may be ar- patroniziog menaces of Fr nce. The Em- gued that Count Walewskis advocacy of an im- peror Napoleon may feel a well-founded con- possible confederation is merely intended to re- fidence in the willingness of his army and of duce the stih)uhations of Villafranca and Zurich his generals to support a criisa(Ie ngainst to a visible absurdity. Obligations which can- Italian liberty as readily as an unprovoked at~ not conveiiien thy be repudiated may neverthe- tack upon Austria. It may not be equally less be exposed as titterly impracticable. It is prudent to set at defiance the unanimous incredible that Austria should really intend to 01)10100 of Fraiice and of Europe. England, join an Italian League, with the consequence at least, is nearly tired of the (hictatorship of submitting, in the affairs of Venetia, to the which keeps the world in perpetual commo- control of Piedmont. T lie honorary presi- tion. dency of the pope over the sovereign whom be is incessantly consigning to perdition forms From The Saturday Review, 19 Nov. only one of the minor impediments to the EUROPtAN DIFFICULTIES. confederation. It is l)ossible that Napoleon III. may foresee, in the rejection of his favor- AT a time when the French army is being ite scheme, an opportunity for liberating him- stimulated to claim an invasion of England as self from the improvident undertakings which its due, when Italy is in arms, and the papacy were suggested by his natural eagerness for is dividing nation against nation and house peace. against house, we have an abundance of diffi In maintaining their claims before the con- culties apparent on the surfice which we gress, the Italians may refer with pride to know must be settled in some way or other their recent conduct in peace and in war. In before Europe can again be at h)eace. But one of the bloodiest campaigns ever experi- modern interests are so interwoven, and the enced by France, the proportionate loss was ac~al adjustment of all imliortant questions greater in the Piedmontese army than among is determined by so many small causes as EUROPEAN DIFFICULTIES. well as by larger ones, that if we want to calculate probabilities, we must take remoter and minor difficulties into account before we atteml)t to guess how great points are likely to be decided. After we have thought over the position and intentions of France, and the relations which she and England and 1~ussia mutually hold to each other, we come back at last to our old friends, the two sick men of Europe, and find that there is the starting-point of all political speculation. For the affairs of Austria and Turkey are not like the affairs of other European po~vers. As to other l)owei~, we speculate what they are likely to dowhether they can hurt us, and whether they can hurt each other. As to Austria and Turkey, we sl)eclilate whether they can J)ossibly save themselves from dis- solution. There are distinct assignable ele- ments of disturbance at work in those two unhappy eml)ires which must he overcome, or the empires themselves will break up. All European statesmen know this, and the knowledge is certain to affect in the most direct and material manner the coming set- tlement of Italian affairs. The kind of dangefs to which Austria and Turkey are exl)osed may be stated very briefly. They reign over subjects who wish their reign to cease, and the only reason why the disaf- fected do not have their own way is because they do not unite; yet they are now begin- ning to unite on a scale and with a publicity which show that they think their hour is come. Austria has to hold down both Vene- tia and hungary. The nature of her tenure of l)o~er in Venetia is something almost in- coml)rehen-sible to Englishmen. They can have no conception of the utter sel)aration of the conquerors and the conquered, of the in- tense loathing of the one for the other, of the awful deadly atmosl)here of distrust and sus- picion that prevails throughout the country. The Austrians are literally cut~ by every man and woman, rich or l)oor, good or bad, of the two millions of human beings among whom the strategical strength of the famous quadrilateral condemns and enables them to live. The commonest civilities are denied to the most courteous of Austrian officersthe easiest virtue is deaf to the sound of Austrian gold. Neither kindness nor bribery will pur- chase even the insincere friendship of the classes that usually cluster in every country around the rich and the strong. Venice itself is like a city of the deadits palaces deserted, its young men gone, its trade paralyzed. The freedom of Lombardy seems to have doubled the hatred of the Venetians for their foreign conquerors. Of course, so long as Austria has German troops to send into Venetia, and holds the fortresses on the Mincio and Adige, she will be mistress of the country. But to hold a country on the terms on which Austria now holds Venice is an enormous tax, not only on the purse and the military resources of a conquering state, but on the fidelity of her soldiers. And yet Venice is by no means the greatest difficulty that Austria has to deal with. She has to face hungary, and the Hungarians have now reached such a l)itcll of confidence that at the banquet given in honor of the Hungarian l)rimate, an Austrian arch- duke was asked to drink to the Hungarian constitution. It was much as if, at the table of the archbishop of Dublin, the lord-lieu- tenant of Ireland were asked to drink to the rel)eal of the union. The Austrian officials are l]tterly unable to stop the tide of I-hun- garian nationality which has set so strongly in, aud l)ul)lic talk is ra~)idly passing from the stage at ~vhich it was asked what terms should be exacted from the emperor to the stage at which it is inquired who shall he chosen to replace, as sovereign of Hungary, the head of the house of Hapsburg. Perhaps, how- ever, there is a greater danger to Austria than even Venice or Hungary. She is threatened with a general rising of her Eastern outlying provinces. And here the fortunes of the emperor of Austria are linked with those of his sick brother of Turkey. There can, we think, he no doubt that a movement is gain- ing strength and consistency daily, the in- tended result of which is a general rising of her Slavonic tribes against Austria, and of the sultans Christian sutijects against Turkey. Servia enjoys sufficient independence to be the focus of this movement ; and if events are left to take their course, and foreign powers do not interfere, the time may soon come when the sultan will have to defend Constantinople against his own subjects, and Austria to rely on her eight millions of German against the five-and-twenty millions of her non-German subj ects. Dangers like these must necessarily tell o~ Italian affairs. They must affect~ the terms on which, if the congress meets, its delibera- tions will be based, and they must color the opinions and modify the wishes of the most important among the deliberators. rrhe scheme favored by Louis Napoleon, of Vene- tia remaining under Austria, with none but Italian troops quartered there, and the for- tresses delivered over to federal troops. is an absurdity glaring enough to every one, hut doubly so to those who know the l)resellt at- titude of the Venetians to their conquerors. Probably, also, the horrors of the social ex- istence of Austrians in Venice may make them rather indifferent to the glory of occupying any other part of Italy on the same terms. The day may also very soon come when 51 52 is A TRIUMPH OVER CHINA FOR BRITISH INTEREST? Austria will have to choose between Hungary and Venice; and even the folly of an Austrian government may shrink from purchasing the bonor of ruling in one corner of Italy at the cost of the possessions which alone give her weight in Germany and Europe. She is also likely to 1)e warned by the advice of her near- est neighbors not to seek her ruin in the on profitable field of Italian quarrels. However much Prussia and Austria may hate each other, and however determined Prussia m ax be to 1)e ultimately supreme in Germany, it cannot possibly be the interest of Prussia, at a time when she is in face of the French em- pile seeking whom it may devour, to break up the power with whom she must unite if Germany is to be safe. Possibly Russia may some day not only welcome, but encourage, a rising of the Christian subjects of the Porte, and may reckon on something for herself when the eagles are gathered over the carcases of Austria and Turkey. But the time is not come yet. A great Slavonic rising is not likely to find favor in her eyes, and she would look with very mixed feelings on an independent Hungary. There are, therefore, reasons why Austria, obstinate and prejudiced as she is, should be willing to draw off from interference with Italy, so fhr as she can ~vith- out loss of honor, and why Russia and Prus- sia should press her to reserve all her re- sources for her inevitable contest with her eastern subjects. As England will go to the congress, if she takes part in it, resolved to uphold the independence of Italy, there is not much reason to apprehend any determined opposition to the fulfilment of all that Central Italy wants, unless it comes from France. It is the sincerity of the liberator of Italy that is the really doubtful point. On thesurface it might seem that tile emperor would have great difficulties to encounter if he wished to let the inhabitants of Central Italy realize all he held out to them in the l)roclan)ation of Milan; but really the internal embarrassments of Austria are such that, if he wishes to find obstacles in the way of Italian independence, he will first have to create them. From The Economist, 5 Nov. IS A TRIUMPH OVER THE IMPERIAL COURT AT PEKIN, EXPEDIENT FOR BRITISH INTERESTS? OUR readers are aware that we differ toto cozlo from the insolent principles advocated by the leading organs of English opinion with regard to the true attitude of our gov- ernment towards tile l)ol)ulations of the East. We have no wish to recommend an abject or truckling policy. Where we are really un- fairly used, let us resist and punish. Where we are merely the objects of xvell-founded suspicion and jealousy, let us abide it and overcome it by just and honorable inter- course. But we ivish now to discuss another side of the same question. Tile morality of i)olitics apart,is it ia any way expedient for us, especially at such a crisis as the l)lesent, to enter even on a triuml)llant cared of hos- tility towards China? Let us assume that we shall succeed: let us ask whether we ought to desire to succeed. The expedition now fitting out for China is the first and natural fruit of our attempt to establish an ambassador at Pekin. The Chi- nese have for centuries been taught to despise foreigners, and in exact proportion to their contempt for us, do any concessions we extort from their government loxver it in their eyes. Already in many provinces the imi)erial authority is so weak that it exists only in name, while in those where its sway is still a reality, it cannot afford to l)aIt with any of its remaining prestige. We might have an- ticipated that a government in this critical position, still brooding over the traditions of its past greatness, and thoroughly oriental in all its ideas of morality, would be tricky and faithless in its dealings with us. There is, indeed, little doubt that the emperor could not safely set the prejudices of his suhjects so far at defiance as to receive a British ambas- sador at his capital upon a proper or worthy footing. Every conceivable artifice would be resorted to to disguise the character of his mission. We have all read this xveek of the pertinacity witil which, though reall American a y desir ous to receive the envoy, the Chi- nese government insisted on his knocking his head thrice on the floor before the emperor in token of submission. If we ever get a per- manent ambassador at Pekin,.to the l)eoI)le generally he would be rel)resented as merely a hostage of high rank, probably as a brother to our queen, who was detained by the em- peror as security for the future better conduct of the outside barbarians. There is hardly any limit to the possible difficulties in which we may get entangled in seeking to force ourselves into closer relations with a govern- ment so weak and decrepit as that of China, contrary to the wishes of its Tartar suhjects, wIlo are its chief military supporters. Should the emperor think his l~ast dangerous course is to keep faith xxiith us, we may have to main- tain him against the consequences of his fidelity; against insurrections in l)is capital, during which our ambassador may be in- sulted; or against the treasonable attempts of members of his own family, who may become more popular, because suI)posed to be more hostile to British interests. If, as is perhaps more probable, the emperor proves treacherous, we may have either to chastise hina again, at a great and useless cost of men and money, or to recede from a position, the TO PEKIN AND BACK AGAIN. abandoning of which might seriously injure our prestige in China, and, what is of far more importance, in India also. The hope of making any impression on the great masses of the Chinese by fitful displays of our power, is simply absurd. The empire is too vast, the communications between the different l)roviaces too slight and uncertain, to admit of the hope that a blow struck in one l)alt of the country will l)roduce much effect elsewhere. No nation in the world is so slow as the Chinese in taking in new ideas; and their piejudices are so deep-rooted that nothing but time can alter them. Our mili- tary exploits, so far, have failed to overa~ve even the l)oI)ulatioI~ nearest to the actual scene of their l)erformance. rI~he forts in the Canton River have heen thrice taken by us in the last t~venty years, the city finally occupied by our trool)s, and the governor of the prov- ince taken cal)tive. Yet, after all this, the villagers round Canton attacked, or threat- ened to attack, our forces! and at the present time an Englishman dare not walk alone five miles from the factories. In Shanghai, on the other hand, years of friendly intercourse, happily unbroken by any serious collisions with the l)eol)le themselves, have gradually melted their l)1~judices, and imbued them with sounder ideas of our character and aims. During the time when the Indian mutinies suspended our chastisement of the insolent Yel], and Europeans were excluded from Canton, the inhabitants of Shanghai took no advantage of our embarrassment; and, in- deed, Englishmen vere on a more satisfactory footing there then, than when they ~vent to the port in 1843 immediately after the great and successful display of our po~ver in the first Chinese ~var. Nothing can have been more satisfactory than the increase of our intercourse from Shanghai and Ningpo with the interior. Europeans have made pedestrian expeditions for a considerable distance inland, and been received in the most friendly way, and corre- spondence had commenced on scientific sub- jects between our more highly educated mis- sionaries and the ~savans in the interior of the country. It was becoming evident that time and a little of that Christian forbear- ance which is surely due to the prejudices of a peo~)le whose rulers have for centuries ex- cluded them from all the enlightening influ- ence of intercourse ~vith other nations, would effectually open China ; while our experience elsewhere makes it equally clear that the drubbing system leads to nothing hut irri- tation, bloodshed, and expense. We do not deny that the late false step may have made it necessary to destroy the Peiho forts, and thus undo the consequences to our prestige which our disaster there might otherwise 53 have all over the East. The responsibil- ity of the defence of those forts was not ac- cepted by the imperial government, and hence we may l)rol)abl3 do this without any further collision. having exacted whatever satis- faction is deemed necessary for the l)ast, let us beware not to avail ourselves again of our treaty right to send an ambassador to Pekin. We shall, if ~ve do, inevitably involve our- selves in a series of contests, some of which may be forced upon us at a most inconvenient moment. With the Highlands and Ireland already stril)l)ecl of more than their surplus poJ)ulation ; wit.h labor becoming so scarce in England, that unprecedented difficulty ~vas experienced in getting in the last harvests; with the significant fact before us that the rise in wages so far, though it has diminished, has by no means stol)l)ed, the stream of emi- gration,we must not flatter ourselves that the difficulty of recruiting an army and navy is likely to lessen. On the contrary, it is cer- tain to be increased, not only by the contin- ued emigration, but by a greater demand for labor in some of those branches of commerce (especially in shipping) which have not yet recovered the effects of the great mercantile crisis of 1857. Unfortunately, the possibility of our requir- ing more men than we are nosy raising is far from remote. The state of Fiance obliges us to keel) increased armaments at home. Indih, just reconquered with the aid of an army of Sikliswho are commenting already on the diminutive size of our recruits, and pr~esting it was not by such men they svere conquered will, for years to come, remain a source of anxiety. Surely, then, we are not exactly in the position to rush on the arduous and Quix- otic task ~f teaching three hundred millions of Chinese manners and humility. If the French choose to enjoy the risky and barren honor of maintaining an embassy at Pekin, so much the better. The peace of Europe will, indeed, he assured if ever France, by med- dling in China, gets entangled in any thing like a l)ermanent occul)ation of any part of the country, or in counteracting the designs which Russia is said to harbor on the north- ern l)ortioi~s of it. She would then have her hands too full to seek strife elsewhere, and her opposition to Russian ambition in the far East, would convert her, by a common inter- est with us, from a jealous rival into a cordial ally. _______________ From The Saturday lleview, 5 Nov. TO PEKIN AND BACK AGiiIN. Tux visit of the American ambassador to Pekin ought to he instructive to English statesmen. Mr. Ward has tried the experi- ment whuich many among ourselves have thought that our own envoy should have TO PEKIN AND IBACK AGAIN. made before resorting to the appeal to force which terminated in the Peiho disaster. The American embassy adhered, with almost per- fect consistency and with admirable patience, to the principle of showing the same consid- eration to Chinese representations which it is customary to pay to the official statements of civilized powers. There was no want either of skill or, in some sense, of dignity in the way in which this policy was carried out. But the results are not encouragin g~ From be- ginning to end of his intercourse with the Chinese authorities, Mr. Ward met with abundant politeness, but he was baffled and humiliated at every step without even getting the satisihetion of a tangible grievance to coml)lain of. When he ~vent to Shanghai he was put off with a pretence that the imperial commissioners were hound in courtesy to wait the arrival of the English and French ambassadors. When lie attempted to open communications at Taku, he was assured that no one in authority was within reach, and that he must seek the true mouth of the Peiho at a l)oint of the coast which, as he knew already, was no more the mouth of the Peiho than the entrance to the Blackwater is the mouth of the Thames. Still persisting in I)atience, and affectiug to believe all that he heard, he found his way to Pehtang, the coast town where he was directed to seek the Chinese officials, and there he was told, with the ut- most l)oliteness, that the governor of the province was at the Taku entrance, from which Mr. Ward had just been sent away. At last the governor was found, and the cor- t~ge to Pekin was arranged. rrhe retinue was to be limited to twenty men, and the ]ourney was to be made in a covered box on wheels, without springs, which seems to he the Chinese equivalent for a Hansom cab. At Pekin, there was the same affectation of politeness and the same ingenious spirit of obstruction. The members of the embassy were assured that they were at liberty to go wherever they l)leased, but it was adroitly managed that they should not hold inter- course with the Russian minister, and an at- teml)t at correspondence with him was easily baffled by the imperial letter-carriers. Noth- ing could be mere flattering or more humili- ating than the negotiation which ensued. Mr. Ward was gently taken to task about the occurrences at the Peiho, and graciously ex- cus ed on making his exlllanations. The con- descension of the emperor ~vas so great, and his desire to mark the distinction between the Americans and the English so strong, that there was nothing he would not do to show his kindly disposition to Mr. Ward. He would even waive two-thirds of the generally in dispensable ceremony of three kneelings and nine knocks of the forehead on the ground. One kneeling and three knocks would do for a friendly power which the em~ peror delighted to honor. Even further con- cessions might possibly be made if the Ainer- ican ambassador would submit to l)eifoim some trifling ceremony of Asiatic abasement. The commissioners cited the English custom of kneeling before the queen, though it does not appear whether this ceremony would have satisfied the eml)eror. Mr. Ward was willing to perform the same obeisance to which American ministers submit at Europeha courts, but nothing more; and so the parley ended. Of course, Mr. Wards refusal to com~)ly with the prescribed forms ~vns the subject of infinite regret. The desire of the emperor was to show the utmost resl)ect to the president, and he was inexpressibly grieved that without an audience it was impossible to receive his letter until after the treaties were exchanged. Steady to his scheme of conciliation, Mr. Ward proposed to get over that difficulty by an immediate exchange of ratifications through the medium of an imperial commission. Most unfortunately Chinese customs rendered it nec- essary to decline even this request. A treaty could not be ratified in the capital unless in the presence of the emperor himself. There was no alternative but for Mr. Ward to re- turn to the coast town from which lie started, and there exchange the treaties with commis- sioners who should attend for the purpo~. Not a sharp word or a sarcasm had l)assed throughout the whole affair. The American envoy was throughout obliged to profess en- tire satisfaction with the extreme politeness of the officials who fooled him at every turn, and Chinese finesse won a characteristic vic- tory when the transaction was completed at the very spot from which Mr. Ward had been led on his wild-goose chase after an emperor whom he was never intended to see excel)t on conditions to which it was impossible for him to submit. There was no want of tact shown by the Americans in any part of the affair. They simply followed out their princil)le of dealing with the Chinese as they would deal with Europeans, and the end was that they were made ridiculous in the eyes of China and the world. The exl)edition was as bootless as the famous march of the king of France The envoy went with only twenty men Up to Pekin, and then went hack again. There is a serious question which the laughable adventures of Mr. Ward suggest. Is our intercourse with the Chinese to be regulated by the fiction that they recognize the obligations which are tacitly admitted by civilized diplomatists P Nothing can be more hopeless than a dispute between two persons who have no common notions of right and wrong, of honor and good faith, or even of the external proprieties of intercourse. The 54 TO PERIN AND BACK AGAIN. lower civilization always gets the better in such contentions. A man who is too well- bred to insinuate a doubt, though he is mor- ally convinced that his adversary is lying with all his might, is at a great disadvantage. The progress of the quarrel, and the occasion of the final rupture, are beyond his control. If he follows his own conventional code of con- duct, he is certain to he baffled hv his less scrupulous opponent. If, on the other hand, he accommodates his demeanor ever so little to the peculiarities of his adversary, he loses caste with his friends, and is but half satisfied himself with the plea of necessity which is his only excuse for neglecting the conventions of his own law of honor and pro~)riety. This is the position which a civilized nation must occupy in any negotiation with such a govern- ment as that of China; and it scarcely needed the narrative of Mr. Wards journey to Pekin to prove that a diplomatist ~vho is fettered by the maxims of civilized nations must inev- itably he foiled by barbarians who allow the fullest scope to their cunning and duplicity. The issue of the very different experiments tried by Mr. Bruce and Mr. Ward in dealing with the same embarrassing opponent has in each case been unsatisfactory enough. But the military disaster which terminated the English ambassadors attempt is not charge- able to his diplomacy. It ~vas not his busi- ness to decide whether the force under Ad- miral Hope was strong enough to overcome the resistance of the Chiuese. But, quite apart from this unfortunate episode, the tac- tics of our ambassador involved inconven- iences only one degree less serious than those to which an opposite ~)olicy exposed Mr. Ward. The attack on the Peiho forts, if it had been entirely successful, would scarcely have been thought consistent with European theories of international law and diplomatic forbearance. According to civilized usage, Mr. Bruce would perhaps have been bound to give conventional credit to the statement that a circuitous route was the direct road to Pekin, and that all proper preparations had been macIc for conducting him, with due re- gard to his dignity, by a river which did not exist to a capital which his escort could not reach by any other route than the forbidden Peiho. Whether he was under any obliga- tion to extend the same complaisance to Chinese commissioners who took no pains to hide the l)alpal)le falsehood of their state- ments, is a nice point of diplomatic etiquette, which might be discussed forever without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion. There is less difficulty in comparing the practical effect of the two opl)osite methods of inter- course with semi-barbarous nations. Mr. Ward tried the one plan, while Mr. Bruce was attempting the other; and if the brusque negotiation of England was defeated by a miscalculation of force, the polite complai- sance of the American minister only served to expose him to a more ridiculous though less disastrous failure. In all future attempts 1to come to terms with the Chinese there will be the same difficulty, and it is important to decide beforehand whether the tactics of Mr. Bruce or those of Mr. Ward should furnish the model for future plenipotentiaries. There is no middle term. The theory of our inter- course must either be founded on the strict rules of international law and civilized usage, or else it must cast overboard all such re- quirements, and acknowledge no other code than the natural law of good faith and reasonable forbearance. Mr. Ward observed, throughout his inter- course with the Chinese, all the technical proprieties which would have become an am~ bassador at Paris or Vienna. He acquiesced without demur in explanations which were a string of unnecessarily transparent falsehoods. Like Charity, he thought no evil, and was prepared to endure any thing which was not derogatory to himself and the nation he rep- resented. All this complaisance did not save him, however, from being carried across the country and back again upon a fools er- rand. The prestige of the United States will have gained little enough by such an ex- hibition; and if a rougher style of diplomacy is condemned as a technical offence against the theoretical rights of China, there seems no choice but to abandon the attempt we have so long persisted in, to tear all the treaties we have made, and leave China for the future to the enjoyment of her cherished iso- lation. It clearly will not do for an English ambassador to be sent in a box to Pekin for no purpose except to be sent back again; and if we cannot reconcile it with our consciences to deal with the Chinese rather on the footing of their acts than of their professions, it would be better to give up at once the hopeless task of bringing them to reason. We are no match for them in their own style of nego- tiation. They are clever enough to set at naught every treaty they have made, without giving an adversary the opportunity of l)ut- ting his finger upon any technical casus belli. A want of strnightforward good faith in car- rying otit a treaty is l)erhal)s as good a moral justification of ~var as a distinct breach of some specific provision; and if Mr. Bruce did not wait for a provocation which would satisfy a special pleader, the experience of the Amer- ican mission seems to show that, in dealing with the Chinese, the true principle is to look rather to the spirit than the letter, and to s~veep away all the cobwebs of diplomacy by insisting on a loyal and substantial observance of engagements, in lieu of the evasive compli- ance which was all that Mr. Wards concil- iatory policy could obtain. THE LAST WORDS OF JUGGLING JERRY. THE LAST WORDS OF JUGGLING JERRY. PITCH here the tent, while the old horse grazes: By the old hedge-side well halt a stage. Its nigh my last above the daisies: My next leafll be mans blank page. Yes, my old girl! and its no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bo~v. One that oujuggles alls been spying Long to have me, and has me now. Weve travelled times to this old common: Often weve hung our pots in the gorse. Weve had a stirring life, old woman! You, and I, and the old gray horse. Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now theyll miss us at our stations Theres a Jug~ler outjugglcs all! Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. Its easy to think that grievings folly, When the hands firm as driven stakes. Ay! when were strong, and b~aced, and manful, Lifes a sweet fiddle : but were a batch Born to become the Great Jugglers hanful: Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. Heres where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here: Couldnt Jju~gle the l)ale off the wicket l Like an old world those days appear! Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatchd alehouse. I know em! Theyre old fi~iends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe em: Juggling dont hinder the hearts esteem. Jugglings no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding ones own makes us juggle no little; But to mci ease it, hard ju0ghngs the rule. You t nt no suecring at my profession, Iliven t von juggled a vast amount l Theic s thc 1 i me Minister, in one Session, Jurnles moic tines than my sinsll count. Ive mur dci d insects with mock thunder: Couscienne foi that, in men dont quail. Ive made hie id from the bump of wonder; lha s my business, and theres my tale. Fashion and ink all praised the professor: Ay! an(l Ive had ray smile from the queen: Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Aint this a sermon on that scene l Ive studied men from my topsy-turvey Close, arid, I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows : some, right scurvy: Most, a (lash between the two. But its a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race: And its a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face. I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin Ive stored, and you wont be wanting: You shant beg from the troughs and tubs. Nobly youve stuck to me, though in his kitchen Duke might need to call you cook: Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But old Jerry you never forsook. Hand up the chiirper! ripe ale winks in it; Lets have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. Cheer up ! the Lord must have his lease. Maybefor none see in that black holiow Its just a place where were held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes us to swal- ho~v, Its just the sword-trickI aint quite gone! We two were married, due Honest weve lived since weve been one. Lord ! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o the sun. Birds in a May-bush we were ! right merry! All nibht we kissdwe juggled all day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old ~irl hes juggled away. Its past parsons to console us No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die xvithiout my hems T~vo of a trade, lass, never agree. Parson and doctor dont they love rarely, Fighting the I)evil in other mens fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields! Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Goldhike and warm: its (lie prime of May. Better than mortar, brick, and putty, Is Gods house on a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells ! Aint it strange l Theres the world laughing as if to conceal it, But he is by us, juggling the change. I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Onceits long gonewhen two gulls we be. held, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Do~vn a ilig wave that sparkld and swelld. Crack ! went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeld round hiha twice, and was off for new luck: There in the dark her white wing beckond: Give me a kissIm the bird dead-struck! GEORGE MERE~MTH. Once a Week. THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. From The Press, 19 Nov. THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. THERE was a large attendance at the Geo- graphical Society on Monday evening, and the discussion took l)lace mainly oa the recent discoveries in the Arctic regions. Sir Roderick I. Murchison took the chair. Captain MClintock, RN. (who was very heartily greeted), then read a paper upon the discoveries made by the late expedition in search of Sir John Franklin. This p~p~r described the voyage of the Fox, and the various incidents of the search, which have already been published in the Admiralty de- spatches, in the newsl)al)ers, and in other forms. The paper was illustrated and ex- plained by diagrams and drawings prepared by Capt. It. Collinson, RN., and Mr. P. Snow, showing the route taken by the expedition, th~ more. interesting l)oints in which were pointed out by Capt. Collinson, RN., as they were referred to by Capt. MClintock. A model of the Fox was exhibited on the table, as was also the original record of the unfor- tunate Franklin expedition found in the cairn at King Williams Land, and numerous l)lans and maps. At the couclusion of his paper Captain MClintock said ___ There are two important questions which have been so fre- quently put to me that I gladly take this op- portunity to offer some explanation upon so deeply interesting a subject. The first ques- tion iswhether some of the one hundred and five survivors may not he living among the Esquimaux P The various families, or communities, of Esquimaux met with by Rae, Anderson, and myself, at different times and places, all agree in saying No; they all died. But let us examine for ourselves. The ~vest- era shore of King William Island, along which they ~vere compelled to travel for two-thirds of their route, is uninhabited, and all that is known to us of the mouth of the Back River is derived from the journeys of Back, Simp- son, Anderson, and myself. None of us have met natives there, consequently it is fair to conclude that the Esquimaux but seldom re- sort to so inhospitable a locality. Even much more favored shores in this vicinity are but very thinly spriokled ~vith inhabitants, and their whole time is occupied in providing a scanty sul)sistence for themselves. In fact, their life is spent in a struggle for existence, and depends mainly upon their skill in taking seals during the wintera matter which re 57 quires such long training that no European has ever yet succeeded in acquiring it. My two Greenland Esquimaux tried various meth- ods at Bellot Strait, yet did not succeed; and without dogs trained to scent out the small breathing holes of the seals through the ice, and through the snow which overlays the ice, I do not think even the Boothian Esquimaux could live. It requires not only that a man should possess a trained dog, but that he himself should be well trained in the only successful mode of seal huntin ~, in order to sul)sist in this locality. It is, therefore, evi- dently an error to 5UPl)O5~ that where an Es- quimaux can live a civilized man can live also. Esquimaux habits are so entirely different from those of all other l)eople, that I believe there is no instance on record of either a white man or an Indian becoming d omesti- cated amongst them, or acquiring tolerable exl)ertness in the management of a kayak. With regard to the probability of procuring the means of subsistence independently of the Esquimaux, I will just state what was shot by my own sledge partyand we never lost a chance of shooting any thingduring the journey along the lands in question, that oc- cupied us for seventy-nine days, and covere4 nearly one thousand geographical miles of distance. The sum total amounted to two reindeer, one hare, seventeen willow grouse, and three gulls. The second question is Why have the remains of so few of our lost countrymen been found? It is, indeed, true that only three of the one hundred and five were discovered, but we n~ust bear in mind that from the time they left the ship they were dragging sledges and boats, ~nd there- fore they must have travelled almost con- stantly upon the icenot upon the land; consequently all traces or remains there van- ished with the summer thaw of 1848. There is no doubt that many relics still remain strewed along the uninhabited shore of King William Island, beneath the snow ;but as it ~vas most carefully examined three times over, I cannot think that any conspicuous object, such as would be put up to indicate where records were deposited, could possibly have escaped us. The summer at Port Kennedy proved a warm one, yet the ice did not per- mit us to move until the 9th of August, and the object of the expedition having been at- tamed, we commenced our homeward voyage. On the 21st September I arrived in London, 58 THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. having landed at Portsmouth, and on the 23d Captain Snow, of the mercantile marine, the dock gates at Blackwall closed behind the said a few words, in which he differed in some Fox. resl)ects from the gallant officers who had The chairman expressed his warm congrat- preceded him. On behalf of the one hundred ulations on the results of the expedition both and five men yet unaccounted for, he urged in a geographical point of view and with refer- that the search should be renewed until some ence to the discovery of the fate of Franklin. more positive information of their fate was Capt. MClintock had not given half credit obtained. There was certainly no sufficient cvi- enough to the real merits of an expedition dence that they had perished. lie believed the results of which were glorious in a geo- yet that records would he found at Cape graphical point of vie~v, for they had proved Walker, believing that the expedition had the navigability of the Bellot Straits, and, for gone in pursuance of the instructions of Sir the first time had pointed out the north-west J. Franklin to proceed to the south-west. roint of the American continent. With re- He was prepared to go through the whole of gard to the difficultieshad they not heard the evidence to show that it was next to im- that the little vessel, of only one hundred and possible that these one hundred and five gal- seventy tons, in which Capt. MClintock went lant spirits had perished in the way that had outthe Foxafter having in the first year been suggested. Remember, they were not almost made the passage across Baffins Bay, helpless savages, but gallant English men, who was set fast in the ~vinter ice, and drifted hack would not succumb ~vhile a chance remained. again one thousand two hundred miles into He recommended another expedition over- the Atlantic? Would not that have discour- land, to search the whole of the locality in aged any other man from proceeding P But, the direction in which he supposed the sur- to use a military phrase, he returned to the vivors of the Franklin expedition to have charge, and see what he had effectedhow lie gone. He reminded the meeting that one had macIc these important discoveries, and great object of the expedition was to make revealed for the first time the fate of Franklin magnetic observations, and until some record and his associates. One thing he ~vould add of the results were discovered he would ~ot before sitting down, that was that there could abandon all hope. He was but a humble in- be no doubt no~v that Franklin went~ further dividual, without fortune and without name, north in a ship than any other European had but if his health was spared he would go out ever reached. next spring, whether alone or in company with Sir E. Beleher believed that Sir John Frank- others, and would explore the whole locality, lin went up Wellington Channel as far as promising not to return until this riddle was Crescent Island. solved. Captain Collinson referred in terms of warm Captain Kennedy concurred with Mr. Snow. eulogy to the energy and devotion of Lady He had heard a rumor last summer that some Franklin, and remarked that it was due to Europeans had been seen in the direction of Franklin to acknowledge, that what Columbus the MKenzie River. He imagined these were began Franklin completed; viz., the discovery some of the one hundred and five, and that of the American continent, there was every chance that some of them Captain S. Osborn expressed a conviction were yet alive. It was perfectly clear that that the search after the Franklin expedi- Europeans could adapt themselves to native tion was now closed, aiid that it was per- habits. Nothing less than another expedition fectly us& ess to pursue it further. After would satisfy the 1)uhlic. He recalled atten- perusing the journal which had been found, tion to the difficulties which Lady Franklin he was convinced that whatever track the had encountered in sending out the last expe- missing men of the crews of the Erebus and dition against opposition from all quarters, Terror took, they had perished at Beechey Is- and after the results which that expedition land, beyond which no trace of them had been had attained, it would be discreditable in the found. nation to let the matter drop where it was. Captain Hobson, who was warmly received, Capt. MClintock, in reply, observed that gave some account of the manner in which all the information l)roved that all the food the records of the Franklin expedition as de- the expedition could have carried with them tailed in his despatches had been discovered, was forty days short provisions. The won THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. 59 der, therefore, was how they got so far, and remind the meeting that all the way from the there was no chance, the provisions being ex- Great Fish River to the Hudsons-Bay tern- hausted, that they could have made their way tory had been searched. from the Great Fish River to Montreal Island, DR. KING.Over the ice and snow, Capt. MClintock, remember. or any part of the Hudsons-Bay territory. The chairman then thanked Capt. MClin- He had no wish to throw cold water upon the tock and those gentlemen who had taken hopes of any enthusiastic persons who might part in the discussion, for the information they wish to go out on a further search. He would had afforded, and the meeting separated. Symbolisches Enqlisch-Deutsches Worterbuch. The Sqmbolic Anqlo-German Vocabulary. Adapted from the Vocabulaire Symbolique Anglo- Francais of L. C. Rngonot. Edited and Revised by Falek Lebahn, Ph.Dr. Simpkin, Marshall, and Co., and David Nutt. B~ this vocabulary a knowledge of a great many of the names in most common use in daily life is clearly, rapidly, and even pleasura- bly conveyed. We have a pictnre of a house, e.g., on the different parts of which, as far as is possible, their English and German names are printed; where this is not possible the names are oppositely placed in the margin. To those who are acquainted with M. Ragonots Vocab- ulaire Symbolique Anglo-Francais it will he sufficiept to say that this is the German counter- part of that work, and is not inferior to it. To others, it may be safely recommended as an ad~ mirable way of teaching children the names which they are most likely to want in their con- versation or to meet with in their books It is true that the nonns of a language are just the part that is most easily acquired, hut that is no reason why it should not be acquired as easily as possible, and we know of no easier or pleas- anter way than that of this book. In German, too, there either are, or appear to the learner to be, such a vast number of nouns substantive, that any help in their acquisition is desirable. We cordially recommend this book to both teachers and learnersEconomist. AN AFRICAN LEGENDAS Seedi Bombay was very inquisitive to-day about the origin of Seedis, his caste, and as he wished to know by what law of nature I accounted for their cruel destiny in being the slaves of all men, I related the history of Noah, and the disposition of his sons on the face of the globe; and showed him that he was of the black or Hametic stock, and by the common order of nature, they, being the weakest, had to succumb to their superiors, the Japhetic and Semitic branches of the family; and, moreover, they were likely to remain so subject until such time as the state of man, soar- ing far above the beast, would be imbued by a better sense of sympathy and good feeling, and would then leave all such ungenerous appliances of superior force to the brute alone. Bombay, on being created a Mussulman by his Arab master, had been taught a very different way of accounting for the degradation of his race, and narrated his story as follows: The Arabs say that Mahomet, whilst on the road from Medina to Mecca, one day happened to see a widow woman sitting before her house, and asked 11cr how she and her three sons were; upon which the troubled woman (for she had concealed one of her sons on seeing Mahomets approach, lest he, as is customary when there are three males of a family present, should seize one and make him do porterage) said, Very well; but Ive only two sons. Mahomet, hearing this, said to the woman reprovingly: Woman, thou liest: thou hast three sons, and for trying to conceal this matter from me, henceforth remember that this is my decree: that the two boys which thou hast not concealed shall mnltiply and prosper, have fair faces, become wealthy, and reign lords over all the earth; but the progeny of yonr third son shall, in consequence of your having con- cealed him, produce Seedis as black as dark- ness, who will be sold in the market like cattle, and remain in perpetual servitude to the de- scendants of the other two. Captain Spelce in Blackwoods Magazine. Causes qf the Irregularity of the Permanent Teeth: their Mechanical Treatment 6ousidered. By James Robinson, D. D S. Senior I)entist to the Royal Free Hospital. Third Edition. Webster and Co. Tiuis is a simple account of one of the com- monest of the small ills of life. The cause and treatment of deformed teeth are expluined clearly by help of many woodeuts, and as the author is a dentist of repute, there may be many who will think it worth while to read what he can tell them. The little treatise is a reprint from the Dental Review for the present yearExaminer. THE REPUBLICAN COURT. From The National Intelligencer, Sept. 22. THE REPUBLICAN COURT. OBSERVING in the New York Journal of Commerce a few days ago complimentary al- lusions to the late George Washington Parke Custisof Arlington, we were reminded that we had in our l)ossession an unpublished con- tribution from Ins l)Cfl in relation to the social habitudes which prevailed at our Republican Court in the clays of the first President. As these reminiscences may be deemed to have received a new interest siace the death of their writer has precluded the hope of any additional communications, such as our read- ers were annually favored with on the 22d of February during the life of Mr. Custis, we have concluded no longer to withhold from them the last contribution yenned by the child of Mount Vernon. THE REPUBLICAN COURT IN THE DAYS OF THE FIRST PRESIDENT. The Presidential Mansion in Philadelphia was the property of Robert Morris, and had been the head-quar- ters of Sir William Howe during the occul)atiOn of Philadelphia by the British army in 17778. The situation was eligible, l)eing in an airy and pleasant l)art of the city, with a considera- ble area of open space adjoining it, and con- tiguous to the public buildings. Considerable additions and improvements were made to the original building with a view to the accom- niodation of the Presidents household; still the rooms were small, and the ~vhole establish- ment hut indifferently fitted for the purposes required. The equipages of the President were well provided for, the stabliiig for twelve horses being extensive and commodious, and the coach-houses large and convenient. Washingtons unmitigated, untiring em- ployment and labor made it necessary that he should have some mode of 1)ublic recel)tion for the many visitors who were continually seek- ing ol)I)ortunities of paying their respects and presenting their letters of introduction; hence the PRESIDENTS LEVEE on Tuesdays, commencing at three and ending at four oclock. At these recept~ns there was no shaking of hands, the chief receiving his visitors as President of the United States, and not as Gen. Washington. The foreign min- isters attended the levee in full costume, and often introduced persons of distinction from their respective countries. All strangers of distinction embraced the opportunity of the levee to pay their respects to the chief magis- trate. The President was plainly but hand- somely dressed, his hair in full powder, and wearing a dress sword, He was attended by his principal secretary, Mr. Lear, Major Jackson, and the other gentlemen of his fam- ily. He addressed a few words of courtesy to the visitors as they were presented. The company then formed in groups for conversa- tion, and on the stroke of four oclock retired, the levee being at an end. THE DRAWING-ROOM When Mrs. Washington received company it was on Friday, commencing about seven and ending about ten oclock. Two rooms were thrown open. The furniture that was thought handsome in those clays would be considered barely decent in modern times. The l)rillcil)al ornament was a glass chandelier in the largest room, burning wax lights. The chair of the lady of the President was a plain arm-chair lined with green morocco leather. The ladies visiting the drawing-room were always attended by gentlemen. It was not the habit for very young girls to be present at the drawing-room, but only those of the age when it is l)~Ol)~I for ladies to go into comJ)any. Upon the ladies being introduced they were seated, and the President, who always attended the drawing-room, l)assed round the circle, paying his respects to each in succession, and it was a common remark among the chit-chat of the drawing-room that the chief was no inconsiderable judge of fe- male beauty, since he ~vas observed to tarry longer than usual when paying his compli- Inents to Miss Sophia Chew, a charming belle of Philadelphia in that time. Refreshments were handed round by ser- vants in livery, and about that period first ap- peared the luxury, now so universal, of ice- cream. Introductions to eminent personages and conversation formed the entertainments of the drawing-room. Cards were altogether unknown. But the leading and most imposing feature of the drawing-room was the men of mark, the Revolutionaries, both civil and military, who were to be seen there. The old officers delighted to pay their respects to the wife of Washington, and to call up the reminiscences of the head-quarters of the times that tried 60 THE REPUBLICAN COURT. mens souls. These glorious old chevaliers were the greatest beaux of the age, and the recollection of their gallant achievements, to- gether with their elegant manners, made them acceptable to the ladies everywhere. They formed the elite of the drawing-room. Gen. Wayne, the renowned Mad Anthony, with his aide-de-camp. Lewis and De Butts, fre- quently attended, with Muffin, Walter Stew- art, Col. hartley, and many others. Indeed, there was often to be met with at the mansion of the first President an assemblage of intellect and honor, puhiic virtue and l)rivate worth, exalted merit and illustrious services, such as the world will never see again. Among the foreign officers of distinction, visitors of .he drawing-room, were the Vi- comte de Noailles, of the French, and Major Beckwith, of the British, armies. There was no etiquette in the drawing- room: simplicity with dignity prevailed. There all was aflhbility, with the l)olite and elegant manners of that distinguished age. One privilege alone existed. The seat next to the Presidents lady was always occupied by Mrs. Robert Morris. This was no matter by arrangement, but was yielded to the excellent lady of common consent. in those infant days of the republic a great mans merits were pretty generally graduated by the estimation in which he was held by the beloved chief. Now, it was perfectly well known in ancient days that, of our Revolutionary worthies, none no, not one was nearer and dearer to the heart of the chief than Robert Morris. His invaluable services to the cause of American Independence, at periods when we had nei- ther a coin in our treasury nor credit to obtain one, were freshly remembered in the olden time and claimed for the financier of the Rev- olution the title of Public Benefactor. Such was the Republican Court in the days of Washington. Dignified in its simplicity, imposing from the grandeur of its associa- tions, it sheds a lustre upon that renowned era of our early history, when America, having consmnmated her great experiment of self- government, gave her examl)le to other na- tions and an empire to the world. THE FRIENDS TO BACK. RISE, rise, freemen and Englishman, Why the deuce wont you support law and order 3 Rise, rise, yeoman and citizen; All the small Germans on frenzy close border. Austrias banners spread Oer many a loggerhead, Many a thief with his fingers all gory: Rise, and get ready then, Lovers and countrymen, Figbt for the kaiser and popes might and glory. Arm, arm, Britons, for tyranny, Freedom of conscience and thought that de- nies man; Help, help, priestcraft and popery; Austrias patron is Cardinal Wiseman. Austrias party, note, Got every papists vote, Which way the cat will jump know by that omen, Then, if youve lost your wits, Fight for the Jesuits; Fight for the empire thats called holy Roman. Vote, vote, soldiers and subsidy. Mind to enslave and maintain superstition, Winking madonnas, concordats, and monkery, Pay Peters pence to prop Romes Inquisi- tion. Austrias whip to crack Still vpon womans back, Englishmen, aid; and the popes domination, Protestant fools, sustain, Bleedin~ from every vein, All at the cost of unbounded taxation! Punch. SCOTCH ARGUMENT FOR MARRIAGE. JENNY 15 poor, and I am poor, Yet we will wedso say no more; And should the bairnies to us come, As few that wed, but do have some, No doubt hut Heaven will stand our friend, And bread, as ~ve1l as children send. So fares the hen in farmers yard, To live alone she finds it hard, Ive known her weary every claw, In search of corn among the straw, But when in quest of nicer food, She clucks among her chirping brood, With joy we see the self-same hen That scratched for one, could scratch for ten. These are the thoughts that make me willing To take my girl without a shilling; And for the self-same cause, you see, Jenny resolved to marry inc. 61 THE YO-HAMITE VALLEY OF CALIFORNIA. Correspondence of the Independent. THE YO-HAMITE VALLEY OF CALI FORNIA. SA FRANCISCO, Cal., July 1, 1859. THE Yo-hamit~ Valley, as it is called, de- rived its name from the Indians, although there is much dispute as to the true orthography and pronunciation, some insisting on writing Yo- semitd. It is a vast rift in the Sierra, through which flows the Merced River, a beautiful crys- tal stream, which rises high up in the moun- tains. Only about twenty miles of this canon have yet been explored, but in that distance are congregated more natural wonders than can probably elsewhere be found, on our con- tinent at least. The valley itself is an astonishing natural curiosity, aside from the cataracts which it con- tains, of which there are no less than six known to exist, each of which is of itself worth a long journey to visit, while altogether they reward one for almost any length of travel or degree of toil involved in reaching them. As I have already said the sides of this valley rise to the average height of three thousand feet, everywhere nearly perpendicular, and in many l)laces entirely so. The rocks are of light gray granite, with evergreen trees and shrubs ~rowing in some places out of the clefts and on the ledges and small plateaus which occnr, while in others nothing is seen for long distances from top to bottom but the smooth, unbroken face of the rock. In one l)lace you may stand in the centre of the canon and it has the appearance of a perfect and every way complete amphitheatre, about three-fourths of a mile wide and two miles long, with no opening for ingress or egress, the steep and towering sides forbid- ding all ascent or descent. Here and there rise numerous peaks, often of fantastical forms and different heights, and to which names are beginning to 1)0 attached. One on its flat sur- face, shows a round clock-face, with the hands indicating a quarter past six. This we called the Clock Tower. Two other twinlike l)oints are called the Brothers. Another, and most remarkable and imposing one, which seems to stand out as you enter the valley, and lead the van, has been named Le Gapitan. It is three thousand one hundred feet high by measure- ment, of clear, unchecked granite, and so per- pendicular that a marble dropped from the top, at the length of a mans arm, would strike the ground without touching the face of it. Think of standing at the foot of one huge rock a quarter of a mile in extent lengthwise, and looking up to its top three thousand one hun- dred feet perpendicularly, or seven times the height of St. Peters at Rome! Another, and the highest peak, is shaped precisely like a dome, and rises with a smooth, round apex (if I may so say) over four thousand feet. It is called the dome. Such is the valley itself, of many miles in extent, varying from a quarter of a mile to a mile in width, the bottom level and covered with a luxuriant growth of vegetation, grass in- terspersed with beautiful flowers, and the finest of pines and other evergreen trees and shrubs, and the pure, clear, sparkling Merced River winding its way at its own s~veet will through its midst. It reminded me of the Happy Valley of Dr. Johnson, in which Rasse- las, the Prince of Abyssinia ~vas born, and in- to which there was but one place of ingress. It is the perfect counterpart in nature of his idea, except, as a friend suggested to whom I spoke of the resemblance, there could have been no musquitoes there to torment the happy inhabitants as they did us in the Yo- hamitd! I could not but think, too, what~ a place this would be for a penal colony or state prison, setting aside romance and looking only at utilitarian ends. With two or three points guarded, no human being once incar- cerated within its rocky mountain ~valls ever could escape. But the greatest wonders of this wonderful locality yet remain to be described; viz., the cataracts with which it abounds. The first of these in order, beginning at the western end of the ~.ralley (which has a due east and ivest direction, the sun rising at one end and setting at the other), is called the Bridal Veil, and happily is it named. It is formed by a small river which rushes over the precipice on the south side of the valley, and falls some five hundred feet perpendicularly, and runs at right angles with the Merced, into which it finally enters. The top of the rock is shelv- ing over the line of the perpendicular, and the water consequently takes a curving leap and falls in a thin white sheet, as nearly re- sembling a fine gauze veil as any thing. As you stand beside it and look up, you can see under the water at the top where it takes its leap, and behold the rocks and bushes beyond. 62 THE YO-HAMITE VALLEY OF CALIFORNIA. The gracefulness and beauty of this cascade cannot be excelled. You might look at it for hours and not tire. The next in order is the Yo-hamitd Fall, which is formed by the stream of that name which enters the valley at a right angle with its length on the side opposite to the Bridal Veil. The water pours over a perpendicular ledge a distance of eighteen hundred feet at its first plunge, and falls into a vast chasm, from which it soon emerges again and falls four hundred feet, striking the rocks and then taking a final l)erPendicular leap of six hun- dred feet more, making twenty-eight hundred feet in all, and forming the highest known cataract in the world! Some idea of the vast distance may be had from the fact that the sheet of water, which measures eighty-seven feet in width at the top, appears from the bottom not to exceed eighteen inches wide, and one may count fifteen while the water is making the first fall. Think of a body of water falling from the highest steeple in New York, and then multiply the distance by fif- teen, or think of a cataract as high as St. Peters at Rome, and multiply it by sixand you have an apl)roximation to the idea of this tremendous natural wonder. Niagara Falls, though far greater in the volume of water, are only one hundred and sixty feet high, or a little more than a twentieth of this! Pas- saic Falls are seventy feet, those of the Nile forty, others are one hundred, and a few are known of five hundred or six hundred, while in the Alps are some cascades said to be one thousand or twelve hundred, and even four- teen hundred feet. Some six miles further up the valley are the Vernal Falls on the Merced, which are about six hundred feet in perpendicular de- scent, and half a mile further, on the same stream, are the Nevada Falls, about eight hundred feet. Still further up the river is another fall, which was not accessible to us, but which is said to be as remarkable as these two; while onthe south fork of the Merced, not far distant from these, may be seen still another fall, of probably from six hundred to one thousand feet, but which is ac yet unap- proachable by ordinary visitors, no trail hay- ing been opened to it. how many other wonders exist in this strange locality is not known, but will one day be revealed to the astonished visitors to this remarkable region. Nothing can exceed the wildness and gran- deur of the scene amid which you stand, on the space between the Vernal and Nevada Falls, after you have passed through the spray of the former, getting completely wet, and ascended the ladders and surmounted the rocks to reach the level from ~vhich the stream makes its plunge. Looking down, you see a perfect basin of half a mile in diameter, with sides two thousand feet high, into which the river rolls over the precipice, and goes dash- ing and foaming in rapids below. You look around and see Alps oer Alps arise on either hand, the sides of the canon appearing as high as when you were in the valley below. You then turn square around, and the Nevada Falls are in full view. You stand where few white men have ever stood, and where even the Indian seldom if ever climbed, and where the grizzly bear unquestionably made his fa- vorite lair, amid the mansineta bushes which here abound, and whose fruit forms his favor- ite food. But I must not dwell longer on these scenes. We spent four days among them, and were then unwilling to leave. To avoid a long and hard days ride to the first house on our return, we left the valley about three oclock in the afternoon and ascended the mountains, and at the end of ten miles selected our ground beside a clear mountain stream, and under the finest trees camped for the night. Our guide picketed our animals where they could feed, made us a cup (or rather tin porringer) of tea, and spread out our lunch of bread, dried beef, can fruit, etc., of which we made a hearty meal, and then betaking ourselves to our blankets, we composed our- selves to sleep upon the soft ground, under the branching trees. The full moon shone upon us all night, the cool breezes fanned us, and in this dry and bracing mountain climate we rested and arose with the dawn of day, refreshed, and in no measure the worse for our apparent exposure in our novel dormi- tory. 63 64 LOVE S YOUNG DREAM NOWADAYS. TEARS. THE DAY OF DEATH. Tnou inevitable day, When a voice to me shall say: Thou most rise and come away. All thine other journeys past, Gird thee, and make ready fast For thy longest and thy last. Day deep-hidden from our sight Lu impenetrable night, Who may guess of thee aright I Art thou distant art thou near? Wilt thou seem more dark or clear Day with more of hope or fear? Wilt thou comenot seen hefore Thou art standing at the door, Saying, light and life are oer? Or with such a gradual pace As shall leave me largest space To re~ ard thee face to face Shall I lay my drooping head On some loved lap round my bed Prayer he made and tears he shed? Or at distance from my own, Name and kin alike unknown, Make my solitary moan? Will there yet he thin,,s to leave, Hearts to which this heart must cleave From which, partin~, it must grieve? Or shall lifes hest ties he oer, And all loved ones gone hefore To that other, happier shore? Shall I gently fall on sleep Death, like slumber, oer me creep Like a slumber, sweet and deep? Or the soul lone strive in vain To get free, with toil and pain, From its half-divided chain? Little skills it where or how, If thou comest then or now, With a smooth or angry brow; Come thou must, and we must die; Jesus, Saviour, stand thou by When that last sleep seals our eye! ii. C. TRENCH. LOVES YOUNG DREAMNOWADAYS. Oii! tell me not that distant seas Roll wide between me and my lover; For he, Im sure, is at his ease, And Im in clover. And dont tell me that foreign parts Will ever make me, dear, forget him; Nor will he take to breaking hearts, Unless I let him. lie writes to me by every post, And every post takes back my answer; He writes of muffins, sleVhs end I of my dancer. ~ ,~ frost. So dont tell me that I must mope, While hes in Canada recruiting; Hes neither bishop, saint, nor pope, And fond of shooting. I wish youd write to him some day, How very badly Im behaving, Hed send back word at once to say He thought you 1-aving. He likes my goin~ to a bail, And talking German with Lord Ilowan; Dyou think that, out at Montreal, He flirts with no one? Ab! you dont know him. I must own Ive seen you flirt, my pretty cousin, But Willy soon would flirt you down, And sevral dozen. Dont talk such sentimental stuff; You preach as if I were a baby; As Willy says, Im not a muff, Nor he a a gaby. I know hes very fond of me I know Im very fond of Willy; And as to doubts and jealousy, Were not so silly. We both intend to have our fun, And then to marry one another; And, as the music is begun, Pray, no more bother. Blackwoods ]Ifegazine. H. D. W TEARS. Mv heart is lone, my Lov eis gone, The long, dark day will never have done; The rain falls fast, the clouds veil all, But not one tear can I let fall, Though my brain is burning and wild; I would weep like an orphaned child, But my heart is frozen and hard; My brow would burst, but it is barred, A prison-house of burning steel; I cannot utter that I feel, I cannot feel as I would try, I loathe my life, I crave to (lie, For then I should not see him more With one foot on the white sea-shore, And one upon the bark. Ab! see How his wet eyes are turned to me, And his right hand waving so! That I should eer have let him go, And live! He stands so fixed for years. My God, I thank theeTears, Tears, Tears! Ckam6erss Journal. EMsatsTus.

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 815 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0064 /moa/livn/livn0064/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 815 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 14, 1860 0064 815
The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 815 65-128

THE LIVING AGE. No. 815.14 January, 1860. CONTENTS. 1. Memorials of Henry VII. 2 Hopes and Fears: or, Scenes from the Life of a Spinster 3. Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect, 4. Holmby House, Chaps. 3335 5. Coldstream 6. The Great Tribulation; or, The Things Coming Upon the Earth 7. The Search for Sir John Franklin, S. Hallucinations 9. Life of Baron Steuben PAGE. 67 North British Review, Author of the Heir of Bedelyffe, 77 North British Review, 87 Frasers Magazine, 94 Once a Week, 106 Press, Captain Osborn, Frasers Magazine, Athenceum, 111 114 119 126 PoETRY.Bffie Campbell, 66. Song of the Survivor, 66. Lifes Shipwrecks, 125. Lovers Hearts, 125. Drenched by the Wintry Seas, 125. SHORT ARTIcLEs.Rapidity of Photography, 76. A Pious and Sensible Negro, 105. Noahs Ark and the Great Eastern, 113. Shadow of Peter Schlemihl, 118. Artificial Diamonds, 118. M. Mirelets Travels in Central America, 118. Liquid Silver Mine, 124. NEW BOOKS. HESTER, TUE BRIDE OF TEE IsLANDs. A Poem. By Sylvester B. Becket. Bailey & Noycs, Portland. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Living Age will be punctually for- wardedfree 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. Aav VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars. bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANy NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. 66 EFFIE CAMPBELL.THE SONG OF THE SURVIVOR. EFFIE CAMPBELL. PRETTY Effie Campbell Came to me one day; Eves as bright as sunbeams, Cheeks with blushes gay. Im so happy, cousin, Walter told me all, In the carriage, coming From the county ball. Have a care, Miss Effie Look before you leap; Men are fickle, Effie, Better wait than weep. IIo~v youre always preaching Love to be a crime; And a kiss perdition, Surly Peter Syme. Fear these first love whispers, Thrilling, sweet, and strange; Eyes will wander, Effie, And the fancy change. I can trust him, cousin, With a glad repose; Heaven is won by trusting, Doubt brings half our woes. Are you certain, Effie, Love will not decay When your step is slower, And your hair grows gray; And those eyes, so bonnie, Look less bright than now; And the matron Caution Saddens cheek and brow l Love may deepen, Peter, But it will not (lie Beat its pulse will steadier, If not quite so high. Smoother run the rivers As they reach the sea, Calmd the noisy plunges Stilld the shallow glee. True love knows no changing From the dream of youth, Or, if chan~ed, tis better Tis the dream made truth. Love that once pineti blindly, Tenderly reveres, And the eyes see clearer That have lookd through tears. Beautiful, forever, The gricf-softend tread; And the time-touchd glances, And the dear gray head. The pathetic paleness, And the lines of care; Memorys consecration Makes men always fair. Lips thai came close creeping, Sweet low lore to speak, Kissing, oh so softly. Weary temples weak. Eves that lookd suc/t pity Poor wild eves above; Can these lose their beauty For the souls that love But I see youre laughing, As you always do, When my speech gets earnest As my heart throbs through. Weak you think us women, Slaves of impulse, vain; But our heart is ofttimes Truer than your brain. Youre our subjects, sceptic, Wrangle as you will; Mothers eyes and bosoms Mould the children still. Tale of womans glamor.. Tis the oldest known; Better doom with woman Than an Eden lone. We shall always snare you, Struggle as you may; I shall see you, cousin, Deep in love, one day!, Effle ! but she stopped me With a nod and smile, Calling, as she courteseyd, In her saucy style, By, by, Master Peter, Take a wife in time, And shell make you wiser, Simple Peter Syme. JOSEPH TRUMAN. -Once a Wee/c. THE SONG OF THE SURVIVOR. WHERE is the form of girlish mould, Under the spread of the branches old, At the well-known trysting tree; With the sunset lighting her tresses of golc, And the breezes waving them fold upon fold, Waiting for mel Where is the swee voice with cadence deep Of one that singethi our babe to sleep, And often turns to see How the stars through the lattice begin to peep, And watches the lazy dial creep, Waiting for me I Long since these locks are laid i the clay, Long since that voice bath past away, On earth no more to be; But still in the spirit-world afar She is the dearest of those that are Waiting for me. Once a Week. MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. From The North British Review. Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during the Middle Ages. Published by the authority of Her Ma- jestys Treasury, under the direction of the Master of the Rolls. Memorials of King Henry VII. Edited by James Gairdner. London: Longman and Co., 1858. THIS volume of the series of Ghronicles and Memorials contains contem~)orary writ- ings illustrative of the times of Henry VII. These consist of the historical works of Bernard Andrd, his poem called Les douze triomphes de Henry VII., the journals and rel)orts of Henrys ambassadors into Spain, Portugal, Naples, and ~Britanny, and some other papers of a somewhat similar character. The histories of Andre, having been con- sulted by Speed, and probably also by iLord Bacon, from whom our notions of the reign of Henry VII. have been hitherto mainly de- rived, the editor has justly deemed it to be a matter of some interest to verify the refer- ences of these writers, and to examine the sources of their information. The chief results of this investigation, along with biographical notices of Andre and others, are given in a very readable preface to the volume. From the perusal of this, the reader will find that the story of Henrys entry into London, in a close chariot, like an enemy of the state, * had its origin in the mistaken reading of a word in Andr6s MS.; and again, that passages relating to Perkin Warbecks imposture seems to have been so misconstrued or confused by Bacon and Speed, as to have afforded fallacious grounds for modern His- toric Doubts. Bat this minute criticism of minor particu- lars, valuable as it is in its place, leaves our notions of Henry VII. very little altered; and we think, that the real historical value of the materials before us, must be sought for in quite another direction. The peculiar characteristic of these contem- porary writings seems to us to be, their rela- tion almost as much to European as to Eng- lish affairs, and the intimacy they disclose, particularly between the contemporary courts of Ferdinand and Isabella and of Henry ViL Henrys reign lay at the very threshold of the Reformation, and the period comprised within its limits was precisely that, during ~ This story is given by Bacon in his History of Henry VII. which Europe seemed to nerve its energies for the coming struggle. As the Reforma- tion was not a merely local event, but one em~)hatically European, so all Europe, in this antecedent period, seemed to he gathering its forces to meet it. Not each nation se;)arately and in silence; but by a sort of combined or concurrent effort, which blended the interests of nations into one, and consequently en- tangled their history. But the period of Henry VII. may he re- garded, not only as antecedent to the Refor- mation, but also as being the last, so to speak, of the Middle Ages. It was a transition period, and perhaps may be more ~afely and correctly viewed from a mediceval, rather than from a modern, point of view. We of the nineteen th century think we can see how the minor nationalities of the old world were swallowed up into one great em- pirestretched over by a network of Roman roadsbound together by the uniting bond of one common language; so that Christian- ity might thus, with a speed otherwise mirac- ulous, travel into every region of the known world, and root herself in a soil l)rel)ared for her first germination. We think we can see how it was, that when the building was con~ l)lete, it became needful that the scaffolding should be cleared awayhow it became neces- sary that, her work being done, Rome should be taken out of the way. We do not wonder that men under whose eyes this took place, should have marvelled to see all the lights of the old world put outall her refinement and civilization extinguishedjust at the moment, when they seemed to be appropriated by Christianity, as they were in the age of Au- gustine. Men must, of necessity, have trem- bled as they entered into the dark night of barbarism which followed; and they would have trembled more had they known that it was to last little short of one thousand years They might well begin to think that God had abandoned his world, and given it over for a time to the powers of evil. Did not the king of evil think so too, as he seemed to ride upon the storm, deluging the world with darkness, leading forth from the pagan east his barba- rian armies, to overwhelm every thing that was good in the lands into which Christianity had sl)read? It is true that the church was found to be stronger than the eml)ire. Single- handed she struggled hard against the flood, and at last stemmed the waves proudly; but 08 when the storm was over, and the waves rocked themselves to rest, evil seemed never- theless to have triumphed even over her. Led like her founder into the wilderness, and offered all the kingdoms ofthe earth upon the condition of worshipping the giver, the church seemed to have accepted the offer. She henceforth rose proudly to rule the king- doms, and herself was apparently ruled by the tempter to whom she had succumbed. The triuml)h of evil seemed complete, and, for any thing that men could tell, permanent. They could not possibly foresee how the evil would be overruled for goodhow that this seeming triumph was in reality no triumph at all how, in overloading Christianity with the bar- barism of the wild eastern nations, instead of smothering the seed forever, it had but spread over it the very soil, in which, after long cen- turies of silent germination, it was destined most abundantly to flourish. This after events only have revealed to ourselves. At the period of the accession of Henry VII., the nations dwelt under the shadow of two great events, which darkened the horizon of their past, and filled them with fears for the future. First, the recentfallof Constan- tinople; and secondly, the great schism in the papacy. The progress of Ottoman arms had opened the eyes of politicians to the real condition and apparent prospects of Christendom. These were indeed any thing but hopeful. Driven as it were into the northern and western promontories of Europe, by the ever-encroach- ing power of nations, inspired by the warlike faith of Mohammeda faith which, though little more than half the age of Christianity, yet already numbered, according to the gen- eral belief of that period, five times as many votaries as she could lay claim to *...a faith which ~vas still penetrating further and further westward as centuries advanced, so irresisti- bly, that men began to have their fears, lest Italy should at length fall into its grasp; which had early stripped Christianity of her African churches, and for seven hundred years had maintained a firm foothold in the richest provinces of Sl)ain, and this in spite of her medimval and often repeated crusadesthe external l)osition of Christendom seemed very much like that of a rapidly declining power. And when they turned to examine her inter- 4~ See Tindals works, ii.55. MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. nal resources, their desponding feelings were deepened rather than relieved. Little more than a century had passed since a scourge had swel)t over Europe, as far more depopulating than Mohammedan arms, as the pestilence that walketh in darkness is more dreadful than the arrow that flieth by day. From the Levant the deadliest plague which the worlds annals bear record of, had passed into Italy in 1346. It stripped her cities of most of their inhabitants,* and then passed over the Alps into France, where in a few short months it is said to have cut off four or five milliofra of her people.t It crossed the Pyrenees into Spain, hnd, in 1349, burst forth like a pent-up storm upon England, destroy- ing, it is said, nine-tenths, and beyond all doubt a very large l)roportion of her inbabi- tants.t Churchyards were not large enough to receive the number of its dead;. and in a field of thirteen acres, provided specially for the purpose in London, there is evidence that 50,000 citizens were laid beneath the turf. When the English parliament assembled in the following year, they recorded, in the first statute inscribed upon their rolls, that a great part of the people had died of the pestilence ! II Strange that historians should dispose of an event like this in a few short sentences, as if its effects were no more permanent than those of a bad harvest, or its chief importance lay in the fact that it gave rise to Boccacios Decameron! How rapidly must the population have in- creased, to have made up its lost numbers, during the century which succeeded! Was the condition of the nations such as to make it likely that their l)opulations should increase at such a rate? Could Germany have re- gained her lost l)opulation, during a l)eriod, in which her separate states were at continual war with each otherher nobles, castled on inaccessible rocks, subsisting upon plunder her social condition that of a nation emerging out of barbarism into civilized life? Could It is said to have destroyed, in Venice, 100, 000 ; in Florence, 60.000, or three-fifths of the population; and in Padna, two-thirds. t Hal., Middle Ages, Sup. notes, 55. ~ In Yarmouth 7052 died ; in 1~lorwich, 57,000 In Leicester, 1480 in three parishes only.Barnes Hist. of Ed. III., 436, et seq. 4 Stows Survey, ii. 62. II 23 Ed. III., c. 1. She is said to have lost 1,200,000.Barnes flistory of Ed. III., 436, et seq. MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. France have regained her lost millions, dur- ing a century, in which she was engaged in incessant and devastating wars P Could Spain have restored her losses, while Castile was the prey of the conspiracies and civil disturb- ances which marked the reign of John II., and Arragon was spending her men and treasure, to her own impoverishment, in the Italian quarrels of her princes? We might mention instances in which an actual further depopulation can be shown to hae taken place; * but we prefer to turn ex- clusively to the instance of our own country. Setting aside the report of the chroniclers, that she lost nine-tenths of her inhabitants in the l)estilence, as an exaggeration, t~nd falling hack upon the simple and more cau- tious statement of the Commons, that a great part of the people had fallen victims to it, the real question requiring an answer is thisWhether the fraction of population which remained, could have so multiplied itself as to have reached the old numbers, during a century, almost wholly filled up, first, by the wars with France and Scotland, and secondly, by those civil dissensionsthat civil war amongst ourselves, which, in the words attributed to the Duke of Buckingham in 1843, caused so great an effusion of the ancient noble blood of this realm, that scarcely the half remained, to the great enfeebling of this noble land; beside many a good town ransacked and spoiled,. . . so that there was no time in which rich men for their money, and great men for their lands, were out of Peril. In answer to this question, we have in the first place the contemporary authority of John Capgrave, who, as he died in 1464, more than seventy years old, may have heard the story of the pestilence from eye-witnesses, and who, having been through a long life himself an eye-witness of its permanent effects, is per- Laps the very best authority that we could quote. He states that, it was supposed, that the pestilence left not in England the tenth l)art of the people that, in conse- quence, lords rents and priests tythes ceased that, because there were so few tillmen, the earth lay untilled and finally, that so much misery was in the land, that ~ For instance, at the hearth-tax of 1404, Arra- gon had 42,683 houses; in 1429, not nearly so many. HaL, Mid. Ages, i. 412. the prosperity which was before never re- curred. * This statement is explicit; and the truth of it is borne out, it seems to us, by the facts, from whieh Mr. Hallam and others have drawn different conclusions. They may be shortly stated as follows First, What accounts we have of the pop- ulation of London and other towns in early times, show a l)opulation very much larger than we know to have existed in 1377. These Mr. Hallam rejects as exaggerations. Secondly, In 1377, the population of Lon- don seems to have been somewhere about 35,000, and that of the whole realm 2,000 000. Thirdly, At the accession of Henry VIL, Mr. Hallam concludes that the population of the realm reached somewhat more than 3,- 000,000.1- Now, if we bear in mind, that the census of 1377 was taken only twenty-seven years af- ter the pestilence, we shall not hastily reject the earlier hints of a much larger population as exaggerations. The population of London must have been very much larger before the pestilence, if it destroyed any thing like 50,- 000, and left 35,000 surviving not thir~r years after! The population of England must have been very much larger before the pestilence if it destroyedwe will not say nine-tenths, but a great part of the peo- ple, and left 2,300,000 surviving in 1377. Finally, if the population be correctly stated at 2,300,000 in 1377, and a little more than 3,000,000 in 1485, the theoretic increase dur- ing the century would be something over 700,000. But this number would be wholly inadequate to restore the losses of the pesti- lence, inasmuch as in that case the proportion of victims, instead of being any approxima- tion to nine-tenthsinstead of being a great l)art of the peoplewould have amounted only to one-fourth. So far, then, as these direct statistics may be relied on, they con- firm, on the question of population, the state- ment of Capgrave, that England had not, in 1464, and therefore at the accession of Henry VII., nearly regained her old prosperity. Tracing the effects of this depopulation, we come to a similar conclusion. If a great part *~ Capgrav& s Chronicle of England, pp. 213, 214. t Hallams Mid. Ages, ii. 159, n.; and Constitu- tional History, i. 8, n. 69 MEMORTA.LS OF HENRY VII. -of the people were destroyed, a great part of their habitations ~vould be left untenanted. Some towns and many villages must have disappeared, as they did, in our own time, during the Irish famine. As Capgrave says, lor(la rents and I)riests tvthes must have ceased; and if, as he continues, for the wont of laborers, the earth lay untilled. the value of land, as well as of houses, must have been in the long run very much depre- ciated. Nov what was the fact in relation to these two points P Had the untenanted houses found inhabitants, and had the land regained its old value, at the accession of Henry VIII. P First, as to the houses. Instead of their being rebuilt and re-occupied, the civil wars, and the numerous ejections arising from the l)revalent l)leference for pasturage (itself a consequence of the depopulation, which made tillage unprofitable), had desolated more. * Harrison coml)lained, in 1677, that there were not then remaining nearly as many towns and villages, as, from ancient records, it would appear that there had been during the centuries before the l)estilence.t In 1433, ~vhen a fifteenth was grar~ed to the king, it was thought necessary to remit nearly one-seventh of the ~vhole amount, in part relief and discharge of the poor towns, cities, and lurqhs, desolate, wasted, or de- stroyed, or over greatly impoverished. And that these desolations were not rel)aired dur- ing the century, is evident from the fact, that, in nearly every subsidy granted from that time downwards, a similar deduction was made in similar words, till at length those statutes were l)assed by the parliaments of Henry VIJI. for the general rebuilding of towns throughout the country, to which we had occasion to refer in a former article.t Then, turning to the question of the value of land, we are able to present to our readers the following series of instances of valuations of arable farms in Hertfordshire. The esti- mated annual value per acre, reduced to the standard of our l)resent coin, is placed oppo- site, in each instance, to the date at which the valuation was made :* 1268 9d. 1271 12d. 1274 12d. 1285 65. 7~cI. 1291 9d. 9d .:::: 1~d. 1417 6d. 1422 4d. 45. 1313 125. 1330 8!d. 6d. 1331 8cl. 1333, Pjs. 1333 112d. 1432 6d. 1446 ss. 1500 (Northamp tonshtre) 55. to 1510 [hunting donshtre) 54d.t These statistics, so far as they go, evidently point to the conclusion, that, while the annual value of land in Hertfordshire maintained, during the thirteenth and fourteenth centu- ries, an average of from 9d. to lOd. per acre, a fall of at least 30 per cent took l)lace about the year 1400, and that the old average wa8 never afterwards regained during the fifteenth century. We could multiply proofs; * but it must worth seven hundred marks, was hardly afterwards worth forty pounds, as was certified in 22 Henry VII., Hattam also mentions the instance of Win- chester, which, in 1450, complained to Henry VI. that nine out of its sixteen streets were in ruins (Supplemental Notes, 330). On the continent of Europe, as well as in Eng- land, many towns and villages, nay, whole prov- inces, were left desolate of inhabitants. Barnes Hist. of Edward III., 436, etc. The following list of towns, the rebuilding of whose desolated houses was required by the stats. of Henry VIII., will show that no merely local cause will account for the decay of towns :York, Lincoln, Canterbury, Coventry, Bath, Chichester, Salisbury,Winchester, Bristow, Scarbro, Hereford, Cotchester. Rochester, Portsmouth, Poole, Lynn, leversham, Worcester, Stafford, Buckiogham, Pomfret, Grantham, Excester, tpswich, South- *- As a specific instance of this, we may mention ampton, Great Tamworth, Oxenford, Great Wy- the town of Stamford, which was so destroyed comb, Guilford, Hull, Newcastle (T.), Beverley, by the Northern army ( which also destroyed Bedford, Leicester, Berwick, Nottingham, Shrews Grantham, Peterbro, Huntingdon, etc.), that it bury, Ludlow, Bridgeworth, Queenbio, Northamp.- could never after recover its antient dignity.~ ton, Gloucester, and other towns in Dorsetshire, Pecks Aeaal~ of $teaiford, 63; Stow, p. 685. Devonshire, Cornwall, Somerset, l~ssex, and War- I Harrisons Description of Britain, 1577, p. 82. wickshire, etc., etc. ~ No. LVII., Art. 3. In that article we referred ~ These instances are collected from information the desolations of the towns exclusively to the civil from Ciutterbucks Hist. of lierts. The coin was wers. But, having since traced back the allusions of the same purity throughout, so that allowance to those desolations in t~he Subsidy Acts to a has been made only for alterations from time to Jaerio(l antecedent to those wars, we are driven to time made in its weight. the conclusion, that they can only have increased I Ihe two last instances are of two farms held desolations which exIsted before, and of which nol by Dr. Cblet, which he inherited from his father. other cause can be satisfactorily shown, other thu ni I One of the Paston Letters furnishes us with an the pestilence. instance, in which, after great difficulty in findiog - Wood, in his Antiquities, says, the parsonage a tenant, the steward of a manor, writing between of Yarmouth, which, before the plague, was 1422 and 1460, states that he cannot obtain even 70 MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. suffice us here to have pointed out, that men, looking at things, ~s they must have done, from a media~val point of view, dwelling under the shadow of Turkish conquests, and reading in the dismal history of the past their prospects for the future, might well watch despondingly the turn of even ts. They had, as it ~vere, just buried their hopes, when Ferdinand and Isabella in Spain, and Henry VII. in England, took the helm of affairs. There was a strong analogy between the task which lay before the Spanish and English monarchs, on their accession to their respec- tive thrones. Both had, in the first place, to quell long-continued civil wars, and by a firm and good government to secure the stability of their thrones against many pretenders to the crown; and 1)0th, in the course of a com- paratively short l)Criod, surmounted their dif- ficulties, and established the peace of their respective kingdoms. When, towards the conclusion of their reigns, after Ferdinand and Henry had each iost his queen, they entered into fresh nego- tiations to perpetuate the alliance between them, Henry could instruct his aml)assadors to say, that his realm was in good peace and tranquillity, and his subjects in due obeisance and wealthy condition ; estab- lished in peace, quiet, and restfulness with all outward princes. * And Ferdinand could answer for hims~lf, that he had ruled the land to its honor and profit; whereas, at the first beginning, it stood in great trouble.t This was a great deal to say after a century of incessant civil and international wars! two-thirds of the old rent without granting a lease of five or six years tPaston Letters, iii. 153). In the reign of Edward LV., land seems to have been sold for. half its former value: and it was with difficulty that landlords could obtain their rents from the farmers, small as they were (Paston Letters, iv. 201; Harrisons Description of Britain, 86). A Venetian estimate of the revenue of England, in 1454, assumes that it had fallen from 2,000,000 to 700,000 ducats since 1404, owing to the wars. The revenues of other nations are stated also to have suffered a similar reduction (Hallams Mid. Ages, ii. 356, n.) And finally, when the Venetian ambassadors visited England in 1500, they were greatly struck by the extreme thinness of the population, and the consequently small proportion of laud actually under cultivation (Italian Relation of England; Camden Soc., p. 10, etc). ~ Memorials of Henry VII. Report of Ambas- sadors touching the King (If Arragon, p. 242. t Memorials of Henry VII., 261. The alliance seems to date almost from the accession of Henry VII. Soon after the birth of Prince Arthur, we find Spanish ambassa- dors in England, negotiating his projected marriage with the infant Catherine of Arra- gon. They remained in England for the space of a year or tltei~eabouts ; * and, ac- companying them back into Spain, an em- bassy was sent by Henry in 1488, the details of which are preserved in Machados Jour- nal. He says little or nothing of its special ob- ject; but, carefully as this is concealed, the particular request of the ambassadors, at their second audience, that~ they might be per- mitted to see the young princesses, and the frequent mention of the Donna Catherine as the Princess of England, or the Prin- cess of Wales, disclose the progress that had already been made in the negotiations for the marriage. For instance: Item, on the 24th day of March [14889], the kings sent for the said ambassadors. And they went with the kings into a gallery hung with fine tapestry. There they found the young princesses. There were Donna Maria and our Princess of England, Donna Gatherine. . . . And the said two daughters, the Infanta Donna Maria and the Infanta Donna Catherine, Princess qf England, had fourteen maidens, all noble ladies [attending upon them], all of them dressed in cloth of gold, and all of them dauu~hters of n~~~~tagain a noble- And on the 26th day of this same month of March, the said kings ma(le another festi- val in honor of these ambassadors, to wit, a bullfight. And afterwtuds there came out about one hundred knights and other noble- men, who were ~vell mounted on fine jennets, ~vho skirmished and ran with dogs in the way they fought with the Saracens; which thing was a fine sight. . . . And it was beaut~fut to see how the queen held up her youngest daughter, who was the Infanta Donna Cath- erine, Princess of HTales; and at that time she was three years of age, etc., etc.t The manner in which the ambassadors were received further shows the importance of their mission, and the anxiety of Ferdinand and Isabella to conclude the English alliance. Indeed I believe (says Machado) that no ambassadors ever went [on an embassy] who Itad more honor done them than was done to ~ Memorials of Henry VII., 328. 71 1~EMORIALS OF HENRY VII. the said ambassadors in every thing. People speak of the honor done to ambassadors in England. Certainly it is not to be compared to the honor which is clone to the ambassa- dors in the kingdom of Castile, and especially in the time of this noble king and queen. * Scarcely had the alliance thus been con- cluded, when Ferdinand and Isabella achieved that great conquest of Granada, which made Europe ring with acclamation. The spell which had bound her for ages was broken by it. After long centuries, wherein more and more territory had been ceded to the infidel, mens hearts had settled down in the gloomy expectation that they might be destined to see even Italy herself in the hands of the Turk. The fall of Constantinople had sounded like a death-knell in their ears. But now at length was a shout of Christian triumph heard for the first time. A turn had come at length in the tide of victory. After a seven hundred years struggle, the infidel was swept out of Spain. The star of hope rose at once into the dark sky, and Spain blazed for a time like a meteor in the firmament of nations. Henry VII. appreciated fully this victory of the kings. No sooner had he heard of it, than, in the midst of his nobles, and the mayor and aldermen of London, he ordered a solemn Te Deum to be sung in the Cathedral of St. Pauls; for that (to quote the words used by Cardinal Morton on this occasion) for these many years Christians have never before gained new ground or territory from the in- fidels, nor enlarged the bounds of the Chris- tian world. f And when, some years after (in 1502), the pope called upon European princes to aid him in his wars against the Turks, Henry, though exceedingly cautious in committing himself to the pope4 was quite ready to join with the Spanish sovereigns in a bona ,fide crusade. The following despatch shows that they had exchanged views upon the subject, and were acting somewhat in concert. Ferdinand and Isabella write thus to their English ambassador Regarding what you tell us about the tenth and crusade-money which is being levied in that kingdom to maintain the expedition against the Turks, . . . tell the king our brother, that taking into consideration the point at which the matter has arrived, and the ~ Memorials of Henry VII., 350, 351. f Bacons Henry VII. ~ See his reply to the pope, Ellis Letters, 1st Series, vol. i., p. 38. necessity of forestalling and remedying th. danger in which the Turk has placed and holds many lands of Christendom, the best thing would be that all the flotillas which we Christian princes shall join in collecting, . . - should be under one captain ix., the cardinal and master of Rhodes. . . . And in order that the money from the said tenth and crusade-tax now being levied mayprove of most avail for that purpose, it would he best that orders should be given, that with the proceeds a flotilla he built in [England]; . . . for ~f this is not acted upon, and they should send it (the money) to the pope, it is certain that he would expend it for some other purpose, and not on account of the said expedition. And tell the king aforesaid, that although the past year and the present we have had great ex- penses in our fleet, we have just given orders for another fleet, . . . in order to aid and assist in the defence of Christendom. * But we must pass on now to that second great event, which, pressing on the heels of the conquest of Granada, eclipsed it in bright~ ness, and threw a still more dazzling halo round the Spanish throne. While the English ambassadors, before mentioned, were in Spain, Machado says, that they were met at Medina del Campo, where the kings, were, amongst others, ~y the doctor of Tallavera.f The ment.ion of this name reminds us of the fact, that, at that very time, the council, of which Tallavera was the president, was probably sitting at intervals upon the merits of the scheme of Christopher Columbus. This great man at that time fre- quented the court of the kings, from whom he received marked attention and deference. Tallavera and his colleagues pronounced him a visionary schemer, and little dreamed that he was destined to be the hero of a greater conquest than that over the Moors. The news of the conquest of a kingdom had broken through the ice of centuries. Dispelling the universal despondency, it spread throughout Europe a spirit of enterprise and hope. But when men heard of the discovery of the New Worldwhen they talked of the Terra Nova in the West,it has been well ob- served, they began to congratulate each other, that their lot had fallen in an age in which such wonders were achieved. Thus within a few short years had the Spanish monarchs, by their energy and fore- sight, dispelled the gloom of the Middle 5~ Memorials of Henry VII., 413, 414. t Ibid., 339. MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. Ages, and revealed symptoms, which could not be mistaken, that an era of hope was at hand, brighter at least than had been known since the fall of the XVestern Empire. But, in this case, the influence of Spanish enterprise was felt in England, not alone by the general impression produced by the re- turn of Columbus. The ambassadors who passed to and fro between the two countries, must have brought with them, from time to time, news of successes in the West, which, to use Bacons word, sharpened the kings emulation; and it is not a little curious that one of these ambassadors was Don Peter de Ayalathe very man who had previously been sent into Portugal to defend the course taken by the kings in sending out Columbus on his second voyage, and to induce the Portuguese to com~)ly with the terms of the papal bull, whereby all new lands in the West had been granted to the crown of Spain, resting content with their own prov- ince of discovery in the south. Ayala must, therefore, have been well versed in all that related to Columbus and maritime discovery. He probably brought with him the news to England of the departure of the Portuguese expedition, under Vasco de Gama, on its fa- mous and successful voyage in search of a south-eastern passage to India. Henry, as he made a confidant of Ayala, and counselled him upon his own affairs, must often have conferred with him upon these subjects; and parhaps, therefore, it was something more than a coincidence, that about the time of his visit to England Henry sent out his first maritime expedition under sebastian Cabot to Labrador and Newfoundland. In several succeeding years he issued new commissions for the discovery and investing of unknown lands.* This conjecture, though it be but a conjecture, may not be devoid of interest, when associated with a name, otherwise never to be forgotten in English or Scottish history. Ayala was the means of bringing about that peace between England and Scotland, which resulted in the alliance between the two royal houses, and ultimately in the union of the two crowns, a century afterwards. In the accounts hitherto given by historians, we fail to perceive the probable reasons which oper- ~ted with Henry, in employing this Spanish ambassador on so important an errand, In a ciespatch printed in the Memorials, and ~ Bacon. probably written just before Ayalas first visit to England, we find allusion to a fact, which at once points out qualifications in Ayala for such a task, of which we were in ignorance before. The despatch is from Queen Isabella to her ambassador in London, and it contains the following paragraph This day Don Pedro de Ayala has written to me, who, together with the ambassador of Scotland, was on the point of taking ship- mnent: and he makes me aware ho~v the said ambassador was in great fear of falling into the hands of the English, during this his voyage and return from Scotland; and for his security he has besought me, that in a des- patch of mine, I should name him my ambas- sador. I, on this account, have issued in- structions to prepare a letter credential, for the king of England, on behalf of the said Don Pedro and him, appointing them for my ambassadors; but I have written to Don Pedro that, should they have passed, he might tear up my letter aforesaid. I am minded to let you know this, because, if you see it, you will know from what cause it was done. * It seems, therefore, that the Spanish sover- eigns had had previous communieations with Scotland, and that Ayala had very recently been sent into Scotland with the Scotch an~. bassador. These two facts dispel all the mystery. Ayala being well versed in the affairs both of England and Scotland, and being the ambassador of the Spanish sover- eigns, who were upon friendly terms with both England and Scotland, was naturally selected as the person most qualified for so delicate a task, as that of negotiating a peace between them. The intimacy between Spain and England was not confined to the courts. The English ambassadors in Laredo, were entertained by a merchant who had an agent in Southampton t and at Burgos, by mer- chants who had frequented England. 4 The extent to which the commerce between the two countries was carried is shown in a des- patch, dated 1~O9, in which complaint is made that much gold was conveyed away by the English merchants, in return for English cloth imported into Spain. Another link of intimacy between the two countries was the number of pilgrims pass- ing from one to the other. When the am- bassadors were in danger of shipwreck o~i ~ Memorials of Henry VII., 403. t Ibid.,333. 4 Ibid., 436. 73 MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. their voyage, Machado says, They cried unto God and to all the saints of Paradise, and by Gods grace, and by the prayers and pilgrimages promised to the good saints, they were comforted and saved.~~* In another place Machado mentions falling in with four ships of French pilgrims on their way to the shrine of St. lago de Gompostella; t and we may mention that an English I)lacard is still in existence, belonging to this period,t offering to such Englishmen as should con- tribute a certain amount to the funds of the hospital, shortly before erected by Isabella for the accommodation of pilgrims to this famous shrine, the same indulgences as had usually heed granted to those who performed a pilgrimage to it. This mention of pilgrimages naturally turns our attention to the religious aspects of the period under review. As the shadow of the Turkish conquest of Constantinople rested upon the minds of politicians, and influenced the direction of their aims and energies, so did the shadow of the great Papal Schism rest upon the minds of those who had at heart, whether from political or religious motives, the interests of the Christian church. That schism had been ended only by a revo- lution, which, under the guidance of the great and good Gerson, had left the pope the con- stitutional, instead of the absolute, monarch of the church. To restore the unity of the church, the sovereigns of Europe had promoted this rev- olution; and to preserve the unity of the church, they now promoted a thorough re- form of the clergy and the monastic orders. Such, however, was their dread of schism, that they dared not proceed with this reform without the sanction of the most dissolute of popes.. They therefore bargained, in any way they could, for bulls, under which they them- selves at length undertook to perform the task which the pope, in his own person, seemed determined to neglect. Ferdinand and Isabella, through the great Cardinal Ximenes, wrung from the pope the necessary authority vigorously to reform the Spanish monasteries. Henry VII., through his min- ister Cardinal Morton, under a like authority, l)ursued a similar course, as the Lambeth records still remain to testify. But at length papal wickedness, culminat~ ing in Alexander VI., Ferdinand and Isabella began to fear lest a new revolution and another schism should arise from the scandals it brought Ul)Ofl the church. To avoid this danger, without calling a general council, which they feared might hasten instead of avert it, they wished that the Christian princes should combine, and, in a peaceable way, endeavor to coml)el the reform of some, at least, of the most notorious of the l)apal excesses. The document, which discloses the views of the Spanish sovereigns upon this point, is so important, that, as it has not found its way into the collection of Memorials, and has, we believe, never yet been laid before Eng~ lish readers, we insert a translation of it at length.* Year 1498. The King and Queen. Concerning the correction of Alexander VI. What the Suhprior should say to the king of England, being in private,, is as follows What you, el pache Soprior, de Santa Cruz, have to say from us to the king of England when you arrive there, in the jour- ney you are now taking by our order into Flanders, is the following That knowing his good-will, and how good and Christian and catholic the king is, and how much zeal he has for the things of God an(l the good of the church; it seems to us that we ought to communicate with him in this so very important affair, very privately, l)y you, and by no other person, in order to learn his opinion upon it. That he must be already aware how much esteem and affection we have to our Most ~ Memorials of Henry VII., 332. t Ibid., 371. Holy Father [the l)ope], and what we desire t Printed between 1503 and 1513. in4 The placard referred to is a broadsheet printed to do for him; and to this we are bound more black letter. The heading is preceded by a than other princes, not only by his being woodcut of the scollop shell, is as follows: Vicar of Jesus Christ our Lord, but as being Hereaft foloweth the abreviacon of the graces our own countryman ; fand our past serb and indulgeces and stacios which our moste holy fad Pope Alexader vi. granteth to all true belenige ~ For the Spanish of this document, see the people: of every sexe or kynde wyllige to entre British Museum Library, No. 1445, g. 23. into the fraternite of the great ilospytall of Saynt For the translation we are indebted to our friend James i Cospotell: lately edifyed and bylded: as is B. B. Wiffen, Esq. of Mt. Pleasant, near Woburn, coteined i his letrs apostolykes granted to enerlas- in whose possession the original copy of the docu- tige memory, and cofermed by our holy fad: ment remains. nowe beige Pope Julis. I Alexander VI. was a Valencian 74 MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. 175 vices performed in his favor are good vouchers of the love we hear him and what we desire to do for him, and, especially, all that oc- curred in the war which was [undertaken] chiefly for the church and its defence. And hence it comes that many persons tell us that the pope, taking us [to he] so favorable [to him] and so hound to his afihirs, is too forward to do very extravagant things, and this hy other means than he ought to employ. That we are told now that he is set upon wishing to remove the Cardinal of Valentia from the church, heing hound to the gospel, in order to make him great at a distance, and this by wealth [taken] from the church, seeking to do this after the manner lie did in making him Cardinal; and [as lie did] in taking from the church, Benevento, to give it to the Duke of Gandia.* Thus he sells all the henefices that are vacated to 1)urchase es- tates for his sons, and ohstructs the reforma- tion of the monasteries in our realms,t and more still, the reformation of the church of Rome, hy deeds contrary to ~vhat the vicar of Jesus Christ should do, and very scan(lalous and of had examl)le to all Christendom. It grieves us much, and we feel it to the soul, hoth on account of God and the honor of the church; and even as it affects his holi- ness, we much desire the remedy of it, and that it might he (lone without hurt and incon- venience to his holiness. For if it lie not remedied, it may draw down great damage to the church universally. And that we have already privately en- treated the remedy for these abuses from his holiness, and have already made all the efforts we could to attain it; and we see that they have not only not abated, hut it seems the longer they continue the more the irregulari- ties and excesses of his holiness increase, aiid have come to such a l)~55 that early measures are needful to prevent greater injury arising from them to the church. And that he is quite aware that it ihelongs to the Christian princes, to whom God gives 4~ In June, 1497, Alexander VI. had secularized the church lands of Benevento, etc., constituted them into a duchy, and given them to his son John Duke qf Gaadia, who was assassinated, it is supposed, by his brother Cusar Borgia, seven days after. In 1498, (the date of this document) C~esar Borgia (who had beeu made archbishop and cardinal of Valeoza soon after his fathers acces- sion to the papacy) resigned his caidinalate, and was afterwards made Duke of Valentino. and in 1500 Duke of Romagna, etc. After Alexander VI.s death, he was imprisoned by Ferdinand in Spain for two years. t In November, 1496, Alexander VI., at the in- stigation of the monks, issued a brief, inhibiting Ferdinand and Isabella from proceeding with the reform of the monasteries and clergy, in which Ximenes was earnestly engaged. notwithstanding that the re2orm was made under the authority of a bull granted by himself a few years before. the most influence upon earth, to ohtain th~ remedy of this [evil]. That it does not appear right to us to obtain it by means of a council, because of the scandal and schism that might thereby arise in the church; as well as because of the damage which might happen to the person of his holiness. But that it seems to us that we ought to effect it, by all of us sending our ambassadors with representations and entreaties to his holiness. That although our entreaties have not as yet availed, we believe that his holiness, see- ing we are joined in it by some of the [other] Christian l)ri1~ces, will, through apprehension, do that which lie ought to do. That some kings ~vill comhine with us. And because we believe that you, as a Catho- lic j)rince, zealous for the service of God and the good and honor of the church, wilh be willing to engage in thds readily: We pray you affectionately also to he willing to do this, and to consent to send your own ambassadors to Rome concerning it: that they and out own, ~vith those of the [other] princes who unite with us in this affair, may labor by re presei~tations and entreaties to his holiness to remedy the evil. That our ambassadors shall propose the negotiation, and urge it quickly, and will pi~t themselves foremost in what will have to be done. That his [ambassadors] need only con- form themselves to ours, and to the others ~vlio are agree(h about it, and act the same as they do. And we hope in God that in this way we shall accomplish the remedy, and pre- vent those evils that might occur to the church if this be not done. Let the reader mark the anxiety which pervades this document to preserve the chiurch from another schdsm, the consequent caution in which its terms are couched, the deference l)aid throughout to the l)aI)ah dig- nity; and yet the earnest resolve shown in some way to compel the h)OPC to reverse some of his most scandalous acts; and lie cannot but admire the earnest zeah for reform which formed so virtuous a phase of the character of the Spanish kings, and their great min- ister, Cardinal Ximenes. But while he can admire this l)h)a5C, he will not be wholly unprepared to follow us, as we mar its beauty, by making one more quota- tion of a few hines from Machados Journal, under date 9th March, 14889 The ambassadors were lodged at Valla- dohid with a merchant cahied Ruy Gon~alviz MEMORIALS OF HENRY VII. de Porthilho, who had been put in prison and accused as a heretic. And the kings had ar- rested all his property, for which reason the ambassadors were very ill lodged, * etc. This is a very early instance of the intoler- ance of Ferdinand and Isabella. A few years before, they had begun to introduce the Inqui- sition into Spain, and as they seem to have been at Valladolid only a month or two before the ambassadors were there, the imprison- ment of Porthilho was probably an act of their own. If not, it was one of the innuni~er- able instances which obtained their hearty confirmation and their warmest approval. That dread and hatred of schism, to which we have adverted, arising as it did from the theory of the necessity of outward unity in the church, and the duty of the civil power to maintain it, virtuous as it undoubtedly was, logically led to intolerance. And it needs no words of ours to show why Gerson, who was so zealous a reformer, that he carried reform ~ Memorials of Henry VII., 889. over the heads of popes, and deposed them to preserve the unity of the church, at the same moment was exerting all his power to crush Huss and Jerome of Praguewhy Henry VII., and Ferdinand and Isabella, and Morton and Ximenes, zealously engaged in the reform of the monasteries, and ready to combine even to reform the morals of the pope, were equally zealous in the persecution of heretics, whether their faith were that of the Moor, the Lollard, or the Jew. Here we must abruptly take leave of the Memorials of Henry VII. The review of detached materials must necessarily partake of a somewhat desultory character; but in thus glancing at some of the points, which the perusal of the volume has suggested to ourselves, we have wished to bear testimony to the value of its contents and, at the same time, to enlist the interest of our readers in the history of a l)eriod hitherto little explored, and much standing in need of further investigation. RAPIDITY OF PHOTOGRAPHYWe have heard it affirmed that a fly is a medium-sized object amongst living beingsmeaning that there are objects as much smaller than a fly as an elephant or a whale is larger, and this we believe to be perfectly true. But what shall we say to a second in respect to photographic time of action l Taking six hours as the maximum time of exposure, we can show differences in times of exposure, and variations in active ac- tion on the other side of a second of time, far exceeding any thing ever dreamed of in the or- dinary practice of photography. In taking pho- tographs of rapidly moving objectsthe waves of the sea, for instancewe have been obliged to judge of the proper exposure requisite to bring out the half-tints, and estimate differences of time varying between the 1-50th and 1-20th of a second. Exposures like these are, however, enormous when compared with the time occu- pied in other photographic experiments. Thus, in solar photography, according to experiments of Mr. Waterhouse, an image was impressed in a space of time no longer than 1-9000th part of a second, even when a slow photographic pro- cess was used; and, when wet collodion ~Vas employed, one-third of the above time, or 1-27000th of a second, was all that was needed. This duration, however, inconceivably short as it appears, will be seen to be a tolerable length, when we try to bring the mind to appreciate the rapidity with which Mr. Talbot performed his crucial experiment at the Royal Institution, where he photographed a rapidly revolving wheel, illuminated by one single discharge of an electric battery. To a casual observer or reader of this experiment, the wonderful part appears to be that the wheel appeared perfectly sharp and stationary in the photograph, although, in reality, it was being rotated with as great a velocity as multiplying wheels could communi- cate to it. A little further consideration will, however, show that the time occupied in a rev- olution of the wheel was as a planetary cycle when compared with the time of duration of the illuminating spark, which, according to the most beautiful and trustworthy experiments of Prof. Wheatstone, only occupied the millionth part of a second in its duration.Pkotographic News. 76 HOPES AND FEARS. 77 HOPES AND FEARS: OR, SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF A SPINSTER. 1W THE AUTHOR OF THE HEIR OF REDOLYFFE, HEARTSEASE, ETC. PART 1.CHAPTER I. Who ought to go then and who ought to stay? Where do you draw an obvious border line ~? CECIL AND MARY. AMONG the numerous steeples counted from the waters of the Thames, in the heart of the city, and grudged by modern economy as cumberers of the soil of Mammon, may be remarked an abortive little dingy cupola, sur- mounting two large round eyes which have evidently stared over the adjacent roofs ever since the fire that began at Pie Corner and ended in Pudding Lane. Strange that the like should have been esteemed the highest walk of architecture, and yet Honora Charlecote well reme~mbers the days when St. Wulstans was her boast, so large, so clean, so light, so Grecian, so far surpassing damp old Hiltonbury Church. That was at an age when her enthusiasm found indiscriminate food in whatever had a hold upon her affections, the nearer her heart of course the more admirable in itself, and it would be difficult to say which she loved the most ardently, her city home in Woolstone Lane, or Hiltonbury bIt, the old family seat, where her father was a welcome guest whenever his constitution required relaxation from the severe toils of a London rector. Woolstone Lane was a locality that sorely tried the coachmen of Mrs. Charlecotes west- end connections, situate as it was on the very banks of the Thames, and containing little save offices and warehouses, in the midst of which stood Honoras home. It was not the rectory, but had been inherited from city re- lations, and it antedated the fire, so that it was one of the most perfect remnants of the glories of the merchant princes of ancient London. It had a court to itself, shut in by high walls, and paved with round-headed stones, with gangways of flags in mercy to the feet; the front was faced with hewn squares after the pattern of Somerset House, with the like ponderous sashes, and on a smaller scale, the Louis XIV. pediment, ap- parently designed for the nesting-place of swallows and sparrows. Within was a hall, panelled with fragrant, softly-tinted cedar wood, festooned with exquisite garlands of fruit and flowers, carved by Gibbons himself, ~vith all his peculiarities of rounded form and delicate edge. The staircase and floor were of white stone, tinted on sunny days with ic- flections from the windows three medallions of yellow and white glass, where Solomon, in golden mantle and crowned turban, com- manded the division of a stout, lusty child hanging by one leg; superintended tIte erec-~ tion of a temple worthy of ilnarlem; or gra- ciously welcomed a recoiling stumpy vrow of a queen of Sheba, with golden hair all down her back. The river aspect of the house had come to l)erfection at the Elizabethan period, and was sculptured in every available nook with the chevron and three arrows of the Fletchers Company, and a merchants mark, like a figure of four with a curly tail. Here were the oriel windows of the best rooms, looking out on a grass plat, small enough in country eyes, but most extensive for the situation, with straight, gravelled walks, and low lilac and laburnum trees, that came into l)rofuse blos- som long before their country cousins, but which, like the crocuses and snowdrops of the flower borders, hind better be looked at than touched by such as dreaded sooty fingers. These shrubs veiled the garden from the great river thoroughfare, to which it sloped down, still showing traces of the handsome stone steps and balustrade that once had formed the access of the gold-chained alder- man to his sumptuous barge. Along those paths paced, book in Land, a tall, well-grown maiden, of good, straight fea- tures, and clear, pale skin, with eyes and rich 78 luxuriant hair of the same color, a l)eculiarly bright shade of auburn, such as painters of old had loved, and Owen Sandbrook called golden, while Humfrey Charlecote would de- clare he was always glad to see Honors car- rots. More than thirty years ago, personal teach- ing at a London parish school or l)ersonal visiting of the poor ~vas less common than at l)resent, but Honora had been bred up to be helpful, and she had newly come in from a diligent afternoon of looking at the needle- work, and hearing Crossmans Catechism, and Sellon~s abridgment from a demurely dressed race of little girls in tall white caps, bibs and tuckers, and very stout indigo blue frocks. She had been working hard at the endeavor to make the little cockneys, who had never seen a single ear of wheat, enter into Josephs dreams, and was rather weary of their town sharpness coupled with their indifference and want of imagination, where any nature, save human nature, was concerned. I will bring an ear of Hiltonbury wheat home with me some of the best girls shall see me sow it, and I will take them to watch it growing upthe blade, the ear, the full corn in the earpoor dears, if they only had a Hiltonbury to give them some tastes that are not all this hot, busy, eager world! If I could only see one with her lap full of bluebells, but though in this land of Cockaigne of ours, one does not actually pick up gold and silver, I am afraid they are our flowers, and the only ones ~ve esteem worth the picking ; and like old Mr. Sandbrook, we neither understand nor esteem those whose aims are otherwise! 0 Owen, Owen, may you only not be withheld from your glorious career! May you show this hard, money-getting world that you do really, as well as only in word, esteem one soul to he reclaimed above all the wealth that can be laid at your feet! The nephew and heir of the great firm voluntarily surrendering con- sideration, ease, riches, unbounded luxury for the sake of the heathenchoosing a wigwam instead of a west-end l)alace; parched maize rather than the banquet; the backwoods in- stead of the luxurious l)ark; the red Indian rather than the club and the theatre; to be a despised minister rather than a magnate of this great city; nay, or to take his place among the influential men of the land. What has this worn, weary old civilization to offer like thc joy of sitting beneath one of the glori HOPES AND FEARS. ous as])iring pines of America, gazing out on the blue waters of her limpid inland seas, in her fresh pure air, with the simple children of the forest round him, their irincel y forms in attitudes of attention, their dark soft liquid eyes fixed upon him, as he tells them Your Great Spirit, him whom ye ignorantly wor- ship, him declare I unto you, and then, some glorious old chief bows his stately head, throws aside his marks of superstition. I believe, he says, and the hearts of all bend with him; and Owen leads them to the lake, an(l baptizes them, and it is another St. Sac- rament! Oh ! that is what it is to have no- bleness enough truly to overcome the world, truly to turn ones back upon l)leasures arid honorswhat are they to such as this? So mused Honors Charlecote, and then ran indoors with bounding step, to her Schiller, and her hero-worship of Max Piccolomini, to write notes for her mother, and l)ractice for her father the song that was to refresh him for the evening. Nothing remarkable! No; there was noth- ing remarkable in Honora, she was neither more nor less than an average woman of the higher tyl)e. Refinement and gentleneas,~a strong appreciation of excellence, and a love of duty had all been brought out by an ad- mirable education, and by a home devoted to unselfish exertion, varied by intellectual l)leas ures. Other influencesdecidedly traceable in her musingshad shaped her l)rit~cil)les and enthusiasms on those of an ardent Oxo- nian of the early years of William IV., and so bred up, so led by circumstances, Honora with her abilities, high cultivation, and tolera- ble sense, was a fair specimen of what any young lady might be, appearing perhaps somewhat in advance of her contemporaries, I)ut rather from her training than from in- trinsic force of character. The qualities of womanhood well developed, ~vere so entirely the staple of her composition, that there is little to describe in her. Was not she one made to learn, to lean, to admire, to sup- port, to enhance every joy, to soften every sorrow of the object of her devotion? Another picture from Honora Charlecotes life. It is about half after six, on a bright, autumnal morning; and, rising nearly due east, out of a dark, pine-cro~vned hill, the sun casts his slanting beams over an undulating country, clothed in gray mist of tints differing ~vith the distance, the further bills confounded ROPES AND FEARS. with the sky, the nearer dimly traced in pur- ple, and the valleys between indicated by the whiter, woollier vapors that rise from their streams, a goodly land of fertile field and rich wood, cradled on the bosoms of those soft bills. Nestled among the woods, clothing its hol- lows on almost every side rises a low hill, with a species of table-land on the top, scat- tered over with large thorns and scraggy oaks that cast their shadows over the pale buff bents of the short grass of the gravelly soil. Look- ing southward is a lo~v, irregular, old-fashioned house, with two tall gable ends like eyebrows, and the lesser gable of a porch between them, all covered with large chequers of black tim- ber, filled up with cream-colored cement. A straight path leads from the porch between beds of scarlet geraniums, their luxuriant horseshoe leaves weighed down with wet, and china-asters, a drop in every quilling, to an old-fashioned sundial, and beside that dial stands lionora Charlecote, gazing joyously out on the bright morning, and trying for the hundredth time to make the shadow of that green old finger point to the same figure as the hand of her watch. Oh! down, down, theres a good dog, Fly; youll knock me down! Vixen, poor little doggie, pray, look at your paws, as a blue greyhound, and rough black terrier came springing joyously upon her, brushing away the silver dew from the shaven lawn. Down, down, lie down, dogs! and with an obstreperous bound, Fly flew to the new- comer, a young man in the~ robust strength of eight-an d-t~venty, of stalwart frame, very broad in the chest and shoulders, careless, homely, though perfectly gentlemanlike bearing, and hale, hearty, sunburnt face. It was such a look and such an arm as would win the most timid to his side in certainty of tenderness and protection, and the fond v6ice gave the same sense of power and of kindness, as he called out, Hollo, Honor, there you are! Not given up the old fashion? Not till you give me up, Humfrey, she said, as she eagerly laid her neatly gloved fingers in the grasp of the great, broad, horny palm, or at least till you take your gun. So you are not grown wiser? Nor ever will be. Every woman ought to learn to saddle a horse, and fire off a gun. Yes, against the civil war squires are al 79 ways expecting; You shall teach me ~vhen the time comes. Youll never see that time, nor any other, if you go out in those thin boots. Ill fetch Sarahs clogs; I suppose you have not a rea- sonable pair in the world. My boots are quite thick, thank you. Brown paper! And indeed they were a contrast to his mighty nailed soles, and long, untanned bufkins, nor did they greatly resemble the heavy, country-made galoshes which, with an elder brothers authority, he forced her to put on, observing that nothing so completely evinced the Londoner as her obstinacy in never having a pair of shoes that could keep any thing out. And where are you going? To Haywards farm. Is that too far for iou? He wants an abatement of his rent for some imj)rovements, and I want to judge what they may be worth. Hay~vardsoh, not a bit too far! and holding up her skirts, she picked her way as daintily as her weighty ekaussure would per~ mit, along the narrow, green footway that crossed the expanse of dewy turf in which the dogs careered, getting their noses covered with flakes of thick gossamer, cemented to~ gether by dew. Fly scraped it off with a delicate forepaw, Vixen rolled over and doubly entangled it in her rugged coat. Humfrey Charlecote strode on before his coml)anion with his hands in his pockets, and l)eginning to whistle, but pausing to observe, over his shoulder, A sweet day for getting up the roots! Youre not getting wet, I hope? I couldnt through this rhinoceros hide, thank you. How exquisitely the mist is curl- ing ul), and showing the church-spire in the valley. And I suppose you have beenreading all manner of books? I ~hink the best was a great history of France. France! he repeated in a contemptuous John Bull tone. Ay; dont be disdainful; France was the centre of chivalry in the old time. Better have been the centre of honesty.~ And so it was in the time of St. Louis and his crusade. Do you know it, Hum~ frey? Eh? That was full permission. Ever since Ho- nora had been able to combine a narration, 80 Humfrey had been the recipient, though she seldom knew whether he attended, and from her babyhood upwards had been quite con- tented with trotting in the wake of his long strides, pouring out her ardent fancies, now and then getting an answer, but more often going on like a little singing bird, through the midst of his avocations, and quite com- placent under his interruptions of calls to his dogs, directions to his laborers, and warnings to her to mind her feet and not her chatter. In the full stream of crusaders, he led her down one of the multitude of by-paths cleared out in the hazel coppice for sporting; here Leading up a rising ground whence the tops of the trees might be overlooked, some flecked with gold, some blushing into crim- son, and beyond them the needle point of the village spire, the vane flashing back the sun; there bending into a ravine, marshy at the bottom, and nourishing the lady fern, then again crossing glades, where the rabbits darted across the path, and the battle of Da- mietta was broken into by stern orders to Fly to come to heel, and the eating of the nuts which Humfrey pulled down from the branches, and held up to his cousin with superior good- nature. A Mameluke rushed in with a scymitar streaming with blood, and Take care; do you want help over this fence ~ Not I, thank youAnd said he had just murdered the king Vicab! take your nose out of that. Here was a crop, Nora. What was it? You dont mean that you dont know wheat stubble? I remember it was to be wheat. Red wheat, the finest we ever had in this land; not a bit beaten down, and the color perfectly beautiful before harvest, it used to put me in mind of your hair. A load to the acre; a fair specimen of the effect of drain- age. Do you remember what a swamp it was? I remember the beautiful loose-strifes that used to grow in that corner. Ah! we have made an end of that trum- pery. You savage old Humfreybeauties that they were. What had they to do in my cornfields? A place for every thing and every thing in its HOPES AND FEARS. placeFrench kings and all. What was this one doing wool gathering in Egypt? Dont you understand, it had become the point for the blow at the Saracen power. Where was I? Oh! the Mameluke justified the murder, and wanted St. Louis to be king, but Ha! a fine covey, I only miss two out of them. These carrots, how their leaves are turnedthat ought not to be. Honora could not believe that any thing ought not to be that was as beautiful as the varied, rosy tints of the hectic beauty of the exquisitely shaped and delicately pinked foIl- age of the field carrots, and with her cousin s assistance she soon had a large bouquet where no two leaves were alike, their hues ranging from the deepest purple or crimson to the l)alest yello~v, or clear scarlet, like sea-~veed, through every intermediate variety of purple edged with green, green picked out with red or yellow, or vice vers4 in never-ending brib haney, such as Humfrey almost seemed to ap- preciate, as he said., Well, you have some- thing as pretty as your weeds; eb, Honor? I cant quite give up mourning for my dear long purples. All very well by the river, but theresTho beauty in things out of place, like your Louis in Egyptwell, what was the end of this predicament? So Humfrey had really heard, and been interested! With such encouragement, Ho- nora proceeded swimmingly, and had nearly arrived at her heros ransom, through nearly a mile of field-paths, only occasionally inter- rupted by grunts from her auditor at farming not like his own, when crossing a narrow foot- bridge across a clear stream, they stood before a farmhouse, timbered and chimneyed much like the Holt, but with new sashes displacing the old lattice. 0 Humfrey! how could you hing me to see such havoc? I never suspected your would allow it. It was without asking leave; an attention to his bride, and now they want an abatement for improvements! Whew! You should fine him for the damage he has done! I cant be hard on him, he is more or less of an ass, and a good sort of fellow, very good to his laborers; he drove Jem Hurd into the infirmary himself, when he broke hia arm. No; he is not a man to be hard upon. HOPES AND FEARS. You cant be hard on any one. Now that window really irritates my mind. Now Sarah walked down to call on the bride, and came home full of admiration at the l)lace lieing so lightsome and cheerful. Which of you two ladies am I to believe? You ought to make it a duty to improve the general taste! Why dont you build a model farmhouse, and let me make the de- sign? Ay, when I want one that ntbody can live in. Come, it will be breakfast time. Are not you going to have an inter- view? No; I only wanted to take a survey of the alterations; two ~vindows, smart door, iron fence, l)ulled down old barn, talks of another. So lie will get his reduction? If he builds the barn. I shall try to see his wife, she has not been brought up to farming, and whether they get on or not, all depends on the way she may take it up. What are you booking at? That lovely wreath of travellers joy. Do you want it ? No, thank you; it is too beautiful where it is. There is a l)iece, going from tree to tree, by the ililtonbury Gate, as thick as my arm; I just saved it vhen XVest was going to cut it down with the copse ivood. Well, you reall~ are improving at last! I thought you would never let me hear the last of it, besides there was a thrushs nest in it. By and by the cousins arrived at a field where Hnmfreys ~)ortly short horns were coming forth after their milking, under the pilotage of an old white-headed man, bent nearly double, uncovering his head as the squire touched his hat in response, and shonted~ Good-morning! If you l)lease, sir, said the old man, try- ing to erect himself, I wanted to speak to you. Well. If you h)lease, sir, chimney smokes so as a body can scarce bide in the house, and the blacks come down terrible. Wants sweeping, roared Humfrey, into his deaf ears. have swept it, sir; old womans been up with her broom. Old woman hasnt been high enough. LIVING AGE. THIRD SERIES. 405 Send Jack up outside with a rope and a bunch of furze, and let her stand at bottom. Thats it, sir ! cried the old man, with a triumphant snap of the fingers over his shoul- der. Thank ye ! Heres Miss Honor, John, and Honora came forward, her gravity somewhat shaken by the domestic offices of the old woman. Im glad to see you still able to bring out the cows, John. Heres my favorite Daisy as tame as ever. Anan! arid he looked at his master for exh)lanation from the, stronger and more familiar voice. I be deaf, you see, ma am.~, Miss Honor is glad to see Daisy as tame. as ever, shouted Humfrey. Ay! ay! maundered on the old man; she nint done no good of late, and Mr. West and Ius wanted to have fatted her this winter, but the squire, he wouldnt hear on it, because Miss Honor was such a terrible one for her. Says I, ~vhen I hears em say so, we shall have another dinner on the la-an, and the last was when the old squire was married, thirty-five years ago, come Michaclmas. Honora was much disposed to laugh at this freak of the old mans fancy, but to her surprise, Humfrey colored up, and looked 8O~ much out of countenance that a question darted through her mind ~vhether he could have any such step in contemplation, and she l)egan to review the young ladies of the neighborhood, and to decide on each in turn that it. would be intolerable to see her as Humfreys wife; more at home at the Holt than herself. She had ample time for con- teml)lat.ion, for he had become very silent, and once or twice the l)resuml)tuous idea crossed her that he might be actually about to make her some confidence, but when he at length spoke, very near the house, it was only to say, Honor, I wanted to ask you if you think your father would wish me to ask young Sandbrook here. Oh! thank you, I am sure he would be glad. You know poor Owen has nowhere to go, since his uncle has behaved so shame- fully. It must have been a great mortifica- tion To Owen? Of course it was, to be so cast off for his noble purpose. I was thinking of old Mr. Sandbrook Old wretch! Ive no patience with him I Just as he ha8 brought this nephew up 81 82 and hopes to make him useful, and rest some of his cares upon him in his old age, to find him flying off upon this fresh course, and dis- ap~)oioting all his hopes. But it is such a high and grand course, he ought to have rejoiced in it, and Owen is not his son. A man of his age, brought up as he has been, can hardly be expected to enter into Owens views. Of course not. It is all sordid and mean, he cannot even understand the missionary sl)irit of resigning all. As Owen says half the Scripture must l)e hyperbole to him, and so he is beginning Owens persecution al- rea(lv. It was one of Humfreys provoking quali- ties thit no amount of eloquence would ever draw a word of condemnation from him, he would praise readily enough, but censure was very rare with him, and extenuation was al- ways his first impulse, so the more Ilonora railed at Mr. Sandhrooks interference with his xwpliews platis, the less satisfaction she received from him. She seemed to think that in order to admire Owen as he deserved, his uncle must be proportionably reviled, and though Humfrey did not iml)ly a word save in commendation of the young missionarys devotion, she went indoors feeling almost in- jured at his not understanding it; but Hon- oras petulance was a very bright, sunny piq- uancy, and she only appeared the more glowing and animated for it when she presented her- self at the breakfast table, with a preposter- ous country al)l)etite. Afterwards, she filled a vase very tastefully with her varieties of leaves, and enjoied tak- ing in her Cousin Sarah, who admired the leaves greatly while she thought they came from Mrs. Mervyns hothouse; but when she found they were the product of her own furrows, voted them coarse, ugly, withered things, such as only the simplicity of a Ion donor could bring into civilized society. So lionora stood over her gorgeous feathery bouquet, not knowing whether to laugh or to be scornful, till Humfrey, taking up the vase, inquired May I have it for my study. Oh, yes! and welcome, said Honora, laughing, and shaking her glowing tresses at him, I am thankful to any one who stands up for carrots. Good-natured Humfrey, thought she, it is all that I may not be mortified; but after all HOPES AND FEARS. it is not those very good-natured people who best appreciate lofty actions. He is inviting Owen Sandbrook more because he thinks it would please papa, and because he compas~ sionates him in his solitary lodgings, than be- cause he feels the force of his glorious self- sacrifice. The northern slope of the Holt was clothed with fir l)lantations, interspered with narrow paths, which gave admission to the depths of their lonely woodland palace, supported on rudely straight columns, dark save for the snowy exuding gum, roofed in by aspiring beam like arms, bearing aloft their long tufts of dark blue-green foliage, floored by the smooth, slippery, russet needle leaves as they fell, and perfumed by the peculiar fresh smell of turl)entine. It was a still and lonely place, the very sounds making the silence more au- dible (if such an expression may be used), the wind whispering like the rippling waves of the sea in the tops of the l)ines, here and there the cry of a bird, or far, far away, the tinkle of the sheep bell, or the tone of the church clock, and of movement there was al- most as little, only the huge horse ants soberly wending along their highways to their tall hillock thatched with pine leaves, or squirrel in the ruddy, russet livery of the scene, racing from tree to tree, or sitting up with his feathery tail erect to extract with his delicate paws the seed from the base of the fir cone scale. Squirrels there lived t& a good old age, till their plumy tails had turned white, for the squires one fault in the eyes of keepers and gardeners was that he was soft- hearted towards the varment. A Canadian forest on a small scale, an ex- tremely miniature scale indeed, but still Cana- dian forests are of pine, and the Holt planta- tion was fir, and firs were pines, and it was a lonely musing place, and so on one of the stillest, clearest days of St. Luk~s little summer, the last afternoon of her visit at the Holt, there stood Honora, leaning against a tree stem, deep, deep, very deep in a vision of the primeval woodlands of the West, their red inhabitants, and the white man who should carry the true, glad tidings westward, west~ ward, ever from east to west. Did she know how completely her whole spirit and soul were surrendered to the worship of that devo~ tion? Worship? Yes; the word is advisedly used; Honora had once given her spirit in homage to Sohillers self-sacrificing Max, the HOPES AND FEARS. same heart-whole veneration was now ren- dered to the young missionary, multiplied tenfol(l by the hero licitig in a tangible, iisi ble shape, and not by any means inclined to thwart or disdain the allegiance of the golden haired girl. Nay, as family connections fre- qnentlv meeting, they had acted upon each other.~ minds more than either knew, even when the hour of parting had come, and words had been spoken which gave Honora something more to cherish in the image of Owen Sandhrook, than even the hero and saint. There then she stood and dreamt, pensive and saddened indeed, but with a melancholy trenching very nearly on happi- ness in the intensity of its admiration, and the ague ennobling future of devoted useful- ness in which her heart already claimed to share, as her l)elsoil might in some far away period on which she could not dwell. A sound al)Proached, a firm footstep, fall- ing with strong elasticity and such regular ca- dences that it seemed to chime in with the 1)inetree music, and did riot startle her till it caine so near that there was distinctive char- acier to lie discerned in the tread, and then with a strange, new shyness, she would have slipped away, but she had been seen, and Humfrey, with his timber race in his hand, a~ipearetl in the path, exclaiming, Alt, Honor! is it you come out to meet me, like 01(1 times 1 You have been so much taken up with your friend Master Owen that I have scarcely seen you of late. Honor did not move away, h)ut she blushed deeply as she sai(1, I am afraid I did not come to meet you, ILumfrey. No? What, you came for the sake of a brown stu(lv P I ~vish Iliad known you ~vere not husy, for I have been round all the woods marking timhier. A Ii ! said she, rousing herself with some effort, ~IJ wonder how many trees I should have saved from the slaughter. Did you go aii~l CoO(lemn any of my pets? Not that I know of, said I-Iumfrey~ I have touched nothing near the house. Not even the old beech that was scathed wijlt lightning P You know papa says that is the touchstone of influence; Sarah and Mr. West both against me, laughed Honora, (~iiite restored to her natural manner and coiifiding ease. [he beech is likely to stand as long as you wish it, said Humfrey, with an- unac customed sort of matter-of-fact gravity, which surprised and startled her, so as to make her hethink herself whether she could have be bayed ill about it, been saucy to Sarah, or the like. Thank you, she said; have I made ~ fuss No, Honor, he said, with deliberate kind~. ness, shutting up his knife, and ptitting it into his pocket; only I believe it is time we should come to an understanding. More than ever did she exl)ect one of hi~ kind remonstrances, and she looked up at him in expectation, and ready for defence, but his broad, sunburnt countenance looked marvehloushy heated, and he paused ere he spoke. I find I cant spare you, Honora, you had better stay at the Holt for good. Her cheeks flamed, and her heart galloped, but she could not let herself understand. Honor, yot are old enough now, and I do not think you need fear. It is almost your home already, and I believe I can make you happy, with the blessing of God He paused, but as she could not frame an answer in her consternation, continued, Perhaps I should not have shioken so suddenly, but ! thought you would not mind me, I should like to have had one word from my little Honor before I go to your father, but dont if you had rather not. Oh! dont go to papa; please dont, she cried; it would only make him sorry. - Humfrey stood as if under an unexpected shock. Oh! how came you to think of it? she said in her distress; I never did, and it can never beI am so sorry! Very well, my dear, do not grieve about it, said Humfrey, only bent on soothing her; .1 dare say you are quite right, you are used to h)eoPle in London much more suitable to you titan a stupid, homely fellow hike me, sLadi it was a foolish fancy to think it might be otherwise. Dont cry, Honor dear; I cant bear that! 0 Humfrey! only understand, please! You are the very dearest person in the world to me after papa and mamma, and as to fine London l)eople, oh, no! indeed. But It is Owen Sandbrook; I understand, said Humfrey, gravely. Site made no denial. But Honor, he anxiously~exclaimed, you 83 84 are not going out in this wild way among the backwoods, it would break your mothers heart, and he is not fit to take care of you. I mean he cannot think of it now. Oh, no, no! I could not leave papa and mamma, but some time or other Is this arranged? Does your father know it? 0 Humfrey, of course! Then it is an engagement? No, said Honora, sadly; papa said I was too young, and he wished I had heard noth- ing about it. We are to go on as if nothing had happened, and I know they think we shall forget all about it! As if we could! Not that I wish it to be different. I know it would be wicked to desert papa and mamma when she is so unwell. The truth is, Hum- frey, and her voice sank, that it cannot be while they live. My poor little Honor! he said in a tone of the most unselfish compassion. She had entirely forgotten his novel aspect, and only thought of him as the kindest friend to whom she could open her heart. Dont pity me, she said in exultation think what it is to be his choice. Would I have him give up his aims, and settle down on the loveliest village in England? No, in- deed; for then it would not be Owen! I am happier in the thought of him than I could he with every thing present to enjoy. I hope you will continue to find it so, he said, repressing a sigh. I should be ashamed of myself if I did not, she continued with glistening eyes. Should not I have patience to wait while he is at his real glorious labor? And as to home, thats not altered, only better and brighter for the definite hope and aim that will go through every thing, and make me feel all I do a preparation. Yes, you kno~v him well, said Humfrey; you saw him constantly when he was at Westminster. Oh, yes, and always! Why, Humfrey, it is my great glory and pleasure to feel that he formed me! When he went to Oxford, he brought me home all the thoughts that have been my better life. All my dearest books we read together, and what used to look dry and cold.gained light and life after he touched Yes, I see. His tone reminded her of what had passed, HOPES AND FEARS. and she said, timidly, I forgot! I ought not! I have vexed you, Humfrey. No, he said in his full, tender voice; I see that it was in vain to think of competing with one of so much higher claims. If he goes on in the course he has chosen, yours will have been a noble choice, Honor, and I believe, he added, with a sweetness of smile that almost made her forgive the if that you are one to be better pleased so than with more ordinary happiness. I have no doubt it is all right. Dear Humfrey, you are so good! she said, struck with his kind resignation, and utter absence of acerbity in his disappoint- ment. Forget this, Honora, he said, as they were coming to the edge of the pine wood; let us be as we ~vere before. Honora gladly promised, and except her wonder at such a step on the l)art of the cousin whose plaything and pet she had hith- erto been, she had no temptation to change her manner. She loved him as much as ever, but only as a kind, elder brother, and she was glad he was ivise enough to see his immeas- urable inferiority to the young missionary. It was a wonderful thing, and she was sony for his disappointment; but, after all, lie took it so quietly that she did not think it could have hurt him much. It was only that he wanted to keel) his pet in the country. He was not capable of love like Owen Sand- brooks. Years passed on. Rumor had bestowed Mr. Charlecote of Hiltonbury, on every lady within twenty miles, but still in vain. His mother was dead, his sister married to an old college fellow, who had waited half a lifetime for a living, but still he kept house alone. And open house it was, with a dinner table ever expanding for chance guests, strawberry or syllabub feasts half the summer, and Christ- mas feasts extending wide on either side of the twelve days. Every one who wanted a holiday was free of the Ilolt; young sI)orts- men tried their inexperienced guns under the squires patient eye; and mammas disposed of their children for weeks together, to enjoy the run of the house and garden, and rides according to age, on pony, donkey, or Mr. Charlecote. No festivity in the neighborhood was complete without his sunshiny presence; he was wanted wherever there was any family event; and was godfather, guardian, friend, HOPES AND FEARS. and adviser of all. Every one looked on him as a sort of exclusive l)roperty, yet he had room in his heart for all. As a magistrate, he was equally indispensable in county gov- ernment, and a charity must be undeserving indeed that had not Humfrey Charlecote, Esq., on the committee. In his own parish he was a beneficent monarch; on his own estate a mighty farmer, owning that his relax- ation and delight were his turnips, his bul- locks, and machines; and so content with them, and with his guests, that Honora never recollected that walk in the pine woods with- out deciding that to have monopolized him ivould have been an injury to the public, and perhaps less for his happiness than this free, open-hearted bachelor life. Seldom did she recall that scene to mind, for she had never been by it rendered less able to trust him as her friend and l)rotector, and she stood in need of his services and his comfort, when her fathers death had left him the nearest relative, who could advise or transact business for her and her mother. Then, indeed, she leant on him as on the kindest an(1 most help- ful of brothers. Mrs. Charlecote was too much acclimatized to the city to be willing to give up her old residence, and Honor not only loved it fondly, but could not bear to withdraw from the local charities vhere her tasks had hitherto lain and Woolstone Lane, therefore, continued their home, though the summer and autumn usually took them out of London. Such was the change in Honoras outward life. How was it with that inmost shrine where dwelt her heart and soul P A copious letter-writer, Owen Sandbrooks correspond- ence never failed to find its way to her, though they did not stand on such terms as to write to one another; and in those letters she lived, doing her days work with cheerful brightness, and seldom seeming pre-occupied, but im- agination, heart, and soul were with his mis- sion. Very indignant was she when the authori- ties, instead of sending him to the interesting children of the forests, thought l)1ol)er to waste him on mere colonists, some of them Yankee, some Presbyterian Scots. He was asked insolent, nasal questions, his goods were coolly treated as common proj)erty, and it was intimated to him on all hands that as English- man lie was little in their eyes, as clergyman less, and as gentleman least of all. Was this what he had sacrificed every thing for P By dint of strong comI)laints and entreaties, after he had quarrelled with most of his flock, he accomplished an exchange into a district where red men formed the chief of his charge; and Honora was happy, ~nd watched for his- tories of noble braves, gallant hunt~rs, and meek-eyed squaws. Slowly, slowly she gathered that the l)ictur- esque (leer skins had become dirty blankets, and that the diseased, filthy, sophisticated savages were among the worst of the l)itiable sl)ecimens of the effect of contact with the most evil side of civilization. To them, as Owen ~vrote, a missionary was only a white man ~vho gave no brandy, and the rest of his l)arishioners were their obdurate, greedy, trading tempters! It had been a shame to send him to such a hopeless set, when there were others on whom his toils would not be thrown away. However, he should do his best. And Honora vent on expecting the wonders his best would work, oak the more struck with admiration by hearing that the locality was a swamp of luxuriant vegetation, and. equally luxuriant fever and ague; andthe letter he wrote thence to her mother on the news of their loss did her more good than all Humfreys considerate kindness. Next, he had had the ague, and had gone to Toronto for change of air. Report spoke of Mr. Sandbrook as the most l)ol)IIlar preacher who had appeared in Toronto for years, at- tracting numbers to his l)ulpit, and sending them away enraptured by his liower of lan- guage. how beautiful that a man of such talents, al~vays so much stimulated by appre ciation, should give up all this most con- genial scene, and devote himself to his ob- scure mission! Report said more, but Honora gave it no credit till old Mr. Sandhrook called one morning in Woolstone Lane, by his nephews desire, to announce to his friends that he had formed an engagement with Miss Charteris, the daughter of a general officer there in comm and. Honor sat out all the conversation; and Mrs. Charlecote did not betray her, though burning with a mothers ~vrath, she did noth- ing worse than hope they would be happy. Yet Honor had not dethroned the monarch 85 HOPES AND FEARS. .,f her imagination. She reiterated to her- self and to her mother that she had no ground of complaint, that it had been under- stood that the past was to he forgotten, and that Owen was far more worthily employed than in dwelling on them. No blame could attach to him, and it was wise to choose one accustoiuied to the country and able to carry out his l)lans. The personal feeling might go, l)ut veneration survived. Mrs. Charlecote never rested till she had learnt all the particulars. It was a dashing, fashionable family, and Miss Charteris had been the gayest of the gay, till she had been impressed by Mr. Sandhrooks ministrations. From pope to lover, Honor knew how easy the transition; but she zealously nursed her ad- niiration for the heauty, exchanging her gaye- ties for the forest missions, she made her mother write cordially, and send out a pretty gift, and treated as a personal affront all re- Ports of the Charteris disapprobation, and of the self-will of the young l)eol)le. They were married, and the next news that Honora heard was, that the old general had had a fit from passion; thirdly, came tidings that the eldest son, a prosperous M.P., had not only effected a reconciliation, but had obtained a capital living for Mr. Sandbrook, not far from the family-seat. Mrs. Cht~rlecote declared that her daugh- ter should not stay in town to meet the young coul)le, and Honoras resistance was not so much dignity, as a feverish spirit of opposition, which succumbed to her sense of duty, hut not without such wear and tear of strained ~heerfulness and suppressed misery, that when at length her mother had brought her away, the fatigue of the journey completed the work, and she was prostrated for weeks by low fever. The blow had fallen. He had put his hand to the plough and looked back. Faithlessness towards herself had been l)assed over unrecognized, faithlessn ess towards his self-consecration was quite otherwi~e. That which had absorbed her affections and adora- tion had proved an unstable, excitable being! Alas! would that long ago she had opened her eyes to the fact that it was her own lofty spirit, not his steadfastness, which had first kept it out of the question that the mission should be set aside for human love. The crash of her idolatry was the greater because it had been so highly pitched, so closely in- termingled ~vith the true worship. She ~vas long ill, the past series of disappointments telling when her strength was reduced and for many a week she would lie still and dreamy, hut fretted and wearied so as to control her- self with difficulty ~vhen in the slightest de- gree disturbed, or called upon to move or think. When her strength returned under her mothers tender nursing, the sense of duty revived. She thought her youth utterly gone, with the thinning of her hair and the wasting of her cheeks, but her mother must be the object of her care and solicitude, and she would exert herself for her sake, to save her grief, and hide the ~vound left by the rending away of the jewel of her heart. So she set herself to seem to like whatever her mother proposed. and she acted her interest so well that insensibly it became real. After all, she was but four-and-tiventy, and the feve had served as an expression of the feel- ing that ~vould have its way she had had a long rest which had relieved the sense of I)ent up and restrained suffering, and vigor and buoyancy were a part of her character; her tone and manner resumed their cheerfulness, her sl)irits came bnck, and though still ii4th the dreary feeling that the hope and aim of life were gone, when she was left to her own musings; she was little chonged, and ~vent on with daily life, contented and lively dyer the details, and returning to her interest in read- ing, in art, ~)oetry, and in all good works, while her looks resumed their brightness, and her mother congratulated herself once more on the rounded cheek and profuse curls. At the years end Humfrey Charlecote re- newed his l)rol)osal. It was no small shock to find herself guilty of his having thus long remained single, and she was touched by his kind forbearance, l)ut there was no bringing herself either to love him, or to believe that he loved her, with such love as had been her vision. The image around which she had bound her heartstrings came between him and her, and again she begged his pardon and told him she liked him too well as he was to think of him in any other light. Again he, with the most tender patience and huniil- ity, asked her to forgive him for having liar- assed her, and betrayed so little chagrin that she ascribed his offer ~o generous compassion at her desertion. 36 NEW rOEMS. From The North British Review. 1. Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dia- lect; with a Dissertation and Glossary. By William Barnes. Second Edition. London, 1847. 8vo. 2. Hwomely Rhymes. A Second collection of Poems in the Dorset Dialect. By William Barnes. London, 1859. Svo. 3. The Burns ceiitenary Poems. A collec- tion of Fifty of the Best out of many Hundreds written on occasion of the centenary celebration. Selected and Edited by George Anderson and John Finlay. Glasgow, 1859. Svo. MR. WILLIAM BARNES is a Dorsetshire clergyman, who appears to consider that his forte lies in philology and antiquarianism, and to be endowed with a naive ignorance of the fact that he is one of our very first I)oets. To this ignorance we perhaps owe no small part of the singular charm which delights us in his writings. There is no other living writer in whom an equal amount of artistic faculty is combined with so great a freedom from all species of artifice. At the risk of dehauching this simplicity of mind in the poet, we feel hound as critics to do our best towards preventing our readers from remain- ing in a similar ignorance of the value of his poetry. Are Quarterly Reviewers always to follo~v the lead of the l)ol)ular cry, and the voices of the minor J)eriodicals, instead of boldly assuming the responsibility of being themselves leaders of literary opinion P We have more than once shown that such is not our view of our duties. We now speak our mind about Mr. Barnes just as openly as if his poetry had already attained that popular admiration to which our readers, before they shall have finished this article, will agree with us that it is surely destined. The honor and pleasure of being probably the first to introduce the poetry of Mr. Barnes to the notice of the majority of our readers, would certainly not have devolved upon us at this time of day, and after much of that poetry has been already many years before the world, were it not for one or two circumstances, which it seems necessary to point out, in order to account for the hitherto limited audience obtained by the Dorsetshire poet. The fact that the poems are composed in a dialect which, however simply and l)honeti- cally spelt, must still offer a slight difficulty, at the outset, to their comprehension, would alone go far towards explaining the little notice which Mr. Barnes has hitherto obtained from the public. But the poet, until the ap- pearance of his last volume, which is only just out, and which is comJ)arat.ively easy to read, has done his very best to aggravate this obstacle to his reputation. For example, be- cause the Dorset dialect is more nearly al- lied to the ancient Anglo-Saxon than our pres- ent ordinary language is, Mr. Barnes has thought proper to assimilate his orthography to the Anglo-Saxon so fat~ as to employ the Anglo-Saxon sign for the th, with the result that, to the ordinary reader, the first glance at one of his ])ages is fatal to any further at- teml)t. This, and other antiquarian self-in- dulgences, Mr. Barnes has most wisely denied himself in his ne~v volume ; and the conse- quence already is, that his name has, in a few months, established itself in the most select private literary circles, as that of a firstrate l)oet. In this last vobjme, which is called Hwomely Rhymes, the dialect, after half an hours acquaintance with it, is nothing but an a(lditiOnal charm. For, not to speak of the pleasing freshness and mental excitement which accompany the perusal of even or~ dinary ideas and descriptions in a language or dialect to which we are comparatively un- used, there is a real l)oetic superiority in the dialect of the south-western counties of Eng- land, for subjects of a siml)le rural character, which fully justifies Mr. Barnes in his ad- miration and adoption of this form of Eng- lish. Mr. Barnes has intensified, in his earlier volume, the above causes of unpopularity by giving that publication a distinctly and avo~v edly antiquarian air. The publisher, Mr. John Russell Smith, is an antiquarian pub- lisher; and before the reader is allo~ved a sip of the pure well of Dorset undefiled, he is expected to ~vade through fifty pages of dry philological dissertation. We have said enough to exl)Iain, though not to justify, the peoples hitherto neglect of so remarkable a poet as we shall now show Mr. Barnes to be. We cannot, in few words, express the gen- eral character of this gentlemans poetry better than by saying that it combines, in a high degreee, the special merits of Words- worth and Burns, but in a way which is so perfectly original as to bear no trace of even a perusal of those poets by the author. 87 88 In(leed, we have never before read verses of which it was so hard to trace the artistic ped- igree. But for that fulness of artistic heauty which seems never to have been attained at a leap and without l)recedent, we should say that all Mr. Barnes poetry might have been ~vritten by him had no other poet ever lived. There is, however, no oddity or straining after originality. Nothing can he more sim- pIe, straightforward, and unaffected. These verses are down to the comprehension of the siml)lest rustic, and up to the requirements of the most fastidious and novelty-seeking critic. Let us hear the writers o~vn account of his purpose in writing The author thinks his readers will find his poems free of slang and vice, as tl)ey are written from the associations of an early youth that was l)assed among rural families in a secluded l)art of the country, ~l)Ofl whose sound Christian principles, kindness, and harmless cheerfulness, he can still think with com~)lacency; and he hopes that if his little work should fall into the hands of a rcader of that class in whose language it is written, it would not be likely to damp his love of God, or slacken the tone of his moral sentiment, or lower the dignity of his self esteem ; ns his intention is not to show u p the simplicity of rural life as an object of sport, but to utter the happy emotions with which the mind can, and be thinks should, conteml)late the charms of rural nature, and the better feelings and more harmless joys of the families of the small farmhouse and happy cottage. As he has not ~vritteu for readers who have had their lots cast in town occupations of a highly civilized community, an(l cannot sympathize with the rustic mind, he can har(lly hope that they ~vill understand either his l)OC~5 or his intention ; since, with the not uncommon notion that every change from the plough towards the desk, or from the (lesk towards the couch of empty-handed idlenes., is an onward stel) to~vards happi- ness antl intellectual and moral excellence, they will most likely find it very hard to con- ceive that wisdom and goodness would be found speaking in a dialect that may seem to them a fit vehicle only for the animal wants and l)assiol~s of a boor. r1~he author, how- ever, is not ashamed to say, that after read- ing some of the best compositions of many of the most polished languages, he c~n con- teml)late its pure and strong Saxon features with perfect satisfaction, and has often found the simlile truths enunciated in the pithy sentences of village patriarchs only expanded by the weaker worldliness of modern compo- sition into high-sounding paragraphs. NEW POEMS. Mr. Barnes, in his first volume, fulfilled the essentials of the kind of popularity he here l)rofesses to seek, as com~)letely as he suc- ceeded in nullifying those essentials by the outward conditions of which we have com- plained. We take the liberty of earnestly urging upon him the propriety, in future edi- tions of his first collection, of popularizing his orthography to an even greater extent than lie has done in the Hwomely Rhymes; for lie has no right to do any thing that un- necessarily limits poetry of such universal in- terest and application to a local audience. The tender and profound reflective element in Mr. Barnes poetry, which detects moral beauty in unsuspected l)laces, and expresses it in a ~vay to touch all hearts, is well illustrated by the conclusion of the following little poem, called Beaden oc a head-stone. It will remind our readers at once of Wordsworths famous We are seven, to which it is scarcely, if at all, inferior either in beauty or originality. As I wer readen ov a stwone In Grenley chnrcb-yard all alone, A little maid runnd up wi pride To zee me there, an pushd a-zide A bunch o bennits that did hide - A vess her faethier, as she zed, Put up above her mothers head, rI~o tell how much e lovd her. vess wer very good, hot shart, I stood an larnd en off by heart Mid God, dear Miary, gie me greace To vind, like thee, a better pheace, Wher I oonce muore mid zee the feace; An bring thy children up to know His word, that they mid come an show Thy soul how much I lovd thee. Whers faether, then, I zed, my chile V Dead, too, she answer(l wi a smite; An I an brother Jim da bide At Bekty Whites, o other zide 0 road. Mid He, my chile, I cried, Tlsnts Faether to the f~tether1ess, Become thy faether now, an bless, An keep and lead and love thee. Though sheve a-lost, I thonght, so moch, Still He dent let the thooghts ot touch Her litsome heart by day ar night; An zoo, if we coed tiake it right, Da show hell miake his bordens tight, 1o weaker soulf, an that His smile Is sweet upon a harmless chile, When they be dead that lovd it. How admirable is this discovery and poetical expression of a beneficent law of our nature, in what would have appeared to a vulgar NEW POEMS. writer nothing but childish fickleness and poverty of affection! Mr. Barnes is the best writer of rustic eclogues since Theocritus. His pieces in this kind are almost too exquisite in their artistic simlllicity and truthfulness to he widely ap- preciated at once. The following called Father come huome, is only a~ average specimen of many gems of the same kind in Mr. Barnes volumes CHILE. 0 mother, mother! be the tiaties done ~ Heres father now a comen down the track, E got his aitch o wood upon his hack, An sich a speaker in en! Ill be bonn Es long enonbh to reach vrom groun Up to the top ov oner tun ; * Tis jist the very thing var Jack an I To goo a colepccksea I wi, hy an by. WIFE. The tiaties must be ready pirty nigh; Do tiake oone up upon the fark an try. The kiake upon the vier, too, s a-huruen, I he afeard: do run an zee, an turn en. JOHN. Well, mother, here I be oonce muore at huome. WIFE. All, I be very glad ya be a-come. Ya be a-tirc(l an cuold enough I spose. Zit down, an rest yer buones na ~varma yer nose. JOIIN. Why I be nippy: what is ther to eat WIFE. Yer suppers nearly ready. Ive a-got Some tiaties here a-doea in the pot; I wish Wi all my heart I had some meat. I got a little kiake too, here, a-beaken on Upon tile vier. Tis done by this time, though. Es nice an moist; var when I wer a-miaken on, I stuck some bits of apple in tile doigh. CHILE. Well, father, what dye think l The pig got out This marnen, an avore we zeed ar heard en, E runnd about an got into the giarden, An routed up the groun zoo wi Ilis snout! JOHN. Now only think o that! You must contrive To keep en in, ar else hell never thrive. CHILE. An father, what dye think l I voun to-day The nest wher tilik ~vold hen ov ours da lay: Twer out in archet iledge, an had five aggs. WIFE. Lok there: how wet ya got yer veet an laggs! How did ye get in such a pickle, Jahn I SE Tun, chimney. t Colepeck-sen, to beat down apples. JOHN. I broke my hoss,* an ben a-fuossed to stan Als da in mud an water var to dig, An, made myzeif so watshod as a pig. CHILE. Father, tiake off yer shoes, an gie em to I; Here be yer ~void oones var ye, nice an dry. WIFE. An have ye got much Iledgen muore to do I JOHN. Enougil to leste var dree weeks muore ar zoo. WIFE. An when yave done tile job ya he about, Dye tilink yall have another vound ye out I JOHN. 0 ces, therell be some Inuore: when I done tilat, I got a job o treuchen to goo at; An then zome trees to sllroud, an wood to veil, Zoo I do Ilope to rub on pirty well Till zummer time; an tilen I be to cut The wood, and do tile trenchen by the tut.f CHILE. An nex week, father, I be gwian to goo A-pickeu stuones, ya know, var Farmer True. WIFE. An little Jack, ya know, is gwain to yarn A penny too, a-keepen birds off earn. JOhN. 0 brave! what wages do er mean to gie I WIFE. She dreppence var a day, an twopence be. JOHN. Well, Polly ; thee must work a little spracker When thee bist out, ar else thee wuten pick A dung-pot luond o stuones up in a wik. CHILE. Oh, ees I sholl. But Jack da want a clacker; ~ An father, wull ye tiake an cut A stick ar two to miake his lInt. JohN. Ya little wench! why, thee bist always baggen. I be too tired now to-nigilt, Im sure, To zet a-doen any muore; Zoo I silall ,~oo up out o tile woy o the waggon. Fatigued, as we critics are, with a school of poetry whicil is satisfied with a poem only on condition of its being one galaxy of striking lines, how can we be sufficiently grateful to Mr. Barnes for having given us many pieces whiell, like the above, are fine poems without having a single poetical idea in them P SE floss, horse; the name given to the plank used by hedgers to stand upon. I To work by tile tnt is to work by tile piece. ~ Glacicer, a rattle for keeping birds from corn. 89 NEW POEMS. Furthermore, how can society thank him enough for the far nobler work of having made the Biitish laboring classes, for the first time, really interesting, from an imaginative and l)oetical 1)oint of view? Wordsw~ortb failed in his systematic endeavor to do this; and, in Burns l)oetry of the same kind, there is too frequently a protesting tone against the higher orders to allow of its being at all equal, in this respect, to the poetry of Mr. Barnes, who is as wide in his sympathies as he is genial. Among the many beauties of the foregoing eclogue, we beg our readers to notice the truth and power with which the rustic satisfaction in the prosl)ect of ~)lenty of work is given ; the strong yet delicate touch by which gratitude to Heaven is expressed in the question of the wife An when y~ ye done the job ya be about, Dye think ya1l have another vound ye out? the similar force and delicacy with which Johns combined vexation and good-nature are given, in his ans~ver to the news that the pig had got loose: Niw ou1~, think o that! You must contrive To keep him in, or else hell never thrive the admirable way in which the weariness and goO(l temper of the laborer and the diligence of the wife to please him are thrown into dramatic relief by the words of the child, al- ways concerned with itself; and, finally, the rhythmical beauty of the last lines, and the al)l)rol)riateness and quaintness of the pro- verbial sentence with which the whole poem ends. But this, like all Mr. Barnes poems, does not depend upon excellences of detail, so much as upon the absolute truth, siml)lic ity, and humanity of the general tenor. We trust that Mr. Barnes is wrong in supposing that his poetry is unfitted to delight readers who have ~had their lots cast in town occupa- tions of a highly civilized community, and in thinking that such persons cannot sympa- thize with the rural mind. We believe that he is destined to find the majority and the most heartily sympathetic of his readers among such persoi~s. We can assure him that we have found his poetry admired among our acquaintances, in precise proportion to the height and urban character of their cul- ture. And this is natural enough. Who like a Londoner for appreciating a whiff of coun- try air? And, in these l)oems, we have not only the country itself described in touches of truth and tenderness scarcely rivalled by any modern poet, but, what is infinitely more refreshing to the metropolitan mind, the very life of rustic humanity, exl)ressed with such sur~)rising truthfulness that the slightest in- cident becomes interesting. One eclogue is the quarrel of a couple of haymakers as to which of them can do most work in the day; another ~ the talk of three or four rustics during the process of getting a loaded wagon out of a rut; another discusses the threatened inclosure of the common; a fourth contains the enumeration of the various accidents by ~vhich the teeth of a hay-rake have disap- peared: and so on. To have made such sub- jects interesting without falsifying them, as all other rural l)oets in modern times have clone, is a J)roof of high poetical power. But to such sul)jeets Mr. Barnes has by no means restricted himself. We have love eclogues, and even political eclogues. The question of the ballot itself moves harmonious num- bers. Mr. Barnes, we find, is no Radical or Chartist, though eminently a poet of the people. TOM. Ay, ay. But we woud have a better plan 0 voten, than the oone we got. A man, As things be now, ya know, cant goo ~n vote Agen another man, but he must knowt. Well have a box. an bals, var voten men To pop ther hans ithin, ya know; an then, If oone dont happen var to like a man, Ell drap a little black hal vrom his ban An zcnd en huome agen. E woont be led To choose a man to tiake awoy his bread. JOHN. But if a man ya wouden like to front, Shood chance to cal upon ye, Tom, soome dae, An ax ye var yer vote, what cood ye zae Why if ya wondcn answer, ar shood grunt Ar bark, hed know ya meand I.wont. To promise oone a vote an not to gie t, Is but to be a liar and a cheat. An then bezides, when he did count the halts, Au vind white promises wer hafe turnd black, Why then hed think the voters al a pack 0 rogues to-gither. When Mr. Barnes rel)resents rustic lovers, he does not put fine ladies into cotton gowns, and fine gentlemen into corduroy, and set them to talk modern sentiment in delicate phraseology; but he gives us the people themselves, with their rough and bold 51)eech and manners, and the strong and simple cur- rent of their homely passions. 90 NEW POEMS. All the love-poetry, of which there is abundance in Mr. Barnes volumes, is as pure as it is hearty, and, as must be the case xvith all good love-poetry, it is sometimes exquis- itely subtle. There is admirable grace, ten- derness, and psychological truth about the following lines. The lover meets his sweet- heart coming from milking: An zo I took her pail, and left 11cr neck a-freed vrom all its heft; An she, a-looken up and down Wi sheaply head an glossy crown, Then took my zide, an kept my pace, A-talken on wi smilen face, An zetten things in sich a liqht, Id fain ha heard her talk all night; An when I brought her milk avore The geate, she took it into door, An if her pail had but allowd Her head to vail, she would ha bowd; An still, as twer, I had the ziqht Oa her sweet smile, droughout the night. Mr. Barnes poetry is, above all things, human. The objects of external nature are interesting to him chiefly in connection with human associations; and the consequence is, thnt, when he does describe them, it is with a depth and delicacy fnr beyond the capacity of the best word-painters who at present almost monopolize the field of poetry. Let us string together a few specimens of the innumerable brief and forcible descriptions which Mr. Barnes scatters around his main themes with a most delightful unconsciousness of their poetic value. Here is a landscape Though cool avore the sheen~n sky Do vail the sheades below the copse, The timber-trees, a-reachen high, Ha xunsheen on their lofty tops, Where yonder lands a-lyen plowd An red below the snow-white cloud, 4n viocks o pitchen rooks do uwold Their wings to walk upon the mwold. Here are cows coming up to milking, and a-flingen Wide-bowd horns, or slowly swingen Right an left their tnfty tails, As they do goo a-huddled droo The geate n-leaden np vrom river. A girl at work is thus described The air ithin the gearden ~vall War deadly still, unless the bee Did hummy by, or in the hall The clock did ring a-hetten dree; An there, xvi busy hands, inside The iron ceasement opend wide, Did xit and pull xvi nimble twitch Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deane. Here are some of the sights which gladden a shepherds life An I da zee the frisken lams, Wi swingen tails and woolly lags, A-playen roun their feeden dams, An pullen o their milky bags. An I, bezide a hawtharn tree, Da zit upon the zunny down, While shiades o zummer clouds da vlee Wi silent flight along the groun. An there, among the many cries 0 sheep an lams, my dog da pass A zultry hour, wi blinken eyes, An nose a-stratchd upon the grass. But, in a twinklen, at my xvord Hes all awake, an up an gone Out roun the sheep like any bird, To do what hes a-zent upon. Here is l)art of a farmers account of his flitting on Liady Day, and how he Borrowd uncles wold boss Dragon To bring the slowly lumbren waggon An luoad: an vust begun a-packea The bedsteads, wi their ropes an sacken; An vier-dogs, an copper kittle, Wi cracks an sasspans big an little; An fryan-pan, var aggs to slide In butter roun its hissen side, An gridires even bars, to bear The drippen steak above the gliare 0 brightly-glowen coals. An then, All up o top o they agen, The woaken board, wher we did eat Our crust o bread or bit o meat, Var he ther wouden bee noo doen Ithout at all An then we laid the wold clock-kiase, All dumb, athirt upon his face, Var wed a-left, I needen tell ye, Noo works ithin his head or belly. * * * * * An beds an other things bezide, An at the very top a-tied, The childerns little stools did lie, Wi lags a-turned towards the sky. Mr. Barnes is never happier that when he treats of the so seldom happily treated sub- jects of love for wife and children. Almost all the poetry we have ever read on this sub- ject is obviously insincere. The writers think they ought to love wife and children, and therefore make loud metrical professions, which have none of the infallible signs of be.. ing the truth. One of these signs is subtlety of observation. Love alone can give the depth and refinement of perception which appears in such phrases as An as our chile in loose-li,abd rest Lay pale upon her mothers breast. And again, When sweet-breathd childerns hangen heads Be laid wi kisses on their beds. 91 NEW POEMS. Another of these signs is the habit of dwelling Ul)O~ little acts of love which are too insignif- icant for pretentious l)rofessors of the domes- tic affections to see any thing in, as The while their mothers needle sped, Too quick for zight, the snow-white thread, Unless her han, wi loven ceare, 1)id snaoothe their little heads o heair. No stray passages, however, can do justice to the pectiliar characteristics of Mi. Barnes 1)netr~. In a truly original poet, it is some- times very difficult to l)Oint out what it is which constitutes the quality of originality. It is most usually a prevailing tone, which only makes itself felt from the perusal of a great deal of his poetry. As it is not the highest kind of human character which de- velopes itself in the course of half-an-hours talk with a stranger, so it is not the worthiest sl)ecies of originality which gives to every pas- sage of 1)oetry an individuality so decided as to he al)l)reciable by a reader who is ac- quairaed with that only. The tender and hearty domesticity, which is the chief charm of these poems, makes itself felt in a thousand little touches, which are separately, of little apparent significance. The following piece, called The Bachelor, will Perhal)s give our readers as good a notion of the quality of Mr. Barnes lyrics as any other THE nACHELOR. No! I dont begrudge en his life Nor his goold, ncr his housen, nor lands; Teake all ot, and gie me my wife, A wifes be the cheapest ov hands. Lie al~voue! sigh aiwone! die aiwone Then he vorgot. No, I he coitent xvi my lot. Ah! where be the vingers so feair, Vor to pat en so soft on the feace, To mend every stitch that do tear, An keep every button in pleace I Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore! Buttons a-vied! Vor want ov a wife xvi her dred. Ak! where is the sweet pirty head That do nod till hes gone out o zight? An where be the white earms a-spread, To show e,i hes welcome at night? Dine aiwone! pine aiwone! whine al- woiae! Ill have a Oh! what alife! freixd in a wife. An when vrom a meeten o meth Each husban do lead hwome his bride, Thcii he do slink hwome to his heth, Wi his earm hangen down his cold zide. Sunken on! blinken on! thinken on! Gloomy an glum! Nothen but dullness to come. An when e do onlock his door, Do rumble as hollors a drum, An the vearies a-hid roun the vloor, Do grin i-or to zee en so glum. Keep alwone! sleep aiwone! weep al- wone! There let en bide, Ill have a wife at my zide. But when hes a-laid on his bed In a zickness, oh, what ~vull he do! Vor the hands that would lift up his head, An sheake up his pillor anew. Ills to come! pills to come! hills to come! No soul to sheare The trials the poor wratch must bear. Mr. Barnes is rich in a quality which is sadly wanting in almost all contemporary poetswe mean, humor; but our extracts have already extended too far to allow of our giving more than one brief touch. A rustic is talking to another about a certain great yew-tree No, tis long years agone, but do linger as clear In my mind though as if Id n-heard it to year. When King George wer in IDoset, an sho~ved his round fence By our very own doors, and our very own pleace, That he lookd at this yew-tree, an nodded his head, An e zaid,au Ill tell ye the words that e zaid: ill be bound, ~f youll search my domialoas all drew, That you woont vind the fellor to thik there wold ye . Mr. Barnes poems are all such as a clergy- man should have written; but there is, not- ~vithstanding, a singular absence of didactic character or clerical tone. The verses abound in excellent morality, but it is always clothed in wit, humor,, and poetic sentiment. For example Theres noo good o goold, but to buy what ull meake Vor happiness here among men; An who would gic happiness up vor the seake 0 zome money to buy it agean Vor twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is ~vise, Lik money vor money, Or zellen oones money to buy zomehat sweet. It is with regret that we part with Mr. Barnes. whose poetry, we are sure will recom- mend itself ~)eculiarly to readers on this side of the Tweed; for it resembles the poetry of our great national l)oet more nearly than that of any other English poet does. We must, 92 NEW POEMS. however, reserve a little space for another volume which stands at the head of this arti- cle; namely, the collection of poem~selected from the six hundred and odd which were sent in for the l)rize offered by the Crystal Palace Company, on occasion of the Burns Anniversary. We confess that we have not been able to rival the patieilce of the umIlires in the perusal of these pieces, of which a single stanza or coul)let is usually enough to convince the reader that all which follows is respectable mediocrity. We should probably not have noticed this volume at all hut for the opening l)iece, which is remarkable in it- self, and is really extraordinary when we be- come aware of what ~ve are not informed by the editor of the volume,that the author is a boy ~vho is at this moment at school, being, we believe, still under seventeen years of age. The Crystal Palace judges, we are told in the preface, considered this poem, by Mr. W. H. Myers, so nearly equal to the ~~rize poem, that they had considerable difficulty in decid- ing between them. The truth is, that this poem, as poetry, is far better than the prize poem; but the judges were nevertheless right in favoring that of Miss Isa Craig, as being more suitable for recitation to a l)opular as- sembly. Since the days of Chatterton, lirol)- ably, no boy of seventeen has equalled the following verses 0 silent shapes athwart the darkening sky! Magnificdnt of many-folded hills, Where the dead mist hangs and the lone hawks & ry, Scamd with the white fall of a thousand rills 0 lucid lakes serene from shore to shore, With prontoatories set of solemn psne~, Broad mirrors which the pale stars tremble oer, Deep-drawn among the misty mountain lines; O tale of martyrs by the flickering sod! o righteous race, in steadfast toil sublime! O noblest 1)0cm, Let us worship God! Ye taught him * * * * * Nor scorns he such delight, whose heart and eye Are tempered to the truth of poesy, Nor following baser natures, would degrade Aught from that honor which the Eternal made; Nor ranks this frame the souls offence, Nor lovely form the slave of sense; But knowing good is beQuty, bath believed Beauty is also good, nor oft deceived; Yet such a surge of life his pulses fills, And so abounding passion through him thrills, That ~vith fierce cries for sympathy, With longing and with agony, The glory of his thought goes forth to greet All fair, though unregarding he shall meet, And oft with price the mean endues, The ignoble holds for rare; And wooing bright imagined hues A phantom loveliness pursues, But knows too late an equal otherwhere. So in deep ambrosial night Falls a star from heavens height; Mad for earth, a sliding spark Down the deadness of the dark, Falleth, findeth his desire, Losetli his celestial fire, Qnenchd to iron, like his love, For her face is fair above, But within her heart is stone, Adamant and chalcedon. * * * * * 0 great heart, by low passions swayed, o hi~h soul, by base cares nssayd, o silence, silence, never to be broken, Tilt some dread word from the white throne be spoken! WE have to record the death, on the 10th of botany and geology, published the Genera Sept., of 1)r. Thomas Nuttal, at his residence, of North American Plants, The Birds of the Nutgrove, St. Helens, Lancashire, at the age of United States, and other works. He travelled He was born in Yorkshire, in California, and published several papers on seventy-three. the shells and plants of that region. Dr. Nuttal brou~bt up a printer, and emi~rated to the retnrned to England, living at Nntgrove, an es- United States in the latter part of the last cen- tate which was left to him on condition that he tury. He devoted his leisure time to the study should reside on it.Atken~uaz. 93 94 HOLMBY HOUSE. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE BEACON AFAR. EBENEZER, the Gideonite, was no bad specimen of the class he represented the sour-visaged, stern, and desperate fanatic, who allowed no consideration of fear or mercy to turn him from the path of duty; whose sense of personal danger as of personal responsibility was completely swallowed up in his religious enthusiasm; who would follow such an officer as George Effingham into the very jaws of death; and of whom such a man as Cromwell knew how to make a rare and efficicnt instrument. Ebenezers orders were to hold no communication with his prisoner, to neglect no precaution for his security; and having reported his capture to the general in command at Northampton, to proceed at least one stage further on his road to London crc he halted for the night. Humphreys very name was consequently unknown to the party who had him in charge. As he had no papers whatever upon his per- son when captured, the subaltern in com- mand of the picket at Brixworth had con- sidered it useless to ask a question to which it was so easy to give a fictitious answer ; and Ebenezer, although recognizing him person- ally as an old acquaintance, had neglected to ascertain his name even after their first intro- duction by means of the flat of the Cavaliers sabre. Though his back had tingled for weeks from the effects of a blow so shrewdly administered; though he had every opportu- nity of learning the style and title of the prisoner whom he had helped to bring before Cromwell at his head-quarters; yet, with an idiosyncrasy peculiar to the British soldier, and a degree of Saxon indifference amount- ing to stupidity, he had never once thought of making inquiry as to who or what was this hard-hitting Malignant that had so nearly knocked him off his horse in Gloucestershire lane. Erect and vigilant, he rode conscientiously close to his prisoner, eying him from time to time with looks of curiosity and interest, and scanning his figure from head to heel with obvious satisfaction. Not a word, however, did he address to the captive; his conversa- tion, such as it was, being limited to a few brief sentences interchanged with his men, in which Scriptural phraseology was strangely intermingled with the language of the stable and the parade-ground. Strict as was the discipline insisted on amongst the parliament- ary troops by Cromwell and his officers, the escort, as may be supposed, followed the ex- ample of their superior with stern faces and silent tongues; they rode at attention, their horses well in hand, their weapons held in readiness, and their eyes never for an instant taken off the horseman they surrounded. Humphrey, we may easily imagine, was in no mood to enter into conversation. He had indeed enough food for sad forebodin~s and bitter reflections. Wild and adventurous as had been his life for many weeks past al- ways in disguise, always apparently on the eve of discovery, and dependent for his safety on the fidelity of utter strangers, often of the meanest class not a day had elapsed with- out some imminent hazard, some thrilling al- ternation of hope and fear. But the events of the last few hours had outdone them all. To have succeeded in his mission ! to have es- caped when escape seemed impossible, and then to fail at the last moment, when safety had been actually gained it seemed more like some wild and feverish dream than a dark, hopeless reality. And the poor sorr~l! How sincerely he mourned for the good horse; how well he had always carried him how gentle and gallant and obedient he was; how he turned to his masters hand and sprang to his masters voice. How fond he was of him; and to think of huh lying (lead yonder by the water-side! It was hard to bear. Strange how a dumb animal can wind it- self round the human heart! What associa- tions may be c9nnected with a horses arching crest or the intelligent glance of a dogs eye. How they can bring back to us the happy long, iong ago; the magic time that seems brighter and brighter as we contemplate it from a greater and greater distance; how they can recall the soft tones and kindly glances that are hushed, perhaps, and dim for evermore; perhaps, the bitterest stroke of all, estranged and altered now. Love me, love my dog ! there never was a truer proverb. Ay! love my dog, love my horse, love all that came about me; the dress I wore, the words I have spoken, the very ground I trod upon, but do not be surprised that horse and dog, and dress ,and belongings, all are still the same, and I alone am changed. HOLMBY HOUSE. So Humphrey loved the sorrel, and griev- ed for him sincerely. The rough Puritan soldiers could understand his dejection. Many a chargers neck was caressed by a rough hand on the march, as the scene by the Northern Water presented itself vividly to the dragoons untutored minds; arid though the vigilance of his guardians was unim- peachable, their bearing towards Humphrey was all the softer and more deferential that these veteran soldiers could appreciate his feelings and sympathize with his loss. He had but one drop of comfort, one gleam of sunshine now, and even that was dashed with bitter feelings of pique and a consciousness of unmerited neglect. He had seen Mary once again. He liked to think, too, that she must have recognized him must have been aware of his critical position must have known that he was being led off to die. Perhaps even her hard heart will ache, thought the prisoner, when she thinks of her handiwork. Was it not for her sake that I undertook this fatal duty for her sake that I have spent years of my life in exile, risked that life un~udgingly a thou- sand times, and shall now forfeit it most unquestionably to the ven~,eance of the par- liament? Surely, surely, if she is a woman, she must be anxious and unhappy now.~~ It was a strange, morbid sensation, half of anger, half of triumph; yet through it all a tear stole to his eye from the fond heart that could not bear to think the woman he loved should suffer a moments uneasiness even for his sake. Silently they rode on till they reached Northampton town. The good citizens were too much inured to scenes of violence, too well accustomed to the presence of the parlia- mentary troops, to throw away much attention on so simple an event as the arrival of an es- cort with a prisoner. Party-feeling, too, had become considerably weakened since the con- tinued successes of the parliament Virtually, the war was over, and the Commons now represented the governing power throughout the country. The honest townsmen of North- ampton were only too thankful to obtain a short interval of peace and quiet for the prosecution of business that magic word, which speaks so eloquently to the feelings of the middle class in England and as their zuajority had, from the very commencement of the disturbances, taken the popular side in the great civil contest, they could afford to treat their fallen foes with mercy and con- sideration. Unlike his entry on a previous occasion into the good city of Gloucester, Humphrey found his present plight the object neither of rid- icule nor remark. The passers-by scarce glanced at him as he rode along, and the es- cort closed round him so vigilantly that a care- less observer would hardly have remarked that the troop encircled a prisoner. In consequence of their meditated move- ment against the kings liberty, the parlia- ment had concentrated a large force of all arms at Northampton, and the usually smiling and peaceful town presented the appearance of enormous barracks. Granaries, manufac- tories, and other large buildings were taken up for the use of soldiers; troop-horses were picketed in the streets, and a park of artillery occupie(l the market-place; whilst the best houses of the citizens, somewhat to the dssatis- faction of their owners, were appropriated by the superior officers of the division. In one of the largest of these George Effin~ham had established himself. An air of military sim- plicity and discipline pervaded the generals quarters: sentries, steady and immovable as statues, guarded the entrance; a strong es- cort of cavalry occupied an adjoining building, once a flour-store, now converted into a guard- house. Grave, upright personages, distin- guished by their orange scarfs as officers of the parliament, stalked to and fro. intent on military affairs, here bringing in their reports, there issuing forth charged with orders; but one and all affecti~ig an austerity of demeanor which yet somehow sat unnaturally upon buff coat and steel headpiece. The genera himself seemed immersed in business. Sea ed at a table covered with papers, he wrote with unflinching energy, looking up, it is true, ever an(l anon, with a weary, abstracted air, but returning to his work with renewed vigor after every interruption, as though (leter- mined by sheer force of will to keep his mind from wandering off its task. An orderly sergeant entered the room, and, standing at attention, announced the arri- val of an escort with a prisoner. The general looked up for a moment from his papers. Send in the officer in command to make his report, said he, and resumed h~ occupation. 95 HOLMBY HOUSE. Ebenezer stalked solemnly into the apart- ment: gaunt and grim, he stood bolt upribht and commenced his narrative : I may not tarry by the way, general, he began, for verily the time is short and the night cometh in which no man can work; even as the day of grace, which passeth like the shadow on the sun-dial ere a man can say, Lo! here it cometh, or lo! there. Effingharn cut him short with considera- ble impatience. Speak out, man! he ex- claimed, and say what thoust got to say, with a murrain to thee! Dost think I have naught to do but sit here and listen to the prat- ing of thy fools tongue? Ebenezer was one of those preaching men of war who never let slip an opportunity of what they termed improving the occasion; but our friend Georges temper, which the unhappiness and uncertainty of the last few years had not tended to sweeten, was by no means proof against such an infliction. The subordinate perceived this, and endeavored to condense his communication within the bounds of military brevity, but the habit was too strong for him: after a few sentences he broke out again : I was ordered by Lieutenant Allgood to select an escort of eight picked men and horses, and proceed in charge of a prisoner to Lon- don. My instructions were to pass through Northampton, reporting myself to General Effingham by the way, and to push on a stage further without delay ere I halted my party for the ni~ht. With regard to the prisoner, the captive, as indeed I may say, of our bow and spear, who fell a prey to us under Brixworth, even as a bird falleth a prey to the fowler, and who trusted in the speed of his horse to save him in the day of wrath, as these Malignants have ever trusted in their snortings and their prancings, forgetting that it hath been said Go to the Devil, sir! exclaimed George Effingham, with an energy of impatience that completely dissipated the thread of the worthy sergeants discourse; are you to take up my time standing preaching there, in~tead of at- tendin~ to your duty? You have your or- ders, sir; be off, and comply with them. Your horses are fresh, your journey before you, and the sun going down. I shall take care that the time of your arrival in London is reported to me, and woe be to you if you tarry by the way, as you call it in your ridiculous hypo- critical jargon. To the rightface! It was a broad hint that in an orderly-room admitted of but one interpretation. Eben- ezers instincts as a soldier predominated over his temptations as an orator, and in less than five minutes he was once more in the saddle, wary and vigilant, closing his files carefully round the captured Royalist as they wound down the stony street in the direction of the London road. George Effingham returned to his writing, and with a simple memorandum of the fact that a prisoner had been reported to him as under escort for London, dismissed the whole subject at once from his mind. Thus it came to pass that the two friends, as still they may be called, never knew that they were within a hundred paces of each other, though in how strange a relative posi- tion; never knew that a chance word, an in- cident however trifling, that had betrayed the name of either, would have brought them together, and perhaps altered the whole sub- sequent destinies of each. George never sus- pected that the nameless prisoner, reported to him as a mere matter of form, under the charge of Ebenezer, was his old friend Hum- phrey Bosville; nor could the Cavalier major guess that the general of division holding~o important a command as that of Northamp- ton, was none other than his former comrade and captain, dark George Effingham. The latter worked hard till nightfall. It was his custom now. He seemed never so un- easy as when in repose. He acted like a traveller who esteems all time wasted but that which tends to the accomplishment of his journey. Enjoying the confidence of Crom- well and the respect of the whole army, won, in despite of his antecedents, by a career of cool and determined bravery, he seemed to be building up for himself a high and influ- ential station, stone by stone as it were, and grudging no amount of sacrifice, no exertion to raise it, if only by an inch. The enthusi- asm of Georges temperament was counter- balanced by sound judgment and a highly perspicuous intellect, and consequently the tendency to fanaticism which had first im- pelled him to join the Revolutionary party, had become considerably modified by all he saw and heard, when admitted to the councijs of the parliament, and better acquainted with their motives and opinions. He no longer deemed that such men as Fairfax, Ireton, even Cromwell, were directly inspired by 96 HOLMBY HOUSE. Heaven, but he could not conceal from him- self that their energies and abilities were cal- culated to win for them the high places of the earth. He knew, moreover, none better, the strength and weakness of either side, and he could not doubt for a moment which must become the dominant party. If not a better, the ci-devant Cavalier had become unques- tionably a wiser man, and having determined in his own mind which of the contending fac- tions was capable of saving the country, and which was obviously on the high road to power, he never now regretted for an instant that he had joined its ranks, nor looked back, as Bos- ville would have (lone under similar circum- stances, with a wistful longing to all the illu- sions of romance and chivalry, which shed a glare over the downfall of the dashing Cav- aliers. Eflinghams, we need bardly say, was a temperament of extraordinary perseverance and unconquerable resolution. He had now proposed to himself a certain aim and end in life. From the direction which led to its at- tainment he never swerved one inch, as he never halted for an instant by the way. He had determined to win a high and influential station. Such a station, as should at once silence all malicious remarks on his Royalist antecedents, as should raise him, if not to wealth, at least to honor, and above all, such as should enable him to throw the shield of his protection over all and any whom he should think it worth his while thus to shelter and defend. Far in the distance, like some strong swimmer battling successfully against wind and tide, he discerned the beacon which he had resolved to reach, and though he hus- banded his strength and neglected no advan- tage of eddy or back-water, he never relaxed for an instant from his eflbrts, convinced that, in the moral as in the physical conflict, he who is not advancing is necessarily losing way. Such teaacity of purpose will be served at last, as, indeed, it fully merits to be; and this Saxon quality Efflagham possessed for good or evil in its most exaggerated form. The weaknesses of a strong nature, like the aws in a marble column, are, however, a fit subject for ridicule and remark. The general, despite his grave appearance and his powerful intellect, was as childish in some matters as his neighbors. Ever since the concentration of a large parliamentary force around North- ampton, and the investment, so to speak, of Holmby House by the redoubtable Cornet Joyce, it had been judged a(lvisable by the authorities to station a strong detachment of cavalry at the village of Brixworth, a lonely hamlet within six miles of head-quarters, oc- cupying a commanding position, and with strong capabilities for defence. The detach- ment seemed to be the generals peculiar care; and who should gainsay such a high military opinion as that of George Effingham? What- ever might be the press of business during the day, however numerous the calls upon his time, activity, and resources, he could always find a spare hour or two before sundown, in which to visit this important outpost. Acoom- panied by a solitary dragoon as an escort, or even at times entirely alone, the general would gallop over to beat up Lieutenant Allgoods quarters, and returning leisurely in the dark, would drop the rein on his horses neck, and suffer him to walk quietly through the outskirts of the park at Boughton, whilst his master looked long and wistfully at the casket containing the jewel which he had sternly resolved to win. On the day of hum- phreys capture, the very eagerness on the part of Effingham to fulfil his daily duty, o~ rather, we should say, to enjoy the only r~ laxation he permitted himself, served to render him somewhat impatient of Ebenezers long- winded communications; and by cutting short the narrative of that verbose ofilcial,perhaps prevented an interview with his old friend, which, had he believed in its possibility, he would have been sorry to miss. A bright moon shone upon the waving fern and fine old trees of Boughton Park as George returned from his customary visit to the out- post. He was later than usual, and the soft southern breeze wafted on his ear the iron tones that were tolling midnight from Kings- thorpe Church. All was still and balmy and beautiful, the universe seemed to breathe of peace and love and repose. The influence of the hour seemed to soothe and soften the am- bitious soldier, seemed to saturate his whole being with kindly, gentle feelings, far different from those which habitually held sway in that weary, careworn heart, seemed to whisper to him of higher, holier joys than worldly fame and gratified pride, even than successful love to urge upon him the beauty of humility, and self-sacrifice, and hopeful, childlike trust, the triumph of that resignation which far. 97 98 outshines all the splendors of conquest, which wrests a victory even out of the jaws of de- feat. Alas, that these momentary impressions should be transient in proportion to their strength! What is this flaw in the human organization that thus makes man the very puppet of a passing thought? Is there but one rudder that can guide the bark upon her voyage, veering as she does with every chang- ing breeze? but one course that shall bring her in safety to the desired haven, when all the false pilots she is so prone to take on board do but run her upon shoals and quicksands, or let her drift aimlessly out seaward through the night? We know where the charts are to be found we know where the rudder can be fitted. Whose fault is it that we cannot bring our cargo safe home to port? JJOLMBY HOUSE. The roused deer, alarmed at the tramp of Georges charger, sprang hastily from their lair under the stems of the spreading beeches, blanched in t.he moonlight to a ghastly white. As they coursed along in single file un(ler the horses nose, he bounded lightly into the air, and with a snort of pleasure rather than alarm broke voluntarily into a canter on the yielding, moss-grown sward. The motion scattered the train of thought in which his rider was plunged, dispelled the charm, and brought him back from his visions to his own practical, res- olute self. He glanced once, and once only, at the turrets of the hall, from which a light was still shining, dimly visible at a gap in the fine old avenue; and then with clenched hand an(l stern, compressed smile, turned his horses head homeward, and galloped steadily on towards his own quarters in Northampton town. CHAPTER XXXIV. PAST AND GONE. PERHAPS, had Effingham known in whose room was twinkling that light which shone out at so late an hour from the towers of the old manor-house; could any instinctive fac- ulty have made him aware of the councfl to which it was a silent witness; could he have guessed at the solemn conclave held by two individuals in that apartment, from which only a closed casement and a quarter of a mile of avenue separated him, even his strong heart would have beat quicker, and a sensa- tion of sickening anxiety would have pre- vented him from proceeding so resolutely homewards would have kept him lingering and hankering there the live-long night. The solitary light was shinin~ from Grace Allonbys apartment. In that luxurious room were the two ladies, still in full evening cos- tume. One was in a sitting posture, the other, with a pale, stony face, her hair pushed back from her temples, and her lips, usually so red and ripe, of an ashy white, walked irregularly to and fro, clasping her hands together, and twisting the fin~ers in and out with the unconscious contortions of acute suffering. It was Mary Cave who seemed thus driven to the extremity of ap- prehension and dismay. All her dignity, all her self-possession had deserted her for the nonce, and left her a trembling, weeping, harassed, and afflicted woman. Grace Allonby, on the other hand, sat in her chair erect and motionless as marble. Save for the action of the little foot beneath her dress, which tapped the floor at regular intervals, she might, indeed, have been a statue, with her fixed eye, her curved, defiant lip and dilated nostril expressive of mingled wrath and scorn. Brought up as sisters, loving each oth~er with the undemonstrative affection which dependence on one side and protection on the other surely engenders between generous minds, never before had the demon of dis- cord been able to sow the slightest dissension between these two. Now, however, they seemed to have changed natures. Mary was writhing and pleading as for dear life. Grace sat stern and pitiless, her dark eyes flashing fiercely, and her fair brow, usually so smooth an(l open, lowering with an bminous scowl. For five minutes neither had spoken a syl- lable, though Mary continued her troubled walk up and down the room. At last, Grace, turning her head haughtily towards her com- panion, stiffly observed, You can suggest, then, no other method than this unwomanly and most humiliating course? Dear Grace, replied Mary, in accents of imploring eagerness, it is our last re- source. I entreat you think of the inter- est at stake. Think of him even now, a prisoner on his way to execution. To execu- tion! Great Heaven! they will never spare him now. I can see it all before me the HOLMBY HOUSE. 99 gallant form walking erect between those Cromwells confidence, and Cromwell governs stern, triumphant Puritans, the kindly face England now. If he can be prevailed on to blindfolded, that he may not look upon his exert himself, he can save Bosvilles life. It death. I can see him standing out from tbose is much to ask him, I grant you. It may levelled muskets. I can hear his voice firm compromise him with his party, it may give and manly as he defies them all and shouts his enemies the means of depriving him of his his old battle cry God and the Kino! I command, it may ruin the whole future on can see the wreaths of white smoke floating which his great ambitious mhd is set. I know away before the breeze, and down upon the him, you see, dear, though he has never greensward, Humphrey Bosville dead thought it worth his while to open his heart do you understand me, girl? deadstone to me; it might even endanger his safety at a dead! and we shall never, never see him future period, but it must be done, Grace, more! and you are the person that must tell him to Marys voice rose to a shriek as she con- do it. eluded, towering above her companion in all It is not right, answered Grace, her fem- the majesty of her despair; but she could not mine pride rousing itself once more; it is sustain the horror of the picture she had cor~- not just or fair. What can I give him in ex- jured up, and, sinking into a chair, she coy- change for such a favor? How can I, of all ered her face with her hands and shook all the women upon earth, ask him to do this for over like an aspen leaf. me 7 Grace, too, shuddered visibly. It was in a softened tone that she said, He must be saved, Mary. I am willing to do all that lies in my power. He shall not die for his loy- alty if he can be rescued by any one that bears the name of Allonby. Bless you, darling, a thousand, thousand times! exclaimed Mary, seizing her friends hand and covering it with kisses; I knew your good, kind heart would triumph at the last. I knew you would never leave him to die without stretching an arm to help him. Listen, Gracey. There is but one person that can interpose with any chance of success on his behalfI need not tell you again who that person is, Gracey; you used to praise and admire my knowledge of the world, you used to place the utmost faith in my clear- sightedness and quickness of perception; I am not easily deceived, and I tell you George Effingham loves the very ground beneath your feet. Not as men usually love, Grace, with a divided interest, that makes a hawk or a hound, a place at court, or a brigade of cav- alry, too dangerous and successful a rival, but with all the energy of his whole enthusiastic nature, with the reckless devotion that would fling the world, if he had it, at your feet. He is your slave dear, and I cannot wonder at it. For your lightest whim he would do more, a thousand times more, than this. He has in- fluence with our rulers (it is a bitter drop in the cup, that we must term the Roundhead knaves our rulers at last); above all, he has And yet, Grace, if you refuse, Humphrey must die ! said Mary, in the quiet tones of despair, but with a writhing lip that could hardly utter the fatal word. Grace was driven from her defences now. Conflicting feelings, reserve, pride, pity, and affection, all were at war in that soft heart, which so few years ago had scarcely known ~ pang. Like a true woman, she adopted the last unfailing resource, she put herself into a passion and burst into tears. Why am I to do all this? sobbed Grace. Why are my father, and Lord Vaux, and you yourself, Mary, to do nothing, and I alone to interfere? What especial claim has Hum- phrey on me? What right have I more than others over the person of Major Bosville? Because you love him, Grace, answered Mary, and her eye never wavered, her voice never faltered when she said it. The stony look had stolen over her face once more, and the rigidity of the full white arm that peeped through her sleeve showed how tight her hand was clenched, but the woman herself was as steady as a rock. The other turned her eves away from the quiet, searching glance that was reading ler heart. And if I did, said poor Grace, in the pet- ulance of her distress, I should not be the only person. You like him yourself, Mary, you know you do am I to save him for your sake? The girl laughed in bitter scorn while she spoke, but tears of shame and contrition rose 100 to her eyes a moment afterwards, as she re- flected on the ungenerous words she had spoken. Mary had long nerved herself for the task she was not going to fail now. She had resolved to give him up. Three little simple words; very easy to say, and comprising af- ter all what ? a mere nothing ! only a hearts happiness lost for a lifetime only a cloud over the sun for evermore only the destruction of hope, and energy, and all that makes life worth having, and distinguishes the intellectual being from the brute only the exchange of a future to pray for, and dream of; for a listless despair, torpid and be- numbedfearing nothing, caring for nothing, and welcoming nothing but the stroke that shall end life and sufferings together. This was all. She would not flinch she was re- solved she could do it easily. Listen to me, Grace, she said, speaking every word quite slowly and distinctly, though her very eyebrows quivered with the violence she did her feelings, and she was obliged to grasp the arm of a chair to keep the cold, trembling fingers still. You are mistaken if you think I have any sentiment of regard for Major Bosville deeper than friendship and esteem. I have long known him, and appre- ciated his good qualities. You yourself must acknowledge how intimately allied we have all been in the war, and how stanch and faith- ful he has ever proved himself to the king. Therefore I honor and regard him; therefore I shall always look back to him as a friend, though I should never meet him again; there- fore I would make any exertion, submit to any sacrifice to save his life. But, Grace, I do not love him. She spoke faster and louder now. And, moreover, if you believe he en- tertains any such feelings on my behalf, you are wrong I am sure of it lool~ at the case yourself, candidly and impartially. For nearly two years I have never exchanged words with him, either by speech or writing never seen him but twice, and you yourself were present each time. He may have ad- mired me once. I tell you honestly, dear, I think he did; but he does not care two straws for me now. Poor Mary! it was the hardest gulp of all to keep back the tears at this; not that she quite thought it herself, but it was so cruel to b~ obliged to say it. After all she was a woman, and though she tried to have a heart HOLMBY HOUSE. of stone, it quivered and bled like a heart of flesh all the while, but she went on resolutely with a tighter hold of the chair. I think you and he are admirably suited to each other. I think you would be very happy together. I think, Grace, you like him very much you cannot deceive me, dear. You have already excited his interest and admiration. Look in your glass; my pretty Grace, and you need not be surprised. Think What will be his feelings when he owes you his life. It requires no prophet to foretell how this must end. He will love you, and you shall marry him. Yes, Grace, you can surely trust me. I swear to you from henceforth, I will never so much as speak to him again. You shall not be made uneasy by me of all people only save his life, Grace, only use every effort, make every sacrifice to him, and I, Mary Cave, that was never foiled or beaten yet, promise you that he shall be yours. It is peculiar to the idiosyncrasy of women that they seem to think they have a perfect right to dispose of a heart that belongs to them, and say to it, You shall be enslaved here, or enraptured there, at our good pleasure. Would they be more surprised or angry to find themselves taken at their word? Grace listened with a pleased expression of countenance. She believed every syllable her friend told her. It is very easy to believe what we wish. And it was gratifying to think that she had made an impression on the hand- some young Cavalier, for whom she could not but own she had once entertained a warm feeling of attachment. Like many another quiet and retiring woman, this consciousness of conquest possessed for Grace a charm dan- gerous and attractive in proportion to its rarity. The timid are sometimes more aggressive than the bold; and Grace was sufficiently feminine to receive considerable gratification from that species of admiration which Mary, who was surfeited with it, thoroughly despised. It was the old story between these two: the one was courteously accepting as a trifling gift, that which constituted the whole worldly posses- sions of the other. It is hard to offer up our diamonds, and see them valued but as paste. There is no time to be lost, Mary, ob- served Grace, after a few moment3 reflection. I will make it my business to see General Effingham before twenty-four hours have elapsed. If, as you say, he entertains this this infatuation about me, it will perhaps make HOLMBY HOUSE. him still more anxious on behalf of his old friend, to provide for whose safety I should think he would strain every nerve, even if there were no such person as Grace Allonby in the world. We will save Major Bosville, Mary, whatever happens, if I have to go down on my bended knees to George Effing- ham. Not that I think such a measure will be needful added Grace, with a smile; he is very courteous and considerate, notwith- standing his stern brows and haughty manner. Very chivalrous, too, for a Puritan. My father even avows he is a good soldier; and I am sure he is a thorough gentleman. Do you not think so, Mary? But Mary did not answer. She had gained her point at last. Of course, it was a great comfort to know that she had succeeded in her object. Had the purchase not been worth the price, she would not surely have offered it; and now the price had been accepted, and the ransom was actually paid, there was noth- ing more to be done. The excitement was over, and the reaction had already com- menced. Bless you, Grace, for your kindness, was all she said. I am tired now, and will go to bed. To-morrow we will settle every thing. Thank you, dear, again and again. With these words she pressed her cold lips upon her friends hand; and hiding her face as much as possible from observation, walked quietly and sadly to her room. It was an unspeakable relief to be alone face to face with her great sorrow, but yet alone. To moan aloud in her agony, and speak to herself as though she were some one else, and fling herself down on her knees by the bedside, burying her head in those white arms, and weep her heart out while she poured forth the despairing prayer that she might die, the only prayer of the afflicted that falls short of the throne of mercy. Once before in this very room had Mary wrestled gallantly with suffering, and. been victorious. Was she weaker now that she was older? Shame! shame! that the woman should give way to a trial which the girl had found strength enough to overcome. Alas! she felt too keenly that she had then lost an ideal, whereas this time she had voluntarily surrendered a reality. She had never known before all she had dared, if not to hope, at least to dream, of the future with 1dm that was still possible yester- dayand now Lost, too, by her own *leed, of her own free will. Oh! it was hard, very hard to bear! But she slept, a heavy, sound, and exhaust- ed sleep. So it ever is with great and positive affliction. Happiness will keep us broad awake for hours, to rise with the lark; glad- some, notwithstanding our vigils, as the bird itselg refreshed and invigorated by the sun- shine of the soul. Tis an unwilling bride that is late astir on her wedding-morn. Anx- iety, with all its harassing effects, admits of but feverish and fitful slumbers. The dreaded crisis is never absent from our thoughts; and though the body may be prostrated by weari- ness, the mind refuses to be lulled to rest. We do not envy the merchant prince his bed of down, especially when he has neglected to insure his argosies; but when the blow has actually fallen, when happiness has spread her wings and flown away, as it seems, for evermore, when there is no room for anxiety, because the worst has come at last, and hope is but a mockery and a myth, then doth a heavy sleep descend upon us, like a pall upon a coffin, and mercy bids us take our rest for~ a time, senseless and forgetful like the dead. But there wa a bitter drop still to be tasted in the full cup of Marys sorrows. Even as she laid her down, she dreaded the moment of waking on the morrow; she wished how wearily! that she might never wake again, though she knew not then that she would dream that night a golden dreani, such as should make the mornings misery almost too heavy to endure. She dreamed that she was once again at Falmouth, as of old. She walked by the sea- shore, and watched the narrow line of calm blue water an(i the ripple of the shallow wave that stole gently to her feet along the noiseless sand. The sea-birds wing shone white against the summer sky as he turned in his silent flight; and the hushed breeze scarce hiftud the folds of her own white dress as she paced thoughtfully It was the dress lie liked so much; she had worn it because he was gone, far away beyond those blue waters, with the queen, loyal and true as he had ever been. Oh, that he were here now, to walk hand in hand with her along those yellow sands! Even as she wished he stood by her; his breath was on her cheek; his eyes were looking into hers; his arm stole round her waist. She knew not how, nor why, but she was his, his very own, 101 HOLMBY HOUSE. 102 and for always now. At last, she said, Yet when she woke, she did not waver in putting the hair back from his forehead, and her resolution, Though Mary Cave looked printing on the smooth brow one long, cling- ten years older than she had done but twen- ing kiss, at last! dear. You will never ty-four hours before, she said to her own heart, leave me, now! and the dream answered, I have decided: it shall be done ! Never, nevermore! CHAPTER XXXV. THE LANDING NET. FAITH had excited Dymockes jealousy. This was a great point gained; perhaps with the intuitive knowledge of mans weaknesses, possessed by the shallowest and most super- ficial of her sex, she had perceived that some decisive measure was required to land her fish at last. Though he had gorged the bait greedily enough, though the hook was fairly fixed in a vital spot, and nothing remained to continue our metaphor but to brandish the landing-net, and subsequent frying-pan, the prize lurked stolidly in deep waters. This state of apathy in the finny tribe is termed sulking by the disciples of Izaak Walton; and the great authorities who have succeeded that colloquial philosopher, in treating of the gentle art, recommend that stones should be thrown, and other offensive measures prac- tised, in order to bring the fish once more to the surface. Let us see to what description of stone- throwing Faith resorted to secure the prey, for which, to do her justice, she had long been angling with much craft, skill, and untiring patience. iDymocke, we need hardly now observe, was an individual who entertained no mean and derogatory opinion of his own merits or his own charms. An essential article of his belief had always been that there was at least one bachelor left, who was an extraordinarily elizible investment for any of the weaker sex below the rank of a lady; and that bachelor bore the name Hugh Dymocke. With such a creed, it was no easy matter to bring to book our far-sighted philosopher. His good opinion of himself made it useless to practise on him the usual arts of coldness, contempt, and what is vulgarly termed snubbino lEven jealousy, that last and usually effica- cious remedy, was not easily aroused in so self-satisfied a mind; and as for hysterics, scenes, reproaches, and appeals to the pas- sions, all such recoiled from his experienced nature, like hailstones from an armor of proof. He was a difficult subject, this wary old troop- er. Crafty, callous, opinionated, above all, steeped in practical as well as theoretical wis- dom. Yet, when it came to a trial of wits, the veriest chit of a silly waiting-maid could turn him round her finger at will. We have heard it asserted by sundry idol- aters, that even the worse woman is better than the best man. On the truth of this axiom we would not venture to pronounce. Flattering as is our opinion of the gentle sex, we should be sorry to calculate the amount of evil which it would require to constitute the worst of those fascinating natures which are so prone to run into extremes; but of this we are sure, that the silliest woman in all matters of finesse and subtlety is a match, and more than a match for the wisest of manMnd~ Here was Faith, for instance, who, with the excep- tion of her journey to Oxford, had never be~i a dozen miles from her own home, outwitting and out-manamvring a veteran toughened by ever so many campaigns, and sharpened by five and twenty years practice in all the stratagems of love and war. After revolving in her own mind the dif- ferent methods by which it would be advis- able to hasten a catastrophe that should ter- minate in her own espousals to her victim, the little woman resolved, on jealousy as the most prompt, the most efficacious, and per- haps the most merciful in the end. Now, a man always goes to work in the most blun- dering manner possible when he so far for- gets his own honest, dor,like nature, as to play such tricks as these. He invariably selects some one who is diametrically the opposite of the real object of attack, and proceeds to open the war with such haste and energy as are perfectly unnatural in themselves, and utterly transparent to the laughing bystanders. When he thinks he is getting on most swimmingly, the world sneers; the fictitious object, who has, indeed, no cause to be flattered, despises; and the real one, firmer in the saddle than ever, laughs at him. It serves him right, for HOLMBY HOUSE. dabbling with a science of which he does not know the simplest rudiments. This was not Faiths method. We think we have already mentioned that in attendance upon the king at Holmby was a certain yeoman of the guard on whom that damsel had deigned to shed the sunshine of her smiles, in which the honest functionary basked with a stolid satisfaction edifying to witness. He was a steady, sedate, and goodly personage; and, save for his hulk, the result of little thought combined with much feeding, and his come- liness, which he inherited from a Yorkshire mother, was the very counterpart of Dy- mocke himself. He was nearly of the same age, had served in the wars on the kings side with some little distinction, was equally a man of few words, wise saws, and an out- ward demeanor of profound sagacity, but lacked, it must be confessed, that prompt wit and energy of action which made amends for much of the absurdity of our friend Hughs pretensions. He was, in short, such a personage as it seemed natural for a woman to admire who had been capable of appreciating the good qualities of the sergeant; and in this Faith showed a tact and discernment essentially feminine. Neither did she go to work ham- mer-and-ton,,s, as if there were not a mo- ment to be lost; on the contrary, she rather suffered than encouraged the yeomans un- wieldy attentions; and taxed her energies, not so much to captivate him, as to watch the effect of her behavior on the real object of attack. She had but little time, it is true, for her operations, which were limited to the period of the kings short visit at Boughton; but she had no reason to be dissatisfied with the success of her efforts, even long before the departure of his majesty and the uncon- scious rival. Dymocke, elated with his last exploit, and full of the secret intelligence he had to com- municate, at first took little notice of his sweetheart, or indeed of any of the domes- tics; and Faith, wisely letting him alone, played on her own game with persevering steadiness. After a time, she succeeded in arousing his attention, then his anxiety, and lastly his wrath. At first he seemed simply surprised, then contemptuous, afterwards anxious, and lastly undoubtedly and unrea- ~onably angry, with himself, with her, with 103 her new acquaintance, with the whole world, and she looked so confoundedly pretty all the time! When the yeoman went away, Faith gazed after the departing cavalcade from the buttery-window with a deep sigh. She re- marked to one of the other maids that she felt as if she could die for the king; and what a becoming uniform was worn by the yeomen of the guard. iDymocke, who had approached her with some idea of an armis- tice, if not a treaty of peace, turned away with a smothered curse and a bitter scowl. All that night he never came near her, all the next morning he never spoke to her, yet she met him somehow at every turn. He was malleable now, and it was time to forge him into a tool. It was but yesterday we watched two of our grandchildren at play in the corridor. The little girl, with a spirit of unjust acquisi- tiveness, laid violent hands upon her brothers toys, taking from him successively the whole of his marbles, a discordant tin trumpet, and a stale morsel of plum-cake. The boy, a sturdy, curly-headed, open-eyed urchin, rising five, resented this wholesale spoliation with considerable energy, and a grand quarrel, not without violence, was the result. The usual declaration of hostility, then I wont play, was followed by a retreat to different corners of the galler~~ and a fit of the sulks, lasting nearly twenty minutes, af- forded a short interval of peace and quiet to tr~e household. A childs resentment, however, is not of long duration; and we are bound to admit that in this instance the aggressor made the first advances to a reconciliation. You began it, dear, lisped the little vixen, a thor- ough woman already, though she can hardly speak plain. Kiss and make it up, brotL- er: you began it! And we are persuaded that the honest little fellow, with his mascu- line softness of head and heart, believed him- self to have been from the commencement wholly and solely in the wrong. So Faith, lying in wait for Dymocke at a certain angle of the backyard, where there was not much likelihood of interruption, stood to her arms boldly, and commenced the attack. Are you never going to speak to me again, sergeant? said Faith, with a half-mournful, half-resentful expression on her pretty face. I know what new acquaintances are the 104 millers daughters a good girl, and a comely; but its not so far from here to Brampton Mill that you need to be in such a hurry as not tospare a word to an old friend, Hugh ! The last monosyllable was only whispered, but accompanied by a soft stolen glance from under a pair of long eyelashes, it did not fail to produce a certain effect. The millers daughter! Brampton Mill ! exclaimed Hugh, aghast and open-mouthed, dumb-foundered, as well he might be, at an accusation so devoid of the slightest shadow of justice. Oh! I know what I know, proceeded Faith, with increased agitation and alarming volubility. I know where you were spend- ing the (lay yesterday, and the day before and the day before that! I know why you leave your work in the morning, and the din- ner stands till its cold, and the horse is kept out all day, and comes home in a muck of sweat; and its wheres the sergeant? and has anybody seen Hugh? and Mistress Faith, can you tell whats becon~e of Dy- mocke? all over the house. But I answer them, Ive nothing to do with iDvmocke; Dyrnocke dont belong to me. Doubtless hes gone to see his friends in the neighborhood; and he knows his own ways best. Oh! I dont want to pry upon you, sergeant; its nothing to me when you come and go; and no doubt, as I said before, shes a good girl, and a comely; and got a bit of money, too; for her sister that married Will Jenkins, shes gone and quarrelled with her father; and the brother, von know, hes in hiding; and theyre a bad lot altogether, all but her; and I hope youll be happy, Sergeant Dymocke; and youve my best wishes; and (sob) prayers~ (sob). for all thats come and gone yet (sob), Iluqh. To say that Dymocke was astonished, stu- pefied, at his wits end, is but a weak mode of expressing his utter discomfituve; the old soldicr was completely routed, front, flanks, and rear, disarmed and taken prisoner, he was utterly at the mercy of his conqueror. Its not much to ask, pursued Faith, her cheeks flushing, and her bosom heaving as she wept out her plaint; its not much to ask, and I should like to have back the broken sixpence, and the silver buckles, and the the the bit of sweet majoram I gave you yesterday was a fortnight, if its only for a, HOLMBY HOUSE. keepsake and a remembrance when youre married, Hugh, and you and me are sepa- rated forever! With these desponding words, the discon- solate damsel buried her face in her apron and moaned aloud. What a brute he felt himself! how com- pletely she had put him in the wrong how his conscience smote him, innocent as he was concerning the millers daughter, for many little instances of inattention and neglect to- wards his affianced bride, who was now so unselfishly giving him up, with such evident distress. How his heart yearned towards her now, weeping there in her rustic beauty, and he pitied her, pitied her, whilst all the time, with his boasted sagacity and experience, he was as helpless as a baby in the little witchs hands. Dont ye take on so, Faith, he said, at- tempting an awkward caress, from which she snatched. herself indignantly away; dont ye take on so. I never went near the millers daughter, Faith I tell ye I didnt, as Im a living man! Oh ! its nothing to me, sergeant, wheth- er you did or whether you didnt, returned the lady, looking up for an instant, and incon- tinently hiding her face in her apron for a fresh burst of grief. Its all over between you and me now, Hugh, for evermore! Never say such a word, my dear, returned Dymocke, waxing considerably alarmed, as the possibility of her being in earnest occurred to him, and the horrid suspicion dawned on his mind that this might be a ruse to get rid of him in favor of the comely yeoman, after all; and if you come to that, lass, you werent so true to your colors yourself yester- day, that you need to turn the tables this way upon me. She had led him to the point now. Then he was jealous, as she intended he should be, and she had got him safe. Im sure I dont know what you mean, Sergeant Dymocke, answered Mistress Faith, demurely, sobbing at longer intervals, and drying her eyes while she spoke. If you al- lude to my conversation with one of his blessed majestys servants yesterday, I answer you that it was in presence of yourself and all my lords servants; and if it hadnt been, Im accountable to no one. A poor, lone woman like me cant be too careful, I know; a poor, HOLMEY HOUSE. lone woman thats got nobody to defend her character, speak up for her, or take care of her, and thats lost her best friend, that quar- rels with her whether she will or no. Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do? The action was very nearly over now. An- other flood of tears, brought up like a skilful generals reserve, in the nick of time, turned the tide of affairs, and nothing was left for the sergeant but to surrender at discretion. Its your own fault if it be so, whispered Hugh, with that peculiarly sheepish expres- sion which pervades the male bipeds coun- tenance when he so far humiliates himself as to make a bond fide proposal. If youll say the word, Faith, say it now, for indeed I love you, and Ill never be easy till youre my wife, and thats the truth! But Faith wouldnt say the word at once, i~or indeed could she be brought to put a pe- riod to her admirers sufferings, in which, like a very woman, she found a morbid and inex- plicable gratification, until she had wellnigh worried him into a withdrawal of his offer, when she said it in a great hurry, and sealed her submission with a kiss. On the subsequent festivities held both in the parlor and the hall for Sir Giles drank the brides health in a bumper, and the ladies of the family thought nothing too good to pre- sent to their favorite on the happy occasion of hermarriageit is not our province to enlarge. In compliance with the maxim that happys the wooing thats not long in doino the nup- tials took place as soon as the necessary prep- arations could be made, and a prettier or a happier-looking bride than Faith never knelt before the altar. The sergeant, however, betrayed a scared and somewhat startled appearance, as that of one who is not completely convinced of his own identity, bearing his part nevertheless as a bridegroom bravely and jauntily enough. At his own private opinion of the catas- trophe we can but guess by a remark which he was overheard to address to himself im- mediately after his acceptance by the pretty waiting-maid, and her consequent departure to acquaint her mistress. Youve done it now, old lad, observed the sergeant, shaking his head, and speaking in a deliberate, reflective, and somewhat sar- castic tone. What is to be must be, I sup- pose, and all things turn out for the best. But theres no question about it youve done itnow! A Pious AND SENSIBLE NEGROThe Mis- sionary of the S. P. G. at S. Clements, Nova Scotia, says in his report In the return you will find mention made of the death of an old man of one hundred and five years. It is rare we find such an age amongst our poor. He was a colored man, named Esop Moses, and probably the last of the slaves brought by their masters from the states at the rebellion. Unable to read, lie had acquired great knowledge of Scripture and of many hymns, while standing behind his masters chair when the family were gathered for worship. His tall thin figure, supported by a stick for many years, passed up and down our streets, obtaining every- where a kindly welcome at the farmers fireside. Old Zip is well remembered; he had a ready wit and a powerful memory; always ready to dis- course on religious subjects, and never better pleased than when spoken to about the Fathers home, to which he hastened to go. I-Ic had, many years ago, been a Wesleyau, but he fell under my care during his last days; he died without disease or pain, having become rigid in all his limbs. The last time I called at his log- hut, about six miles in the woods; I stood awhile by his bedside, and lifted off a few clothes, but was unable to find him; I called; he recognized my voice at once; told me to bless de Lord, de old nigger was warm, do he could not see; but his heart was ri ht. Tel I, dear parson, tell all de Lords people; farewellfare- well, farewellIse meet in the Jeinsalem, and so, not long after, he quietly departed in happy hope of sin forgiven, and God reconciled. He always regarded his slave days as the hap- piest of his life, having no thought, no care, and not too much work, and regarded with great contempt de niggers of the present day all pride and poverty. 105 106 From Once a Week. COLDSTREAM. A LARGE Party is assembled to celebrate the feast of St. Partridge at Ravelstoke Hall, an old country house about two miles distant from the north-west coast of Devon. The various branches of English society are very fairly represented by its coml)onent parts. There are two pee~rs, three members of the lower house, some Guardsmen, some under- graduates, a clergyman, and a lieutenant in the navy. But our hero is not a representa- tive man: yet he belongs to a class which, called into existence by the accumulated wealth of the nineteenth century, is ever on the increase. Frederick Tyrawley resembles Sir Charles Coldstream, inasmuch as he has been every- where and done every thing; but he is by no means used up, and can still take an interest in whatever his hand finds to do. Nor is his every thing everybody elses every thing. It not hounded by Jerusalem and the pyra- mids. Mr. Tyrawley has fought in more than one state of South America, and has wandered for more than two years from isle to isle of the Pacific. A mysterious reputation hovers round him. He is sul)I)osed to have done many things, but no one is very clear what they are; and it is not likely that much information on the point will be obtained from him, for he seldom talks much, and never speaks of him- self. His present mission appears to be to kill partridges, ~)lay cricket, and dress him- self. Not that it must be supposed that he has ever been in the habit of wearing less clothing than the custom of the country in which he may have been located required; but only that at the I)resent time lie devoted much attention to buff waistcoats and gauze neck-ties, braided coats, and curled musta- chios. Such as he is, however, he is an object of interest to the feminine portion of the party at Ravelstoke Hall; for he is rich and hand- some, as well as mysterious, and he cannot be more than two-and-thirty. And the ladies at Ravelstoke outnumber the men: for al- though it is still rare for the fair sex to par- ticipate actively in the saturnalia of the par- tridge-god, they will always be found hovering in considerable numbers on the outskirts of the feast: and the varieties of the British lady are fairly represented. COLDSTREAM. There are some mammas with daughters to marry, and there are some daughters with a mamma to prevent marrying again, which is, perhaps, the most difficult thing of the two, as she has an income in her own right. There are blondes and brunettes, and pretty, brown- haired, brown-eyed girls who hover between the t~vo orders and combine the most danger- ous characteristics of both, who can wear both blue and pink, and who look prettier in the one color than they do in the other; but who always command your suffrage in favor of that which they are wearing when you look at them. And there is Constance Baynton with gray eyes and black hair. And the nicest critic of feminine appearance might he defied to state ~vhat she had worn, half an hour after he left her; for no one can ever look at any thing excel)t her face. Yet Constance is three-and-twenty, and still unmarried. Alas, what cowards men are. The fact is that Constance is very clever; but as Mrs. Mellish (the widow) says, not clever enough to hide it. Is she a little vexed at her present condi- tion? Certainly she does not exhibit any tendency to carry out Mrs. Mellishs sugges- tion, if it has ever been repeated to her. The young men are more afraid of her than ever; and certainly she does say very sharp things, sometimes. Especially she is severe upon idlers, the butterflies of fashionable existence. She appears to consider that she has a sl)ecial mission to arouse them; but they do not ap- pear to like being lectured. With the young ladies she is a great favorite, for she is very affectionate; and though so beautiful and dis- tinguished, she has proved herself to be not so dangerous a rival as might have been ex- pected. Indeed, it has happened, more than once, that male admiration, rebounding from the hard surface of her manner, has found more yielding metal in the bosoms of her par- ticular friends. Besides, she is always ready to lead the van in the general attack upon the male sex, when the ladies retire to the draw- ing-room. Not that she ever says any thing behind their backs she would not be ready to repeat to their faces; but in that course probably she would not meet with such general support. In Mr. Tyrawley she affected to disbelieve. She stated as her opinion to her intimate friends, that she did not believe he ever had COLDSTREAM. done, or ever would do any thing worth do- ing; but that he plumed himself on a cheap reputation, which, as all were ignorant of its foundatidn, no one could possibly im~)ugn. There is reason to believe that in this in- stance Miss Constance was not as conscien- tious as usual; but that she really entertained a higher oI)inion of the gentleman than she chose to confess. He certainly was not afraid of her, and had even dared to contradict her favorite theory of the general worthlessness of English gentlemen of the nineteenth cen- tury. It was one wet morning when she had been reading Scott to three or four of her particular friends,and it must be confessed that she read remarkably well,that she be- gan to lament the decline of chivalry. Ty- rawley was sitting half in and half out of range. Perhaps she talked a little at him. At any rate, he chose to accept the challenge. I cannot agree with you, Miss Baynton, he said. It is true we no longer ivear ladies gloves in our helmets, nor do ~ve compel harmless individuals, ~vho possibly may have sweethearts of their own, to admit the supe- riority of our lady-love at the point of the lance; but of all that was good in chivalry, of courage, truth, honor, enterprise, self-sacri- fice, you ~vill find as much in the nineteenth century as in the twelfth. He brightened up as he spoke, and it was quite evident that he believed ~vhat he said, a circumstance which always gives an advantage to a (lisputant. More tlia~ one pair of bright eyes smiled approval, and Miss Constance saw a l)roba- bility of a defection from her ranks. She changed her tactics. You are too moderate in your claims for your contemporaries, Mr. Tyrawley. If I re- member right, modesty has always been con- sidered a qualification of a true knight. I am not ashamed to speak the truth, he replied; your theory would have been more tenable before ~he days of the Crimean war and the Indian mutiny; but the men who lit their cigars in the trenches of the Redan, and who carried the gate of Delhi, may bear com- parison with Bayard, or Coeur de Lion. Oh! I do not allude to our soldiers, said she; of course, I know they are brave; but, and here she hesitated a moment, till possi- bly piqued because her usual success had not attended her in the passage of arms, she con- cluded, but to our idle gentlemen, who seem to have no heart for any thing. Tyrawley smiled. Possibly you may judge too much by the outside, lie said. I am inclined to fancy that some of those whom you are pleased to call idle gentlemen would be found to have heart enough for any thing that honor, or duty, or even chivalry, could find for them to do. I hope you are right, said Miss Con- stance, with a slightly percel)til)le curl of her upper lip, which implied that she did not think so. Tyrawley bowed, and the conversation ter- minated a few minutes afterwards; when he had left the room, the conversation of the young ladies was interrupted by Master George Baynton, aged fourteen, who suddenly at- tacked his sister. I think you are wrong, you know, when you call Tyrawley a humbug. My dear, said Constance, with a start, I never said any thing so ru Well, you implied it, you know, in your girls words, and I think you make a mistake; for he can shoot like one oclock, never misses a thing, and I hear he can ride no end. He was rather out of practice in his cricket when he came down; but he is improving every day. You should have seen the hit he made yesterdayright up to the cedars. Do you think there is nothing else for a man to do, but ride and shoot and play cricket? Oh! thats all very well; but you should hear what Merton, our second master says; and a great brick he is, too. Whatever you do, do it as well as you can, whether its cricket or verses. And I believe if Tyrawley had to fight, hed go in and win, and no mis- take. Ah! said Constance, ~with a sigh, he has evidentlywhat is it you boys call it ? tipped you. Isnt it? Indignant at this insult, George walked off to find his friend, and have a lesson in bil- liards. The day lingered on, after the usual fashion of wet days in September in full country houses. There was a little dancing after dinner; but all retired early in hopes of a finer day on the morrow. Tyrawley had some letters to write, so that it was past two before he thought of 107 COLDSTREAM. going to bed. He always slept with his win- dow open, and as he thre~v 01) the sash, a fierce gust of wind blew out his candles, and blew down the looking-glass. Pleasant, l)y Jove ! he soliloquized. I wonder whether its smashed unlucky to break a looking-glassIm hanged if I know where the matches are; never mind; I can find my way to bed in the dark. What a night, as a flash of lightning illumined the room for a moment, and he bent out of the window. The wind must be about nor-nor- ~vest. Cheerful for any thing coming 01) to Bristol from the southward. I wonder what a storm is like on this coast. I have a great mind to go and see. I shall never be able to get that hall-door open without waking them up; what a nuisance! Stay, capital idea! Ill go by the window. Before starting upon his expedition, he changed th~ remains of his evening dress (for he had been writing in his dressing-gown) for a flannel shirt and trousers, whilst a short pea-jacket and glazed hat completed his ar- ray. His room was on the first floor, and he bad intended to drop from the window-sill; but the branch of an elm came so near, he found that unnecessary, as sprin~ing to it he ~vas on the ground, like a cat, in an instant. He soon found his way across country like a bird, to the edge of the cliff. The sea for miles seemed one sheet of foam. But a flash of lightning discovered a group of figures about a quarter of a mile distant; and he distinguished shouts in the intervals of the storm. He was soon amongst them, and lie found that all eyes were turned on a vessel which had struck on a rock within two hundred yards of the clifl It was evident that she would go to l)ieces under their very eyes. Is there no way of opening communica- tion with her~ he asked of an old coast- guard man. Why, ye see, sir, we have s~t to Bilford for Manhys rockets; but she must break 01) before they come. How far is it to Bilford? Better than seven mile, your honor. If we could get a rope to them, we might save the crew. Every one of them, y~ir honor; but it aint possible. I think a man might swim out. The first wave would dash him to pieces against the cliff. What depth of water below? Ihe cliff goes down like a wMl, forty fathom, at least. The deeper the better. What distance to the water? A good fifty feet. Well, I have dived off the main yard of the Chesapeake. Now listen to me. Have you got some light, strong rope? As much as you like. Well, take a double coil round my chest, and do you take care to pay it out fast enough as I draw upon it. You wont draw much after the first plunge; it will be the same thing as suicide, every bit. Well, ~ve shall see. Theres no time to be lost: lend me a knife. And in an instant lie whipped off his hat, boats, and pea-jutcl~et, then with the knife he cut ofi its sleeves and l)assed the ro~)e through them, that it might chafe him less. The eyes of the old boatman brightened. There was evidently a method in his mad- ness. You are a very good swimmer, I sul)l)ose, sir? I have dived through the surf at Nuku- heva a few times. I never knew a white man that could do that. Tyrawley smiled. But whatever you do, he said, mind and let me have plenty of rope. Now out of the way, my .friends, and let me have a clear start. He walked slowly to the edge of the cliff, looked over to see how much the rock shelved outwards; then returned, looked to see that there was plenty of rope for him to carry out, then took a short run, and leaped as if from the springing-board of a ~)lunging- bath, lie touohed the water full five-and- twenty feet from the edge of the cliff iDown into its dark depth he went, like a h)lummet, but soon to rise again. As he reached the surface he saw the crest of a mighty wave a few yards in front of himthe wave that he had been told was to dash him lifeless against the cliff. But now his old exl)erience of the Pacific stands him in good stead. For two moments he draws breath, then, ere it reaches him, he dives below its centre. The water dashes against the cliff, but the swimmer rises 108 COLDSTREAM. far beyond it. A faint cheer rises from the shore as they feel him draw upon the rOpe. The waves follow in succession, and he dives again and again, rising like an otter to take breath, making very steadily onward, though more below the water than above it. We must now turn to the ship. The waves have made a clean breach over her bows. The crew are crow(led upon the stern. They hold on to the bulwarks, and await the end, for no boat can live in such a sea. Sud- denly she is hailed from the waters. Ship a-boy! shouts a loud, clear voice, which makes itself heard above the storm. Throw The me a rope or a buoy. life-buoy was still hanging in its accustomed l)lace by the m ainmast. The capt am almost mechanically takes it down, and with well-directed aim throws it within a yard or two of the swim- mer. In a moment it is under his arms, and in half a minute he is on board. Come on board, sir, he says to the cap- tain, j)ul:;ng one of his ~vet curls l)rofession- ally. The cal)tain apl)eared to be regarding him as a visitor fr6m the lower world; so, turning to the crew, he lifted up the rope he had brought from the shore. Then for the first time the object of his mission flashed upon their minds, and a desperate cheer broke forth from all hands, instantly re- echoed from the shore. Then a strong cable is attached to the small rope and drawn on boardthen a secondand the communica- tion is complete. But no time is to be lost, for the stern shows signs of breaking-up, and there is a lady passenger. Whilst the captain is J)ianning a sort of chair in which she might be moved, Tyra~vley lifts her up on his left arm, steadies himself with his right by the upper roj)e, and ivalks along the lower as if he had been a dancer. He is the first on shore, for no sailor would leave till the lady was safe. But they soon follow, and in five minutes tho ship is clearfive minutes more, and no trace of her is left. Ravelstoke Hall has been aroused by the news of the wreck, and Mr. liavelstoke has just arrived with branky and blankets. Him Tyrawley avoids; and, thinking he can be of no further use, be betakes himself across the country once more, and by the aid of the friendly elm regains his chamber without ob- servation. The lady, whom Tyrawley bad deposited in a cottage, with a strong recommendation that she should go to sleep immediately, was soon carried off in triumph by Mr. Ravelatoke to the Hall, and welcomed by Lady Grace at half-past three in the morning. There were very few of the guests who slept undisturbed that night. The unusual noise in the house aroused everyl)Ody, and many excursions were made in unfinished costume to endeavor to ascertain what was going on. The excite- ment culminated when the miscellaneous as- semblage who had conducted the captain and some of the crew to the Hall, after being well-supplied with ale apd stronger liquids, conceived that it would be the correct thing to give three cheers at the hour of half-past five. It was then that Lord Todmulton, an Irish l)eer, laboring under an erroneous impression that the house was attacked, was discovered on the landing-place, in array consisting prin- cipally of a short dressing-gown, flannel- waistcoat, and a fowling-piece. Breakfast that morning was a desultory meal. People finished, and talked about the wreck, and began again. It seemed quite iml)ossible to obtain any thing like an accu- rate account of what had taken l)lace. At~ last the captain appeared, and though almost overwhelmed by the multiplicity of questions, nevertheless between the intervals of broiled ham and coffee, he managed to elucidate mat- ters a little. Thea came the question, Who was it who swam out to the vessel. Tyrawley had only been at Ravelstoke a few days, and ~vas a stranger in the neighborhood. None of the servants had reached the coast till it was all over, so there had been no one to recognize him. I scarcely saw him, said the cal)tain, but be was a dark, tallish man, with a great deal of beard. Was be a gentleman P asked Miss Con- stance Baynton, who had been taking a deep interest in the whole affair. - Well, dve see, Miss, I cant exactly say, for be hadnt much on ; but, if he isnt, hed make a good one, that Ill go bail for. Hes the coolest hand I ever saw. Stay, now I thinld of it, I shouldnt wonder if he was a naval man, for he ~ulIed his fore-lock, half- laughing-like, and said, Come on board, sir, to me, when we pulled him up. 109 COLDSTREAM. Perhaps it was Rutherford, said Mr. Raveistoke, naming the lieutenant in the navy ; he is tall and dark. And he has been letting his mustache grow since he came on shore, observed a young lady. ~The1.c is he? But Mr. Rutherford was gone down to the cliff to inspect the scene of the disaster. Begging your pa~don, sir, said the but- ler, it could not have been any gentleman stop~)ing in the house, for the door was fas- tened till the people came down to tell you of the wreck. At this momenthalf-past ten, A.MMr. Tyrawlev walked into the breakfast-room. He was got up, if possible, more elaborately than usual. Now, heres a gentleman, captain, Mr. Tvrawley, who has been all over the world, and met with some strange adventures. ill he bound he never saw any thing to equal the affair of last night. Youd a nearish thing of it, cal)tain? inquired Tyrawley, speaking very slowly. His manner and appearance quite disarmed any suspicion the captain might have had of his identity. Five minutes more, sir, and Davy Jones locker would have held us all. Begging your parloti. Miss, aJ)ologizing to Constance. The cal)tant had already repeated the story a reasonalile number of times, and ~vas anx- ious to finish his breakfast. So Miss Con- stance gave it all for the l)enefit of Mr. Ty- rawley, dressed in her own glowing periods. Tyrawley made no ol)servation upon her recital, but took a third egg. Well, Mr. Tyrawley, said she at last, what (10 you think of the man who s~vam out to the wreck ? Why, I think, Miss Baynton,I think, said he, hesitating, that he must have got very wet. And I sincerely hope he wont catch cold. There was a general laugh at this, in ~rhich the captain joined; hut it is to be feared that Miss Constance stamped her pretty little foot under the table. Tvrawlev turned, and began to talk to Miss Mellish, who was sitting on his right. As lie was speaking the door on his left opened, and Lady Grace Ravelstoke entered with the lady passenger. The lady heard him speak, and there are some voices which a woman never forgets, and the dangerous journey over the rope had not passed in si- lence. She laid her hand upon his arm, and said, 0, sir, ho~v can I thank you ? Tyrawley rose as in duty bound, saying, Do not speak of it, I did not know when I came off, that I was to have the pleasure of assisting you, But the astonishment of the captain was beautiful to behold. W hy, you dont mean to say Well, I never ;dash my wigwell Im Here, shake hands, sir, will you. And he stretched across the table a brawny hand, not much smaller than a shoulder of mutton. The grip with which Tyrawley met his, seemed to do a great deal more to convince him of his identity, than the ladys recogni- tion of their preserver. Ihe day was as wet as the preceding. Half-an-hour after breakfast, Mr. Tvrawley lounged into the back drawing-room. There sat Miss Constance Baynton, and by the sin- gular coincidence which favors lovers or his- torians, she sat alone. Now Constance had made up her mind that she was bound to apologize to Mr. Tyrawley for hei rode speeches of yesterday; she had also decided that she would coml)liment him on his gallant conduct. She had, in fact, arranged a neat, quiet, cold, formal, apl)rOl)riate form of words in which she would give her views expression. And how do you think she delivered them? She got up, said, 0 Mr. Tyrawley 1 and~ burst into tears. If a l)roud womans pride is a shield to thee, 0 man, as well as to her, against the arrows of love, remember, that tf ever she throws it awayafter she has compelled you to acknowledge its valueyou are both left utterly defenceless. Frederick Tyrawley capitulated at once. They are to be married this month. And if Mr. Tyrawley does not, at some future time, achieve a reputation which no mystery shall cloud, it will not be Mrs. rIl1rawle)7~s fault. HERBERT VAUGHAN. 110 From The Press. The Great Tribulation; or, the Things com- ing on the Earth. By the Rev. John Cum- ming, ID.D., FR.S.E. London: Bentley. GRoss injustice has been done this hook by hasty and clever critics, who have forgotten that personalities amusing to the reader are not a critical review. We shall notice by and by several points of difference between our- elves and the author. But at the outset we must al)prise the reader that this is not a vol- ume of mete wild speculation,on the con- trarv, there is an eminently practical and useful purpose pervading it. 4nd as regards literary ability, it is I)erhaps the most eloquent and masterly that Dr. Cumming has produced. It would, we apprehend, be altogether at variance with the intention and expectation of the writer of this volume, to sul~ject its con- tents to the test of a critical examination. Nothing, we feel persuaded, is further from Dr. Cummings thoughts than to l)resent him- self hefore the l)ul)lic either as a prophet or as an exegetical interpreter of prophecy. Notwithstanding some few indications which seem to tend to a contrary conclusion, we ven- ture to doubt whether he has, even in his own mind, any thing like a regular system of l)ro- phetic exegesis, any calendar, or digest of fu- ture events, such as other interpreters of prophecy have laboriously constructed. He does indeed occasionally refer to definite dates and a sul)erficial reader of his book might easily adopt the conclusion that Dr. Cumming had fixed on the year 1867 as the date of the end of the world. On more careful examination, however, it ~viIl be found that he does no such thing. rrhe very lecture which bears the om- inous heading of that year, and in which he adduces, chiefly on the authority of other writ- ers on prophecy, a variety of dates and cal- ulations, Christian and Rabbinical, Mahome- .an and Pagan, which all lead up to the year 1867, concludes with an express disclaimer of any desire on his part to fix upon that date. I do not venture to dogmatize ~ he adds, with a niodesty nut unbecoming the subject, I do not attempt to dictateI do not pre- sume to decide. It will, no doubt, be a relief to manyit is so, we frankly own, to ourselvesto he thus furnished ~vith an express license from the learned doctor himself to attach to those por- tions of his honk which more or less wear the appearance of definite prognostications of the 111 future as much or as little value as the argu- ment may seem to warrant. When a writer on prophecy proceeds step by ste1) to identify l)redictions with events, whether events al- ready part or events yet future, there is a danger of his entangling himself and his read- ers in the meshes of a prophetical net from which there is no escape. Having nailed you to one of hia interl)retations, he has you in his power. When he comes to the next link in his chain, he fastens you to that also, until he 1)rings you to the year 1867, or any other date to which his system converges, with the same methodical certainty with which the clock brings the hour-hand round to the fig- ure XII. No such process of mental torture is brought to bear by Dr. Cumming either on his own mind or on the minds of his readers. His lectures on The Great Tribulation are discursive rather than argumentative; they deal in suggestions rather than in l)roofs. In adopting this line of treatment, he has, we think, done wiselyand certainly with suc- cess; otherwise he would not, within a few weeks of the first l)uhlicatiun of his volume, have had the opportunity of displaying the words Third rhousai~d on its titlepage. So raj)id a success must be highly gratifying to the author, who seems hardly to have ex- pected it; for we observe that, on more than one occasion, he expresses his fear lest the no- tions lie prol)oun(ls should be unpopular. After the run which his hook has had, he will, probably, in a future revision of the text, mod- ify the deprecatory language of those pas- sages to which we allude. Taking then, these lectures for what, if we understand Dr. Gumming aught, they profess to be,discourses illustrative and conjectural on miscellaneous topics more or less directly connected withthe time of the end, and the future destiny of man and mans world,it ap- pears to us that they are admirably calculated for the object in view, that of startling mens minds and arresting their attention by the novelty of the scenes and ideas presented to their contemplation. Many who would have eschewed the sul?ject altogether in the severer form of a treatise on prophecy, will be at- tracted by the lively and imaginative style of our author, and may pick up a caj)ital notion here and there, all the more so because he does not attempt to impose any constraint upon their reasoning faculties. There is he- THE GREAT TRIBULATION. THE GREAT TRIBULATION. tween a set volume of prophetical interpreta- tion and these lectures much the same differ- ence as between a l)onderous tome full of geogrn~)hical and to~)ographica~ details an(l a tourists diary. It is wonderful,if the sub- ject were less grave, we might be tempted to say entertaining,to observe the agility with which Dr. Cumming ste1)s up and down among the facts both of history and of prophecy, turning from one to the other, and extracting from each what he conceives will be appreci- ated by the l)ol)ular mind. This is a rare gift and a high talent. No previous preparation, no tedious study of prophetic keys, types, or figures is required here. The most ordinary reader may follow him as he dashes in medias re~ coupling with facts and images of the most familiar kind associations and reflections woich, at first, perhaps, take you rather by sur- prise, yet leave an impression upon your mind that after all there may be something in it, till, as you read on, you find yourself enriched by a goodly store of prophetical conjectures. There was a 1)00k 1)ublished a few years ago under the title Guesses at Truth. The title struck us as piquant; and we should say that Guesses at Prophecy would not have been a bad title for Dr. Cummings book, though the one he has chosen is doubtless preferable. As to the value of these guesses, opin- ions will, of course, differ very considerably. For our own part we confess that to some of them we do not feel inclined to attach much weight. The great vivacity of his spirit, per- baps the excitement inseparable from the de- livery of popular lectures, has occasionally be- trayed our author into attaching to particular facts more importance than they seem entitled to. When, for example, he instances the visi- tation of the cholera in 1849 as one of a series of striking facts~ characteristic of the last pe- riod of the world,supposed to run from 1848 or 1849 to 1867,ones mind is involuntarily carried back some fifteen or sixteen years to the first appearance of the cholera in this country, which of course does away with its peculiar significance at the later date of its re- appearance. In like manner we cannot help thinking that too much stress is laid upon the war in the Crimea, the magnitude of which, as compared with other wars, is due rather to our own nearness to it in point of time, than to it~s nature, its duration, or its results. His interpre- tation of prophetiefigures, too, does not always commend itself to our minds. Yet he is prob- ably right in his suggestion that the aJ)ocalyp tic l)rediction there shall be no more sea, is not to be taken literally ; that it merely means that the winds and sea will he in sweet 1)armorlv that there will he no more pitch- ing and rollingwith its distressing results no more drowning, no more naval battles; and that, apart from the more l)leasant char- acter of the watery element, the sea will be in a manner anr)ihilated by tI)e electric telegraph, enabling England and America to hold sis- terly converse like, Mary and Martha, and that, as he charitably hopes, on other sub- jects besides the price of Funds. We are bound to add, and we do so not without regret, that there are among the the- ological statements of Dr. Cumming some from whici), if our space admitted of it, we should feel it our duty formally to record our dissent. We allude, in the first place, to his avowal tl)at, if compelled to make a choice, he would be tempted to take Mahometanism in l)reference to either the Romanism of the Western or the superstition of the Russo- Greek Church. We sincerely hope that Dr. Cumming will never be reduced to so shock- ing an alternative; but if he were, we make no doubt that upon further acquaintance with the Koran he would decline to give in his adhesion to a system which amounts to a vir- tual denial of Christ, and would still prefer the Bible, even in the IDouav version. We are confirmed in this bclief by his declaration in another part of the volume that he does not think it impossible for a Iloman Catholic to he saved. The idea broached elsewhere, that many a Jew l)as seen, and clung to, and held fast, Christ the Saviour as revealed in Isaiah liii., while he did not receive him as proclaimed in the New Testament, appears to us rather startling nor are we altogether rec- onciled to it by the remark that the Gospel is not so cramped as we sometimes think. Coming from any other pet), we might have been tempted to (lesignate this sentiment as somewhat latitudinarian; but we are re- strained from doing so by Dr. Cummings ex- tress protest in another place against the l)op ular feeling of indifference to Christian truth and pure and Scriptural doctrine. ~ l)opular lectures, we have no right to look for philological accuracy. When, there- fore, Dr. Cumming tells us the PloI)er mean- ing of Gospel, according to the etymology of 112 THE GREAT TRIBULATION. 113 the Greek word, is Gods spell as if the exception may be taken to some of the infer- Greek were not Evangel, i.e. good spell, ences which he draws from particular facts, is it hut Theangel all we can do is to set it possible to resist the conviction that, on the down as one of those lapsus incidental to ex- whole, the present aspect of the world, social, tempore addresses, which, happily, cannot political, and religious, indicates the approach greatly signify in the case of an author whose of some tremendous crisis. The very fact reputation for scholarship is beyond cavil, that prophetical inquiries are as extensively All these, however are minor blemishes in a prosecuted as they are in our day, and that book which contains so much interesting mat- not only by sombre students among l)iles of ter, and incidentally urges, with iDr. Cummings musty tomes, but in the more exhilarating at- accustomed fire of thought and fluency of mosphere of the popular lecture-room,the speech, many practical points of Christian faith very appearance, indeed, of such a volume as and practice. In some of the lectures, he holds this of Dr. Cumming, may, if he will allow us up the mirror of truth to the age with a fidel- to pay him that compliment, he accepted as ity which does him great credit. Nor, whatever one of the signs of the times. NOAHS Aux AND THE GREAT EASTERNA day or two since wo presented the relative pro- portions of the two greatest vessels ever con- structedNoahs Ark and Scott Russells Great Easternfrom which it appeared that the Great Eastern is one hundred and thirty-three feet longer than was the ark, and about three feet deeper, but not so broad within eight feet. As an illustration of the change in ideas of navi~a- tion which the building of the Great Eastern is calculated to produce, we will quote the follow- ing paragraph from an elaborate article issued some thirteen years since, in the Ghurch of Enqiand Quarterly, on the deluge, asid repub- lished in Littells Living Age: Now, as it is clearly impossible that a vessel of the length and breadth of the Ark could be otherwise than a floating vessel, designed en- tirely for perfectly still waters, we have sup- posed it to be flat-bottomed and straight-sided: both as making it the more buoyant and as giv- ing to it the greatest capacity. It was devoid of all sailing properties; had neither rigging nor rudder; its build was simply that of a huge float, to all outward appearance wholly at the mercy of, the winds and the waves, liable to be drifted or driven about according as currents or winds for the time prevailed; but, as we shall show, the ark could not for a moment have been subjected to the influence of either winds or tides. The extraordinary length of the ark proves, at once, the miraculous power that was, at every moment, in exercise for its preserva- tion, since no vessel of the Arks proportions could naturally live in disturbed waters ; the very Jlrst wave that rose would inevitably break its back and rend it entireb~ asunder; nor with all our experience in ship -building would it be possible to construct a vessel of the arks proportions and to naviqate it from Dover to (Jalais in ro igh weather the least swell of the ocean, by raising one end and depressing the other would break it in the middle and cause it to founder, nor could any possible contrivance or ingenuity of con- struction prevent this consequence. And if the very l)ecuhiar construction of the ark had not LIYING AGE. THIRD SERIES. 407 made such a conclusion irresistible, the purpose for which it was built would have proved that such was the fact, for had the ark pitched in the least from the swell of the waves, or rolled at all front side to side under the influence of the wind, which from its great length and little width, it must most distressingly have done, the whole world of animals therein contained could not have kept their footin~ of very neces- sity therefore a dead calm must have prevailed around the ark during the whole of the one hundred and fifty days that it was floating o~ the waters. Here, we see, it is said that a vessel as long as the ark could not possibly live except in a dead calmthat the least agitation would break its backand that a continuous racle was nec- essary to avert such a catastrophe. Yet here is the Great Eastern, one hundred and thirty-three feet longer, about to navigate not from 1)over to Calais but from England to America, and after~vards to ~o half round the world, making sl)ort of all the winds and waves. It is said, too, that the great length and little width of the ark would have caused such a pitching and rolling that the animals inside could not have kept their footing. Yet here is a ship a great deal longer and materially narrower that will, if what they premise of it is true, maintain a condition of almost perfect equilibrium and repose even in the roughest weather. The late Dr. Scorsby conclusively established by a series of experiments on the waves of the Atlantic that a vessel of some six hundred feet in len th, could never fall into the trough of the sea, as one wave would counteract the effect of another. Thus, instead of a miracle to save the arks back, it would have taken a miracle to have broken its back, constructed as it was. The English Churchman is not the first man ~vhto has been superserviceable in clearing up. Scripture diffictilties whighs had no existence but in his own imagination. The snered record needs no eking out by human ingenuity; it is best left to its own simple statement. New York Courier. THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. From Once a Week. THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. BY CAPTAIN SHEItARD OSBORN, R.N. IN 1848, the pul)liC alarm at the long-con- tiniied absence of Franklins Expedition oc- casioned the search to l)e commenced. Those who were sent knew no more than Franklin did on leaving England of the geography of the vast region between Lancaster Sound and Behrings Strait; and in all that area, many tens of thousands of square miles, ~ve had to 8eek two atomstwo ships. The labor was long and disheartening; for, with the excel) tion of the discovery in 1850 of Franklins winter quarters of 184546, uncle Beechev Island, no blue to their whereabouts was found until near the fall of 1854. That discovery at Beechey Island merely assured us that he was within the area above alluded to, and that his expedition had not l)erisl]ed, as some sul)l)ose(l, in Baffins Bay. During those six years, however, the entire geogra~)hy of the regions of Arctic America ~vas made known; and, with the excel)tion of a small portion around King Williams Land, every coast, a creek, and harbor thoroughly seaiched, and it should be remembered, that these exl)lora- tions ~vere nearly all made by our seamen and officers on foot, dragging sledges, on which were 1)iled tents. provisio~ fuel for cooking, and raiment. This sledging was hrought to perfecti9n by Captain MClintock. He made one foot journey in those regions with Sir James Ross in 1848 with the equipment then known to Arctic navigators, and such as Franklin probably had, and was struck with its imperfections, and the total impossibility of making lor~g journeys ~vith mat6-iel so clumsy, and entailing so much unnecessary labor upon the seamen. His suggestions were subsequently eagerly adopted, and in some cases improved upon by others; the consequence was, that whereas in 1848 we found our sledge-parties aI)le to remain away from the frozen-in ships only forty days to ex- plore t~vo hundred miles of coast, those of Captain I-Joratio Austins expedition were away for eighty days, and went over eight hundred miles of ground. And in Sir Edward Belch- ers expedition the journeys extended over a hundred and odd days, and distances were accomplished of nearly one thousand four hundred miles! In spite of these improvements, the labor and hardship entailed upon our seamen by these sledge-journeys remained extremely se- vere; and none but those who have witnessed it can conceive the constant suffering it en- tailed upon our men, or the unflagging zeal and earnestness with which they underwent it year after year, in the hope of discovering their lost countrymen. There were two points to be ascertained by the officers con- ducting the search in order to insure the ut- most 1)Ossible amount of work a done each season the one was the maximum weight a strong man could drag through deep sno~v and over heavy ice for a consecu- tive number of days; the other was, to what temperature we could safely expose them, and upon ho~v small a quantity of food. The results obtained were curious. The maximum weight was ascertained to be t~vo hundred and twenty pounds per man; and of that. weight three pounds per diem was con- sumed by each man for food and fuel ;viz., one pound of bread, and one pound of meat; the other pound comprised his spirits, tea, cocoa, sugar, tobacco, and fuel for cooking. Upon this estimate it was found that, for a hundred days journey, they could march ten miles per diem, and endure a temperature with impunity of fifty or sixty degrees helo~v the freezing-point of water. These facte we offer for the information of military authori- ties; and they should remember, that our men dragged their tents with them, and that the country traversed was one vast desert, affording only water, though that bad to be thawed from snow, out of the daily modicum of fuel. All thir labor, howeverall this generous exj)enditure of the legislature of England on behalf of hie people, who entered deeply and earnestly jnto the sad question, What has be- come of Franklin Pbrought back no infor- mation of his fate and still further to test the perseverance which forms the best trait of our national character, the fall of 1854 witnessed the abandonment in icy seas of a noble expedition of four ships. It was indeed a catgstrol)he, though neither an officer nor a man was lost. The I told you so rang through the land of those who had long since got rid of the question by tumbling icebergs over on top of the Erebus and Terror; and those who felt convinced that the mystery would yet be unravelled, sighed, and knew not where to. look for support. The skill and hardihood of the officersthe devotion and 114 THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. zeal of our sailors, and the accomplishment of the north-west ~)assage by Captain Sir Robert MCIurewere accepted by the 1tublic as some consolation for the wounded maritime pride of Britain in the inconclusive allied war with Russia, though it was decided that no further search should be madeon the part of the government. Hardly had men declared the solution of the fate of the lost expedition a hopeless task, when in October, 1854, from the shores of Prince Regents Inlet, appeared a traveller, Dr. Rae, bringing the conclusive information, which we mentioned in the end of our last numl~er, of the starvation of a forlorn hope of tbrty men and officers front the Erebus and Terror, at the mouth of the Great Fish River. The Esquimaux from whom he oI)tained his intelligence, told him that the two ships had been l)eset, or wrecked, off the coast of King Williams Land. The lost expedition was thus reported to be in the centre of the square of unsearched ground, before alluded to. It would have been far more easily accessible to our various expeditions, whether by way of Barrow, or Behrings Strait, than many of the more re mote regions explored by them; but, by a strange fatality, all our travellers turned back short of the goal, because they found no cairn, no trace, no record to induce them to push on towards it. Ho~vever, that there the lost ships were, no one who knew any thing of the matter could then doubt; and of course the natural conclusion under such circum- stances was, that some one of the Arctic ships in our dockyards ~vould have been immedi- ately sent to close the search in a satisfactory manner, even though all hope of saving life might he at an end. The admiralty and gov- ernment thought otherwise ; all public en- deavors ceased; and, as is too often the case in Britain, l)rivate enterprise vas left to cro~vn the column which the devotion of a pul)lic 1)rofession had served to erect. At this junc- ture, the ~vido~v of Franklin stel)l)ed forth to carry out what the admirals iii Whitehall and statesmen in Downing Street declared to be an im j)ossil)ility. This energetic, self-reliant woman, seconded by a few stanch friends, l)re- eminent amongst whom stood Sir Roderick Murchison, proceeded for the third time to try to carry out b~i l)rivate means what igno- rance, rather than ill-will, l)revellted the ad- miralty from executing, for, after the death of Barrow, and Beaufort, and the retirement of Admiral Hamilton, the only peison left at the Board who understood the question was Admiral Sir Alexander Milne, and he stood alone in voting for a final government exl)e- dition. Lady Franklins l)lan ~vas to send a single vessel down from Prince Regents Inlet, or Cape Walker, towards King Williams Land. Twice already had she been foiled in this identical scheme; though on the last oc- casion the discovery of B ellots Strait, leading direct to King Williams Land, paved the way for her final effort. An al)l)eal to the public for pecuniary aid met with but l)artial success, and Lady Fiank lin had to sacrifice all her available property and live humbly in lodgings to enable her to meet the necessary expenses attendant on the purchase of a fine screw schooner yacht, the Fox, and her equipment for Arctic service. Many able officers of the naval and mercan- tile marine came generously forward and vol- unteered their gratuitous services. Amongst the first was Captain George TI. Richards; but hardly had his offer been accepted, ~vhen the admiralty appointed him to the Plumper for a survey of Vancouvers Land. his l)lace was almost immediately filled by Captain Leopold MClintock, ~vhose high reputation during years of continuous service in those frozen seas rendered his acquisition an omen of perfect success. Various circumstances combined to retard the departure of the gallant little Fox, and it was not until July, 1857, that she and her noble company put forth from Aberdeen. Round Captain MClintock stood twenty-five gallant men, including three officers and an interpreter. Allen Young, a generous cap- tain of whom the merchant service have good reason to be prOu(l, ~ient as sailing-master, and not only gave his services gratuitously, but threw 500 into the general fund for ex- l)enses. Lieutenant Hobson, of the Navy, served as chief officer, and Dr. Walker of Belfast, a young and rising medical man, ivent also to seek honor where so many of his gallant countrymen had already won it. Pe- tersen, the Dane, who had spent half his life within the arctic zone, quitted Copenhagen at an hours notice to aid Captain MClintock as Esquimaux interj)reter; and amongst the men were many gallant fellows who had for years labored under her majestys pendant in the frozen north. lb 116 THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. The Fox before long reached the edge of from the dep6t of provisions left there b~v that vast belt of broken-up ice which all the government expeditions, the now diminished summer stretches across the upper portion of stock of the schooner is replenished, and, fa- Baffins Bay, and is known under the gen- vored by an extraordinarily open season, Cap- eral term of middle-ice. MClintock was late, tam MClintock was able to reach Cape the season unfavorable, his vessel a small one, Walker and pass down Peel Strait towards yet he fought a gallant fight to make his way King Williams Land until brought up, oa to Lancaster Sound. Repulsed in one quar- August 17th, by fixed ice, at a point twenty- ter, we see him doubling back to another, the five miles within its entrance. Baffled, but not tiny Fox struggling with a sea of ice-fields disheartened, Captain MClintock bethought and icebergsstout hearts and strong hands himself of the route suggested by Lady Frank- carrying her and her company through many un, by way of Prince Regents Inlet and Bel- a hairbreadth escape. The middle-ice, how- lot Strait, and with that decision which, com ever, is too strong for them. In an unlucky bined with sound judgment, forms the most hour they are imprisoned, ice surrounds them, valuable qualification of an Arctic navigator, water even in holes becomes daily less, winter he immediately retraced his steps, and by the sweeps down frora her dreary home, and all 20th, or three days later, was at the eastern en- that vast sea of broken ice becomes frozen to- trance of Bellot Strait, watching for a chance gether. They are beset for the winter, ~nd to push through it into the western sea around must go with the ice wherever it pleases. King Williams Land. Twenty~five men in a tiny craft drifting The scene in that strait was enough to throu~hout that long dark winter, in the daunt men less accustomed to such dangers. midst of a slow-marching pack, which ever On either hand precipitous walls of granite, rolls from the pole to the equator, was a topped by mountains ever covered with snow, strange and solemn spectacle. The calm and whilst to and fro, in the space between them, modest endurance of their six months trial, the ice was grinding and churning with great as told by the gallant leader, is a thing to violence under the influence of a fierce tide. make one proud that such as they are our Like a terrier at a rat-hole, the staunch Fbx countrymen. waited for an opportunity to run the gauntlet Late in April, 1858, the Fox may again be through this strait. This perseverance was seen; she has approached the open sea; a partially rewarded, for on the 6th September furious storm arises, sending huge rollers they were able to reach its western entrance, under the ice, which heaves and rears on all though again to be brought up by a belt of sides. A battle for life commences between fixed ice which stretched across the path, ana the stout yacht and the charging floes. Un- was held together by a group of islands namea der sail and steam, she works out against all after Sir Roderick Murchison. The winter of obstacles, and, thanks to a taper bow, escapes 18589 now set in, and, much to the chagrin the destruction which would infallibly have of those on board the Fox, all hope of reach- overtaken a vessel of bluffer build. The sea ing the western sea had to be abandoned, al- is sighted, and eventually entered; all on though separated from them only by an ice board the Fox are well, all in good spirits, field six miles wide. An unusually cold and one of the company has ~ilone perished by an stormy winter had now to be endured by men accident. Fortune ever smiles upon the reso- debilitated by a previous winter in the packed lute, and the middle-ice no longer barred the ice of Baffins Bay; and the resources of road to Lancaster Sound; by the end of July Boothia Felix yielded them in fresh food only the Fox had reached its entrance. The hardy eight reindeer, two bears, and eighteen seals. whaling-men of Aberdeen and Hull, who had Against these privations, however, there was just returned to their, fishing-ground from a feeling of perfect confidence that the return- home, cheered the little craft on with many a ing spring would enable them to march to hearty God speed ye! and shared with King Williams Land, and solve the mystery. those on board the Fox their luxuries of frozen On February 17th, Captains MClintock and fresh beef and vegetables. Beyond the haunts Young left the Fox to establish advanced de- of whale fishermen, and beyond those even of p6ts of provision for the summer sledge par- the still hardier Esquimaux, the Fox must ties, a necessary measure which Lieutenant press on. Beechey Island i8 reached, and Hob8on had been nearly lost in attempting to THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN F RANKLIN. accomplish the previous autumn. MClintock ~vent south towards the Magnetic Pole, and Young westerly for Prince of Wales Land. On the 15th March they both returned to the Fox, somewhat cut up by the intense cold and l)ri~ation, but the cheers ~vhich rang through the little craft told that a clue had indeed been obtained to the fate of the Erebus and Terror. MClintock had met forty-five Esquimaux, arid during a sojourn of four days amongst them had learnt that several years ago a ship was crushed by the ice off the north shore of King Williams Land ; that her people landed and went away to the Great Fish River, where they died. These natives had a quantity of wood from a hoat left by the starving white men on the Great River. The iml)atience of all on board the Fox to start with their sledges to the westward max be easily understood. The Esquimaux men- tioning only one ship as having bQen sunk, gave rise to the hope that the other vessel would be found, and obliged Captain MClin- tock to detach a party under Captain Young towards Prince of Wales Land, ~vhilst he and Lieutenant Hobson went south for King Wil- liams Land and the Fish River. On the 2nd of April the three officers left the ship with a man-sledge and a dog-sledge to each. Of Captain Young we may say that lie made a most successful and lengthy jour- ney, connecting the unexl)lored coast-lines of all the land to the northward and westvard, and correcting its position, l)ut without find- ing a single cairn or record left by Franklin. Captain MChintock and Hobson xvent to- gether as far as the Magnetic Pole, and, be- fore ~)arting company, gathered from some natives that the second vessel, hitherto unac- counted for, had heen drifted on shore by the ice in the fall of the same year that the other ship ~vas crushed. Captain MClintock under- took to go down the east-side of King Wil- hams Land direct to the Fish River, and taking up the clue which Mr. Andersons journey to Montreal Island, in 1855, afforded him,follow it whither it led. Hobson had to cross to the North Cape of King Williams Land, and push down.the west coast as far as j)ossible. Captain MChintock, xvhen half-way down the east coast of King Williams Island, met a ~)arty of Esquimaux who had been, in 1857, at the wreck spoken of by their countrymen. Their route to her had been across King Wil 117 hams Land, and they readily bartered away all the articles taken out of her. An intelli- gent old woman said it was in the fall of the year that the ship was forced on shore ; that the starving white men had fallen on their way to the Great River, and that their bodies were found by her countrymen in the folloxv- ing winter. She told that, on board the wrecked ship, there was one dead white man, a tall man xvith long teeth and large bones. There had been at one time many books on board of her, as well as other things; but all had been taken away or de- stroycci when she was last at the xvreck. The destruction of one ship and-the wreck of the other, al)l)eared, so far as MChintock could ascertain, to have occurred subsequently to their abandonment. No Esquimaux that were met had ever before seen a living white man; and, although great thieves, they ap l)ealed to be in nowise alarmed at Captain MChintock or his men. From this party the gallant captain pushed on for Montreal Is- land; but he found nothing there more than Anderson had reported, and in a careful sweep of the shores about Point Ogle and Barrow Island be was equally unsuccessful. Returning to King Williams Land lie noW struck along the south-western shores in the hope of discovering the wreck spoken of by the natives at Cal)e Norton. She must, how- ever, have been sweIlt away by the ice, in 1858, or sunk, for no signs of her could be discovered. The Esquimaux had evidently carried off every trace left by the retreating party bet~veen Cape Herschel and Montreal Island, except the skeleton of one man ten miles south of Cape Herschel, and the re- mains of a 1)lundered cairn on the cape itself. The skeleton lay exactly as the famished sea- man had fallen, xvith his head towards the Great Fish River, and his face to the ground; and those who fancy that Fitzjames or Cro- - zier would still have dragged log books and journals to that river, must explain away the charge of common humanity which such an hypothesis involves, when they appear not to have had time to turn over, much less to bury their perishing comrades. Beyond the xvest- era extremity of King Williams Land, the Esquimaux appeared not to have travelled, and from thence to Cape Felix the beach was strewn with the wreck of that disastrous re- treat of F ranklin~ people, of which we en- deavored in an earlier number to convey some THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. idea. Lieutenant Hobson had of course fore- stalled Captain MClintock in the discoveries made here, hut what with the search made by that officer both on his outward and home- ward march, as well as that subsequently car- ried out by Captain MClintock over the same ground, there cannot be much reason to sup- pose that any undiscovered documents exist; and all who know any thing of those regions will agree with Captain MClintoek in believ- ing that all hope is now at an end of finding any one living of the unfortunate crews of the Erebus and Terror. With respect to the ex- istence of al)undance of animal life on King Williams Land, the fact that only forty na- tives in all were found living on that island by Captain MClintoek ought to be pretty con- clusive; the Esqnimaux would take care to be in any such arctic paradise; and further- more, had game been l)le1~tiful anywhere within a hundred miles of the Erebus and Terror, it is not likely that those poor fellows would have quitted their ships in a season so rigorous, and so long before the Great Fish River would be open for navigation. We should l)e the last to say this, if there were a shadow of foundation for further hope, either to save life or to obtain such records as would throv more light on the labors and zeal of those noble ships companies. As those men fell in their last sad struggle to reach home, their prayer must have been that their countrymen might learn how nobly they accomplished the task they had volun- tarily undertaken. That prayer has been granted. As long as Britain exists, or our language is spoken, so long ~vill be remem- l)ered and related the glorious fate of the crews of the Erebus and Terror, and how nobly they died in the execution of their duty to their queen antI country. ADELBERT VON CuAMIsso explained the meaning of the history of Peter Schlemihl, the shadowless man, in the preface of a French translation of his tale. The solid body alone casts a shadow. The science of finance in- structs us sufficiently respectin~ the value of money; the value of a shadow is less generally acknowledged. My thoughtless friend was covetous of money, of ~vhich he knew the value, and forgot to think upon solid substance. Chamisso wrote Peter Schlemihl in a Prussian solitude, in which he devoted himself to botany and zo6logy, and in the year 1813, when the insolidity of the type FrenchmanBonaparte was the great fact of the time. Wlie~her conqueror or covetous man, he who forgets the essential for the accessory sells his shadow to the Grey Man. It was, says Chamisso, the wish of my friend that the lesson ~vhich he had paid for so dearly should be turned to our profit, and his bitter experience calls to us with a loud voice, Think on the soliti the substantial! ARTIFICIAL DIAMONDsAnother progres- sive step towards the possibility of creating dia- monds by a chemical piocess has been realized in the fact that sapphires have been so produced. M. Gandin has communicated to the Academy of Sciences, Paris, a process for obtaining aluminathe clay which yields the new metal called aluminumin transparent crystals, which therefore l)rcsent the same chemical composition as the natural stone known nuder the name of sapphire. To obtain them, he lines a common crucible with a coating of lamp-black, and in- troduces into it equal proportions of alum and sulphate of potash, reduced to a powder and caleined. He then exposes it for fifteen min- utes to the fire of a common forge. The cru- cible is then allowed to cool, and on breaking it, the surface of the lamp-black coating Is found covered with numerous brilliant points, composed of sulphuret of potassium, envelop- ing the crystals of alumina obtained, or, in other words, real sapphires or corundum. The sizeof the crystals is large in proportion to the m.ass operated upon; those obtained by M. Gaudin are about a millim~tre, or 3-tOOths of an inch in diameter, and half a millim~tre in height. They are so hard that they have been found to he preferable to rubies for the purposes of watch-making. It is thus that chemistry, by pursuing the recognized course of natural causes, ~vill in its operation achieve similar results, and produce the diamond. Willis 6arreat iV~tes. THE mysterious regions of Central America, which Stephens was unable to penetrate, have yielded up their secrets to the enterprise of a French savant, M. Mirelet, who has lately com- pleted a scientific exploration of the country around Lake Peten, and the neighboring regions of Youcatan, Vera Paz, etc., not before visited or described by white men since the time of Cortez. His work, entitled Itza, or Travels in the Unexplored Regions of Central America, is in preparation, and wilt shortly be issued. It is translated by Mrs. E. G. Squier, and will be accompanied by a map and illustrations from the original, which has never been published, but was privately printed in Paris as a scientific teport to the society from which the expedition emanated. 118 HALLUCINATiONS. From Frasers Magazine. HALLUCINATIONS.~ M. BItIERItE DR BOISMONT is well known in England as a physician of large experience among the insane, and as an author of mark on many subjects connected with the physi- ology and pathology of the mind. He is also favorably distinguished from most of his coun- trymen by the pains he has taken to make himself acquainted with the labors of his con- temporaries on this side the channel, with some of whom he is on terms of intimacy. The latest production of his pen is no~v be- fore us in an English dress. The work of translation has been faithfully l)erformed by Mr. Hulme, who has also succeeded in con- densing a work of which the chief defect was diffuseness and repetition, without impairing its value as an exponent of a very interesting and important subject. rrhe intellectual repast provided for us by the author consists of nearly one hundred and fifty cases selected from the best authori- ties, French, German, and English, arranged in order, and serving as illustrations of the princil)les laid down in the early chapters of his work. The cases themselves, apart from the running commen tary which connects them, and serves to enchance their value, would prove full of interest for the intelligent stu- dent; but when taken with the judicious re- marks of M. de Boismont, they will be found to combine the charms of authentic fact, lucid arrangement, and sound philosophy. Before we proceed to 1)lace the authors labors under contribution for the edification of our readers, we must indulge ourselves in a brief dissertation on the meaning of the word hallucination. The discussions which took l)lace on the occasion of the trial of Bur- anelli, respecting the meaning which ought to attach to the cognate words illusion and de- lusion must serve as our apology for the slight delay involved in this our verbal criti- cism. There are three words in common use among the learned in disorders of the mind illusion, delusion, and hallucination; would greatly conduce to clearness and l)re- cision in the treatment of a subject in which ~ Oa Hallucinations: a history and Explaaation of Apparitions, Visioas, Dreams, Ecstasy, Maqaet-. zsm, and Somnambulism. By A. Brierre de Bois- mont, M.D. Translated from the French by Rob- ertT. Hulme, F.L.S., M.R.C.S. London: Renshaw. 1859. these qualities are specially required, if we could arrive at some distinct understanding respecting these terms. Now, there should be no doubt or difficulty about the two words illusion and delusion, illusion certainly should mean a false sensation, and delusion a fhlse idea. The one (illusion) is an error of the senses, in which the mind, if sound, has no part; the other (delusion) an error of the mind, in which it is not necessary that the senses should participate. But the word hallucina- tioui, though l)erhal)s used in France with the requisite l)recision, has not met with such judi- cious treatment in England. Among scientific writers it is sometimes used as synonymous with illusion, sometimes with delusion. Our older writers, too, 1)0th classical and medical, employed the word in different senses. Ad- (lisOn, for instance, says, of a mere typograph- ical erro, This must have been the hallu- cination of the transcriber, who J)robably mistook the dash of the i for a t; and Bvrorn tells us of some poor hallucinating scribes mistake. Boyle, too, speaks of a few hal- lucinations about a subject to which the greatest clerks have been generally such strangers. In the first two passages the word is used somewhat in the sense of aji illusion, but in the third in the sense of a delusion. The t~vo great physicians, Sir Thomas Browne and Harvey, evidently use the word in OppOsite senses; for Sir Thomas Browne, discoursing upon the sight, says, if vision be abolished, it is called ccecitas or blindness; if depraved, and receive its objects erroneously, hallucination. But Harvey, speaking of a wasting of the flesh without cause, tells us that it is frequently termed a bewitched disease; but questionless. a mere hallucination of the vulgar. So that Harvey used the word in the sense of an error of the mind, Browne as an error of the sense of sight. As, however, the learned author of Vulgar Errors is defining the word, while Harvey uses it without any special weighing of its meaningas two out of the three other authorities just quoted employ it in the sense which Sir Thomas Browne attaches to it, and most modern writers give it the same mean- ingwe will take an hallucination to he a de- prayed or erroneous action of the senses. If we are justified in so defining the word hallucination, we are perhaps equally justified in urging our psychologists to abandon the use of the term in favor of the more simple wor 119 HALLUCINATIONS. illusion. But we are afraid that M. Brierre de Boismont would not support us in this at- teml)t at siml)lification, for he employs the word illusion in contradistinction to the word hallucination, defining an hallucination as the percel)tion of the sensible signs of an idea, and an illusion as the false appreciation of real sensations. We, on the contrary, are disposed to make the word illusion do double duty, and to release the word hallucination from all its engagements. Defining an illu- sion as an error of sense, we should recognize two kinds of illusion, the one consisting in the falsification of real, the other in the eren- tion of unreal, sensations. Thus a gentleman who, fresh from turtlesoup, punch, venison, and champagne, should contrive to convert a combination of lantern, turnip, broomstick, and sheet into a ghost, would be afflicted with the first form of illusion; while another gen- tleman who, under similar convivial influences, should succeed in manufacturing a ghost out of the unsubstantial air of a bleak common, with no object visible for miles, would be the subject of the second form of illusion. But the question whether we shall or shall not accej)t our authors definitions of hallucina- tions and illusions must not be allowed to di- vert us any longer from the more important contents of his work. We shall be turning these to the best account if we attempt, with his assistance, to give our own connected and continuous view of all that part of the large science of psychology which relates to the senses in their healthy and in their disordered conditions. A man possessed of a sound mind in a healthy body, endowed with organs of sense of I)erfect construction, and keeping in all things within the bounds of temperance and mo(leration, would he absolutely free from illusions and hallucinations. His eye would present to him none but real sights, his ear would convey to him only real sounds. His sleep would not be disturbed by dreams. The only sensations not exactly corresponding to external objects which he would experience would consist in the substitution of the com- plementary colors for each other if he fatigued the eye by fixing it too long on some bright object. The golden sun would appear to his closed eyes like a violet-colored wafer, a win- dow-frame would seem to have dark panes and light sashes,and a dark picture with a gilt frame would have its light and dark features transposed. The perfect physical organization which we have just supposed would also be quite com- patible with the hearing of sounds and the seeing of sights which can only be traced to their true source by the light of science or experience. A person thus happily endowed might judge wrongly of an echo or be misled by a mirage. He might be frightened by the Giant of the Brocken or enchanted by the castles of the Fairy Morgana. His sensations would be real, though the cause might be in- direct or obscure. The next onward step in the philosopl~y of the organs of sense is taken if, for the healthy man, we substitute the ailing child or less vigorous adult, on whose organs of sense sensations linger after the causes of them have been removed. Our author quotes from Abercrombie one case in which the eye was the seat of such a persistent sensation; and he might have drawn from the same source another in which the sense of hearing was similarly affected. . A friend of the tloc- tor had been for some time looking intently at a small print of the Virgin and Child. On raising his head, the two figures the size of life al)l)eared at the end of the room, and continued visible for the space of two m~- utes. From persistent sensations, or sensations reproduced involuntarily after a short inter- val, the transition is easy and natural to sen- sations prolonged or reproduced by an effort of the will. The power of bringing back the pictures of visible objects in the dark, or of restoring sounds in the silence, does not seem to be a very rare one. Many children pos- sess it, and there are artists who are able to turn it to account. The painter whom Dr. Wigan represents as executing three hundred portraits in one year possessed this faculty of reproduction in an eminent degree. He l)laced each of a succession of sitters before him for half an hour, and looked at him at- tentively, sketching from time to time on the canvas. Having dismissed his last sitter, he began to paint the first of the series after a method described in these words: I took the man and sat him in the chair, where I saw him as distinctly as if he had l)een before me in nis own proper person; I may almost say more vividly. I looked from time to time at the imaginary figure, then worked with my pencil, then referred to the countenance, and so on, just as I should have done had the 120 HALLUCINATIONS. sitter been there. When I looked at the chair I saw the man. This 4ainter won dis- tinction, and earned and saved money, but he spent thirty years of his life in a madhouse. On his release his right band was found not to have lost its cunning: but the exercise of his art excited him too much; he gave up his painting, and died soon after. Another step forward, and we come to the case of the child who covers himself with the bedclothes, and paints his miniature fancy scenes on his organ of vision; or of the poet who contrives, as Goethe did, to see what he fervently imagines; or of the actor Talma, who asserted of himself that he was in the habit of stripping his brilliant audiences of all covering, artificial and natural, till he left only bare skeletons behind, and that under the in- fluence of the emotions excited by this strange spectral assembly he produced some of his most startling effects. Such then, without making any pretence to minute accuracy, are the most familiar facts relating to the reproduction of sensations or their voluntary creation in the absence of the objects which usually occasion them. Sensation without the immediate presence of an object of sense is assuredly a very won- derful phenomenon; but the seeing and hear- ing, the feeling, smelling, and tasting, of ob- jects which have no existence, as the result of an involuntary operation of the brain, without any co-operation of the senses (for illusions have been shown to occur after the entire destruction of the organs of sense of which they might be supposed the scene), are among the most extraordinary facts of our complicated and marvellous organization. It is to this involuntary work of the brain that we would now invite the attention of the reader. If we again assume as possible a perfectly healthy and perfectly temperate man, we can imagine such a man to be absolutoly free from hallucinations, for we can imagine him free from dreams; but the vast majority of men have large experience of hallucinations as they occur in that imperfect sleep which favors the free play of the fancy. In this state we kno~v that every sense may become in its turn the theatre of impressions that are not distinguishable from those which extei~nal objects occasion in the waking man; and these illusions of the senses are blended with de- lusions of the mind that rival them in vivid- ness and reality. 121 Here let us pause a moment while we con- template this wonderful phenomenon of dreamsthis strange compound of illusions and delusionsthis harmless analogue of madnessthis most instructive and most hu- manizing plea for dealing cautiously and ten- derly with the sorest trial and affliction of humanity. Fatigued by bodily labor, wearied by mental application, or tired of doing nothing, we escape from the discomfort of clothes, l)lace ourselves in a position of rest, do our best to banish thought, shut out, if we can, both light and sound, and so fall asleep. There we lie, given up to the chem- ical changes and automatic movements of nu- trition, circulation, and respiration, the l)ulse and breathing reduced to their lowest num- ber, and every function of the frame to its lowest point of activity. Of the proximate cause of this state we know nothing, and the best gness we can make at it is that the bal- ance of the circulation through the brain has been altered, and that whereas in our waking state the vessels conveying red blood to the head were kept filled by the more vigorous action of the heart, and the vessels conveying black blood from the head were coml)ara- tively empty, in our sleeping state the ordel of things is reversed, and the black blood l)redominates over the red. Be this as it may, a perfectly healthy change in the func- tions of the brain, and one not involving any permament alteration in its structure, is found by universal experience to be accompanied by illusions of all the senses, and strange de- lusions of the mind, the illusions and delusions being mixed up into scenes as apparently real as the mixture of sensations, thoughts, and actions, which make up the transactions of our waking hours. When these curious compounds of illusion find delusion are brought about by very slight departures from ideal perfect health, or when they occur during the short transition from sound sleep to I)erfect wakefulness, and are not attended by any painful sensation of op- pression, suffocation, sinking, or struggling, we call them dreams; but if that single straw- berry, or that modicum of pie-crust which we were so imprudent as to blend with that otherwise moderate and wholesome supper, should happen to disagree with us, and the indigestion which reveals itself to our waking man by too familiar symptoms in stomach and brain, in mind and temper, plants a cat, a 122 dog, or a demon upon our chests, raises us to giddy heights, plunges us to awful depths, sends us spinning like a top, or, more merci- ful, lends us wings to fly, or seven-league boots to clear oceans at a leap, then our dreams become nightmares, and we have opened out for conteml)lation the myriads of hallucinations which grow out of uneasy bodily sensations misinterpreted by a mind robbed by sleep of all its usual standards of comparison. Of the varieties of nightmare, we have not space to speak at any length. Suffice it to state, that the sleeper sometimes betrays his trouble to the looker-on by restless tossings about, while at other times he appears to be in a sound sleep; that generally he wakes up in a paroxysm of terror struggling hopelessly for breath, for power of sI)eecb, or move- ment; and that, in some few instance, the unreal sensations are for a short space of time believed to be real, to the imminent danger of sleeping neighbors. For some interesting cases of nightmare repeated night after night (in some instances at the same hour), and of nightmare attacking a number of peisons at the same time, and with the self-same hallucination, the reader is referred to M. Brierre de Boismont. Also for much curious information on dreams, somn ambu- lism, ecstasy, and animal magnetism. We have marked some of the cases cited under the head of dreams as misplaced, but the cases are so interesting in themselves that our criticism is disarmed as we read them. From dreams, nightmares, somnambulism, and other analogous conditions fruitful in hal- lucinations, we l)~55 on to abstinence, vol- untary or enforced, to solitude and imprison- ment, and to the coml)licated fatigues and privations of shipwreck. Judging by the cx- amples cited by the author, these causes gen- erally, but not invariably, produce hallucina- tions of an agreeable kind; in which respect they resemble the sensations described by those who have been rescued from drowning and hanging. The shipwrecked crew on the raft of the Medusa, deserted and starving, saw not only the vessels which they hoped for, but beautiful l)laI~tations and avenues, and landscapes leading to magnificent cities; and the miner shut up during fifteen days without food is comforted by celestial voices, as was Benvenuto Cellini in his prison, and, if our memory serves us faithfully, Silvio Pellico. HALLUCINATIONS. Hallucinations of a less pleasurable kind are not uncommon in aged persons, as the result of failing strength and languid circulation through the brain. Following still an order of our own, but availing ourselves freely of our authors illus- trative examl)les, we next arrive at those hal- lucinations which are caused by poisonous substances, such as the stramonium or thorn- apple, and the belladonna or deadly night- shade. A case of suicidal poisoning by the first of these l)lants came under the authors notice. It occurred in the person of a mu- sician and composer, who was first giddy, then as if drunk with wine, next entangled in a visionary ballet, then insensible, then again surrounded by hundreds of thieves and assas- sins with hideous faces and threatening ges- tures, which so frightened and excited him th4 when taken to the H6tel Dieu he was confined as a furious madman. In three days he had completely recovered. A condensed account of the experiences of the English Opium Eater, with a singular history of an opium-eating Jndian king, and a fact from Abercrombie illustrative of the power which opium administered for more legitimate rea- sons has of creating hallucinations; some In- teresting experiments with the hasckisch (a prel)aration made from the seeds of the Gan- nabis Indica, or Indian hemp); and cases of delirium tremens produced by the abuse of sl)irituous liquors, complete this division of the subject. Next in order to the causes of hallucina- tions which we have just been considering, we should place those disturbances of the circula- tion through the brain which attend diseases acute and chronic not primarily affecting the brain itself. All the forms of fever in every stage of their development, the intermittent fever commonly known as ague, inflammations of the more important organs of the body, seizures of the gout, the suppression of habit- ual discharges, and many other disorders and diseases ~vhicb it is not our business to partic- ularize, will come into this category. Affec- tions of the brain itself, such as congestion and inflammation, and disorders of the ner- vous systemcatalepsy, epilepsy, hysteria, by pochon& riasis, St. Vitus dance, and hydro- phobiawould constitute another class in our ascending series, which culminates in the hal- lucinations and illusions so generally present in lersons of unsound mind. HALLUCINATIONS. The short and imperfect sketch and classi- fication which we have now given of the causes of hallucinations, will serve to show the fre- quency of these strange disorders of the senses or, to speak more correctly, of that wonderful physical organ of the mind which, sometimes by an effort of the will, but much more fre- quently without volition or consciousness of effort, converts its own operations into sensual impressions so vivid and so like reality, as to task all the powers of the sound mind to dis- tinguish the real from the unreal, and utterly to set at naught and confound the feeble or confused powers of minds smitten with un- soundness. Many curious and grave questions suggest themselves to one who has succeeded in realiz- ing this extensive prevalence of hallucinations. Seeing that, without any effort of the will, the brain, which ordinarily perceives the l)ictures, painted on the eye, can create them out of nothing, we should, even in the absence of experience, be led to the belief that the same organ of the mind, by a similar involuntary action, might originate ideas and opinions bearing to the usual processes of thought and ratiocination the same relation that hallucina- tion does to sensation; in a word, that delu- sions may spring up involuntarily in the mind, as we know that they do in the insane. But analogy would lead us even further than this. If unreal sensations and unreal thoughts are possible as a consequence of involuntary work- ings of the organ of the mind, why not unreal wordswords which are not the image of any idea deserving of the name, but involuntary creations of an utterly disordered instrument of thought? If unreal sensations, thoughts, and words may be born of involuntary actions of the brain, why not strange and eccentric acts of violencesuch acts as madmen them- selves attribute to beings other than them- selves. The protestations of innocence which these poor madmen make sound strange in- deed in the ears of those who have no experi- ence of the insane, and have no conception of, or sympathy with, that aberration of the mind wh;ch combines in one awful discord hallu- cinations and illusions of the senses, delusions of the mind, langtiage of frightful violence, obscenity, or impiety, misery unutterable, and excitement uncontrollable. But we must not be tempted to wander further into this wide field of speculation. Want of space, and the fair claim of our au thor to have some distinct notice taken of those views to which he obviously attaches most iml)ortanee, constrain us to notice the special case of those great men who have been subject to hallucinations, but whose memory he wishes to keep clear from all suspicion of unsoundness of mind. In a chapter devoted to the class of hallucinations co-existing with sanity, the reader will recognize many a fa- miliar history with which he first became ac- quainted in the popular works of Sir David Brewster or Sir Walter Scott, or in the more scientific treatises of Abererombie, Bostock., Conollv, Peterson, Wigan, or Winslow; and he will be reminded of some of the most curi- ous passages in the lives of such men as Byron Samuel Johnson, Pope, Goethe, Lord Castle- reagh, Benvenuto Cellini, Bernadotte, and the first Napoleon. The author tells us that he has ~)urposely multiplied the illustrations contained in this chapter, and that he selected many of the cases because they relate to celebrated per- sons, whom no one has ever thought of charg- ing with insanity. Some of them, he tells us, have correctly regarded their hallucina- tions as the offspring of the imagination, or as arising from an unhealthy state of th~ body. Others, led by their belief in the su- pernatural, by their vanity, by the opinions of the period, or by superstitious feelings, have privately explained them in accordance with their own wishes; but their conversation and their actions have given no evidence of a disordered intellect; in some they may even have been the source of their great deeds. Frequently, however, the hallucination of the sound mind may be seen to glide into the hallucination of insanity, without its being possible always to point out the boundary which separates the one condition from the other, so difficult is it at all times to establish precise limits. We recognize and fully ap- preciate this difficulty; but we are not sure that we quite sympathize with the author in his evident desire to acquit great historical personages of the charge of unsoundness of mind, even where they have displayed not simply hallucinations of the senses, but delu- sions of the mind also. Pope is not to be set down as mad because he saw an arm come out of the wall; nor Dr. Johnson, because he heard his mothers voice call Samuel when he knew her to be far away; nor Goethe, be- cause he one day saw the counterpart of him- 123 124 self coming towards him; nor Byron, be- cause, as the effect of over excitement of the brain, he occasionally fancied be was visited by a spectre; nor Lord Castlereagh, because he twice saw the vision of the Radiant Boy; nor St. Dunstan, Loyola, and Luther, because of their hallucinations; nor Joan of Arc, per- haps, because of the visions which alternately stimulated her patriotism, and were horn of her enthusiasm. It is impossible, however, to read the account given of Benvenuto Cel- lini at page 62, without entertaining very grave doubts of the propriety of classing him with persons having hallucipations co-exist- ent with sanity. The remainder of the cx- aml)les cited in this chapter do not appear to be misplaced. The hallucinations were only of occasional occurrence; they were depen- dent upon transitory causes; they did not ex- ercise any permanent effect upon conduct; or they gre~v out of the excitement of great en- terprises which they did not mar or impede. It ought also to be borne in mind that, in the case of the higher order of thinkers and actors, the hallucinations were in harmony with the universal belief of the times in which they lived. They were but rel)resentations on the organs of sense of ideas admitted as indisputably true by the society in which they lived and moved. When all the world be- lieved in witchcraft, when the learned author of Vulgar Errors gave authoritative evidence u its favor, when Sir Matthew Hale barely HALLUCINATIONS. doubted, and juries were quick to convict, the man who alleged that he sa~v an old lady of eccentric habits and uncertain temlier borne through the air on a broomstick, would scarcely have been deemed insane. Of the instances of hallucination co-existing with sanity, cited by M. Brierre de Boismont as occurring in great men, the most l)ersistent is that which affected the first Napoleon. He had a brilliant star all to himself, which, ac- cording to his own assertion, never abandoned him, and which he saw, on all great occasions, commanding him to advance, and serving as a sure augury and sign of success. The see- ing of such a star, associate4 with such belief in its reality, is scarcely compatible ~vith san its, and the case is not improved by the ad juncts of unscrupulous al)propriation of the property of others, insatiable ambition, dia- bolical cruelty, and inveterate falsehood. It would not be difficult, indeed, to discover in this extraordinary man that union of intel- lectual with moral unsoundness which makes up the history of so many acknowledged luna- tics. But some allowance must be made for the times in which he lived, and the examl)les of craft and cruelty which he had placed be- fore him in the earlier hart of his career. So that M. Brierre de Boismont may be forgiven for including the name of Napoleon Buona- parte in his list of great men who l)reserved their sanity in spite of hallucinations. G. LIQUID SILVER MINEAlthough not en- tirely new, yet not generally known, is the fact that the ocean contains an immense quantity of silver. At the last session of the Academy of Sciences, it was stated that experiments have demonstrat~d the waters of the Atlantic to con- tain about a grain troy of that metal to every fifteen thousand pounds of wateraccording to this computation, the waters of the ocean con- tain a much greater q antity of the precious metal than has ever yet been extracted from the bowels of the earth. The sevens say its pres- ence may be acconated for on two theoriesit may either proceed from the emanations of chloride of silver, issuing from the bosom of the earth, or from the slow action which salt water exercises on the argentiferous sulphurets which crop out from the earth, both on land and at the hottom of the ocean ; at any rate, they ame satis- fied it is there, but as it costs now about ten times as much to extract it as it is worth, it is not probable that this immense placer of silver wilt entice away many of the oyster diggers, who have rec?ntly fallen so fortunately upon the big bed of bivalves on some portions of the water bed. LIFE S SHIPWRECKS.-.-LOVE.SONG. LIFES SHIPWRECKS. UNDER the wave! Keel, that has girt its furrow round the world; Canvas, to every ocean-breeze unfurled; Cordage, that rang like harpstrings to the blast: Lithe spars, that bent and struggled as it past; Like wrestlers brave Into the surging gulf of waters east Under the wave. Under the wave! Gold, that but now unveiled its lustrous gleams By the wild gullies of Australian streams; Stout arms, that hardly gathered day by day The glittering store for dear ones far away, Helpless to save; Washing and seething like the refuse clay Uuder the wave. Under the wave! The father from his household treasures fair Severed in silent agony of prayer; The dauntless swimmer, who with straining hand, Had wellaigh grasped a brothers on the land; The coward slave, Swept, conscience-struck, as by the avengers. hand, Uuder the wave! Under the wave, That heaves upon the restless flood of Time Our myriad barques, freighted with hopes sub- lime, Or idlest dreams, thus hour by honr are rolled: Beauty, or strength, or loving hearts, or gold, Vanity we crave, When lifes rude gale their parting knell has tolld Under the wave! Under the wave! No fragment left of all our cherished store, No shattered wreck that yet may drift to shore: Pale cheeks with unavailing tears are wet, And the heart strives, but cares not to forget The ocean grave: Nay, brother! Hope and Love are deathless yet Under the wave! EDMUND BOGER. Everybodys Journal. LOVE. BY TIlE LATE T. K. ITERVEY. TERRE are who say the lovers heart Is in the loved ones merged Oh, never by loves own warm art So cold a plea was urged! No !hearts that love hath crowned or crossed, Love fondly knits together; But not a thought or hue is lost That made a part of either. Expanding in the soft, bright heat That draweth each to other, Each feels itself in every beat, Though beating for another; It is their very unions art The separate parts to prove, And man first learns how grcat his heart When he has learned to love. The loving heart gives back as due The treasure it has found As scents return to him who threw The precious things around As mirrors show, because theyre bright, What shadows oer them move Receives the light, and by the light Reflects the form of love. As he who, wrapt in fancys dream, Bends oer some wave at even, Yet deep within the sunlight stream Sees but himself and heaven So, looketh through his loved ones eyes, In search of all things rare, The loverand amid loves skies Himself is everywhere. It is an ill-told tale that tells Of hearts by love made one; He grows who near anothers dwells More conscious of his own: In each spring up new thoughts and powers That, mid loves warm clear weather, Together tend like climbing flowers, And, turning, grow together. Such fictions blink loves better part, Yield up its half of bliss; The wells are in the neighbor heart When there is thirst in this There findeth love the passion-flowers On which it learns to thrive, Makes honey in anothers bowers, But brings it home to hive. Loves life is in its own replies To each low beat it beats, Smiles btfck the smiles, sighs back the sighs, And every throb repeats. Then, since one loving heart still throws Two shadows in loves sun, How should two loving hearts compose And mingle into one I Okamberss Journal. SONG. DRENCHED by the wintry seas, Sullied and torn, Dove of the distant trees, Where ~vast thou born I Who, when the autumn breeze Hifted thy nest, Drove thee, with sighs like these, Straight to my breast? Spread not thy wings for me, White-plumaged dove; Whither should Sorrow flee, Cradled by Love I Wet through thy pinions be, Fair thine eyes shine; Tears, if they fell on thee, Trembled from mine. Chamberss JournaL 125 126 LIFE OF BARON STEUBEN. From The Athenamm. ton and of the stubborn foe whom they ulti- The L~,fe of Frederick William von Steuben, mately had the honor to defeat. Von Steu- Major- General in the Revolutionary Army. ben, ignorant of the Ei~glisli language, found B~ Friedrich Kapp. With an Introduction means, nevertheless, to make himself under- by George Bancroft. New York, Mason stood. As instructor-general he was a severe Brothers. London, Low and Co. but a scrupulously just master; and although THE Americans are believed to have sent opposed, calumniated, and ridiculed at first, to this country that prolific weed, the Ana- his perseverance and ability carried him charis, which, at one time, threatened to through triumphantly. Although not unfre choke up every river into which it found en- quently in the field, his chief mission was to trance. On the other hand, a perusal of the prepare the insurgent forces, by previous instructive l)reface to this 1)00k will serve to drill, to unite with braveri the advantages of show that our circumlocution estahlishments obedience and self-reliance ; and, l)erl)al)s, by have furnished the government offices in the his invention of the light-infantry system, he United States with an enormous amount of enabled the men and generals in the Amen- red tape, which is used for tying up documents can army to add pages to their history, which, from the world, and quietly strangling truth.. but for him, ivou4d not be bright with half This biography is an apt illustration of how the glory which now illumines them. jealous ofhcials may vex the soul of an au- When the war was at an end, and George thor. Here is old Von Steuben, of whom few the Third with consummate tact gracefully of us have heard any thing, because he lacked acquiesced in the accoml)lished fact, which he that sacer rates whose mantle is now assumed had obstructed with all his energies, Von by Mr. Kapp. Von Steuben was a young Steuben had to squabble with the new gov- soldier under Frederick the Great. He eminent of the States touching his remunera- gaited reputation in marty a field, and was in tion; and, ultimately, he settled as a gentle- years of peace leading a very easy life as a man-farmer on an estate assigned to him in sort of liead-cbamberlain at a little German the far ~vest. There he died towards the e~d court, wheit the French government secretly of the century, and a grateful administration en gaged him to cross to America, and teach quietly consigned him to oblivion. the undisciplined levies of the insurgent pa- There is, however, a large German popula triuts to overthrow the rule of the Enrli~ tion in tl)e were ~ h States. ,tese determined sovereign. This was done when France and that the memory of Von Steuben should not Etigland were yet at peace; and, indeed, the (lie. Mr. Kapp took the matter in hand. former was profuse in royal and ministerial On all sides, but one, he met with ready as assurances to the latter, that she entertained sistance. Family liapers, letters, documents flO ill-teelitigs, and would enter into no evil from Germaty, France, Ettglandfrom Von designs, nor intrigue, nor make ~var against . Steubens l)ersot)al admirers in the States, too, the authority of George the Third. At that were liberally l)laced at his disposal. To very motnent France had despatched Von make his story l)erfect, Mr. Kapp only me Steuben to America, under a higher military quired to consult the state archives at Wash title thati he bad ever possessed, in order to ington ; hut there lie was ignominiot.msly re- insure tim a greater degree of respect, to pulsed. He was furnished with the best help to destroy the monarchical system which letters of introduction ; but one secretary of France atkcted to be eager to support. Thus, state was too busy to read them ; another l)ut it will he seen, that, for continental kimigs and him off wi noblemeti to write one thing when they de- tli exhiectations not ititet)de(l to l)e realized; a third, wlmo was also a geteral in sign the exact cottrarv, is not an invention of time of peace, declared that lie must have a our own (legenerate days. special permission from congress. Wearied Von Steuhen l)erformed his mission well, out, lie at last boldly entered the Archive and iiider serious disadvantages. He foumid Chambers, ~vithout leave or license from sec- a disorganized army, averse from discipline, ad- retariesor congress, and set to work at mak dicted to assert its own freedom, and rapidly ing copies, which were soon taken from him, becoming more dangerous to itself than to though they were afterwards restored. Fi- the cmi ~my ,amid lie made of it an army of nally lie was treated as a spy, and had to soldiers worthy of the handling of Washing- beat a retreat. Again, he made a respectful LIFE OF BABON STEUBEN. application to be allowed to consult the mate- rials for history contained in the Archive Chamber I presume you are going to prove, said one of these classic under-secretaries to me on that day, that the success of our Revolu- tion is due to the Germans that tI)ev con- tributed chiefly to our national independence. There was once an Irishman who wrote a life of General Montgomery, and al)l)lied to the department for admission to the archives. He afterwards l)ro~ed that we should not have 5uCcee(Ied wbhout General Mont~omerv and ~ that he was even equal to Washington. In short. among the generals, commodores, and colonels f the ministry of state, I was sub- mitted to ~ close cross-examination, and thou~h of coors denying the propriety of their uquisitiveness, I gave repeated assur- ances that I intended to write history and not fancy tales. Pley, however, did not seem to l)lace much confidence in what I said. I)espite this opposition.obstinate and stu- pid as any thing encountered by Von Steuben himself, who taught the Americans the use of th~ bayonet, for which they had previously entertained the contempt of ignorant men Mr. Kapp has accomplished his task satisfac- torily. His book is heavyheavy ~vith docu- ments and Pajers and exl)lanations which writers of history will well kno~v how to em- l)loy when constructing more readable works. Meanwhile, having signified the posi- tion which the volume occupies in literature, we add a fev brief extracts illustrative of the hero and his times. The first refers to the petiod just subsequent to the Arnold treach- ery On one occaston, after the treason, the baron ~ on parade at rollcall, when the detested name, Arnold, was heard in one of the intan t iv companies of the Connecticut line. The baron immediately called die un- fortunate l~sC5sor to the front of the com pan~. He a l)erfect model for his l)ro- fessiun clot hes, arms, and equif)n)ents in the most 1sifsct order. The l)ractised eve of the baron soon scanned the soldier, and call at my marquee, after you are (lismissed, brother soldier, was his only remark. After Arnold was dismissed from parade, he called at the baroms quarters as directed. The baron said to him. You are too flue a soldier to hear the name of a trahorchange it at once, change it at once. But what name shall I take P replied Arnold. Any that you l)leas(, any that ~ou l)lease ; take mine, if von can not suit ~uurself better ; mine is at your service. Arnold at once agreed to the 1)101)- osition, and immediately repaired to his or- del~, and Jonathan Steuben forthwith graced the company roll, in lieu of the disgraced name of him who had plotted treason to his country. The following is such a I)icture of the l)eriod as we have not been accustomed to have l)laced before us. It is full of interest As if the invasion of the country were a misfortune, not sufficiently great, some classes of the inhabitants of Richmond availed them- selves of the opportunity afforded by the British, to enrich themselves by robbing and pluuideting, and forced the officers of the state to employ their men for the l)rotectioul of the public pro~)erty against the native poliulat ion, instead of against their foreign invaders. The ~velfare of my country. writes the brave Claihorne to Steulien, on the 8th of January, 1781, dated Richmond, the comfort of the soldiers and the orders of my superiors, I have ever exerted myself to h)romote and exe- cute, lint empty handed as I am at J)resent, nn(l the little assistance I get, almost render all my efforts ineffectual. There is no com- mander here nor ~vill anybody he commaiided. This leaves what puhilic stores a few (if the virtuous inhabitants have collected, exposed to every ~)assenger, and the l)rol)er of the mdi ~iduals to the ravages of t lie negroes. Both pul)lic and l)rilate h)r(iliert3 have been discov- ered to a consideralule quantity, that was secreted clandestimmely in aui(h about town, and I am sorry to say that there is a stigma which rests upon the conduct of some of our own men with respect to the pillaging of public amid piivate goods, that does limit UliOO the British troolis; the one acted as an open en- emy, lint the other in a secret and infamous manner. I shall take proper measures to find them out and have them collected. I had a party of the militia given me by Col- onel Haskins and patrolled the streets of Richmomid during the night. I am sun-v that the militia differs so much from the con tiuiental soldiers There was a good, at least a large, amount of indifferent h)atniotism afloat,and the sis tem of serving the cause of hihierty, not by Itaith, butt by kidnapped, suhistitutes, is again a novelty Men sufficient to form a regiment had, with much ~iains, beeti collected together at Chest erfield court house. The corps was paraded, and on tIme point, of marchuimig, when a welllooking man, on horsetiack, mind, as it appeared, Ids servant on another, rode mmli, and iuitroduicing himself, informed the barnmn that lie had brought him a recuit. I thank you, sir, said the baron, with all my heart; you 127 LIFE OF BARON STEUBEN. have arrived in a happy moment! Where is your man, colonel? for he was colonel in the militia, Here, sir, ordering his boy to dismount. The barons countenance al- tered ; we saw and feared the approaching storm. A sergeant was ordeted to measure the lad, whose shoes, when off, laid bare something by which his stature had been increased. The baron, patting the childs head with his hand, trembling with rage, asked him how old he was. He ~vas very young, quite a child. Sir, said he to the man, you must have supposed me to be a rascal ! Oh no, baron, I did not. Then, sir, I 5UPI)05C you to be a rascal, an infamous rascal, thus to attempt to cheat your country. Take off this fellows spurs; l)lace him in the anks, and tell General Greene from me, Col. Gaskins, that I have sent him a man able to serve, instead of an infant whom he would basely have made his substitute ! Go, my boy; take the colonels spurs and his horse to his wife; make my compliments, and say her husband has gone to fight for the freedom of his country, as an honest man should do. By platoons !To the right wheel !Forward March! Stern soldier as he was, he had tender memories of a wounded heart, and therewith not more mirth than manifested itself in quiet, dry humor; nor any rigidity of discipline so severe but it could bend to a sense of justice. For instance Steuhen was rather haughty in his bear- ing, which did not in the least diminish his frankness and cordiality in social intercourse, and he was of easy access, benevolent, and full of a high sense of justice. At a review near Morristown, a Lieut. Gibbons, a brave and good officer, was arrested on the spot, and ordered to the rear, for a fault which, it afterward appeared, another had committed. At a proper moment the commander of the regiment came forward and informed the baron of Mr. Gibbons innocence, of his worth, and of his acute feelings under his unmerited disgrace. Desire Lieut. Gibbons to come to the front, colonel. Sir, said the baron, ad- dressing the young gentleman, the fault which was committed by throwing the line into confusion might, in the presence of an enemy, have been fatal; I arrested you as its Bupposed author, but I have reason to believe that I was mistaken, and that, in this instance, you were blameless. I ask your pardon; re- turn to your command; I would not deal un- justly toward any one, much less toward one whose character as an officer is so respecta ble. All this passed with the barons hat off, the rain pouring on his venerable head! Do you think there was an officer or soldier who saw it, unmoved by affection and respect? Not one. The American government has not cared to cherish the memory of the man who saved their army from dissolution ; and, therefore, we are the less surprised that American l)eo- ple have not cared to respect his grave. A public highway was needed, and the grave of the old soldier happened to lie in its way The ashes of the man who, after a stirring and eventful life, had well deserved the rest of the grave, had to give way to the wants of a fe~v farmers. There even was~no sacrifice required, no money to he spent, if the road had been made a little to the right or left of its present direction, for the land is of nO~ great value in that neighborhood. But the citizens of the county which Steuben had honored as his residence, scarcely knew him; they did not pay the slightest regard to com- mon decency, and thus the petty interests of the living farmers prevailed over the claims of the deceased hero to a quiet resting-place. The road cut off about one-third of the grave, but no one thought of removing the remains. As if Indians had dug up the l)lace, for a while the coffin was exposed to storm afid rain, and a very credible eye-witness relates that it had once been ol)ened by the neigh- bors, who could not resist the temptation of getting a piece of Steubens old military cloak. When Benjamin Walker heard of this sacrilegious violation of the sacred re- mains of his old friend, he caused them to be removed to a more suitable resting-place. The above is not cr5ditable to the local feeling, at all events; nor was the memory of Von Steuben more honored by Lafayette, who disliked the energetic disciplinarian. In 1824, the Frenchman, on his visit to America, was invited to inaugurate a monu- ment to his old companion in arms, but he refused to accede to the request, excusing himself under some shallow pretext. rrue heroism is not always to be fouid dwelling in the breasts of popular heroes. By the state, and by individual rivals, Von Steuben seems to have been grievously wronged, illustrating thereby the remark of the notable Tom Brown, that, Great bodies of men are subject to all the infirmities of particular per- sons. 128

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 816 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0064 /moa/livn/livn0064/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 816 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 21, 1860 0064 816
The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 816 129-192

THE LIVING AGE. No. 816.21 January, 1860. CONTENTS. 1. The Authorized Version in America, 2. Seniors Journal kept in Turkey and Greece, 3. Hopes and Fears. Chap. 2, 4. Suhterranean Switzerland, . 5. Une 6. Queen Bees or Working Bees? 7. The Intellect of Women 8. Descriptive Ethnology 9. A Visit to Rochdale Christian Remembrancer, Edinburgh Revsew, Author of Heir of Redciyffe, All the Year Round, Ladies Companion, Saturday Review, Economist, Saturday Review, POETRY. Our Dead, 130. Bookworld, 130. Word with Brother Jonathan, 146. Holy Bells, 183. The Messiah, 183. The Saviour, 183. Church Time, 183. A Rise~i Saviour, 183. The Saviours Praise, 183. Puhlic Worship, 183. A Lost Love, 187~ Pathways in Palestine, 187. SHORT ARTICLES.The New Unfermented Bread, 138. Talma and the Bishop, 146. Christmas in America, 171. Madame de Stael, 192. ~ The next numher will contain a continuation of The Luck of Ladysmede, which will re~nind readers of Sir Walter Scott in Ivanhoe. Also a continuation of Hopes and Fears. Of graver matter, there will he an article on Dr. Tuhlochs Leaders of the Refor- mation (would it were longer). Also, West Indies; Morocco; Carihs Mind and Body; Women Artists; Hoop-petticoats, etc., etc. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Living Age will be punctually for- wardedfree of postage. Complete sets of th First S~ries,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. Azv VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars. bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBEE may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. PAGE. 131 139 147 165 172 181 184 188 190 OUR DEAD. BOOKWORLD. OUR DEAD. NOTHING is our own: we hold our pleasures Just a little while, ere they are fled One by one life robs us of our treasures; Nothin ~ is our own except our dead. They are ours, and hold in faithful keepin~ Safe forever, all they took away. Cruel life can never stir that sleeping, Cruel time can never seize that prey. Justice pales ; truth fades ; stars fall from heaven; Human are the great whom we revere; No true crown of honor can be given, Till the wreath lies upon a funeral bier. How the children leave us: and no traces Linger of that smiling angel band; Gone, forever gone; and in their places, Weary men and anxious women stand. Yet we have some little ones, still ours They have kept the baby smile we knbw, Which we kissed one day, and hid with flowers, On their dead white faces long ago. When our joy is lost: nnd life will take it, Then no memory of the past remains; Save with some strange, cruel sting, that makes it Bitterness beyond all present pains. Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrow Still the radiant shadowfond regret We shall find, in some far bright to-morrow, Joy that he has taken, living yet. Is love ours, and do we dream we know it, Bound with all our heart-strin~s, all our own l Any cold and cruel dawn may show it, Shattered, desecrated, overthrown. Only the dead hearts forsake us never: Love, that to deaths loyal care has fled, Is thus consecrated ours forever, And no change can rob us of our dead. So when fate comes to besiege our city, Dim om gold, or make our flowers fall, Death, the angel, comes in love and pity, And to save our treasures, claims them all. All The Yeer Round. BOOK WORLD. WHEN the dim presence of the awful Night Clasps in its jewelld arms the slumbering earth, Alone I sit beside the lowly light That like a dream-fire flickers on my hearth, With some joy-teeming volume in my hand A peopled planet, opulent and grand. It may be Shakspeare, with his endless train Of sceptrcd thovghts, a glorious progeny Borne on the whirlwind of his mighty strain Through vision-lands forever far and free, His great mind beaming thro those phantom crowds, Like evening sun from out a wealth of clouds. It may be Milton, on his seraph wings, Soaring to heights of grandeur yet untrod; Now deep where horrid shapes of darkness clin~ Now iosjin splendor at the feet of God; Girt with the terror of avenging skies, Or wrapt in dreams of Infant Paradise. It may be Spenser, with his misty shades Where forms of beauty wondrous tales re- hearse, With breezy vistas, and with cool arcades Opening forever in his antique verse, It may be Chaucer, with his drink divine, His Tabard old, and Pilgrims twenty-nine. Perchance, I lin~er with the mighty Three Of glorious Greece, that morning land of song, Who bared the fearful front of Tragedy, And soared to fame on pinions broad and Or strong; watch beneath the Trojan ramparts proud The dim hosts gathering like a thunder-cloud. No rust of time can sully Quixotes mail, In wonted rest his lance securely lies; Still is the faithful Sancho stout and hale, Forever wide his ~vonder-stricken eyes; And Rosinante, bare and spectral steed, Still throws gaunt shadows oer their every deed. Still can I robe me in the old delights Of Caliph splendid, ~tnd of Genii grim, The star-wealth of Arabias thousand nights, Shining till every other light grows dim Wander away in broad, voluptuous lands, By streams of silver, and through goldeasands; Still hear the storms of Camo~ns burst and swell, His seas of vengeance raging wild and wide; Or wander by the glimmering fires of hell With dreaming Dante and his spirit-guide; Loiter in Petrarchs green, melodious grove, Or hang with Tasso oer his hopeless love. What then to me is all your sparkling dance, Wine-purpled banquet, or vain Fashions blaze, Thus roamin~ through the realms of rich Ro- mance, Old Bookworld, and its wealth of royal days, Forever with those brave and brilliant ones That fill Times channel like a stream of suns I All The Yeer Round. 130 THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERICA. that the first English settlers disembarked on the coast of Virginia. Although these early emigrants were members of the Established Church, the great majority of the subsequent colonists of America were professedly Dis- senters. Yet, as Protestants, they generally regarded the Bible as the foundation of their faith, understanding by the term Bible, the authorized version of the Church of England. When the Revolution broke out in 1776, a large l)roportion of the Church l)eol)le and of their clergy took l)art with the crown, while the Dissenters were generally attached to the republican part. At the restoration of peace in 1783 many of the churches were deserted or in ruins; the clergy, who never had num bered much more than two hundred, were greatly reduced, and as bishops had never been tolerated in America by the home-gov- ernment, no form of ecclesiastical rule ex- isted. Under these untoward circumstances, sy- nodical action commenced, and the Church gradually formed her system of annual Dio- cesan Conventions, and of a triennial General Convention. In these conventions the clergy and laity had equal votes, or were equally represented, with the useful provision of a vote by orders, an arrangement which makes the consent of both clergy anti laity nece~sary to a~y act or resolution. Being now free from its old political entanglements, the Church elected its bishops, who derived their consecration in the first instance from the Scottish and English prelates. Even in the jealous eye of the law, the American Episcopal Church was considered identical with that Church in England which had re- nounced the pope, reformed the ~)rayer-book, and translated the Bible. It still retains, for instance, the lands given to the Church. of England in Vermont and New Hampshire, WI]ile the property of Trinity Church, New York, origin ally given by Queen Anne, has attained, through the growth of the city, the value of nearly two millions of pounds, bein.g estimated at above seven millions of dollars in 1857. Though little recruited by emigration, the Church in the United States usually doubles itself in about thirteen years, an in- crease mainly due to the rapid influx of per- sons from other denominations. At the present time, it numbers about thirty-eight 131 From The Christian Ilemembrancer. It was in the year 1607, while our present 1. Journals of the General Convention of! version was in the hands of the translators, the American Episcopal Church. 1853 ni)(1 1856. 2. New York Church Journal. 1857, 1858. 3. Mixed Societies in Principle and in Prac- tice. B~ the Rev. A. C. Coxe, D.D. of Baltimore. 1859. 4. Apology for the Common English Bible. By the same. 1857. 5. The Western World Revisited. By the Rev. H. Caswahl. 1853. 6. Bishop Whites Memoirs of the Episcopal Church. Philadelphia, 1820. Mit. BAINES, in moving for a select com- mittee of the House of Commons to inquire into the nature and extent of the Queens Printers Patent, is reported to have asked the House to consider whether it had any right or prerogative to restrict the printing of the Holy Scriptures. The Holy Scrip- tures, he l)roceeded, were given in charge to no particular section of the Church, to no priest, to no I)rilice, to no sanhedrim or sen- ate, neither to Jew nor to Gentile; but liber- ally and impartially, as the rains and dews of heaven. They were made the universal patri- mony of mankind; and he appealed to the House, as they had given freedom to trade and industry, and to the negro slave, removed every restriction from conscience, and main- tained the liberty of the press; to bestow upon England the crowning blessing of a free and unfettered Bible. Now it is not our object at present, to dis- cuss the question whether the charge of the Holy Scriptures, in their general acceptation, more ~)roperly belongs to the Church of Christ or to the civil authority. Nor do we deem it necessary to remind our readers that the title- page, the dedication, and the translators l)ref- ace to the reader, concur in proving our au- thorized version in particular to be, like the prayer-hook, a Church of England work, de- signed for Church of England l)U~PO5~5 ; and therefore, strictly speaking, un de ithe rightful guardianship~of the Chuich of England. But since free trade in Bibles was the professed object of Mr. Bain es motion, and since the experience of America is now largely appealed to by certain politicians in supl)ort of their theories, ~ve have thought that a few facts connected with the history of our authorized version in the United States would not he without value, under existing circumstances, in England. THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERICA. bishops, two thousand clergy, one hundred and thirty-five thousand communicants, and perhaps two millions of worshippers. We have thus briefly alluded to the history and position of the Church in America, be- cause that Church has succeeded to whatever duties may be supposed to attach to the Church of England in regard to the author- ized version. A few such preliminary state- ments are also necessary to exj)lain the sub- sequent action of our American brethren on the same subject. It must likewise be re- membered, in the same connection, that the general and state governments of the United States are constructed on principles which disqualify them for all pretext of interference in religious matters, and that consequently the la~v of the land provides no security for the correctness of Bibles. The manufacture and sale of Bibles being open to all, a number of incorrect editions were very early printed and circulated; and in 1817, the General Convention was led to consider a prol)osal for adopting a standard edition. This proposal was occasioned by the discovery of a large edition extending very widely says Bishop White,* a cor- ruption of Acts, vi. 3, by perverting it to a sanction of congregational ordination. In- stead of whom we may appoint over this business, which is the exact translation of the original, the edition has it, whom ye may appoint over this business. ~ In 1823, this proposal was finally carried into effect, and the generally received English standard was made the standard of the Church in America. The continued publication, however, of in- accurate editions made it necessary that fur- ther measures should be adopted, and it was considered highly expedient that American readers should be supplied with an exact re- print of the most correct copy obtainable in England. The subject accordingly came be- fore the General Conventions of 1850, 1853, and 1856, and will probably afford much disc cussion to .the same assembly in the autumn of 1859. In the Convention of 1850 a committee was appointed to procure and supervise the pub- lication of a standard edition of the Holy Bible. At the same time a proposal was submitted by a Church institution, the New York Bible and Prayer-book Society, to be- come the publishers of the standard Bible in * Memoirs of the Episcopal Church, p. 310. contemplatidn. To the committee had been assigned the duty of contracting with the in- stitution just named, and of reporting to the Convention the result of their labors. The Convention of 1853 held in New York, was attended by thirty bishops, in the upper house, and by a lower house consisting of one hundred and fifteen clerical and eighty-five lay-deputies from thirty dioceses. There was present also a deputation from our own Soci- ety for the Propagation of the Gospel, con- sisting of Bishop Spencer, Archdeacon Sin- clair, the Rev. E. Hawkins, and the Rev. H. Caswall. Among many other items of busi- ness the report of the committee on the standard version was laid before the lower house.* The report stated that The first and not the least important of its labors appeared to be that of ascertaining on what edition of the Holy Scriptures in the English tongue now existing most reliance could be placed for correctness of text and accuracy of typography. The Princeps edi- tion in folio, AD. 1611, is that which appeared from the hands of the translators appointed by King James I. of England, and is the text of the Holy Scriptures used in our Church, and as widely as the English tongue is diffused. After giving a brief history of the revision made l)y Dr. Blayney in 1769, the committee proceeds In our own country, where the publica- tion of the Bible is at every mans option, too many editions have been found, crowded with typographical errors, and fhulty in numerous other not unimportant respects, while even in England, where by the laws of the land, from four sources alone, under royal authority, can editions of the Holy Scriptures emanate, vari- ations, though slight, are al)parent het~veen the copies bearing the impress of those sources. The incorrectness of so many editions, and the blemishes of all, united with the duty of our Church as its hereditary guardian to protect the integrity of the English Scriptures, attracted, so early as the year 1817, the at- tention of our General Convention to the subject, and in 1823 the edition of Eyre and Strahan, published in England, and then con- sidered the most perfect extant, was recom- mended as the standard to he recognized by our Church, till such time as she thought proper to put forth an edition of her own. At subsequent triennial meetings, the subject was again and again brought before both ~See Journal of the General Convention of 1863 132 THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERiCA. houses of this body, till the appointment of your committee to treat with the New York Bible and Prayer-book Society in the manner which has been mentioned. In the course of action under their ap- pointment, ~our committee have received from the society, known as the British and Foreign Bible Societ~, the information that the present standard text recognized by them, is that of the medium quarto printed in Ox- ford; and there has been received from that society a copy of that edition, the courtesy of which gift ~our committee esteem it a duty and pleasure to acknowledge. They have also to acknowledge on the subject of a standard Bible, the receipt of a letter from the present Primate and Metro- politan of all England, the Archbishop of Canterbury, which your committee may he permitted to consitler as an evidence of the interest taken by the Church of England in whatever concerns the Church in these United States, and of the common bond of Christian and catholic fellowship between the churches.; a bond which that eminent prelate has so largely contributed to cement. The letter of the archbishop is as follows Lambeth, April 17, 1853. DEAR SIR,I am happy to have it in my power to answer your letter of inquiry con- cerning the text of the Bible. During the years 1834, 1835, and 1836, the delegates of the Oxtord, and the syndics of the Cambridge press, had a long and elaborate corresl)ond- ence on the state of the text of the Bible as then printed, and until then there had been much inaccuracy. A correct text, according to the edition of 161 1, was then adopted, both in the Oxford and Cambridge Bibles. The Secretary of the Society for ~)romoting Chris- tian Kno~vledge has furnished me with the following statement from Mr. Combe, the Superintendent of the Oxford press The text of all the Oxford editions of the Bible is no~v the same, and is in conform- ity with the edition of 1611, which is, and has been for many years, adopted for the standard text. The medium quarto book is stereo- typed, which l)rOtects it from casual errors; and having been long in use ~vithout the de- tection of any error, I have reason to think that it may be considered as perfect as a book can be, and may therefore l)e fairly re- ceived as the standard book of the society. It is a most gratifying thought that our English Bible should be circulated, over your vast continent, and that our native language shoul~ be employed as the vehicle of eternal truth to an increasing multitude of readers and we may justly pray that the purity which is secured to the text may be extended also to the doctrines gathered from the text and propounded to the hearers of the Word. It gives me much l)leasure to have had this op- portunity of communicating with an American brother, and I remain, Rev. Sir, your faithful servant, J. B. CANmAr~. Rev. Henry M. Mason. Upon such authority, your committee cannot hesitate to recognize the above me- dium quarto stereotyped etlition, published at Oxford, as the standard Bible of the Church of England. The New York Bible and Prayer-book Society, in its communications, appear to await the determination of this Con- vention before acting as publishers on their former ])etition, and your committee recom- mend the adoption of the edition named in the Archbishop of Canterburys letter as that from which a republication in this country by our Church shall be made. An examination of it has resulted in the discover~ of hut very few l)articulars which your commtttee would decidedly prefer to change, not one which would importantly affect the sense, and but few of which a doubt might not. be enter- tained whether they are even typographical errors. Your committee conclude with the recom- mendation of the passing of the following resolutions Resolved, the House of Bishops concur- ring 1. That the medium quarto Bible, stere- otyped at Oxford, be the recognized standard of this Church, until an American reprint be made and adopted as hereinafter contem- plated. 2. That the New York Bible and Prayer- book Society be the publishers from that standard of the reprint above-mentioned, pro- vided, in making any contract, the committee shall not exceed the price at which a similar publication can be contracted for with other publishers. 3. That a joint committee of five be ap- pointed to sul)ervise the rel)rint aforesaid, with authority to correct errors of the press, and report to the next General Conventios~ the edition so published, for its adoption as the American standard edition. (Signed) HENRY M. MASON, Gkazrman M. A. DE WOLFE hOWE. G. M. WHARTON. R. F. MT. ALLSTON. The report and recommendations of the committee were laid over for further consid- eration until the General Convention of 1856. In that year the committee reported as fol- lows: The committee al)pointed at the last Gen- eral Convention on the subject of a standard Bible, respectfully report, that to the impor 133 THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERICA. tant duty assigned them they have given such attention as opportunity would permit. The propriety, and even necessity, of protecting the integrity of the text of thyme revelation, as translated into the Auglo-Saxon tongue, is not lcss stringent now, l)ut increasingly more so, than at any l)eriod since the attention of the supreme legislature of the Church was first attracted to the subject. Too many of the editions of the Holy Scriptures issued in this country are faulty in respect of typog- raphy, or in changes which affect the volume, either as it came from the hands of the trans- lators untler King James I., or as it exists in the present standard of the Church of Eng- land. It seems desirable therefore that the protection of the General Convention of our Church should he interposed for the guardian- ship of the great depository of our faith in the English tongue. With the view of carrying into effect the recommendations of this committee, the upper and lower house of the Convention finally agreed, 1st. That a competent person be appointed by the Convention to correct typographical errors in tlte authorize(l translation of the Holy Scriptures, referring to the present standard edition. 2d. rrltat a committee of five be appointed, to whom the l)rol)osed corrections when made, or in their progressive stages, shall be sub- jected for al)proval. 3d. lh at the report of this committee, with the proposed corrections in full, l)e printed anti l)reset)ted to the next General Convention (1859) for final action. The Rev. Dr. Mason was appointed by both houses to correct tlte typographical er- rors in the standard edition, and with him five clerical mmd lay gentlemen were associated as a committee of revision. We have recorded the above particulars because tltey show that, in the opinion of the American Episcopal Church, the publica- tion of the Bible at every mans option is highly tiatigerous, and leads to the publication of too many editions, crowded with ty- pographical errors, and faulty in numerous other not unimportant r~pects. They l)rove, likewise, tltat English editions of the Scrip- tures l)rinted under the l)resent system are considered in America far more accurate than those printed in America under a system of free trade. Tltey exltibit the Archbishop of Canterbury engaged in a Christian and dig- nified intercourse with his American brethren while giving information respecting the true standard edition. And lastly, tltey exltibit the 4merican Episcopal Cl] urch acknowled g- ing its duty, as the heretlitary guardian of the English Scriptures to l)rotect the in- tegrity of the text, and accortlingly appoint- ing a reviser and a committee of revision. The English reader, however, must not sttppose that hereafter American Bibles will all undergo the revision of the committee of the Church. The Chttrch in America, though a highly respectable and increasittg body, has never, for the reasons alrearlv mentioned, in- fluenced a majority of the American l)eople. The Bibles printed by the New York Bible and Prayer-Book Society will alone come under the sul)ervision of the committee. In the mean time, the l)rit~ters, each at his ol)tion, will continue to send forth Bibles exhibiting different degrees of itteompleteness and inac- curacy, while the American Bible Society will virtually continue to supply a standard to the American peol)le. The American Bible Society is a wealthy and powerful institution, supJ)orted by various Protestant sects, and containing httt a small admixture of Clturchmen.* It prints and publishes its own Bibles, in wltich respect it tliffers from the British atttl Foreign Bible Society. It was foundetl in 1816, ~vlten in its constitution it declared its object to be the circulation of the Holy Scriptures without note or comment, and engaged that the only Bibles in the English language, circulated under its authority, sltould l)e those of the commonly received English version. In 1823, its managers made the state meat in their annual rel)ort They earnestly wish always to remember, and that their coadjutors may always remem- ber, the sole object of the Bible Society, and be ever and deeply sensible of tlte results which their labors may be expected to pro- tluce under the Divine blessing. The sole ob ject is to promote a wider circulation of the Holy Scriptures without note or comment. ~ In the British and Forei n Bible Society there is a great prgponderauce of Cliurctt influence. While the character of that society is terived in a great measure from such of the bishops, clergy, and laity of the Church as take part in it, one-half of the managers are Churchmen, the various diss~ent- tog denominations being forced to content them- selves with dividing ttie otlter half hctweer~them. The British Society prints no English Bibles, but circulates those of ttte university presses and of the queens printer; it is therefore infinitely better secured in this respect than tite Atnerican Society. (See postscript to Dr. Coxes pamphlet on Mixed Societies.) 134 THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERICA. This is the avowed design, and there is no room for deception in this case, or for schemes different from the declared purpose. Thus far all appeared to promise well. True, the Bibles of the American Bible So- dety differed in certain accessories from the authorized Englis Ii version. The society had struck from the title-page the words, Ap- pointed to he read in churches. It had omitted the dedication to King James, and in common with too many English Bibles it had also omitted the translators l)reface. Thus it had left the reader in the dark as to the history and origin of the version, and the part taken in it l)y the Church of England. But the headings of the chapters were re- tained ; the punctuation, cal)itals, italics, and other particulars generally coincided with those of the best editions then published in England, and, on the whole, the Protestant bodies of America had reason to be thankful that they were l)resented with a correct Bible at a moderate l)rice. But in the year 1852, the Committee of Versions of the Bible Society published a new standard Bible, containing about twenty-four thousand alterations in the text and l)unctua- tion, besides iml)ortant changes in the acces- sories. The committee stated officially that they had made alterations in the text of the common English Bible in nine particulars; viz., in words, in orthography, in proper names, in compound words, in capital letters, in words in italics, in punctuation, in parentheses, and in brackets. They added that they had also made alterations in five accessories; viz., in the contents of the chapters, in the running lwads of columns, in the marginal readings, in the marginaP references, and in chronology. The new standard Bible was at once extolled as the most perfect Bible extant; splendid copies of it were sent to Queen Victoria, to all the crewned heads in Europe, and to the President of the United States. During the six following years hundreds of thousands of this new edition ~vere circulated in every part of North America, the l)eol)le believing them to be the same Bible which alone the society bad engaged to circulate by its constitution of 1816. But by degrees American Christians began to perceive that the Bible Society ~vas tread- ing on dangerous ground, and that the estab- lishment of the ne~v standard involved a prin- ciple which could not fairly be conceded. The question was whether the Bible Society had authority to undertake not only the printing and circulation of the ordinary Eng- lish version, but the revision of the text and the alteration of the accessories, at its pleas ure.* If these had been avowed as objects of the Bible Society at the time of its first or- ganization, the enterl)rise would have been swaml)ed at once. To undertake them after nearly forty years, as if they were included in the original sole object of the society, seemed like undertaking them on false pre- tences. Had the changes been the result of a mere collation of col)ies, no one could have justly complained. But as soon as the com- mittee introduced changes not found in any previous edition, a new princi~)le was intro- duced, which it became all thoughtful persons to resist. The danger was the greater, since, from its immense wealth and influence, the Bible Society was enabled virtually to set up a standard for all private l)tl)lisllers. In fact, it had already I)een announced that 1)rivate publishers were engage(l in correcting their various editions in conformity with this estab lished and acknowledged standard. The alarm appears to have been first sounded with effect by the Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe, D.D., an Episcopal clergy- man, resident in Baltimore, and favorably known in this conntry by his Christian Bal- lads, and his Impressions of England! The appearance of his Apology for the Common English Bible brought the matter l)rominent ly before the American public. Dr. Coxe sho~ved that some of the alterations in punctuation materially changed the sense; as when, in Rev. xiii. 8, The iamb slain from the foundation of the world, was so altered by putting a comma after slain that the words from the foundation of the world no longer referred to the Lamb, but to the names of his followers. So also in re- gard to cal)itals. The word Spirit, printed ~vith a capital, had indicated the third person in the Trinity, but when the initial letter was now printed small, the ~vo~d itself might mean something else. The headings of chapters had been so modified as to l)ut Christ and the Church wholly out of the Old Testament. For instance, in the third chapter of Canticles, the former heading ~vas The Churchs fight and victory in temptation. The Church glori eth in Christ. This was changed to: The ~ See New York Ckurch Jom~nel, 185~, p. 1(8. 135 THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERICA. brides despondency. The splendor of the beloved. In the headings of the propheti- cal chapters, Zion was substituted for The Church. Even in the New Testament, says Dr. Coxe, the old familiar phrases Christs pas- .sion, Christs resurrection, and the like, run- ning along the to1) of the page, and cluster- ing over the heads of chapters, are generally struck out. We have instead, Jesus is cruci- fied, The resurrection of Jesus. The Jews always speak of our Saviour as Jesus of Nazareth, hut it ~vas a law of theirs, that if any man did confess that he was Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue. I am sorry to see this la~v so profoundly reverenced in the societys Gospel. I conceive that the actual changes introduced by the society are almost as evil as any change could he, pro- ceeding from good men with honest inten- tions. They consist not in here and there an emendation, but in a vast system of altera- tion, and of thorough suhsti~ution, character- ized, from first to last, by a debased ortho- doxy, rationalistic tendencies, and a general aversion to the evangelical and primitive modes of thought which characterize the old Bible. The New York Church Journal, the Phila- deiphia Episcopal Recorder, the Southern 6~hurchrnan, and other l)al)ers, now uttered loud complaints. The bishops of Massachu- setts and Virginia l)ul)licly expressed their disapprobation. The bishop of Pennsylva- nia, in condemning the course of the society, wrote as follows We are not of those who would deprecate in advance, and denounce all revision of the English Bible. The time may come when, without damage to its matchless dignity and beauty, and to the venerable associations that surround it, a few amendments may be made, by the universal consent of those who name the name of Christ, and on authority which few would question. Til) then, let text, punc- tuation, capitals, and headings, stand as they have stood for more than two hundred years; and wherever one s~)eaking our tongue may go, over the globe, let him have the consoling assurance that when he finds what is called King James Bible, he finds one and the same hook. We much doubt whether American Christians are prepared to renounce the stand- ard which has obtained, on both sides of the Atlantic, for two centuries, and to accept the American Bible Society as the only authorized editor and expounder of Holy Writ. The bishops doubts l)roved to be well founded. Throughout the Episcopal Church the disapprobation of the new text became very general. The Convention of the Diocese of Kentucky, for instance, resolved that, Whereas the immense funds of the Amer- ican Bible Society enable it to overcome all private coml)etition in the printing and sale of the Bible, this Convention regard with pain, mortification, and fear, the action of the managers of the said society in altering the English version of the Bible in many and im- portant particulars, and that it be recom- mended to the ministers and members of the church in this diocese to withhold all contri- butions from the said society, until this un- authorized edition of the Bible is withdrawn from circulation, and to avoid the l)urchase or circulation of the altered editions of the Bible issued by the said society. The oppos3tion of churchmen would, how- ever, have been of little avail if unsopported by leading members of the denominations J)rincipally engaged in the Bible Society. When, however, the General Assembly of the (old school) Presbyterians joined in the opposition; when the scheme ~vas denounced in the columns of the Princeton (Presby- terian) Review, when eminent non-Episco- palians, like Drs. Breckenridge and Hodges, united in the assault, and when other sects besides Presbyterians took l)alt in the move- ment, it began to be perceived that the new standard was doomed. 1)r. Breckenridge wrote as follows, in October, 18,57, with re~ spect to the changes I am bold to say, that, if all this had been done with regard to the works of Milton or Shakspeare, it would have been considered an unl)recedented act of literary folly, arro- gance, and bad faith. Can it be conceived to be possible that the Christian public will endure it when it is perpetrated on a version of the Sacred Scriptnres which has given fixedness to the noblest langoage and litera- ture on earth, which is the highest bond between the greatest nations in the world, and which is the power of God unto salvation to the most numerous and (levoted l)o1tion of the followers of the Lamb P Sorely, this cannot be, this entire. proce(luile, from begin- ning to end, has been wholly gratisitous, un- warranted, and intolerable. The Bible Soci- ety has no authority, no call, no need, no fitness for any such work. The whole affair is a most cruel mistake, which ought to have been corrected the moment it was observed. To l)ersist in it will be a most flagrant Out rage, incal)able of defence in morals, an~ cal)able of a redress, both through public sentiment and at law, fatal to the society. 136 THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERICA. The Committee of Versions could not stand against such thunders, and its six members resigned their office. The resig- nations were accel)ted by the board of man- agers, who declined to allow a protest of the committee to l)e entered on their minutes. Early in 1868, after six years circulation of the altered standard, the hoard of managers, at an immense sacrifice of the property of the society. abolished their whole work, and re-established the vert, edition in which it had been declared that twenty-four thousand inaccuracies had been detected. At the pres- ent time, with the exception of the omission of tbe dedication, the Standard Bible of the American Society differs in few, if any, mate- rial points from the Oxford medium quarto edition. But let it not be supposed that the stand- ard continues safe in the hands of the Bible Society. Tite late experiment of the society in tampering with the vertion, says Dr. Coxe,* has indeed been rebuked; but the society itself derives no credit from the fact, for the evil had gone on for years, and grown into a thing of fearful magnitude, withoitt one word of alarm or anxiety on the part of a single one of its officers and members. It now appears that hy one of its by-laws it had actually made ground for future notes as well as for the altered headings and many things portend that its l)resent retreat from the ex- traordinary position it had ventured to take is only for the moment. It is a tremendous engine, and a fickle popular opinion is shown to be its only controlling power. That which has forced it to behave well to-day, will force it as easily to behave ill to-morrow. Who can trust it after this P Let it work out its own destiny, and may God overrule it for good; but surely our duty to his Holy Word cannot lead us to confide in an agent so irre- sponsible and capricious. We have now seen that in America there neither is nor can be a system of revising the Scriptures authorized and fixed by the law of the land. We have seen that in the absence of such a system the Bibles I)rinted in Amer- ica became full of inaccuracies more or less important in their character. We have seen that the American Episcopal Church has put forth efforts to secure a correct standard for the use of its own members, but that the good ~ Mixed societies in Principles and Practice, p. 58. effects of these efforts can extend to but a small portion of the copies printed in Amer- ica. We have seen that the American Bible Society has succeeded for a time in setting up a new standard, constructed on a dangerous principle. We have seen that by the efforts of a few leading individuals, rather titan by the effect of 1)ublic opinion, the society was driven to retrace its steps. We have finally seen that the society in question cannot safely be trusted in future; and that the American people remain destitute of any system of re- vision which will ensure the accuracy of the sacred text. At present we have in England a system which works well and secures us in the pos- session of accurate and well-printed Bibles. These Bibles are in great demand even in America, where Dr. Coxe assures us that, after paying freight and duty, they may be bought as cheaply as similar ones of native manufacture. They may, indeed, be bought more cheaply, when the paper, type, binding, and general appearance are taken into con- sideration. At home, they are furnished to our poor at prices so low that the cost cannot be a matter of serious consideration to any who really desire to profit by Gods Holy Word. It is proposed that this system should be allowed to expire, and that free trade in Bibles should be established in its room. In that event we might soon realize the state of things describee by the Committee of the American General Convention in 1853. The publica- tion of the Bible being at every mans op- tion, too many editions might be found,. crowded with typographical errors, and faulty in numerous, other not unimportant respects. Bible Societies among ourselves. might be teml)ted to tamper with the acces- sories of the text, and to introduce neological~ or sectarian comments, under the form of headings, italics, capitals, and punctuation.. Congregational, Baptist, and Unitarian print- ers might insinuate alterations akin to that detected by the General Convention of 1817.. It would, of course, under such circumstances, be the duty of the convocation of the province of Canterbury to follow the example of the General Convention, and, as the guardian of a Church-work, to appoint a board of revisers,. in order that no change might be effected in that book which we not only value in 137 138 our closets and in our families, but which our clergy are bound to read l)ubliclY in our churches.* Yet we do not see how this duty could be effectually discharged by convocation in its present disabled and fettered condition. It might, indeed, be hoped that in England, with our greater veneration for the works of past ages, attempts similar to those of the American Bible Society would he resisted as energetically as in the United States. It might l)e exl)ected that the authorities of the Church, of the Universities, and of some of the dissenting ho dies, would raise their voices against a change as loudly as did the rev- erend Doctors Coxe and Breekenridge, the Bishop of Pennsylvania, and the Convention of Kentucky. But. admitting all this, we submit that to good reason has been shown for adopting a course which would afford great temptation to the lovers of change, and which would ex- pose us to the danger of angry controversies, bickerings, and recriminations similar to those which have been aroused by this question on the ~vestern side of the Atlantic. For the present, notwithstanding our sad divisions, we are happily agreed, as a nation, in receiving one version, which, thouah doubtless not ab- solutely perfect, is unquestionably possessed of excellences of the highest character. One who, alas! has left us for the church of Rome, ~ Convocation has acted already in this respect. It complained of various typographical and ortho- graphical errors in the original edition of 1611, and solicited the royal interference. This complaint no doubt had its weight when the revision by Dr. Blayney was authorized in 1769. THE AUTHORIZED VERSION IN AMERICA. thus speaks of the uncommon beauty of the English Bible :*~ It lives on the ear like music which can- not he forgotten. It is l)art of the national mind, and the anchor of national seriousness. The memory of the dead ~ into it. The l)ntellt traditions of childhood are stereotyped in its verses. The power of all the gifts and trials of a man is hidden beneath its words. It is the representative of his best moments; and all that there has been al)out him of soft, and gentle, and pure, and penitent, and good, s1)eaks to him forever out of the English Bible. It is his sacred thing, which doubt has never dimmed, and controversy has never soiled. In the length and breath of this land, there is not a Protestant, with one spark of righteousness about him, whose spir- itual biography is not in his Saxon Bible. In conclusion, then, we ~vould express our earnest hope that no stel)s may be taken en- dangering in any degree the generally re- ceived text, until the time arrives when a revised version shall be set forth by sufficient ecclesiastical authority. At present, we have the certainty of which Americans in general are destitute, and which many of them~vould glatlly ~possess. Whatever may be said in favor of monopoly, or, on the other hansi, whatever Mr. Baines may think of that crowning blessing, a free and unfettered Bible, American experience seems to estab- lish at least this, that the system of unre- stricted l)ublication conduces neither to the accuracy nor to the cheapness of the author- ized version of the Holy Scriptures. ~ Du~lia Review. THE NEW UNFERMENTED BatEAD.There can be no doubt that the newly discovered ~rated bread ~vill prove a blessing to many, whose stomachs could not digest the ordinary bread raised by fermentation. It is now being regularly made and sold in London, and is cagerly sonjit after by a large class of people, to whom fermented bread had been prohibited by the doctors. The process of making the bread consists in forcing ready prepared car- bonic acid, by means of suitable machinery, into the water with which the dough is pre- pared, then mixing the flour, water, and salt together, in a highly condensed atmosphere. From the mixing apparatus the dough is re- ceived into the baking pans, and passed into the ovens, without being touched by the hands. By this means the consistency of the flour is left both unchanged and uncontaminatedthe loaf being accordingly absolutely pure bread. There is absolute economy in this method of raising the bread, as it is certain that the process of fermentation destroys part of the substauc of the flour, first the sugai., then the starch, to furnish dextrine, to furnish more sugar to be uccomposed into carbonic acid gas and aleho- bol. SENIOR S JOURNAL. From The Edinburgh Review. A JournaZ kept in Turkey and Greece in the Autumn of 1857 and the beginning of 1858. By Nassau W. Senior, Esq. Lon- don: 1829. THE art of recording conversation with a spirit and fidelity has not furnished many successful contributions to English literature. One conspicuous example stands almost with- out an imitator in the pages of Boswell, and something of the vivacity of social intercourse may he found in the Diary of Madame DAr- blay. But these exceptions only serve the more forcibly to remind us that the stream of sallies and of replies, of original remarks and of traditional knowledge, ~vhich rolls onward in good conversation, is swallowed as it flo~vs by an inexorable oblivion; and that only here and there a fragment of what the wisest have thought, and the ~vittiest have said, survives to amuse or instruct the world. Yet, if it were possible, by the spell which the legend gives some German wizard, to compel the at- mosl)here to retain and repeat the accents which have vibrated for a moment on the ear. how many I)redictions would be unfulfilled, how many hopes would be dispelled, how many l)romises would be unperformed. how many sagacious observations would be stulti- fied, how many a careless and idle remark every one of us ~vould wish to efface! Upon the whole, we are satisfied, that social inter- course would lose much of its chai m and its security, if the fluctuating and elastic element of our daily talk could by any process be con- densed and solidified into a more l)ermanent form. Conversation framed to be taken do~vn would become intolerably stiff and pedai~tic. Conversation taken down as it runs, would be loose, desultory, and often scarcely worthy of preservation. The result is that the attempt to report actual conversations has not often been made; and it has still less often suc- ceeded. Mr. Senior, whose great abilities have en- titled him to fill no inconsiderable place in the more abstruse departments of social and legal science, has, as is well known, devoted a good deal of time to a careful and lively record of the conversations he has held with eminent pe1~sons in many foreign countries. Living in the best society of his time, and perfectly qualified to take an active part in the discussions of all the most interesting questions of the age, he is said to have col lected what may be termed the 5~)eaking me- moirs of his foreign con temporaries in an au- thentic and attractive form; and the volume which he has now given to the public is a very interesting example of the skill and judgment with which he cultivates this pe~~ liar sl)ecies of literary composition. Perhaps he has sometimes insensibly given to Turkish pashas and Greek I)rofessors a little more force and precision than is to be found in their habitual conversation; and we have no doubt that Mr. Seniors friends, like the ora- tors of our public assemblies, are under con- siderable obligations to their reporter. Btbt his object and intention are evidently to con- vey their true meaning with the strictest fidel- ity; and in many instances the conversations have been revised and acknowledged by the sl)eakers themselves. Turkey is not the country to which a trav- eller, who travels chiefly in pursuit of conver- sation, and who never loses sight of the pleasures of social intercourse, would most. naturally repair; for, in the first l)lace, the Turks are indifferent talkers; and, in the sec- ond l)lace, all conversation is absorbed by one insatial)le tol)icthe present condition of th~ Ottoman eml)ire, and the future destiny of the east. The first of these difficulties, how- ever, offered no insurmountable obstacle to Mr. Seniors curiosity, for we find him, within four days of his arrival at Therapia, picking morsels of roasted sheep with Aebmet Vefic Effendi, the Turkish minister of justice, and extracting a few candid admissions from that high officer over an after-dinner pii~e. It must, however, be l)remised that a considera- ble number of the interlocutors, ~vho figure in Mr. Seniors pages under the disguise of A. B. or X. Y., are not Turks at all, but for- eigners who spend their lives in speculating on the strange sl)ectacle before their eyes.; and this, in truth, is the bole subject to which, under various forms, their conversation can be said to relate. Some difference of opinion, of course, prevails as to the causes of the de- cline of the Ottoman empire; and some as to the efficacy of the remedies which may l.e ap- plied or atteml)ted. But in these pages, rep- resenting the opinions of a large number of different observers (and, we might add, in the evidence of every intelligent person ~vho has of late years witnessed the actual condi- tion of Turkey), almost coml)lete unanimity prevails as to the rapid decay of the country 139 SENIOR S JOURNAL. and the government, the falling off in popula- tion and wealth as far as the Mahometan portion of the European provinces is con- cerned, the gross corruption pervading all classes of public officers, and the mischievous results of the diplomatic interference which is intended to avert the dissolution of the em- pile. Mr. Seniors journey to the east was made at a time peculiarly calculated to give interest and value to his observations. rue war was just over, in which the armed intervention of the western po~ers had rescued Turkey from the impending peril of Russian invasion. A peace had been signed which guaranteed the independence and integrity of tile Ottoman dominions, and 1)laced the Sultan within the common security afforded by the public law of Europe. Large concessions, conceived in a tolerant and liberal spirit, had been made to the Christian pol)ulations by the Hatt-i- Hum6.yoon of February, 1856. Attempts were not wanting to I)lace the Turkish finances on a better footing, to raise loans, to develop the resources of the country, and to carry on the work of reform. If ever there was a moment in modern times when hopes of the regeneration of Turkey could reasonably be entertained, after the efforts and sacrifices Europe had made in her behalf, the autumn of 1857 was that time. Yet the evidence Mr. Senior has collected, and the picture he has drawn, can leave no illusion on the mind of any man who believes the one to be true and the other to be correct; and we might quote page after page to demonstrate that all our exertions had only served to rescue the most execrable and contemptible government in Europe from an external danger, without adding any thing to its internal strength or vitality. The fourth point of the articles re- lating to Turkey in the Treaty of Paris, which was to secure to the Christian subjects of tile Porte equality of civil and religious rights, in exchange for the guarantee extended to the dominions of the Sultan by the Christian powers, has remained a dead letter. The con- dition of the Christian populations is in truth tin changed, and nothing has occurred to lessen their ineradicable distrust and hatred of their Mussulman rulers. Turkey, in fact, exists, as an English mer- chant settled at Galata observed to Mr. Senior, for two purposes. First, to act as dog in the manger, and to prevent any Christian powers from possessing a country which she herself in her present state is unable to govern or to protect. And, secondly, for tile benefit of some fifty or sixty bankers and usurers, and some thirty or forty pashas, who make for- tunes out of its spoils (p. 84). We talked of the degeneracy of the Turks. Ho~v do you account, I asked, for the strange fact, if it be a fact, that in l)rol)ortion as they have improved their institutions, in proportion as life and pro~)erty have been more secure, their wealth and tIleir numbers have diminished P How comes it that tile improvement wllich gives ~)rosperity to every other nation ruins them ~ It is a fact, said Y., tilat while their institutions have improved, their wealth and pollulation have diminished. Many causes have contributed to this deterioration. The first and great one is, that they are not producers. They have neither diligence, intelligence, nor forethought. No Turk is an improving land- lord, or even a repairing landlord. When he has money, he spends it on objects of im- mediate gratification. His most l)ermanent investment is a timber palace, to last about as long as its builder. His only professions are shop-keeping and service. He cannot engage in any foreign commerce, as lIe speaks no language but his own. No one cver heard of a Turkish house of business, or of a Turkfsh banker or merchant or manufacturer. If he has lands or houses, he lives on tlleir rent; if he has money, he spends it, or employs it in stocking a shop, in which he can smoke and gossip all day long. The only considerable enterprise in which lie ever engages is the farming some branch of the jiublic revenue. His great resource is service, eitller tilat of a private person or of the sultan. People talk of the place-hunting of France and of Ger- many; it is nothing to that of Turkey. A place closes the vista of every Turks ambi- tion. But, I said, there was a time when the Turks were rich and prosperous. What dif- ference is there between their national char- acter then and now As respects hope, answered X., ardor, self-reliance, ambition, public spirit, in short, all that makes a nation formidable, the dif- ference is enormous. Until the battle of Le- panto and tIle retreat from Vienna, they pos- sessed the grand and heroic but dangerous virtues of a conquering nation. They are now degraded by the grovelling vices of a natioul that relies on foreigners for its defence. Bu~ as respects the qualities which conduce to ma~ terial prosperity, to riches and to numbers, I do not believe that they have much changed. I do not believe that they are more idle, wasteful, improvident, and brutal now than 140 SENIORS JOURNAL. they were four hundred years ago. But it is only within the last fifty years, that the effects of these qualities have shown themselves fully. When they first swarmed over Asia Minor, Roumelia, and Bulgaria, they seized on a coun- try very populous and of enormous wealth. For three hundred and fifty years they kept on consuming that wealth and wearing out that population. If a Turk wanted a house or a garden, he turned out a Rayah; if he wanted money, he put a hullet into a handkerchief, tied it in a knot, and sent it to the nearest opulent Greek or Armenian. At last, having lived for three centuries and a half on their capital of things and of men, having reduced that rich and ~vell-peopled country to the desert which you now see it, they find them- selves poor. They cannot dig, to heg they are ashamed. They use the most mischievous means to I)1event large families; they kill their female children, the conscril)tion takes off the males, and they disappear. The only memorial of what fifty years ago was a popo- bus Turkish village is a crowded burial- ground, now unused.Pp. 2102. Under the influence of these causes, said another English visitor, who has for many years held high rank in the Turkish service, The Turks are dying out, gradually in Asia, but quickly in European Turkey. And what, I asked, is their next great disease? I was dining the other day, he answered, with several pashas. What, they said, is the l)rinciPal change which you have ob- served during the thirty years that you have known Turkey? The great increase, I answered, of corrul)iion. I am not surprised, said one of them, at your answer, and the rest assented. ~~~rrl1is is bad, not only as a cause of evil, hut as a sign. It shows that the higher classes have lost their self-respect; that they despair of the future, and are anxious merely to get the means of immediate employment. Then there is the l)ride of ignorance, the recklessness of the Mussulman character, the absence of education in their public men, the carelessness with which they are selected, their want of confidence in one another, their constant infrgues and quarrels; and I think these are diseases enough to make the man very sick, though, if he were left to himself, he might drag on for a long time. P. 121. To this we may add the evidence of an in- telligent Armenian, who said There is no doubt, he said, that the country is going to ruin, under the influence of internal mismanagement and external in- terference. Of the foreigners who meddle in our affairs, some, like Russia, wish to hasten our fall, others, like Austria, wish us neither good nor evil, and are anxious only as to the influ- ence which our fortunes may have upon theirs. England and France, I believe, really wish us well, hut they try to serve us by forcing do~vn our throats what they think a remedy and we think a poison. Their ohject is the fusion of the different races and different believers, or at least, their equality. They want the wolves and the sheep to lie down together. The Turks believe this to be thoroughly impossi ble. They believe that in Europe, where the Christians are the large majority, they are thoroughly disaffected; that every right which they gained they would use as a weapon; that if the Hatt-i-Hum~yoon were honestly carried out, the Turks would be driven across the Bosporus in five years: in short, that India is merely a specimen of the feelings of slaves who ,can find opj)ortunity of rising against masters. They are resolved, therefore, that it shall he a dead letter. In some provinces, the reading of it produced riots: in others it was not attempted to be read. But, in fact, it cannot he a dead letter. It alarms and irritates the Turks; it stimu- lates the hopes and also the hatred of the Greeks. P. 1,51. Now, I said for the internal causes of ruin.~ They, he said, are the disorder of the finances and of the currency; the farming of the revenue; the centralization which brings every business to Constantinople, where it is neglected and at last forgotten, but above all, the general and increasing corruption. And for these evils there will he no cure. The pashas ~vill not remedy them, for they profit by them, and their education renders them insensible to the mischief and to the scandal. The sultan will not remedy them, for he knows nothing of them. He can know nothing of any thing that his ministers do not choose to tell him. He does not read, and if he did, there is no press; he sees nobody, he never has seen anybody, except his brothers-in-law and sons-in-law, his women and his servants, and occasionally a minister or an ambassador who comes to bully him or to deceive him. Still the empire, if left to itself, might cohere for many years. But Europe has her eyes on its western luovinces. One by one, or two by two, they will be cut off, or will drop off. Perhaps we may return to Broussa, and keep Anatolia for a century or two longer. P. 163. In the midst of all this penury and l)rofu- sion, the sultan himself takes about 2,600,- 000 for his own expenses, out of a public revenue of nine millions sterling; but as even 141 SENIOR S JOURNAL. this suni does not cover his expenditure, he has incurred a debt on promissory notes amounting to about tea millions sterling. Of this sum, spent, or supposed to have been spent, in about three years, one-third at the very outside represents value receivedall the rest is robbery. At the moment at which we write, these remarks have receive(l a very striking confirmation. A conspiracy of the most formidable character had been organized amongst the leading Asiatic Turks in Constantinople, for the purpose of over- throwing so profligate a government. It was discovered on the eve of execution; and but for that accident a revolution would ~)robably at this moment have changed the destinies of the eml)ire. With these facts patent and notorious to every one on the spot, it is not surprising that the gloomiest anticipations are unan- imously expressed as to the consequences; the same unanimity cannot be expected as to the remedy. But we will hear one witness onthis part of the question. Wednesday, October 28th. I walked with C. ft for a couple of hours along the terraced avenues of his garden. The last time, I said, that we walked in this garden, you said that you thought that a man of talent, boldness, and decision could, even now, save the Turkish empire. Let us 5Ul)l)O5~ such a man on the sultans throne. What ought lie to do ? I-Ic ought, said C. B., in the first place to sel)arate a~eligion from government, which still in some matters are confounded. Secondly, he must fund the floating debt, and restore the currency, for which the plan is already l)1epared, and he must pay off the funded debt and l)reve1~t the recurrence of the floating debt by putting an end to the madness of palace-building, and by substitut- ing direct collection of the revenues fom the present system of farms. I have no doubt that the revenue, if honestly and directly col- lected, could be doubled. Thirdly, lie must execute the la~vs against corruption. No ne~v ones are necessary; those which exist are sufficient; on a second conviction, a man l)ecomes incaj)able of any public office. Fourthly, and this is the only measure really difficult and really dangerous, he must en- deavor, not actually to fuse and render homo- geneous, l)ut to render less discordant, less separated by the worst of all distinctions that of oppressors and oppressed the Christian and Mussulman populations; in short, he must execute the Hatt-i-Hum~- yoon. P. 148. Such a state of things would in itself be sufficiently ominous and alarming; l)ut the weakness, corruh)tion, and decay of the Turks is hut one side of the medal. On the other, we have the increasing numbers, the increas- ing wealth, the increasing energy and educa- tion of the Christian population ; with this addition, that every thing which tends to the destruction of an empire is to be found on the side of the oppressor, and every thing which tends to the emancil)ation of a people on the side of the opl)ressed. At Smyrna Mi. Senior snet the Prussian consul, Herr Spiegelthal, a very accoml)lislied man. His opinion as to the relative position of the two races was expressed in the following terms Herr Spiegelthal has spent much time in the interior of Asia Minor, and lie believes the feelings of the Christian population to be such as to render an insurrection against the 1urks almost certain within five or six years. What, I asked, are their respective numbers ? r1~he Christians, he answered, are about three millions. The Turks about nine. But the Christians are concentrated in the larger towns ; they l)O55~55 all the wealth, the knowledge, and the intelligence of the coun- try. But, I said, they are neither armed nor military. Most of them, he answered, are armed. The la~vs vhmicli forbid there being so are, like most Turkish laws, umiexecuted. I do not believe that they are unmihitary. In the war, the young Greeks volunteered to serve in large numbers; they required, however, to he embodied apart, their object was to acquire discipline and experience. r1~he government rejected thiem. The robbers of thus neigh- borhiood are almost all Greeks; five or ten of thu~m were generally a match for twenty or thirty of the Turkish 1)01cc. A couple of years ago, five or six robbers were surrounded by a couhule of hundred soldiers, in a house in the village of Boujad, about four miles from Smyrna. The soldiers were afraid to enter the house, in which they had barricaded themselves, and kept firing on them. Thie robbers returned the fire, killed several of the soldiers, and the affair ended by two of the robbers being killed, amid the rest escaping. Thieir hatred of the rui+s increases as their own wealth, intelligence, and iiumbers in- crease, an(l the Turkish rule becomes more and more corrupt and oppressive. Yotm must not judge thmat rule from ~vhat you have seen on the Bosporus or the Ilellespont, where there are consuls, and a European hiubhic. In the interior there is a mixture of anarchy 142 SENIORS and despotism, of timidity, negligence, cruelty, and rapacity. The government does not plo. tect, does not assist, does nothing for the good of the l)eol)le, and allows no one else to do any thuing. In short, it is a mere machine for robbery. It has no moral force and very little physical force. In this large town there are not three hundred riurkish soldiers. The insurgents will be assisted by the Greeks from the islands, such as Candia. Cyprus, Rhodes, and Mitylene, where the bulk of the l)ol)ulatioi~ is Greek. They will thus have the command of the sea. The contest will drag on until some European power, or Europe collectively, interferes, to prevent the utter destruction of the finest portion of the earth.P. 1946. And again, to borrow the language of a Smyrniote gentleman who perpetuates the illustrious name of Homer The improvement of their institutions has, in more than one way, directly contrib- uted to the l)overty and weakness of the Turks. In the first l)lace, it is inconsistent with their position, with the conditions of their existence. They are a tribe of robbers. What would have become of his band, if Yani Katergee or Simos, had issued a Hatt-i-Hum- ayoon 1)iuhibiting the taking of ransoms, or the cutting off the ears of those whose ran- soms were not 1)aid? A people, who, as Y. has truly stated, do not produce, must perish if they ceased to steal. And secondly, the increased security of life and prol)erty has enabled the Christians to oust the Turks from many of the employments which were formerly open to them. Our increasing wealth I)rod~ces a more than l)rol)ortioulate expenditure on education. Wherever there is a Greek village, there is a school. Small as our numbers are, there are ten, perh~~ps twenty, l)eihal)s fifty, educated Greeks for one educated Turk. Every post requiring kno~vl- edge, diligence, or intelligence is filled by a Greek. Whenever the Turk borrows, the lender is a Greek. Whenever a Turk sells, the purchaser is a Greek, and it is sel(lom that a Turk borrows without having soon to sell. The proud Turks are thus becoming an inferior race in their own country. They appear still to retain its administration, they are the pashas, beys, moolabs and cadies, but for the details of their administration they are forced to trust to Greeks; and those who manage the details of business, especially when a Turk is the superior, are the real ad- ministrators. And how, I asked, is this to end? How is the sick man to die? It may end, said Y., by foreign con- quest, or by foreign interference. But it seems to me certain that, if Europe does not JOURNAL. 143 intervene, the Christians, superior in wealth, sul)erior in ~ntelhigence, and every day al)- ~)roaching nearer to equality in numbers, must at no distant period force the rituiks to yield to them superiority of power. Pp. 2135. This contest bet~veen the two great ele- ments of religion and of race, which still ex- ist in everlasting hostility in the Levant, gives a dramatic interest to every page of Mr. Seniors journal. Parties in the East are not divided by those artificial distinctions or con- ventional symbols which sometimes separate them in other countries. The crescent and the cross mark an irreconcilable feud between all that man venerates in faith, respects in law, obeys in government, an(l cultivates in society; and at this moment the tem~)orary truce which holds in suspense the falling for- tunes of the Turks, and the rising fortunes of the Christians, has not abated in any degree that mutual hatred which s])rings from ages of intolerable tyranny and the energy of re- stored freedom. rI~he strength of Greek nationality is an element in the questionwe will venture to say the dominant element in the question which has been of late years too little consid ered in this country. The attachment of the Greeks to the peculiarities of their church is not so much with them a question of tenets or observances, as an adherence to that faith which has still kept them a nation, under end- less division and a Mohammedan yoke. Even the miserable and corrupt government of Athens, which Mr. Senior has judged ~vith the severity it deserves, and which gives so false and inadequate an impression of the true importance of the Greek peol)le, has rendered one service by vigorously promoting educa- tion, in so much, that out of a population of 1,100,000, 58,000 attend the schools. In like manner the Greek press, which is conducted ~vith as much ability as can be found in the journals of any continental country, is a most powerful instrument for the education and improvement of the nation. The newspapers of Athens are the connecting link which unites the Greeks still living under the Turk ish government, and the Greeks who ar~ scattered in mercantile undertakings all over the world, in one common national feeling. At this very moment we receive the l)rosl)ectus of a journal which is about to appeal in Brus- sels in the Greek and French languages, to be SENIORS JOURNAL. entitled LOrient, for the express purpose of making the common interests of the Chris- tians in the East better known to each other and to the rest of Europe. Nor can we doubt that whenever the day of independence dawns, and a fresh effort is made for the re- organization of the Greek state, the wealth and the experience of free institutions which the Greeks have acquired in England and in other countries, will powerfully contribute to the regeneration of the country. One of the persons, hostile to the Greeks, whom Mr. Senior saw in Athens, assured him that, there was no cohesion among the l)eople, and that no motive will urge them to any combined effort. But this statement is en- tirely at variance with facts. The Greeks possess in the highest degree the art of asso- ciation; they owe their mercantile power and success entirely to mutual support; and there is no reason to doubt that they will, when the occasion l)resents itself, show as much ability in the arts of government as they have already shown since their partial emancipation, in the arts of trade. One of Mr. Seniors Greek friends, to whom he had remarked that, after all, the interior of the kingdom of Greece was even now as miserable and uncivilized as any thing in Turkey, replied, with great truth: Greece and Turkey, be answered, are now, perhaps, on about the same level; but Greece is going up-hill, and Turkey is going down-hill. Five-nod-twenty years ago Greece was a desert, and Turkey was richer and more POPulOuS than she is now. At this instant, l)erhaps, they are on a par; l)ut ten years hence Greece wiil be much richer than she is now, and Turkey much l)oorer. P. 285. But in fact, considering what the l)oint of departure was twenty-five years ago, we won- der that the condition of continental Greece is as good as it is. Attica and the Morea had heen inva ned for six years with unparalleled barbarity. The deliberate plan of Ibrahim was to exterminate the population and make the country a desert. All n~ative power and influence 11 ad l)een systematically annihilated by the Turks; and the degradation of the Rayahs was complete. Misgovernment, law- lessness, and want of capital have no doubt greatly retarded the progress of the country. It was a misfortune that the only mode of re- warding the soldiers of the revolution was to grant them lands which they had no means of cultivating, and which no one would buy of them. But in spite of these untoward cir cumstances the population has increased by one-third, the cultivation still more; and the Greek mercantile marine now consists of five thousand vessels, which have almost driven every other flag from the trade of the Levant. The extraordinary commercial developmer of the Greeks, since they have partially covered their independence, is the fairest tes, of their capacity, enterprise, and intelligence. They have not confined their operations to a few ventures in the figs of Smyrna, but they have pitted their credit and their mercantile flag against the most J)owerful commercial nations of the world in Marseilles, in London, and in New York; and they have not been defeated. No doubt the traveller who looks, as Mr. Senior did, at the wretched Albanian peasantry who scratch the plain of Eleusis where Triptolemus first received the gifts of Ceres, or who has to travel by rude tracks often infested by banditti, may reasonably complain of the state of Greece, and produce, as M. About and other writers have done, a sufficiently repulsive picture. But it is not the less true that this inference is not a just and correct one; these facts merely prove that the kingdom of Greece cannot flourish in the ab- surd and anomalous circumstances in whicirit has been placed by the protecting powers. The first and 1)eIhaps the most fatal of all the blunders made on that occasion was the severance of continental Greece from almost all the islands inhabited by the Greek race. Yet several islands, like Samos, had displayed heroic courage in the war; and it was easy to perceive that while the mainland had chiefly contributed Albanian highl anders, or klephts, to the contest, the Greek families of the isl- ands had really secured the emancipation of their country. The condition of the Greeks of the mainland was, and in some respects still is, by no means dissimilar to that of the Scottish Highlanders down to the middle of the last century. The fustanelle may be said to play in their social history very nearly the part which the kilt has played in our own. The thrift, the industry, the intelligent enter- prise which have made Scotland what she is, lie, as every one knows, south of the Highland line; and so in Greece, they are to be found among the isles, though they be altogether wanting among the Mainote bills. The same consideration has affected the political condi- tion of the state. A court with an extrava- gant civil list has not found it difficult to 144 SENIORS JOURNAL. bribe, to cajole, or to intimidate almost every man of amliition and vanity in a poor and thinly peopled country. But if the more im- portant of the Greek islands had formed part of the kingdom, they would have speedily at- tained a high degree of prosperity, and thus would have produced men capable of playing a much more independent part in public af- fairs. Even no~v, hydra and Syra, small as they are, have already risen in importance with far greater rapidity than any portion of the adjacent continent. Mr. Senior, during his stay at Athens, which followed his visit to Constantinople, availed himself of the conversations of Greeks and resident Englishmen to lay hare the abuses of King Othos administration, and the ingenious l)erversion hy which the forms of constitutional government have been em- ployed to establish the preponderance of the court. He comments with severity on the absence of roads, and with still greater jus- tice on the atrocious cases of brigandage which have from time to time occurred. In- deed, one considerable source of the dislike of the Greek nation, which is strongly ex- pressed by recent travellers, may be traced to the stories of hardihood and ferocity of the Greek banditti, which are current all over the east. Nothing can be more injurious and dis- graceful to Greece; but as piracy has disap- peared with the steady progress of la~vful maritime trade, we have no doubt that brig- andage will cease ~vith the gradual extension of cultivation and the arts of social life. Mr. Senior himself saw in the Troad a celebrated bandit who turned 1toliceman at the exhorta- tion of the British consul, though sorely teml)ted to run off again to tfle hills ; and nothing can he more exciting than his narra- tive of I)i. MCrithis abduction from Bourna- bat, near Smvrua, by Simos, another noted robber, who claimed and obtained a ransom of 300 apiece for his l)risoi~ers. But even the crimes of these outlaws denote a degree of enterprise, ability, and hardihood which might be turned to good purposes, and which give them a sort of Robin Hood l)opularit3 among their countrymen. The follo~ving con- versation took l)lace at Smvrna All your great robbers, I said, seem to have been Greeks. Greeks only, said Mr. hanson, have talent and combination enough for the ardu- TtIIltiJ SEItIES. LIVING AGE. 409 ous post of a robber chief; and Greeks Qaly would have enjoyed the degree of sympathy and assistance which these men received froris their fellow-countrymen. Katergee and Simos were not execrated by the Greeks as they were by the Europeans. The Greeks recol lected that it was by the kleplitre that the in- surrection in Greece began. That it was the klephtm who were the nuclei of the ~uerilla hands who harassed, and at last destroyed, the troops of the sultan. All the Greeks in Smyrna delighted in Simos victory over the Turks. What do you suppose, I said, to have been th,a ultimate objects of Katergee and Simos P rfhiey scarcely intended to t)e rob- bers for the rest of their lives, unless, indeed, they were prepared for their lives being very short. Probably, h9 answered, they hoped to make a purse out of a few great ransoms, an(l to fly to Greece to live there in dignified rel)ose. Perhaps they hoped to become chiefs in the insurrection of Asia Minor. They were both men of some education. Katergee was a courier; he performed for us all the duties which the post l)eiforms in civilized countries; he carried messages, l)alcels, and money, and had a small capital in horses and their accoutrements; he was thonght remark- ably trustworthy ; he was ill-treated by the rfuil(ish authorities, and took to the road. J)artly from want, and partly in revenge. Pp. 203, 204. But even this sorry plea will not serve to palliate the crimes committed in the kingdom of Greece,often by the wretches ~vhom the criminal connivance of the court has liber- ated from prison to serve its own political ends. Nevertheless, although the impression left on the mind by these outrages, and by the petty artifices of the kings government, is extremely unfavorable, it is riot disputed by any of Mr. Seniors acquaintances that the Greek element is growing in wealth, ~~ower, and intelligence throughout the east, even more rapidly than the Turkish element is los- ing those qualities which once constituted its powet. We would fain hope that the defects of the Greeks are those of a renovated pea- l)le, gradually awakening from slavery and degradation to freedom and a higher standard of moral responsibility; we are certain that the defects of the Turks are those of a l)eople and a creed outworn, and that they are sink- ing back into the barbarism from which the military virtues they have no~v lost, did at one 146 146 time raise them. Seldom has a more interest- ing and animated picture been (irawn of two great bodies of men contending for the future control of one of the finest l)ortions of the globe, than that which Mr. Senior presents to us in these conversations. The course of events does not keep pace with the impatience of political theorists, and the slow evolution of what is termed the eastern question has already often deceived, and ~vill again deceive, those who have anticipated a speedy and de- cisive catastrophe. We believe rather that SENIORS JOURNAL. the fate of the Ottoman empire ~vi1l be regu- lated by the gradual and constant operation of the causes which this hook discioses, than by the crash of any sudden revolution; but it is the more important to hear those causes faithfully in mind, when we witness the events to which they must give rise; and no traveller has done more than Mr. Senior to l)resent us with an exact and unhiassed estimate of the present state of the east, in the very words of those persons who are best acquainted with its peculiarities. A WORD WITH BROTHER JONATHAN. BY BROTHER PUNCIt. YANKEE DOODLE whips the world, (Specially the niggers), For pro0ress and enlightenment Almighty tall lie figgers~ But theres a spot upon his sun That Punch cant shut his eves to, Tis that a word in lightest fun A duel may give rise to. O Yankee Doodle, Doodle! do Your rifle keep less handy: And lay down your revolver too, Friend Punch would fain command ye! A senator in congress no~v, A la~vyer or physician, Whoever haps to have a row, Whateer be his position, In hot blood deems cold steel or lead The means that row to settle, And when his brothers blood is shed, Thinks he has shown his mettle. O Yankee Doodle, Doodle! do Your rifle keep less handy; And lay down your revolver, too, Friend Punch would fain command ye! A barster calls a judge a brute, Straight out come their revolvers: In slightest wrangle or dispute Theyre deemed the only solvers. Two doctors chance to disagree, A deathbed while they stand by: To show their skill, they fl~ht until Each falls the others hand by! C) Yankee Doodle, Doodle! do Your rifle have less handy: And give up your revolver too Friend Punch would fain command ye! Americans! these deeds disgrace A free, enlightened nation: The scroll of hioiior they deface, Such blots are degradation. To check by forcebe this your course, For this your wills be banded Stern truth insists that duellists As MURDERERS be branded! Then, Yankee Doodle, Doodle! do Your rifle keep less handy; And lay down your revolver too Let Punch, let LAW command ye I PRECISELY at the period when Talma hap- pened to be at Lyons, and was playing at the great theatre before an electrified public, the Abb~ de Boulogne, Bishop of Troycs, a preacher of great talent, and then under the ban of per- secution, was passing through the same town. A singular chance brought him to the lmouse~f Madame R~camier on the day when Talma was dining there. The Bishop of Troycs, in- finitely to be respected as a priest, had the cul- ture of a man of letters and understandin ~, the habits of the best society, and a gentle and tol- erant character. Familiar with the master- pieces of drama, yet never in his life having been to the theatre, the opportunity of meeting an actor of the first order seemed to him a piece of great good fortune. Talma, whom Madame Rdcamier presented to him, with as much willingness as respectful good grace, re- cited for the Ifrelate those of his parts in which religious emotions hind to he expressed; and did this with all the energy of his suh)erior and ad- mirable talent. The Ahbd do Bonlogne, en- chanted, openly expressed the delight he en- joyed. In turn, Talma humbly entreated the preachier to allow him to hear some brilliant passages from his sermons. Tue bishop did not refuse the request. After having listened to the orator with the liveliest interest, Talma commenced his diction, made some observa- tions on his gestures, and added, It is very good, sir, down to this, pointing to the bust of the bishop. The lo~ver part of the body is worth nothing; one can easily see that you have never thought about your legs. HOPES AND FEARS. CHAPTER II. He who lets his feelings run In soft, luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every woe. SEVEN years more, and Honora was in mourning for her mother. Shewas alone in the world, without any near or precious Claim; those clinging tendrils of her heart rent from their oldest, surest earthly stay, and her time left vacant from her dearest, most constant occul)ation. Her impulse was to devote her- self and her fortune at once to the good work which most engaged her imagination, but Humfrey Charlecote, her sole relation, since heart complaint had carried off his sister Sa- rah, interfered with the authority he had al- ways exercised over her, and insisted on her waiting one full year before pledging herself to any thing. At one-andthirt~, with her golden hair and li~ ht figure, her delicate skin and elastic step, she was still too young to keep house in solitude, and she invited to her home a friendless old governess of her own, sick at heart with standing for the Governess Institution, promising her a daughters care and attendance on her old age. Gentle old Miss Wells was but too happy in her new quarters, though she constantly averred that she knew she should not continue there treated as injuries to herself all Honors as- sertions of the dignity of age, and old maid- ishness; and remained convinced that she should soon see her married. ilonora had ant seen Mr. Sandbrook since his return from Canada, thou~h his living ~sas not thirty miles from the city. There had been exchanges of calls when he had keen in London, but these had only resulted in the leaving of cards; and from various causes, she had been unable to meet him at dinner. She heard of him however, from their mutual con- nection, old Mrs. Sandbrook, who had made a visit at Wrapworth, and came home stored with anecdotes of the style in which he lived, the charms of Mrs. Sandbrook, and the beauty of the children. As far as Hnnoia could gather, anti very unwillingly she did so, he was leading the life of an easygoing, well beneficed clergyman, not neglecting the par- ish, according to the requirements of the day, indeed, slightly exceeding them, very l)ol)ular, goodnatured, anti charitable, avid in great re quest in a numerous, demi-suhurban neigh- borhood, for all sorts of not unclerical gayeties. 147 The Rev. 0. Sandhrook was often to he met with in the ~~a~iers, preaching everywhere and for every thing, and whispers ~vent about of his sJ)eedy liromotion to a situation of greater note. In the seventh year of his marriage, his ~vife died, and Honora was told of his over ~vhelming grief, how he utterly refused all comfort or alleviation, anti threw himself with all his soul into his parish anti his children. People sI)oke of him as going al)out among the poor from morning to night, with his lit- tle ones by his side, shrinking from all other society, teaching them and nursing them him- self, and endeavoring to the utmost to be as both l)are1~ts in one. The youngest, a delicate infant, soon followed her mother to the graver antI old Mrs. Sandhrook l)roved herself to have no l)~iiel~ts heart by being l)rosoked with his agonixing grief for the l)OOV little sickly thing, while it was not in Honora s nature not to feel the more tenderly toivards the idol of her girlish days, because he was in sorrow. It was autumn, the period when leaves fall off and grow damp, and London birds of l)as- sage fly home to their smoky nests. Honora, who had gone to Weymoath chiefly because she saw Miss Wells ~vould be disappointed if she did otherwise, and when there, had grown happily at home with the waves, and in talk- ing to the 01(1 fishermen, had conic back Ii cause Miss Wells thought it chilly and dreary, aiitl pinedl for London warmth and snugness. The noonday sun had found the way in at the oriel window of the dra~ving-room, and traced the reflection of the merchants mark in the upper pane in distorted outline on the ~vain scotted ~vall ; it smiled on the glowing tints of llonoras hair, but seemed to die avav against the blackness of her dress, as she sa~ by the table, ~vriting letters, ~vhile opposite, in the brightness of the fire, sat the p~le, l)lacidl Miss Wells with her morning nest of sermon books and needlesvork around her. Honor yawned; Miss Wells looked up with kind anxiety. Sh~ knew such a ya~vn was equivalent to a sigh, anti that it was dreary ~vork to settle in at home again this first time ~vithout the mat her. Then Honor smiletl, anti playeti ~vith her pen wil)er. Well, she said, it is comfort- able to be at home again! I hope you will soon be able to feel so, my dear, said the kind old governess. I mean it, said Honor, cheerfully; then HOPES AND FEARS. sighing, But do YOU know Mr. Askew wishes his curates to visit at the asylum instead of ladies. Miss Wells burst out into all tbe indigna- tion that was in her mild nature. Honor not to visit at the asylum founded chidly by her own father! It is a 1)arish affair now, said honor; and I believe those Miss Stones and their set have been very troublesome. Besides I think he means to change its character. It is very inconsiderate of him, said Miss Wells; he ought to have consulted you. Every one loves his own charity the best, said Honora; Humfrey says endo~vments are generally a mistake, each generation had better do its own work to the utmost. I wish Mr. Askew bad not begun now, it was the work I specially looked to, but I let it alone while . . . and he cannot be expected I should have expected it of him though! exclaimed Miss Wells; and he ought to know better! How have you heard it ? I have a note from him this morning, said Honora; lie asks me Humfrey Charlecotes address; you know he and Mr. Sandbrook are trustees, and her voice grew the sadder. If I am not much mistaken, Mr. Charle- cote will represent to him his want of consid. eration. I think not, said Honora; I should be sorry to make the clergymans hard task here any harder for the sake of my feelings. Late incumbents daughters are proverbially incon- venient. No; I would not stand in the way, hut it makes me feel as if my work in St. Wulstans were done, and the tears dropped fast. Dear, dear Honora ! began the old lady, eagerly, but her words and Honoras tears were both checked by the sound of a bell, that bell within the court, to which none but intimates found access. Strange! It is the thought of old times, I suppose, said Honor, smiling; but I could have said that was 0wen Sandbrooks ring. The words were scarcely spoken, ere Mr. Sandbrook and Captain Charteris were an- nounced; and there entered a clergyman lead- ing a little child in each hand. how changed from the handsome, hopeful youth from whom she had parted! Thin, slightly bowed, grief- stricken, and worn, she would scarcely have known him, and as if to hide how much she felt, she bent quickly, after shaking hands with him, to kiss the two children, flaxen-curled creatures in ~vhite, with black ribbons. They 1)0th shrank closer to their father. Cilly, my love, Owen my man, speak to Miss Charlecote, he said; she is a very old friend of mine. This my bonny little housekeeper, he added, and heres a stt~rdy fellow for four years old is not he? The girl, a delicate fairy of six, barely ac- cepted an embrace, and clung the faster to her father, with a gesture as though to repel all advance. The boy took a good stare out of a pair of resolute gray eyes, with one foot in advance, and offered both hands. Honora would have taken him on her knee, but lie re- treated, and both leant against their father as he sat, an arm round each. After shaking hands with Miss Wells, whom he recollected at once, and presenting his brotber-in-la~v, whose broad, open sailor countenance, hardy and weather-stained, was a great contrast to his pale, hollow, furrowed cheeks and heavy eyes. Will you tell me your name, my dear?, said Honora, feeling the children the easiest to talk to ; but the little girls piett lips pouted, and she nestled nearei to her father. Her name is Lucilla, he answered with a sigh, recalling that it had been his wifes name. We are all somewhat of little savages, he added, in excuse for tWe childs silence. We have seen few strangers at Wrapworth of late. I did not know you were in London. It ~vas a sudden measureall my brothers doing, he said; I am quite taken out of my own guidance.~~ I went down to Wrapworth, and found him very un~vehl, quite out of order, and neg- lecting himself, said the captain ; so I have brought him up for advice, as I could not make him hear reason. I was afraid you were looking very ill, said Honora, hardly daring to glance at his changed face. Cant help being ill, returned Captain Charteris; running about the village in all weathers in a coat like that, and sitting down to play with the children in his wet things. I saw what it would come to, last time. Mr. Sandbrook could not repress a cough which told plainly what it was come to. Miss Wells asked whom he intended to con- sult, and there ~vas some talk on physicians, but the subject was turned off by Mr. Sand- 148 HOPES AND FEARS. brook bending down to point out to little Owen a beautiful carving of a brooding dove on her nest, which formed the central bracket of the fine old mantel-piece. There, my man, that pretty bird has been sitting there ever since I can remember. How like it all looks to old times! I could imagine myself running in from Westminster on a saints day. It is little altered in some tbings, said Honor. The last great change ~vas too fresh! Yes, said Mr. Sandbrook, raising his eyes towards her with the look that used to go so deep of old; we have hoth gone through what makes the unchangeableness of these impassive things the more striking. I cant see, said the little girl, pulling his hand. Let me lift you up, my dear, said Ho- nora; but the child turned her back on her, and said, Father. lie rose, and was bending, at the little im- perious voice, though evidently too weak for the exertion, but the sailor made one step for- ward, and pouncing on Miss Lucilla, held her up in his arms, close to the carving. The two little feet made signs of kicking, and she said in any thing but a grateful voice, Put me down, Uncle Kit. Uncle Kit coml)lied, and she retreated under her l)al)a5 wing, pouting, I)ut without another word of being lifted, though she had been far too much occupied in struggling to look at the dove. Meantime, her brother had followed up her request by saying, me, and he fairly put out his arms to he lifted by Miss Charlecote, and made most friendly acquaint- ance with all the curiosities of the carving. The rest of the visit was, chiefly occupied by the children, to whom their father was eager to show all that he had admired when little older than they were, thus displaying a per- fect and minute recollection and affection for the l)lace which much gratified Ilonora. The little girl began to thaw some~vhat under the influence of amusement, but there was still a curious ungraciousness towards all attentions. She required those of her father as a right but shook off all others in a manner which might he either shyness or independence; but as she was a pretty and naturally graceful child, it had a somewhat engaging air of caprice. They took leave, Mr. Sandhrook telling the children to thank Miss Charlecote 149 for being kind to them, which neither would do, and telling her as he pressed her hand, that he hoped to see her again. Honora felt as if an old ])age in her history had been re- opened, but it was not the page of her idol- atry, it was that of the fall of her idol! She did not see in him the champion of the truth, but his l)referet~ce palpably sho~ved her the excitable weakness which she had taken for inspiration, while the s~veetn ess and sympathy warmed her heart to~vards him, and made her feel that she had underrated his attractive- ness. His implications that he knew she sym- pathized with him had touched her greatly) and then he looked so ill! A note from old Mrs. Sandbrook begged her to meet him at dinner the next day, and she ~vas glad of the opportunity of learning the doctors verdict upon him, though all the time she knew the meeting would be but pain, bringing before her the disappointment not of him, but in him. No one was in the drawing-room but Cap- tain Charteris, who came and shook hands with her as if they were old friends; but she was somewhat amazed at missing Mrs. Sand- brook, whose formality would be shocked by leaving her guests in the lurch. Some disturbance in the nursery depart- ment, I fancy, said. the cal)tain ; those chil- dren have never been from home, and they are rather exacting; poor things ! Poor little things! echoed Honora; then, anxious to 1)rofit by the t~te-~t-i~te, has Mr. Sandbrook seen Dr. L. P Yes; it is just as I ap1)rehended. Lungs very much affected, right one nearly gone. Nothipg for it but the Mediterranean. Indeed ? It is no wonder. Since my l)OO~ sister died he has never taken the most moderate care of his health, perfectly revelled in drear- iness and desolateness, I believe! He has had this cough about him ever since the win- ter, ~vhen he walked up and down whole nights ~vith that p~~r child, and never would hear of any advice till I brought him up here almost by force. I am sure it was time. May it be in time, thats all. Italy does so much! But what will be- come of the children ? They must go to my brothers, of course. I have told him I will see him there, but I 150 will not have the children! Theres not the least chance of his mending, if they are to be always lugging him about The captain was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Sandbrook, who looked a good deal worried, though she tried to put it aside; but on the cal)tain saying, Im afraid that you have troublesome guests, maam, out it all came, how it had been discovered late in the day that Master Owen must sleep in his papas room, in a crib to himself, and how she l)ad been obliged to send out to hire the necessary articles, subject to his nurses approval and the captains sympathy having opened her heart, she further informed them of the in- convenient rout the said nurse had made about getting new milk for them, for which Honor could have found it in her heart to justify her. And poor O~ven isjust as bad, quoth the old lady ; I declare those children are wearing his very life out, and 3et he will not hear of leaving them behind. She was interrul)ted hy his apl)earance at that moment, as usual, with a child in either hand, and a very sad picture it was; so mourn- ful and spiiitless ~vas his countenance, with the hectic tint of decay so evident on each thin cheek, and those two fair healthful crea- tures clinging to him, thoughtless of their J)ast loss, unconscious of that which impended. Little Owen, after one good stare, evidently recognized a friend in Miss Charlecote, and let her seat him upon her knee, listening to her very complacently, but gazing very hard all the time at her, till at last, ~vith an exper- imental air, he stretched one hand and stroked the broad golden ringlet that hung hear him, evidently to satisfy himself whether it really was haii. Then he found his way t~ her watch, a pretty little one from Geneva, with enamelled flowers at the l)ack, which so struck his fancy that he called out, Cilly, look The temptation drew the little girl nearer, but with her hands behind her back, as if bent on making no advance to the stranger. Honora thought her the l)rettiest child she had ever seen. Small and Ii~htly formed, there was more symmetry in her little fairy figure than usual at her age, and the skin was exquisitely fine and white, tinted with a soft egla ntine pink, deepening into roses on the cheeks; the hair was in long flaxen curls, and the eyelashes, so long and fair that at times they caught a glossy light, shaded eyes of that deep blue in that limpid white, which is like HOPES AND FEARS. nothing but the clear tints of old porcelain. The features were as yet unformed, but small and delicate, and the upright Napoleon ges- ture had something peculiarly quaint and pretty in such a soft-looking little creature. The boy was a handsome fellow, with more solidity and sturdiness, and Ilonora could scarcely continue to amuse him, as she thought of the fathers pam in parting with two such beingshis sole objects of affection. A mo- ments wish flashed across her, hut was dis- missed the next moment as a mere childish romance. Old Mr. Sanfibrook came in, and various other guests arrived, old acquaintance, to whom Owen must be re-introduced, and he looked fagged and worn by the time all the greetings had been exchanged and all the remarks ma(le on his children. When din- ner was announced, he remained to the last with them, and did not appear in the dining room till his uncle had had time to look round for him and mutter something discontentedly about those brats. The vacant chair was beside Ilonora, and he was soon seated in it, but at first he did not seem inclined to talk, leant back so white and exhaustedl, that she thought it kinder to leave him to himself. When, somewhat recruited, he said in a low voice something of his hopes that his little Cilly, as he called her, would 1)0 less shy another time, and Honora responding heartily, he quickly fell into the l)aiental strain of anec- dotes of the childrens sayings and doings, whence Honora collected that in his estima- tion Lucillas forte was decision and Owens was s~veetness, and that he was completely dlevotedl to them, nursing and teaching them himself, and finding his whole solace in them. Tender pity moved her strongly towards him, as she listened to the evidences of the (leso- lateness of his home and his heavy sorrow; and yet it was pity alone, admiration would not revive, and indeed, in spite of herself, her judgment would now and then respond sin wise, or weak, or why permit this ? at details of Lucillas mutinerie. Presently she found that his intentions were quite at variance with those of his brother. His purpose was fixed to take the children with him. They are very young, said Tlonora. Yes; but their nurse is a most valuable person, and can arrange perfectly for them, and they will always be under my eye. HOPES AND FEARS. 151 That was just what Captain Charteris idea; Honor held out her hand for her; Aunt seemed to (head. Sandbrook called her; her father put her He little knows, l)egan Mr. Sandhrook, down; she shook her curls and said she with a sigh. Yes, I know he is most averse should not leave father; it was stupid up in to it, and he is one who always carries his the drawing-room, and he hated ladies, which point, hut he will not do so here; he imagines confession set every one laughing, so as quite that they may go to their aunts nursery, but, to annihilate the effect of Mr. Sandbrooks with an added air of confidence, that will Yes; go, my dear. never do ! Finally, he took the two up-stairs himself Honoras eyes asked more. the stairs which, as he had told Ilonura that In fact, he said, as the flush of pain rose evening, were his greatest enemies, and he re- eir nursery, not corn on his cheeks, the Charteris children are not mained a bone time in th brought up as I should wish to see mine. ing down till tea was in progress. Mrs. There are influences at ~vork there not suited Sandbrook always made it herself at the great for those whose home must he a country silver urn, ~vhich had been a testimonial to parsonage, if Little Cilly has come in for her husband, and it was not at first that she more admiration there already than is good had a cup rea(ly for him. He looked even for her. worse than at dinner, and Honora was anx It cannot he easy for her not to meet with ions to see hin#resting comfort ably; but he that. had hardly sat down on the sofa, and taken Why, no, said the gratified father, smil- the cup in his hand, before a dismal childish ing sadly; but Castle Blanch training xvail ~vas heard from above, and at once he might make the mischief more serious. It is started up, so hastily as to cough violently. a gay household, and I cannot believe with Captain Charteris, breaking off a conversa- Kit Charteris that the children are too young tion, came rapidly across the room just as he to feel the blight of worldly influence. Do was moving to the door. Youre not going not you think with me, Nora P he concluded to those imps in so exactly the old wor(ls and manner as to Owen moved his head, and stepped fore stir the very depths of her heart, but woe ward. worth the change from the hopes of youth to Ill settle them. this l)rematuie fading into despondency, and Renewed cries met his ears. No a the implied farewell She did think with strange l)lace- he said. I must him coml)letelv, and felt the more for him, as lIe put his brother-in-law hack with his she believed that these Charterises had led hand, and was gone. The captain could not him and his ~vife into the gayeties, which contain his vexation, Thats the way those since that fatal shock lie had forsworn and brats serve him every night ! lie exclaimed; abhored as temptations. She thought it hard they will not attempt to go to sleep without that he should not have his children with him, him Why, Ive found him writing his ser and talked of all the various facilities for tak mon with the boy ~vral)l)ed dl) in blankets in ing them that she could think of, till his face his lap ; theres no sense in iL brightened under the grateful sense of sym~)a- After about ten minutes, during which Mr. thy. Sandbrook did not re-al)liear, Captain Char She did not hold the same opinion all the tens muttered something about going to see evening. The txvo children made their ap about him, and stayed away a good while. pearance at dessert, and there began by insist- When he came down, he came and sat down ing On both sitting on his knees; Owen con- by Honora, and said, lIe is going to bed, sented to come to her, but Lucilla would not quite done for. stir, though she 1)ut on some pretty little co- That must be better for him than talking qviettisls airs, and made herself extremely here. amiable to the gentleman who sat on her Why, what do you thiuld I found? Those fathers other hand, making smart replies that intolerable brats would not stop crying unless were repeated round the table with much lie told them a story, and there was lie with amusement. his voice quite gone, coughing every two mm- But the ordinance of departure with the utes, and romancing on with some allegory ladies was one of which the sprite had no about children marching on their little paths, 152 and playing on their little fiddles. So I told Miss Cilly that if she cared a farthing for her father, she would hold her tongue, and I packed her up, and put her into her nursery. Shell mind me when she sees I i~ll be minded ; and as for little Owen, nothing would satisfy him but his promising not to go away. I saw that chap asleep before I came down, so theres no fcar of the yarn beginning again; but you see what chance there is of his mend- ing while those children are at him day and night. Poor things ! they little know. One does not expect them to know, but one does expect him to show a little rational- ity. It puts one out of all l)atiei)ce to see him so weak. If he is encouraged to take them abroad, he may do so4 but I wash my hands of him. I wont be responsible for himlet them. go alone! Honora saw this was a reproach to her for the favor with which she had regarded the pioject. She saw that the fathers weakness quite altered the case, and her former vision Bashed across her again, but she resolutely put it aside for consideration, and only made the unmeaning answer, It is very sad and perplexing. A perplexity of his own making. As for their not going to Castle Blanch, they were always there in my poor sisters time a great deal more than was good for any of them, or his parish either, as I told him then; and now if he finds out that it is a worldly house- hold, as he calls it, why what harm is that to do to a coul)le of babies like those? If Mrs. Charteris does not trouble herself much about the children, there are governesses and nurses enough for a score! I must own, said Honora, that I think he is right. Children are never too young for impressions. Ill tell you what, Miss Charlecote, the way he is going on is enough to ruin the best children in the world. That little Cilly is the most arrant little flirt I ever came across; it is like a comedy to see the absurd little puss going on with the curate, ay, and with every parson that comes to Wrapworth; and she sees nothing else. Impressions! All she wants is to be safe shut up with a good gov- erness, and other children. It would do her a doxen times more good than all his stories of good children and their rocky paths, and boats that never failed on any reasonable princil)le. IIOPES AND FEARS. Poor child, said Honora, smiling; she is a little witch. And, continued the uncle, if he thinks it so bad for them, he had better take the only way of saving them from it for the future, or they will be there for life. If he gets through this winter, it will only be by the utmost care. Honora kept her proposition back with the less difficulty because she doubted how it would be received by the rour,h captain; but it won more and more upon her, as she rattled home through the lines of gaslights, and though she knew she should learn to love the children only to have the pa~g of losing them, she gladly cast this foreboding aside as selfish, and applied herself impartially as she hoped to weigh the duty, but trembling were the hands that adjusted the balance. Alone, as she stood, without a tie, ~vas not she marked out to take such an office of mere ])ity and charity? Could she see the friend of her childhood forced either to peril his life by his care of his motherless children, or else to leave them to the influences he so justly dreaded? Did not the case cry out to her to follow the promptings of her heart? Ay, but might not, said caution, her assumptian of the charge lead their father to look on her as willing to become their mother? Oh, fie on such selfish l)rudery in imputing such a thought to yonder broken-hearted, sinking widower! He had as little room for such folly as she had inclination to find herself on the old terms. The hero of her imagination he could never be again, but it would be weak consciousness to scruple at offering so obvious an act of compassion. She would not trust herself, she would go by what Miss Wells said. Nevertheless, she composed her letter to Owen Sandbrook between ~vaking and sleeping all night, and dreamed of little creatures nestling in her lap, and small h6nds playing with her hair. How coolly she strove to speak as she described the dilemma to the old lady, and how her heart leapt when Miss Wells, her mind moving in the grooves traced out by sympathy with her l)ul)il, exclaimed, Poor little dears, what a pity they should not be with you, my dear, they would be a nice interest for you! Perhaps Miss Wells thought chiefly of the brightening in her childs manner, and the alert vivacity of eye and voice such as she had not seen in her since she had lost her mother; HOPES AND FEARS. but be that as it might, her words were the very sanction so much longed for, and ere long Ilonora had her writing-case before her, cogitating over the opening address, as if her whole meaning were implied in them. Mv dear Owe ~ came so naturally that it was too like an attempt to recur to the old familiarity. My dear Mr. Sandbrook. So formal as to he conscious Dear Owen, yes, that was the cousinly medium, and in diffident phrases of restrained eagerness, now seeming too affectionate, now too cold, she offered to devote herself to his little ones, to take a house on the coast, and endeavor to follow out his wishes with regard to them, her good old friend supplying her lack of ex- perience. With a heating heart she awaited the re~)ly. It was but a few lines, but all Owen was in them. My DEAR NoRA.You always were an angel of goodness. I feel your kindness more than I can express. If my darlings were to be left at all, it should he with you, but I cannot contemplate it. Bless you for the thought! Yours ever, 0. SANDBROOK. She heard no more for a weck, during which a dread of pressing herself on him pre- vented her from calling on old Mrs. Sand- brook. At last, to her surprise, she received a visit from Captain Charteris, the person whom she looked on as least l)ropitious, and most inclined to regard her as an enthusiastic, silly young lady. He was very gruff, and gave a had account of his patient. The little boy had been unwell, and the exertion of nursing him had been very injurious; the captain was very angry with illness, child, and father. However, he said, theres one good thing, 1. has forbidden the childrens perpet- ual hanging on him, sleeping in his room, and so forth. With the constitutions to which they have every right, poor things, he could not find a better way cf giving them the seeds of consumption. That settles it. Poor fel- low, he has not the heart to hinder their al- ways pawing him, so theres nothing for it but to separate them from him. And may I have them? asked Honor, too anxious to 1)ick her words. Why I told him I would come and see whether you were in earnest in your kind offer. You would find them no sinecure. 153 It would be a great happiness, said she, struggling with tears that might prevent the captain from depending on her good sense and speaking calmly and sadly ; I have no other claims, nothing to tie me to any l)lace. I am a good deal older than I look, and my friend, Miss Wells, has been a governess. Site is really a very ~vise, judicious person, to ~vhom he may quite trust. Owen and I were children together, and I know nothing that 1 should like better than to he useful to him. Humph ! said the cal)tain, more touched than he liked to betray; well, it seems the only thing to which he can bear to turn Oh ! she said, hreaking off, hut emotion and earnestness looked glistening and trem- bling through every feature. Very well, said Captain Charteris; Im glad, at least, that there is some one to have pity on the poor things! Theres my broth- ers ~vife, she doesnt say no, hut she talks of convenience and spoilt child ienSan dhrook was quite right after all, I would not tell him how she answered me! Spoilt children to be sure they are, l)OO~ things, but she might recollect they have no mothersuch a fuss as she used to make with l)OO~ Lucilla too. Poor Lucilla! she would never have be- lieved that dear Caroline would have no better welcome for her little ones! Spoilt in- deed ! A precious deal l)leasai~ter children they are than any of the lot at Castle Blanch, and better brought up too. The good captains indignation had made away with his consistency, but Honora did not owe him a grudge for revealing that she was his pis aller; she was prone to respect a man who showed that he despised her, and she only cared to arrange the details. He was anxious to carry away his charge at once, since every day of this wear and tear of feel- ing was doing incalculable harm, and she un- dertook to receive the children and nurse at any time. She would write at once for a house at some warm watering-place, and take them there as soon as possible, and she of- fered to call that afternoon to settle all with O~ven. Why, said Captain Charteris, I hardly know. One reason I came alone was, that I believe that little elf of a Cilly has some no- tion of what is plotting against her. You cant speak a word but that child catches up, and she will not let her father out of her sight for a moment! 154 Then what is to be done? I would pro- pose his coming here, but the poor child would not let him go. That is the only chance. He has been forbidden the walking with them in his arms to put them to sleep, and weve got the boy into the nursery, and hed better he out of the house than hear them roaring for him. So if you have no objection, and he is tolera- ble this evening, I would bring him as soon as they are gone to bed. Poor Owen was evidently falling under the management of stronger hands than his own, and it could only he hoped that it was not too late. Ii~is keeper brought him at a little after eight that evening. There was a look about him as if, after the last stroke that had befallen him, he could feel no more, the bit- terness of death was past, his very hands looked woebegone and astray, without the little fingers pressing them. He could not talk at first, he shook honors hand as if he could not hear to be grateful to her, and only the hardest hearts could have endured to en- ter on the intended discussion. The captain was very gentle towards him, and talk was made on other topics, hut gradually some- thing of the influence of the familiar scene, ~vhere his brightest days had been l)assed, began to prevail. All was like old times, the quaint old silver kettle and lamp, the l)attern of the china cul)s, the ruddy play of tl]e fire on the polished l)ailels of the room, and he began to revive and join in the conversation. They 1)oke of T)elaroches beautiful Ma- donnas, one of which ~vas at the time to be seen at a print shop Yes, said Mr. Sand- brook, and little Owen cried out as soon as he saw it, That lady, the lady with the flow- ery watch. Honora smiled. It was an allusion to the old jests upon her auburn locks, a greater compliment to her than to belaroche, she said; I saw that he was extremely curious to ascertain what my carrots were made of. Do you. know, Nora, I never saw more than one l)eIson with such hair as yours, said Owen, with more animation; and oddly enough her name turned out to be Charle- cote. Impossible I-hum frey and I are the only Charlecotes left that I know of! Where could it have been ? It was at Toronto. I must confess that I was struck by the brilliant hair in chapel. HOPES AND FEARS. Afterwards I rne.t her once or twice. She was a Canadian born, and had just married a settler, whose name I cant remember, but hers had certainly been Charlecote; I re- membered it because of the coincidence. Very curious; I did not know there had been any Charlecotes but ourselves. And Humfrey Charlecote has never mar- ried? Never. What made Owen raise his eyes at that moment, just so that she met them, and why did that dreadful uncontrollable crimson heat come mounting up over cheeks and temples, tingling and spreading into her very neck, just because it was the most hateful thing that could happen? And he saw it. She knew he did so, for he dropped his eyes at once, and there was an absolute silence, which she broke in desperation, by an inco- herent attempt to say somethin ~, and that ended by blundering into the tender subject the children; she found she had been talking about the place to which she thought of taking them, a quiet spot on ~he northern coast of Somersetshire. He could hear the pang a little better now, and assented, and the ice once broken theTe were so many details and injunctions that lay near his heart that the conversation never flagged. He had great reliance on their nurse, and they were healthy children, so that there was not much instruction as re- garded the care of their little persons, but he had a great deal to say about the books they were to be taught from, the hymns they were to learn, and the exact management required by lucillas peculiar temper and decided will. The theory was so perfect and so beautifully wise that Honora sat by in reverence, fearing her power of carrying it out, and Captain Charteris listened with a shade of satire on his face, and at last broke out with a very odd grunt, as if lie diti not think this quite what he had seen at \Vrapworth parsonage. Mr. Sandbrook coloied, and checked him- self. Then after a l)ause, lie said in a very different tone, Perhaps so, Kit. It is only too easy to talk. Nora knows that there is a long way between my intentions and my practice. The humble dejection of that tone touched her more than she had been touched sincehe had wrung her hand, long, long ago. ~ V,Tell, said the captain, perceiving only HOPES AND FEARS. that he had given ptlin, I will say this for your monkeys, they do know what is right at least ; they have heard the articles of ~var, which I dont fancy the other lot ever did. As to the discipline, humph! It is much of a muchness, and Im not sure hut it is not the hest at the castle. The children are different at home, said Owen, quietly; hut, he added, with the same sad humility, I dare say they will he much the hetter for the change; I know But he broke off, and put his hand hefore his eyes. ilonora hoped she should not he left alone with him, but somehow it (lid happen. The captain went to bring the carriage into the court, and get all imaginable wraps hefore trusting him out in the air, and Miss Wells disappeared, l)robal)ly intending kindness. Of course, neither spoke, till the captain ~vas almost come back. Then Owen rose from where he had been sitting listlessly, leaning back, and he slowly said, Nora, we did not think it would end thus when I put my hand to the plough. I am glad to have been here again. I had not remembered what I used to be. I do not ask you to forgive me. Yon are doing so, returning me good forshall I say evil P Honor could not speak or look, she drooped her head ; and her hair veiled her; she held out her hand as the captain came in, and felt it pressed ~vith a feverish, eager grasp, and a murmured blessing. Honora did not see Mr. Sandbrook again, l)ut Captain Charteris made an incursion on her the next day to ask if she could receive the children on the ensuing morning, lie had arranged to set off before daybreak, em- barking for Ostend before the children were ul), so as to spare the actual parting, and Honora undertook to fetch them home in the course of the day. He had hoped to avoid their knowing of the impending separation, but he could only prevail so far as to extract a l)romise th4 they should not know when it was to take place. Their father had told them of their destination and his o~vn as they sat- on his bed in the morning before he rose, and aJ)parently it had gone off better than could have been expected; little Owen did not seem to understand, and his sister was a child who never aImed tears. The clay came and Honora awoke to some awe at the responsibility, but with a yearning supplied, a vacancy filled up. For at~ least six months she should be as a mother, and a parents prayers could hardly have been more earnest. She had not long been dressed, when a hasty peal was heard at the hell, and no sooner was the door opened than in hurried Captain Charteris, breathless, and bearing a large plaid bundle, with tangled flaxen locks droop- ing at one end, and at the other rigid white legs, socks trodden down, one shoe wanting. He deposited it, and there stood the eldest child, her chin buried in her neck, her fingers digging fast into their own l)aln~, her eyes gleaming fiercely at him under the pent- house she had made of her brows. Theres an introduction, he said, panting for breath. Found her in timethe Strand laid flat on back seat, under all the plaids and bagsher father put up his feet and found herwe drove to the laneI ran down with her not a momentcant stay, good-by, little Cilly goose to think she could go that figure! He advanced to kiss her, hut she lifted up her shoulder between him and her face, much as a pugnacious pigeon flaps its wing, and he retreated. - Wiser not, may he! Look here, as Honora hurried after him into the hall to ask after the patient; If you have a hit of sticking plaster at hand, he had better not see this. Lucilla had made her little pearls of teeth meet in the fleshy part of his palm. - Honora recoiled, shocked, producing the plaster from her pocket in an instant. Little vixen, he sai(l, half laughing hut I was thankful to her for neither kick- ing nor struggling! Poor child ! said Honora; pe~haps it was as much agony as passion! lie shrugged his shoulders as he held out his hand for her ol)erations, then hastily thank- ing her and wishing her good-by, rushed off again, as the astonished Miss Wells appeared on the stairs. Honor shrank from telling her what wounds had been received, she thought the gentle lady would never get over such a proceeding, and, in fact, she herself felt some what as if she had undertaken the charge of a little wild cat, and quite uncertain what the young lady might do next. On entering the breakfast-room, they found her sunk down all in a heap, where her uncle had set her down, 155 HOPES AND FEARS. her elbows on a low footstool, arid her head leaning on them, the eyes still gazing askance from under the brows, but all the energy and life gone from the little dejected figure. Poor child I)ear little thingwont you come to me? She stirred not. Miss Wells advanced, but the childs only motion was to shake her frock at her, as if to keep her off; Honora, really afraid of the consequences of touching her, whispered that they would leave her to herself a little. The silver kettle came in and tea ~vas made. Lucilla, my dear, the servants are coming ia to ~ She did nut offer to move, and still Honora let her alone, and she remained in the same attitude while the l)salm was read, but after- wards there was a little approximation to kneeling in her position. Lucilla, dear child, you had better come to breakfast Only another defying glance. Miss Wells, with what Honor thought de- fective judgment, made pointed commenda- tions of the tea, the butter, and honey, but they had no effect.; Honora, though her heart ached for the wrench the poor child had un- dergone, thought it best to affect indifference, gave a hint of the kind, and scrupulously avoided looking round at her, till breakfast was finished. When she did she no longer met the wary, defiant gleam of the blue eyes, they were fast shut, the head had sunk on the arms, and the long breathings of sleep heaved the little frame. Poor little dear! as Miss Wells might well exclaim, she had kept her- self wakeful the whole night that papa might not go without her knowledge. And how pretty she looked in that little black frock, so ill and hastily put on, one round white shoulder quite out of it, and the long flaxen locks showing their silky fineness as they hung dispersed and tangled, the pinky flush of sleep upon the little face pillowed on the rosy pair of arms, and with a white unstockinged leg doubled under her. Poor child! there was more of the. angel than the tiger-cat in her aspect now, an(l they had tears in their eves, and moved softly lest they should startle her from her rest. But wakened she must he. Honor~ was afraid of (lispleasing her domestic vixier, and rendering him forever unpropitious to her little guests if she deferred his removal of the breakfast things beyond a reasonable hour. How was the awakening to be managed? Fright, tears, passion, what chan~e would come when the poor little maid mnst awake to her grief? llonora would never have ex- pected so l)oetical a flight from her good old governess as the suggestion, Play to her; but she took it eagerly, and going to the dis used l)ia1~o, which stood in the room, began a low, soft air. The little sleeper stirred, pres- ently raised her head, shook her hair off her ears, and after a moment, to their surprise, her first word was Mamma! Ilonora was pausing, but the child said, Go on, and sat for a few moments, as though recovering her- self, then rose and came forward slowly, stand- ing at last close to Honora. There was a pause, and she said, Mamma did that. Never was a sound more welcome! Honora dared now to do what she had longed for so much, put an arm round the little creature, and draw her nearer, nor did Lucilla resist, she only said, Wont you go on I can make l)rettier music in the other room, my dear; we will go there, only youve had no breakfast. You must be very hungry. Lucilla turned round, saw a nice little roll cut into slices, and remembered that she wa~ hungry; and presently she was consuming it so piosperously under Miss Wells superin- ten(lence, that Honor ventured out to en- deavor to retard Jones desire to take away, by giving him orders about the carriage, and then to attend to her other household affairs. By the time they were ended she found that Miss Wells had brought the child into the drawing-room, where she had at once de- tected the piano, and looking up at Ilonora said, eagerly, Now then ! And Honora fulfilled her l)romise, while the child stood by softened and gratified, until Tionora found it time to propose fetching little Owen, your little brotheryou will like to have him here. I want my father, said Lucilla, in a de- termined voice, as if nothing else were to sat- isfy her. Poor child, I know you do; I am so sorry for you, my dear little woman; but you see the doctors think papa is more likely to get better if he has not you to take care of! I did not want my father to take care of me, said the little lady, proudly; I take care of father, I always make his tea, arid warm his slippers, and bring him his coffee ir~ the morning. And Uncle Kit never will put 156 HOPES AND FEARS. 157 his gloves for him and warm his handker- possible to Honora to stifle a lurking fear chief! Oh what will he do? I cant bear that the hopes built on the prospect of his re it. turn had but a hollow foundation. The violent grief so long kept back was However, it attracted Lucilla to Miss Wells, coming now, hut not freely, the little girl so that Honora did not fear leaving her on threw herself on the floor and in a tumult going to bring home little Owen. The car- of despair and passion ~vent on hurrying out riage which had taken the travellers had her words, Its very hard! Its all Uncle brought back news of his sisters discovery Kits doing! I hate him! Ye,s, I do. And and capture, and Ilonora found Mrs. Sand- she rolled over and over in her frenzy of feel- brook much shocked at the enormity of the ing. proceeding, and inclined to pity lIonora for My dear! my dear, cried Ifonora, kneel- having charge of the most outraheons chil- ing by her, this will never do! Papa would dren she had ever seen. A very long letter he very much grieved to see his little girl so had been left for her by their father, rehears- naught~. Dont you know how your uncle ing all he had before given of directions, and only wants to do him good, and to make him dwelling still more on some others, hut then get well ? apparently repenting of laying (low!) the law, Then why didnt he take me ?said Lucilla he ended by entreating her to use her own gathering herself up, and speaking sullenly, judgment, believe in his perfect confidence, Perhaps he thought you gave papa trou- and gratitude beyond expression for most un- ble and tired him. merited kindness. Yes, thats it, and its not fair, cried the Little Owen, she heard, had made the house poor child again. Why couldnt he tell me? resound ~vith cries when his father was no- I didnt know papa was ill! he never told me where to be found, but his nuise had quieted so; or, how I would have nursed him! I him, and he came running to Honora with an wanted to do so much for him ; I wouldnt open, confiding face. Are you the lady? have asked him to tell me stories, nor noth- And will you take me to Cilly and the sea? ing! No! And now they wont let me take And may I have a whale? care of him; and she cried bitterly. Though Honora did not venture on prom- Yes, said good, gentle Miss Wells, think- ising him a tame whale in the B4stol Channel, ing more of present comfort than of the too she had him clinging to her in a moment, possible future; but you will go back to eager to set off, to go to Cilly, and the dove take care of him some day, my dear. When he had seen at her house. Its a nasty the spring comes papa will come back to his house hereI want to come away, he said, little girl. running back~vards and forwards between her Spring! It ~vas a long way off to a mind and the window to look at the horses, while of six years 01(1, but it made Lucilla look nurses interminable boxes were being carried more amiably at Miss Wells. down. And sul)posC, proceeded that gcod lady, The troubles really seemed quite forgotten, you were to learn to be as good and helpful the boy sat on her knee and chattered all the a little girl as can be while he is gone, and ~vay to WToolstone Lane, and there he and then nobody will wish to keep you from him. Lucilla flew upon each other with very pretty Hov surprised he would be! childish joy; the sister doing the honors of And then shall we go home? said Lu- the house in right of having been a little cilla. longer an inmate. Nurse caught her, and Miss Wells uttered a somewhat rash assur- dressed and combed her, shoed her and sashed ance to that effect, and the child came near her, so that she came down to dinner less her, pacified and satisfied by the scheme of picturesque, but more respectable than at her deli~htful ~oodn and J)rogress be made first appearance that mornin and cx ~ ess to ~, cel)t for in order to l)lease her fatheras she after- the wonderful daintiness of both children, wards called him. Honor looked on, thank- dinner went off very well. ful for the management that was subduing All did go well till night, and then Owens and consoling the poor little maid, and vet woes l)egan. Oh! what a piteous, sobbing unable to l)articil)ate in it, for though the lamentation was it! Daddy, daddy ! not kind old lady spoke in all sincerity, it was im- to be consoled, not to be soothed, awakening 158 HOPES AND FEARS. his sister to the same sad cry, stilled only by to be overrun by fine ladies, spoiling the chil~ exhaustion and sleepiness. dren by admiring their beauty. So said Miss Poor little fellow! Night after night it Charlecote in her prudencehut was not she was the same. Morning found him a happy, just as jealous as nurse that l)eol)le should bright child, full of engaging ways and inno- turn round a second time to look at those cent savings, and quite satisfied with Cousin lovely little faces P Honor, hut hedtime always brought back That was a very happy charge to her and the same wailing. Nurse, a tidy, brisk per- her good old governess, with some draw sona~e, with a sensible, deferential tone to backs, indeed, but not such as to distress her her superiors, a caressing one to the children, overmuch. The chief were, at first, Owens tried in vain assurances of P~P~ soon coming nightly sorrows, his daily idleness over les- back, nay it might be feared that she held sons, Lucillas l)ride, and the exceeding dam- out that going to sleep would bring the to- tiness of both children, which made their morrow when lie was to come; hut even this meals a constant vexation and trouble. But delusive promise failed, the present ~vas all; what was this compared with the charm of and Cdusin Honor herself was only not daddy, their dependence on her, and of hearing that though she nursed him, and rocked him in newly invented l)et name, Sweet honey, her aims, and fondled him, and told stories or invoked in every little concern that touched sung his lullaby with nightly tenderness, till them P the last sobs had quivered into the smooth It was little Owens name for her. Tie was heavings of sleep. her special favoritethere was no concealing Might. only sea air and exercise act as a it. Lucilla did not need her as much, and soporific! That was a better chance than the was of a vigorous, independent nature, that new promise which Honora was vexed to find would stand alone to the utmost. Owen nurse holding out to poor little Owen, that if gave his affection spontaneously; if Lucillas he would he a good boy, lie was going to papa. ~vas ~von, it must be at unawares. She was She was puzzled how to act towards a person living in and for her absent father now, and not exactly under her authority, but she took had nothing to spare for any one else, or courage to s1e~ik about these false promises, she had, Miss Wells, who had the less claim and found her remonstrance received in good on her, was preferred to Cousin honor. part; indeed nurse used to talk at much length Father was almost her religion; though of the children in a manner that implied well taught, and unusually forward in rehig- great affection for them, couh)hed with a sense ious knowledge, as far as Honora dared to that it would lie an excellent thing for them augur, no motive save her love for him had to be in such judicious hands. Honora al- a substantive existence, as touching her feel- ways ca e away from nurse in good-humor ings or ruling her actions. For him she said with herself. hier prayers and learnt her hymns ; for him The locality she had chosen was a sheltered she consented to learn to hiem handkerchiefs; village on the north coast of Somerset, just for him were those crooked letters forever where Exmoor began to give grandeur to the being ~~ritten ; nay, at the thought of his dis outline in the rear, and in front the XVehsh pleasure, her tears alone could he made to hills wore different tints of PurI)he or gray, flow when she was naughty; and for him she according to the promise of weather, Lundy endeavored to be less fanciful at dinner, as Isle and the two lesser ones serving as the soon as her mind had grasped the perception most l)roininent objects, as they rose from that not eating what was set before her might Well, well V Honor counted herself as a really hinder him from always having her Somersetshire ~voman, and could not brook with him. She was fairly manageable, with hearing much about the hue of the Bristol very high spirits, and not at all a silly or Channel. At any rate, just here, it had been helpless child; but though she obeyed Miss so kiod as to wash up a small strip of pure Charlecote, it was onhy as obeying her father white sand, fit for any amount of digging, for through her, and his constant hetters kept up her chilthren; and though Sandbeach was water- the strong influence. In her most gracious ing-phace enough to have the lodging-houses, moods, she was always telling her little butchers, and bakers, so indispensable to the brother histories of what they should do London mind, it was not so much in vogue as when they got home to father and Mr. HOPES AND FEARS. Prendergast; but to Owen, absence made a much greater difference. Though he still cried at ni~ht, his Sweet Honey was what he wanted, and with her caressing him, he only dreaded her leaving him. lie lavished his pretty endearments upon her, and missed no one when he held her hand or sat in her Lap, stroking her curls, and exchanging a good deal of fondling. He liked his hymns, and enjoyed Scripture stories, making re- marks that made her reverence him; and though backward, idle, and sometimes very passionate, his was exactly the legitimate ebaracter for a child, such as she could deal with and lore. She was as complete a slave to the two little ones as their father could have been; all her hahits were made to con- form to their welfare and l)leasure, and very happy she was ; but the discipline was more decided than they had been used to ; there were habits to he formed, and others to be broken, and she was not weak enough not to act up to her duty in this respect, even though her heart was winding round that sunny-faced boy as fast as it had ever clung to his father. rri~e new Owen Sandbrook, with his innocent earnestness, and the spirit- ual light in his eyes, should fulfil all her dreams! Christmas had past; Mr. Sandbrook had begun to write to his children about seeing them soon ; Lucillas slow hemming was stim- ulated by the hope of soon making her pres- ent ; and Honora was marvelling at her own selfishness in dreading the moment when the little ones would be no longer hers; when a hurried note of l)rel)aration came from Cap- tain Charteris. A slight imprudence had re- newed all the mischief, and his l)atient ~vas lying sJ)eechless under a violent attack of in- flammation. Another letter, and all was over. A shock indeed ! hut in Honoras eyes, Owen Sandbrook had become chiefly the childrens father, and their future was what concerned her most. How should she bear to part ~vith her darlings forever, and to know them brought up in the ~vay that was not good, and which their father dreaded, and when their orphanhood made her doubly ten- der over them? To little Owen it was chiefly that papa was gone up there whither all his hymns and allegories pointed, and at his age all that he did not actually see was much on a par; the hope of meeting had been too distant for the 159 extinction of it to affect him very nearly, and he only understood enough to piompt the prettiest and most touching sayings, wonder- ing about the doings of papa, mamma, and little baby among the angels, with as much reality as he had formerly talked of papa among the French. Lucilla heard with more comlirehension, but her gay temper seemed to revolt against having sorrow forced on her. She would not listen and ~vould not think ; her spirits seemed hi0her than ever; and Honora almost con- cluded that either she did not feel at all, or that the moment of sel)aration had exhausted all. Her character made Honora especially regret her destiny; it was one only too con- genial to the weeds that were more likely to be implanted than plucked up at Castle Blanch. Captain Charteris had written to say that he, and piobably his brother, should come to Saudheach to relieve Miss Charlecote from the care of the ehildren, and she h)rized each day while she still had those dear little voices about the house. Sweet Honey, said L ucilla, who had been standing by the window, apparen thy watching the rain, do Uncle Charteris and Uncle Kit want us to go away from you? I am very much afraid they do, my dear. Nurse said, if you would ask them, we mighvstay, said Lucilla, tracing the course of a drop ~vith her finger. If asking would dIn any good, my dear, sighed Honor ; but I dont thuink nurse knows. You see, you belong to your uncles now. I wont l)elong to Uncle Charteris ! cried Lucilla, passionately. I wont go to Castle Blanch! They were all cross to me; Ratia teased me, and father said it was all their fauh I was naughty, antI lie would never take me there again! I)ont let Uncle Kit go and take me there ! and she clung to her friend, as if the recollection of Uncle Kits victory hy main force hung about her still. I wont, I wont, my childi, if,~ I can help it; but it will all be as your (hear father may have fixed it, and whatever lie wishes I know that his little girl will do. Many a dim hiOhie did ifonora revolve, and more than ever did she feel as if a piece of her heart would he taken a~vay for the or- phans fastened themselves Ul)O~ lieu, and little Owen stroked her face, and said naughty Uncle Kit should not take them away. She found from the children and nurse about that 160 a year ago, just after the loss of the baby there had been a most unsuccessful visit at Castle Blanch ; father and little ones had been equally miserable there in the separation of the large est al)lishment, and Lucilla had been domineeringly petted by her youngest cousin, Horatia, who chose to regard her as a baby, and coerced her by bodily force, such as was intolerable to so highspirited a child, who was a little woman at home. She had resisted and fallen into dire disgrace, and it was almost with horror that she regarded the place and the cousinhood. Nurse ap- peared to have some piivate disgust of her own, as well as to have much resented her children being convicted of naughtiness, and she spoke strongly in confidence to Honora of the un~odly ways of the whole household, declaring tltat after the advantages she had enjoyed with bet (lear master, she could not bear to live there, though she mightyes, she must be with the dear children just at first, and she ventured to CXl)~C55 strong wishes for their remaining in their present home, where they had been so much iml)roved. The cal)tain came alone. He avalked in from the inn just before luncheon, with a wearied sad look about him, as if he had suf- fered a good deal; he spoke quietly and slo~vly, and when the children came in, he took them up in his arms and kissed them very tenderl. Lucilla submitted more cably than Honor expected, but the moment they ~vere set down they sprang to their friend, and held by her Lap. Then came the meal, which passed off with small efforts at making talk, but with nothing memorable except the captains exclamation at the end Well, thats the first time I ever dined with you children without a fuss altout the meat. WIty, Cilly, I hardly know you! I tltink tlte apl)etites are better for the sea air, said Honor, not that she did not think it a great achievement. Im afr~d it has been a troublesome charge, said the calttain, laying his hand on his nieces shoulder, which she at once re- moved as disavowing his right in her. it has made me so happy, said Honor, hardly trusting her voice I dont know ho~v to yield it up. Those understanding eyes of Lucilla were drinking in e~cli word, but Uncle Kit ruth- lessly said There, its your walking time, children; you go out now. HOPES AND FEARS. Honora followed up his words with her or- ders, and Lucilla obeyed, only casting an- other wistftil look, as if she knew Iter fate hung in the scales. It avas showing tact such as could hardly have been expected from the little iml)etuous ter tagent, and was the best pleading for her cause, for Iter uncles first observation was A wonder! Six months back, there avould have been an exl)losion I am glad you think them improved. Civilized beings, not plagues. You have been very good to them; and as she in- timated her own l)leasure in them, lie con- tinued It will l~e better for them at Castle Blanch to have been a little broken in ; the change from his indulgence would have been terrible. If it were possible to leave them with me, I should be so happy, at length gasped Ho nora, meeting an iltqniring dart from the cap- tains eyes, as lie only made an interrogative sound, as though to give himself time to think. and she proceeded in broken sentences If their uncle and aunt did not so very much wish for themperhapsI could Well, said Captain Charteris, apparently so little aided by his thoughts as to see no hope of overcoming his perplex y wit bout e~ pressing it, the truth is that, thotigh I had not meant to say any thing of it, for I think relations should come first, I believe l)OO~ Sandbrook would have l)referred it. And while bet color deepened, and she locked her trembling fingers together to keep them still, lie avent on. Yes! you cant thirtk how often I called myself a dozen fools for having parted him from his children! Never held up his head again! I could get him to take interest in nothingevery child lie saw lie was only comparing to one or other of them. After the year turned, and lie talked of coming home, he was more cheerful; but strangey enough, for those last days at Hy& es, though he seemed better, his spirits sank unaccount- ably, and he would talk more of the poor lit- tIe thing that lie lost than of these! Then he had a letter from you which set him sigh- ing, and wishing they could always have such care! Altogether, I thought to divert him by taking him on that expedition, butWell, Ive been provoked with him many a time, but there was more of the reel thing in him than in the rest of us, and I feel as if the best part of our family were gone. HOPES AND FEARS. And this was all? He was too ill to say much afterwards? Couldnt speak when he rang in the morning! Was gone by that time next day. Now, added tbe captain, after a silence, I tell you candidly that my feeling is that the ordinary course is right. I think Charles ought to take the children, and the children ought to be with Charles. If you think so began Honor, with failing hopes. At the same time, continued he, I dont think theyll be so happy or so well cared for as by you, and knowing poor Owens ~vishes, I should not feel justified in taking them away, since you are so good as to offer to keep them. Honor eagerly declared herself much obliged, then thought it sounded ironical. Unless, he proceeded, Charles should strongly feel it his duty to take them home, ii which case Oh! of course, I could say nothing. Very well ; then well leave it to his de- cision. So it remained, and in trembling Honora awaited the answer. It was in her favor that he was appointed to a ship, since he was thus excluded from exercising any supervision over them at Castle Blanch, and shortly after, let- ters arrived gratefully acceding to her request. Family arrangements an(l an intended jour- ney made her proposal doubly welcome, for the present at least, and Mrs. Charteris was full of polite thanks. Poor little waifs and strays! No one else wanted them, but with her at least they had a haven of refuge, and she loved them the more ardently for their forlorn condition. Her own as they had never before been! and if the tenure were uncertain, she prized it doubly, even though, by a strange fatality, she had never had so much trouble and vexation with them as arose at once on their being made over to her! When all was settled, doubt over, and the routine life begun, Lucilla evidently felt the l)hlnk of her van- ished hopes, and became fretful and captious, weary of things in general, and without suffi- cient motive to control her natural taste for the variety of naughtiness! Honor had not undertaken the easiest of tasks, but she neither shrank from her enterprise nor ceased to love the fiery little flighty sprite, the l)leas- ing torment of her lifeshe loved her only LIVING AGE. THIRD SERIES. 410 less than that model of childish sweetness, her little Owen. Lucy, dear child, dont take your brother there. Owen, dear, come back, dont you see the mud ? youll sink in. Im only getting a dear little crab, Sweet honey, and the four little feet went deeper and deeper into the black mud. I cant have it done! come back, children; I desire, directly. The boy would have turned, but his sister had hold of his hand. Owen, there he is! Ill have him, and as the crab scuttled side- long after the retreating tide, on plunged the children. Lucy, come here! cried the unfortunate old hen, as her ducklings took to the black amphibious mass, but not a whit did Lucilla heed. In the ardor of the chase, on she ~vent, unheeding, leaving her brother sticking half- way, where having once stol)l)e(l, he began to find it difficult to withdraw his feet, and fairly screamed to Sweet Honey for help. his progress was not beyond what a few long vigorous steps of hers could come UI) ~vith, but deeply and blackly did she sink, and when she had lifted her truant out of his two holes, the increased weight made her go ankle deep at the first tread, and just at the same mo- ment a loud shriek l)Ioclaimed that Lucilla in her final assault on the crab, had fallen flat on a yielding surface, where each effort to rise sank her deeper, and Honora almost ~vas ex- pecting in her distress to see her disappear altogether, ere the treacherous mud would allow her to come to the rescue. But in that instant of utmost need, ere she could set down the little boy, a gentleman, with long-legged strides, had crossed the intervening space, and was bearing back the young lady from her mud bath. She raised her eyes to thank him. Humfrev! she exclaimed. Honor! so it ~vas you, was it? Id no notion of it! as he l)laced on her feet the little maiden, encrusted with mud from head to foot, while the rest of the l)art3 all were ap- parently cased in dark buskins of the same. Come to see me and my children ? she said. I am ashamed you should find us under such circumstances! though I dont know ~vhat would have become of us other- wise. No, Lucy, you are too disobedient for any one to take notice of you yetyou must go straight home, and be cleaned, and not. 161 HOPES AND FEARS. speak to Mr. Charlecote till you are quite good. Little Owen, here he ishe was quite led into it. But how good of you to come, Humfrey; where are you? ~t the hotelI had a mind to come and see how you were getting on, and Id had rather more than usual to do of late, so I thought I would take a holiday. They walked on talking forsome seconds, when presently, as the squires hand hun~ down, a little soft one stole into it, and made him exclaim with a start, I thought it was Pontos nose! But though very fond of children, he took up his hand, and did not make the slightest response to the sly overture of the small co- quette, the effect as Honor well knew of op- position quite as much as of her strong turn for gentlemen. She pouted a little, and then marched on ~vith dont care determination, while Humfrey and Honora began to talk over Hiltonbury affairs, hut were soon inter- rupted hy Owen, who, accustomed to all her attention, did not understand her being occu- pied by any one else. Honey, Honeypots, and a l)ull at her hand when she did not im- mediately attend. Why dont the little crabs get black legs like mine P Because they only go where they ought, was the extremely moral reply of the squire. Little boys arent meant to walk in black mud. The shrimp boys do go in the mud, shrewdly pleaded Owen, setting Honor off laughing at Humfreys discomfited look of diversion. It wont do to generalize, she said, mer- rily. Owen must be content to regard crabs and shrimp boys as ~)rivileged individuals. Onen demanded whether when he ~vas big he might be a shrimp boy, and a good deal of fraternization had taken l)lace between him and Mr. Charlecote, before the cottage was reached. It was a very happy day to Honora; there was a repose and trust to be felt in Humfreys company, such as she had not experienced since she had lost her parents, and the home sense, of kindred was very precious. Only women whose chief l)~OP is gone, can tell the value of one ~vho is still near enough to dis- approic without ceremony. The anxiety that Honor felt to prove to her cousin that it was not a bit of romantic folly to have assumed her present charge, was worth more than all the freedom of action in the world. How much she wanted the chil- dren to sho~v off to advantage! ho~v desirous she was that he should not think her injudi- cious! yes, and how eager to see him pleased ~vith their J)retty looks! Lucilla came down cleaned, curled, and pardoned, and certainly a heart must have been much less tender than I-Iumfrey Charle- cotes not to be touched by the aspect of those two little, fair, waxenlooking beings in the. deepest mourning of 0r1)h)anhiood. He was not slow in making advances towards them, but the maiden had been affionted, and chose to be slyly shy and retiring, retreating to the other side of Miss Wells, and there be- coming intent upon her story book, though many a gleam through her eyelashes betrayed furtive glances at the stranger, whom Owen was monopolizing. And then she let herself be dra~vn out, with the drollest mixture of arch demureness and gracious caprice. Honora had never before seen her with a gentleman, and to be courted was evidently as congenial an element to her as to a reigning beauty. She was perfectly irresistible to manhood, and there ~vas no doubt left ere the evening was over, that Humfrey thought her one of the l)rettiest little girls he had ever seen. He remained a week at Sandbeach, lodging at the inn, but spending most of his time with Honor. He owned that lie had been unwell, and there certainly was a degree of lassitude about him, though Honor suspected thatThis real motive in coming was brotherly kindness and desire to see whether she were suffering much from the death of Owen Sandbrook. Having come, he seemed not to know how to go away. He was too fond of children to be- come weary of their petty exactions, and they both had a sort of passion for him ; he built castles for them on the beach, presided over their rides, took them out boating, and made them fabulously happy. Lucilla had iiot been so good for weeks, and the least symptom of an outbreak was at once hut down by his good-natured No, no! The evenings at the cottage with Honora and Miss Wells, music and bright talk, were evidently very refreshing to him, and lie put off his depar- ture from day to day, till an inexorable mat- ter of county business forced him off. Not till the day ~vas imminent, did the cousins quit the easy surface of holiday leisure talk. They had been together to the late 162 HOPES AND FEARS. evening service, and were walking home, when Honora began abruptly, Humfrey, I wish you would not object to the children giving me pet names. I did not know that I had shown any ob- jection. As if you did not impressively say Miss Charlecote on every occasion, when you men- tion me to them. Well, and is not it more resl)ectful ? Thats not what I want. Where the nat- ural tie is wanting, one should do every thing to make up for it. And you hope to do so, by letting your- self be called Honeypots! More likely than by sitting up distant and awful to be Miss Charlecoted! Whatever you might he called must be- come an endearment, said Humfrey, uttering unawares one of the highest coml)liments she had ever received, and I own I do not like to hear those little chits make so free with yQur name. For my sake, or theirs? For both. There is an old saying about familiarity, and I think you should recollect that, for the childrens own good, it is quite as needful to strengthen respect as affection. And you think I can do that by fortifvi ng myself with Miss Charlecote? Perhaps I had better make it Mrs. Honora Charlecote at once, and get a high cal), a rod, and a pair of spectacles, eh? No, if they wont respect me out of a buckram suit, depend upon it they would find out it was a hollow one. Humfrey smiled. From her youth up, Honor could generally come off in apparent triumph from an argument with him, but the victory was not always where the triumph was. Well, Humfrey, she said, after some pause, do you think I am fit to be trusted with my two poor children P There was a huskiness in his tone as he said, I am sincerely glad you have the pleas- ure and comfort of them. I suspect theres a reservation there. But really, Humfrey, I dont think I ivent out searching for the responsibility in the ~vay that makes it dangerous. One uncledid not want them, and the other could not have them, and it would have been mere barbarity in me not to offer. Besides, their father wished and her voice faltered with tears. No, indeed, said Humfrey, eagerly; I 163 did not in the least mean that it is not the kindest, most generous requital, and there he broke off, embarrassed by the sincere word that he had uttered, but before she had spoken an eager negativeto ~vhat she knew nothe went on. And, of course, I dont mean that you are not one to manage them very well, and all thatonly I hope there may not. he pain in storeI should not like those J)eople to use you for their nursery gov- erness, and then take the children away just as you had set your heart upon them. Dont do that, Honor, he added, with an almost sad earnestness. Do what? Set my heart on them P Do you think I can help loving the creatures? she said, with mournful playfulness ; or that my uncertain tenure does not make them the greater darlings? There are ways of loving without setting ones heart, was the some~vhat grave rej)ly. lIe seemed to be taking these words as equivalent to transgress ing the command that requires all our heart, and she began quickly, Oh! but I didnt mean then a sudden thrill crossed her whether there might not be some truth in the accusation. Wheme had erst the image of Owen Sandhrook stood? First or second? Where was now the image of the boy? She turned her words into Do you think I am doing soin a wrong way ? Honor, dear, I could not think of wrong ~vhere you are concerned, he said; I was only afraid of your kindness bringing you pain, if you rest your happiness very much upon those children. I see, said Honor, smiling, relieved. Thank you, Humfrey; but you see I cant weigh out my affection in that fashion. They will get it, the rogues! Im not afraid, as far as the girl is con- cerned, said Humfrey. You are strict enough with her. But how am I to he strict when poor lit- tle Owen never does any thing wrong? Yes; he is a particularly sweet child. And not at all wanting in manliness, cried Honor, eagerly. So full of spirit, and yet so gentle. Oh! he is a child whom it is a ])rivilege to train, and I dont think I have spoilt him yet; do you ? No; I dont think you have. He is very obedient in general. Oh! if he could be only brought up as I HOPES AND FEARS. wish. And I do think his innocence is too perfect a thing not to be guarded. What a perfect clergyman he would make! Just fancy him devoting himself to some l)arisIl like poor, dear old St. Wuistanscarrying his bright sweetness into the midst of all that black Babel, and sJ)eading light round hi;,i ~e always says he will l)e a clergyman like his papa, and I am sure he must be marked out for it. He likes to look at the sheep on the moors, and talk about the shepherd leading them, and I am sure the meaning goes very deep with him. She was not going quite the way to show Ilumfrey that her heart was not set on the boy, and she was checked hy hearing him sigh. Perhaps it was for the disappointment he foresaw, so she said, Whether I bring him up or not, dont you believe there will be a special care over such a child P There is special care over every Christian child, I suppose, he said; and I hope it may all turn out so as to make you happy. Here is your door; good-night and good-by. Why, are not you coming in? I think not, I have my things to put up, I must go early to-morrow. Thank you for a very happy week. Good-by, honor. There was a shade of disappointment about his tone that she could not quite account for. Dear old Humfrey! Could he be ageing? Could he be unwell? Did he feel himself lonely? Could she have mortified him, or displeased him? Honor was not a woman of personal vanity, or a solution would sooner have oc- curred to her. She knew, upon reflection, that it must have been for her sake that Hum- frey had continued single, but it ~vas so incon- venient to think of him in the light of an ad- mirer, when she so much needed him as a brother, that it hardly ever occurred to her to do so ; hut now it did strike her whether having patiently waited so long, this might not have been a visit of experiment, and whether he might not be disappointed to find her wrapped ~p in new interestsslightly jealous, in fact, of little Owen. How good he had been! Where was the heart that could fail of being touched by so long a course of forbearance and consideration? Besides, Honor had been a solitary woman long enough to know what it was to stand alone. And then how ~vell he would stand in a fathers l)lace to~vards the orphans. He would never decree her parting with them, and Captain Charteris himself must trust him. Yet what a shame it would be to give such a devoted heart noth- ing better than one worn out, with the power of love such as he deserved exhausted for- ever. And yetand yetsomething very odd bounded up within her, and told her be- tween shame and exultation, that faithful old Ilumfrey would not be discontented even with what she had to give. Another time- a lit- tle, a very little encouragement, and the pine wood scene would come back again, and then her heart fainted a littlethere should be no concealmentbut if she could only have l)een six months married all at once! Time ~vent on, and Honora more than once blushed at finding how strong a hold this pos- sibility had taken of her heart, when once she l)ad begun to think of resting upon one so kind, so good, so strong. Every peiplexity, every care, every transaction that made her feel her position as a single woman, brought round the yearning to lay them all down upon him., who would only be grateful to her for them. Every time she wanted some one to consul~ hope showed her his face beaming sweetly on her, and home seemed tobe again opening to her, that home which might have been hers at any time these twelve years. She quite longed to see how glad the dear, kind fellow would be. Perhaps maidenty shame would have belied her feelings in his actual presence, l)erl)aps she would not have shrunk from him, and been more cold than in her unconsciousness, but he came not; and his absence fanned the spark so tardily kindled. What if she had delayed till too late? lie was a man whose duty it was to marry! he had waited till he was some years past fortyperhaps this had been his last attempt, and he was carrying his addresses elsewhere. Well! Honora believed she had tried to act rightly, and that must be her comfort and extremely ashamed of herseif she was, to find herself applying such a word to her own sensations in such a caseand very much disliking the notion of any possible lady at Hiltonbury Holt. 104 SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. From All The Year Round. SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. FORMERLY, books, records, human authori- ties (as they were called), transmitted occa- sional truths, but more frequently error after error, to successive generations. Strange as- ser~ons appeared to l)e truths, because the venerable but credulous Pliny, or such as Pliny, had delivered them, ex cathedr~, to mankind. Now, we choose to see and judge for ourselves. Even history, which emlihati cally might be termed a science of record, is obeying the universal rule. If we do not su- persede, we, at least, strive to authenticate history by the evidence of our eyes. And how do we effect this? Precisely by the same method that the geologist makes use of, when he is so wiseor, as poor Cowper thought, so sinfulas to i Drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register. To the earth, man instinctively turns for the archives of the pastto the earththe great keeper of the deadthe preserver of extinct forms and vanished dynasties. We rifle tombs ; we drive pits into buried cities; we ~)lunge into railway cuttings; and so lay bare, and extract, the life of other days, as it is made manifest in its domestic iml)lements, its handiworks, and ornaments, its modes of sepulture, and scrolls of el)itaph. For many a year we have been burrowing thus so that, since the day when, in 1711, ilerculaneum gave up to view her first secrets, subterranean research has become an art that is already ad- vancing to a respectable maturity. But the immense stride forward that it has made in our day, is owing to the multitude of objects and observations that have been so discovered and accumulated as to admit of chronology being founded, not on conjectural eras, but on the objects themselves, which, wheresoever found, illustrate and determine those eras. The old natural geology loosely judged of periods by the mere substances in which car- tam fossils were found. It babbled of the green-sand fossils, the fossils of the coal, the fossils of the chalk, etc. But this method of classification was found to be misleading and imperfect. It is well known ~ as Sir IL I. Murchison in his Siluria observes, that a mass of sediment which in one tract is calca- reous, often becomes sandy and argillaceous in another; and thus, in such cases, very close 165 examination of the fossils can alone decide the exact line of demarcation. To this I add, from my own observation, that, in Switz- erland, where there is no chalk, the lieculiar fossils belonging to the cretaceous period are found in clay. Safely and rightly, then, each period of ascending organization is decided by the fossil ~vhich is unalterable, and not by the local matter around it, which is suscepti- ble of very great and surJ)rising transform~ lion. So it is with human geology. Recent ~vorks on ancient pottery take the line of judging of the age of a vase by form and manner of embellishment, not by the locality in which the vase is found. The Etrurian tomb, in which certain urns are discovered, does not prove that the urns are Etrurian the forms of them, and the pigments, and the figures on them, may determine that they are of Greek, or haply of Egyptian origin, and that they have come from afar. The same analytical argument that has been found satisfactory in resh)ect to earth-buried objects, is now being a~)plied to certain relics of antiquity discovered in water. The dis- covery has taken l)lace in some of the lakes of Switzerland; and, it is found that these relics are indubitably of a l)eriod far anterior to the Roman conquest. Traces of lake dwellings, even of lake villages, have been discovered ; that is, of cabins that have rested on piles, advancing, Dutch fashion, far into the water. The most remarkable of these discoveries was made in 1856, in the Lake of Moosseedorf, six miles from Berne. This lake, having been partially drained for agri- cultural l)ull)oses, gave to view the broken re- mains of stakes projecting a little above the mud that formed the bed of the lake. A fur- ther search revealed that many more stakes were hidden; being covered by a kind of under-~vater heat, in which have been found upwards of a thousand articles of a simple, and evidently very remote manufacture. Taking for granted that a nation in its in- fancy uses, for its immediate purposes, only the substances which it finds ready to its hand, we cannot but assign to articles com- posed merely of stone, wood, or clay, a high antiquity. Reversing old fables, we discover that the golden age was not the age of gold, but of wood and stone. Of course, these primitive sul)stances, worked by human hands, have the priority over articles wrought from metal. Ops gave Saturn a stone to devour, 166 SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. long before Vulcan (scripturally Tubal Cain) The odd thing, that strikes an observer first, became the instructor of every artificer in is the small, toylike character of every thing. brass and iron. Judging thus, we find that hatchet, indeed One of these Lake-people the articles from the Lake of Moosseedorf hear hatchets lies on the quarter-sheet of foolscap the stamp of l)rimitile antiquity. They con- on which I am writing, with room to spare. sist of fragments of rude l)ottery, made by It is a pretty hahy-hatchet, a piece of serpen- the hand, evidently without a turning-wheel, tine, not two inches long (very well sharpened, domestic implements in stone and stags-horn, however), inserted with wonderful firmness without any trace of metal. The stonea into a detached portion of stags-horn. I kind of serpentine, extremely hardis fast- asked the professor, Could any one have ened into hatchets bearing the form of a ever cut down a tree with that small thing? wedge, and into instruments resembling chis- The professor replied that by marks found on els, hammers, and knives. Not one of the the old buried timber, it appeared l)rol)able hatchets has been piercedas in our dayso that the ancient Lakers charred and nearly as to admit of a handle being inserted into burnt through the trunks of the trees before it; on the contrary, the stone hatchet-head they felled them with their miniature stone- itself has been inserted into a handle, gen- hatchets. My attention was next turned to rally of stags-horn, in some few cases of a dandy.poniard, entirely of stags-horn. A wood. sharp-pointed and polished piece of horn, Passing some time at Lausanne, I was made about four inches long is inserted into an un- aware of these discoveries in, and near to, the polished piece of antler, somewhat longer. Lake of Moosseedorf; and obtained a note of The professor suggested that the handle of introduction to Professor rfroyon, head of the this poniard was worn almost smooth by use. Museum at Lausnane, who had transferred I said, Could the owner have killed so many from the natural Museum of the Peat-moss, a men as that implies? No! returned the quantity of the sub-lacustrine articles to a professor, with a smile; but the dagger may well-ordered museum of his own. have served many usesas a defence fiom The professor, a most intelligent gentleman, wild beasts, to kill animals in the chase, and with a benevolent countenance, began his lee- l)erhal)s, now and then, to despatch an en- ture (for such, unaffected as it was, his dis- emy. Next, I admired a variety of small course might be called) by Opening a cupboard instruments that would have gone into a ladys and displaying a variety of human skulls. ~tuineedies of bone, not perforated, and These were all the skulls of Helvetians, or even a bodkin, properly perforated, a speci- of Celts prior to Helvetians, or of some un- men almost unique: small chisels of beauti- named people older than the Celts. These, fully polished serl)entine, some of which like many other articles in this l)rivate Mu looked quite gemlike in their green half seum, had been chiefly discoves-ed or dug up transparent lustre. These were sul)I)osed to from ancient tumuli by the professor himself. be for cutting leather for mocassins or other He made me obseive how small were the garments. Then I noticed teeth of the red earliest skullsunintellectual, but not cruel deer fastened into handles of rough horn. like some of later savage nations in which the These, it is supposed, ~vere used for polishing great l)loPortioll of brain lay behind the ear; do~vn the protuberant seams of barbarian and so led mc on to the higher (levelopments dresses. of the skulls of the civilized, that occul)ied Very curious, indeed, ~vere certain minute the upper shelves Qf the closet. We next saws, not more than three inches long, like proceeded to survey the contents of the fist reductions of Queen Elizabeths pocket-comb, glass case, which were supposed to be coeval with the teeth broken off. These Mint saws, with the small-skulled generation. These were and one or two scooplike aiticles that looked the horn and stone industrial implements, that as if meant to scrape off the hair fi-om deer- had recently been discovered in the Moossee- hides, also of flint, give rise, as Professor dorf and other lakesin Switzerland; yet, even Troyon observed, to curious speculations. here, I should say that the ingenuity displayed Flint of any kind is very rare in Switzerland, in the structure of these peculiar instruments and flint of the ])articulai kind from which betokened a people ~h-eady somewhat ad- the ancient Lakers had wrought their saws vanced out of the first state of barbarism, and knives, is not found in Switzerland. SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. The induction is, that the Lake-people were already sufficiently advanced in civilization, to have made the first step towards commerce by Import, or l)arter. The especial silex of the Lakers might have come from some neighbor- ing portion of Gaul ; but, in truth, it resem- bled more the kind of flint that is found on our own British coasts. To have fashioned a flint knife, such as was shown me, four inches long, the improving savages of the Lacustrine period must have had a very large flint-stone, such as Great Britain peculiarly produces. Waving a too precise settlement of this curi- ous question, we, at least, are sure that the flint found at Moosseedorf was not a native production of Switzerland. There were also small arrow-heads prettily and neatly wrought from a fine kind of silex. Under a glass and framed like a picture, I observed somcthing that looked like coarse dark netting, the reticulations of which were jointed hy rude knots. This, the professor told me, was a specimen of the supposed gar- ments of the ancient people; of which the material was flax, and the mode of putting together, knitting, or rather knotting: he art of weaving not yet being practised by the Lakers. Some of the mysterious-looking needles in horn might have served for the manufacture of this l)rimitive sort of shirting. For food the Lakers had, as the remains of various seeds and fruit-stones demonstrated, the wood-raspberry, the wild plum ( prunus sjmosa, which we unlearned schoolboys used to call bullas), small crab-apples, of which a dried and venerable specimen ~vas shown me, and whenten corn, sundry masses of ~vhich, apparently carbonized by fire, demonstrated that agriculture was an art not unknown. Fragments of bones of various animals, which werediscovered in quantities under the peat, and had either been used in the fashion- ing of instruments, or were the remains of antique rellasts, proved that this primitive people already possessed the greater l)art of the domestic animals of our day. The l)ro- fessor showed me bones enough, in this de- l)artn~elint, to have served as the basis of a Covierian lecture on osteology. The Lakers had certainly gathered round them the ox, the pig, the goat, the cat, and many different sized kinds of dogs; nor had the horse been wanting, though, as the professor conjectured, chiefly used, by a sublime anticipation of Pa- risian gastronomy, as an article of food. With these were mingled quantities of bones of the elk and stag, the urus, hear, wild-hoar, fox, beaver, tortoise, and various kinds of birds. Strange to say, the bones that one would most have expected a Lake-people to have left behind themfish-boneswere en- tirely absent; for which absence, however, their chemical decomposition by some un- known agent might by possibility account. Of what materials the habitations of the 1)rimitive Lakers were constructed, the l)r~ fesssor now gave me ocular demonstration. First, I was shown what kind of stakes or piles their lake-cabins were elevated upon; the stakes themselves I did not see, only casts of them; for, when these very ancient l)iles were first taken out of the peat they had looked fresh and solid as those human bodies which have occasionally been found in airless stone coffins, bodies which for a moment have mocked the view with a phantasma of fresh life, and, almost immediately after, fallen to dust. So with the stakes of the old Lakers. Once exposed to the air they crum- bled; and their external skin was found to be only feeble covering to rottenness. Professor Trovon, th en, cleverly devised a mode of per- petuating these fleeting forms, by injectior~ of l)laster, from which moulds an(l casts were obtained. These casts, short and fragmen- tary, looked very like the ends of not very large hop-poles. The marks of the stone chisels were still plainly discernible on the stakes, and they were sharpened to a l)oint. The cabins that had been raised on these piles had left more enduring fragments. Most in- terestin~ were tile morsels of old wall, which consisted of uuibaked clay, bearing the impres- sions of woody twigs, whereby it was evident that the primitive cabins had been formed of boughs of trees l)lastered over and between with clay. From the fragments being cal- culable segments of a circle, two facts were ascertained? namely, that the cabins had been circular, and the circumference of them about fourteen feet. Some of these fragmentary l)iles and dwellings that were found in the Lake of Constance were above a hundred yards from the shore; and that they always had been so, and had not been thrown further off from the mainland by any rising or agita- tion of the waters, was proved l~ l)ieces of earthen pots that lay at the bottom on the s~irless depths, so near together, just as they had broken and fallen ages before, that much 167 SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. pottery had been reconstructed from such fragments. I observe, in passing, that the fragments of pottery are of rough manufacture, and, in their dark burnt-looking substance contain morsels of shining quartz, or mica, unassimilated to the prevailing texture. I possess some fragments, that, by carrying out the segments of the circle, appear to have been of great size (singular exception to the general littleness of the relics) as big, in- deed, as iRoman wine-vases. Another thing to he observed, is, the way these pots were evidently supported. They had pointed ends, and near them are found circular open rings of pottery whose use was evidently to support the pointed ends of the vases, which were in- capable of standing by themselves. The ring of burnt clay was the mortise, the pegtop-like termination was the tenon of the vase. In connection with this the professor told me that Admiral Elliot, ~~ho had visited the mu- seum, recognized this primitive form of sup- port as still used by the ilindoos and other Indian peol)le. This brings me to the probable origin of these ancient l)redecessois of the Swiss. They were a wave of that great tide ~vhich set in towards Europe from the East, choos- ing chiefly the inland seas, and ascending rivers, as their roadways, or rather waterways, to new regions, where they should replenish the tenantless earth. Naturally such tribes, accustomed to water, chose water whereon to found their first settlements. Moreover, the long narrow causeways of wood, that led from the shore to their habitations, became a pro- tection to them from wild beasts, or wilder human enemies. Also the waters supplied them with ready food, and were as Natures own clearings amidst the shaggy mountains and impenetrable forests, the mere fringe of which they with difficulty cut away for house- hold purposes. Advanced into the free lake, the settlers could look around them and breathe the air of heaven. Herodotus has described similar lacustrine dwellings belong- ing to the P~oiiians, who had settled on Lake Prasias, in Turkey. When I asked the professor, Why the implements of this ancient race ~vere so b~abv- like and sma~i P he replied, Probably be- cause they themselves were small, and, like the Orientals, had very small hands and feet. IIo~vever, he continued, this is not conjec- ture, but fact. Look here at the next case in my museum, where you l)erceive ornaments of a more advanced period, though still be- longing to the Lake-people. Look at these bracelets of horn, so deep in circumference but so small in diameter; you would think that even a childs hand could not enter them; yet here are the human bones still in them. This was tine. rrhe professor, find- ing the bracelets on the skeleton of a full- grown l)erson, had fixed the bones of the wrist within the bracelets by ~~~iing cement round them. Look, also, resumed the l)ro- fessor, at that bronze sword, still later in date found at a time when the Age of Wood and Stone became the Age of Bronze; observe that the handle is only co-extensive with three of my fingers, though my hand, like myself, is not very big. I met, some time ago, a Peruvian lady, ~vho was the last descendant of Montezuma, antI hers was the only hand and wrist I have ever known slip easily into that bracelet, which is as inflexible for the hand as Cinderellas glass slipper was for the feet. That these Lake relics are, in very truth, of a most remote antiqnity, was proved in various ways by Professor Troyon. He said, A discovery that was made in the valley~f the Orhe may give an idea of this antiquity. The Lake of Neufehatel, it is well-known, is always, because of the increase of the peat- bogs and the delta of alluvial matter formed by the rivers Thiele and Buron, retreating further back from the Lake of Neufchhtel. In the time of the Romans, the actual site of Yverdun was under water. There was even a time when all the valley was covered by the lake. Then Mount ChamblQn ~vas an island, and, at the foot of this mount, were Lake-vil- lages of the ancient l)eol)le, whose relics, which are all of the Age of Stone, are now found many feet below the surface of the bog. By accurate calculation of the time that the lake now takes in its retreatings, we find that the destruction of these lake-dwellings must have occurred, at latest, in the fifteenth cen- turv before the Christian era. But here is another proof of this, con tinued the l)rofessoi~. Look at these fir poles which ~vere found in the Lake of Gen- eva, the supports of ancient villages of a later date, though still of a period long previous to the Roman conquest. You see that they are the real wood, while I only pO55C55 casts of the primitive poles; and that they are not ons 168 SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. much longer than the ancient stakes, but curiously ~vorn to a gradual slenderness, and to a point, l)y the gentle but constant action of the waves UI)Ofl their up~~er surfaces. Why is this difference? Because, these poles, when discovered, still projected two or three feet above the mud of the lake, while the others were covered by the mud itself. Now it is calculated that a thousand years, at least, must have elapsed hefore the fir-poles could oe brought, by the slow action of tideless water, to the level of the bed of the lake. I own that these reasons did not quite con- vince me of the deduction at which the pro- fessor wished to arrive; namely, that the first, and not altogether savage, inhabitants of Switzerland, dated from two thousand years before Christ. Many circumstancesdrain- ing, for instancemi~ht I thou~ht have cx- a , ~ pedited the retiring of the ~vaters, or the wearing away of the piles. Nevertheless, with all the caution of scepticism, it is impossible not to allo~v that the Lake-relics l)roceed from an age long anterior to the Christian era, and very far more remote than the Roman con- quest. Even supposing the objects now dis- covered, to be coeval with the time when Herodotus mentions the P~onian Lakers, cney remount to the seventy-fourth Olympiad, answering to four hundred and eighty-four years before Christan antiquity to be re- spected by us poor mortals, who grow old in seventy whirls of our little l)lanet. Pursuing our investigations, we find that, dark as it may appear in its origin, the end of this Lacustrine dynasty has a sad light cast upon its cause. rrhie villages, the inhabitants, all evidently perished by a sudden catas- trophe; and that catastrophe was fire. To understand this, reconstruct, by the architecture of fancy, the l)rimitive villages of the Swiss Lakers. Take your stand on some rock of vantage, whence you can see all that is not water or snowy summit, covered with black-looking crowded pii~e forests that teem with the red-deeronce numerous in Switzer- land, now extinct. Throw out your narrow wooden causeways a hundred yards forward into the shallow waters nearest the shore, drive whole quincunxes of fir-poles into the bed of the lake, top them vith rudely fash- ioned plni~ks, and upon the artificial peninsula now elevated above the waters, transport a oit of rivery Orientalism dwelling-places for man, gardens, if you wish, or patches of ripened grain (for the catastrol)he must have happened at harvest time), such as, even at this day, may be seen floating on the half- quaggy, inun dating rivers and chann el-pools of China. Penetrate into those circular Red Indian-like wigwams that stand like beehives on the stationary rafts, and see the rude pots upon the earthen shelves, the traps in the floor for catching or preserving fish, the little barbarian children, tethered by the foot with a cord to a })rojecting stake, lest they fall into the water (both these l)alticulalities are men- tioned, by lieredotus in his account of the P~onians), and huh old the in d ustrious n atives themselves, the pigmy race, with their small, but constructive and not cruel heads, and their long, flexible, Hin doo-like han ds. Enter their manufactories for their ingenious tools and petty ornaments; and, when you have set the whole nation busy at their several em- ployments, suddenly crush the ~vhole of your scene and drama by the irrul)tion of some wild band of ~varlike Gauls, who annihilate our poor aborigines, and their fragile dwell- ings, by castin~ fire-halls into the Lake-vil,- lages, and killing or carrying away the inhabi- tants. N other combination of circumstances canE account for the appearances which the remains of the Lake villages present. The carbonized corn, the l)isces of wood half burnt, the marks of fire everywhere, all testify to the de- struction of these villages by fire. Then. again, it is apparent that all industry stopped suddenl~. The workman was at his polish- ing, the hon sewife was grinding corn by hand between two fiat stones, but, by a fate worse than that denounced upon Jerusalem the one taken and the other left of our poor Lake people none were left. The late ex- plorers of these mysteries came, at Moossee- dorf, upon a marvellous heap of objects of industry, which, by their state and number. crowded over a considerable area, l)roved that the discoverers were standing on the site of the village manufactory of industrial imple- ments. Professor Troyon showed me many proofs that it was sopieces of serpentine, half-fashioned and thrown away because they had been broken in the cutting, and renderen unfit for use; splitstags-horn also rejected; and, more affecting still, instruments that were not thrown away because of defect, but were dropped unfinished because of a sudden catastrophe: axes that lay beside the handles, 169 SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. into which time was not given to insert them; poniards yet unsharpened; needles or hair- pins yet unpointed. He who visits Pompeii is not so much af- fected by the architecture he finds there, as by the sig~s of human life that realize the sudden destruction of the city. The womans crouching form, impressed upon the lava that had filled a cellar, interests the heart more than hundreds of tesselated pavements. The remains fetched up from the subaqueous Porn- peiis of Switzerland also l)roduce this touch- ing and human effect. They are more than books or oldest parchments wherein to read how race after race of men do verily pass away, according to old Homers deathless simile, like leaves on trees. Science, too, on such evidences of abrupt conclusions to things, is wonderfully iml)elled to speculate on the wherefore of these stern closings-up of human periods. It is as if some l~xei had grown tired of a l)articular creation. Strong rela- tion here to the geology of nature, in which the mintage of preceding eras is found sud- denly to cease; the medals, indeed, laid up in the stul)endous repositories of a past crea- tion, but the die that stamped them broken forever, and cast away as a thing of no ac- count. No otherwise is it with the geology of man, with human relics subterrene or sub- aqueous. In the midst of their full life they were suddenly and utterly destroyed; if not by a volcano or an earthquake that ingulfs or over~vhelms them, by mans own rage. The excavations of Wroxeter display a people suddenly crushed by some other people. The conquered are gone: the conquerors them- selves have passed away. Similarly, the Swiss lakes are now giving up their records of hasty catastrol)hes, and nations blotted out forever. But why so sudden? Why so complete these destructions? Here, the doombook is silent and decipherless. I can only glance at later eras to be read in the contents of Professor Troyons museum. Arranged with infinite knowledge, this com- l)lete collection rises from the age of stone and wood to that of bronze (svhich coml)osite material, though imperfectly mixed, does, sin- gularly enough, precede any demonstration of siml)le iron), and so on to periods, still re- mote, but which, like the Eocene and Phocene of geology, are assimilated to our own time by form and material; periods in ~vhich the luxury of the precious metals, and the beauty of gems, far from being unknown, were dis- played in works of human fancy, then young and vigorous, which modern art but feebly imitates. There is, however, one group of relics of the ante-Roman period, evidences of an event that prol)al)ly occurred two centuries before Christ, which I cannot pass over in silence, since these evidences contrast most strikingly with any revelations that we obtain of the harmless, childish, and in all respectsex cel)t the poniardspeaceful people of the Lakes. The time had grown warlike: as the bronze spear-heads and s~vords demonstrate. The human beings had grown larger: I could al- most insinuate my hand into the inflexible bronze circle without a clasp, which was called a woman s bracelet, while a womans bronze girdle, ~vith clasp, gave no wasl)like i(lea of the womens waists of the period. Society had left the lakes, as too tame, in order to dwell in the hills and forests : living, to con- struct bloody altars; dying, to be burnt and potted in tumuli. The relics I was now sur- veying came from a tumulis ol)ened some years ago, under the direction of Professor Troyon, of course, in a forest, on a hill. T+e hill and the forest are about five miles inland from Lausanne. The relics are three earthen pots which are filled ~vith a calcined-looking stuff; then, sundry small bones of animals; then a number of warlike implements, and a still greater number of female ornaments, consisting of glass-bead necklaces and brace- lets, that have an Egyptian character, and a very curious a~)J)endage, like a little bronze cage with a round white stone loose in ita childs rattle, in fact. These objects were found in the following order: Lowest were the earthen pots that held all which had once been a hero, or heroes. Above these, came a vast assemblage of bones, supl)osed to be those of the warriors favorite animals, which were slain in order that they might accompany him into Hades. At the summit of the tumuluscrowning the terrible interestwere four skeletons of females, sup- l)osed to he the warriors four wives, also sent after him to Hades. Concentrating the interest, I take the pro- fessors account of the uppermost skeleton. It was that of a young female in an attitude of sul)l)lication and wild agony. The knees were bent, as if she had implored for life; the 170 SUBTERRANEAN SWITZERLAND. arms were cast on high, as if in frantic depre- cation of her fate. She had evidently I)een tossed UJ)Ofl the top of the pile, and her limbs yet retained the very posture in which she died. Then earth and stones had been thrown hastily over the corpse, to crush out the re- mains of life, if any remains of life there were. A iarge stone had shattered one of her feet; another lay across her arm, the bone of which it had broken. Was she stoned to death? I asked. No, replied the professor: she was prob- ably slaughtered at a ston~altar, which ~vas c~ose to the tumulus, and in which the cus- tomary blood-basins of the heathens are still to be seen in situfor, the altar, as we had others of the same kind, we did not remove from its l)lace. Besides, it ~vas the wish of the o~vner of the ~vood that the relic should remain on his pro~)erty. Did you preserve the skeleton? I could not. It fell into a thousand l)ieces in being removed from the pile. But here is the young creatures skull; and you see by the teeth (magnificent are they not?) that the P~~ thing ~vas young. I was struck by the preservation of the small and perfect teeth; and moreover by the fact that the skull was beautifully and intel- lectually formed. Ay ! said the professor, it vas an af- fecting sight to see that skeleton uncovered, telling its own poor history of t~vo thousand years ago! Several ladies, who were piesent at the exhumation (the whole search into the tumulus took four days; and, as it excited great interest, ~vas attended by many l)eople), shed tears as they looked at the remains. I felt how possible it was, even for a man, to have wept at such a drama; and the thought occurred to me, Eras do not always rise to l)etter things! The poor gentle sav- ages on their artificial islets would not have done the deed which the nation of the forest, capable as it was of higher arts, arms, and manufactures, so fan atically perpetrated. Was there ever a priest upon the tethered rafts of the Lakers? We find no trace of him! But here was evidently a grand sacrificator, and an unexceptionable altar. Blessed he the faith ~ihich has overturned every sacrificial altar save that of the loving heart ! Here, according to all the la~vs of climax, I should end ; hut I cannot help throwing out one hint in parting to the antiquarian explorers of my own country Look well into the British lakes. CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. In the United States the modes of observing Christmas vary somewhat from the modes of the old ~vorld, and vary also in different sections of the Union. In New England the old Puritan antipathy to such observances has not yet entirely died out, and Thanksgiving Day is more of a festival and holiday than Christmas. In New York the day is more generally observed, but it is less of a holiday than New Years Day. In Pennsylvania, where the English and Ger- man sentiments both survive, there is probably a more marked and universal regard for Christ- mas than in any state of the Union. Here there is scarcely a house that has not its Christmas tree; scarcely a family where the childrens stockings are not hung up; scarcely a household that does not collect its scattered members around the Christmas dinner-table, where roast turkeys, mince pie, plum pudding and other traditional dainties are served up. In the coun- ties where the German population prevails, there are still kept up some of the quaint old customs, such as the Christmas eve visit of Kriss-Kingle (a corruption of Christ-Kind) with gifts to scatter among the juveniles. But these visits are often only boisterous frolics, in which men and boys, in masks and fantastic dresses, and carrying bells and horns, terrify rather than delight the hearts of young folks. The custom of interchanging gifts on Christmas-day is al- most universal in Pennsylvania, and it prevails, more or less in Ohio and other states which have been largely settled by Pennsylvanians. In the north-western states, whose inhabitants of American birth are chiefly from Ne~v Eng- land and New York, Christmas is regarded ~vith no more general respect than it is in the states from which they were settled. In Yirginia and the Carolinas, and indeed throughout the sonth, there is a very generous and hearty observance of the Christmas holi- days. The negroes are indulged much more liberally then than at any other period of the year, and their merry-makings constitute one of the pleasantest features of the season. At the same time the masters houses are scenes of fes- tivity, and among the wealthier planters there are displays of that lordly hospitality that is re- corded of the old English barons, whose habits and modes of life are thought by some modern English writers to have somewhat resembled those of the Southern planters.Philacielphia Bulletin. 171 172 LINE. From The Ladies Companion. his dress bespoke himwas beginning a not UNE. very l)leasa1~t imprecation that bad some con CHAPTER I. nection with his last attack of luml)ago, when THE night-train was about to start from his eye caught sight of a female figure block the Kings Cross Station. It was a dark win- ing up the entrance. She had a young child ters night,just before Christmas. Sno~v had in her arms, and common civility obliged him been almost incessantly falling for the last to offer her the assistance of his hand, and two days, and it was falling stillwhitening remove some of the luml)ering parcels with the tops of the cabs, whitening the hats and which he had covered the seats. umbrellas of the passers-by; even whitening The lady was all alone, neither nurse nor the whiskers of the drivers, and settling in comI)anion with her ; and she had hardly long lines and ridges on their great coats. settled in the further seat opposite, an(l pulled Such cold-looking, blue, pinched faces as one the thick veil from over her face, before t~e met on every si(le ; such red eyes ; such a train started. A long whistlea few lights chorus of nose-blowing and coughing and shining like stars through the misty night hoarse voices claiming carpet-bags and port- I then darkness on either side and unbroken manteaus Here and there rushed the por stillness. ters; now a cry of Make way ! and the The old gentleman looked across at his passage of a luggage-trtick, causing the p as- companion. She was unloosening the childs sengers to fall to one side, or rush desperately wrappings, removing the little bonnet from towards the van, in hopes of discovering some the small head, smoothing the rings of brown missing ~ The gas flickered and htdr with a delicate white handa hand which blazed and flickered again as the draught proclaimed her a lady at first sight. By ann penetrated into the station; and every now by she was looking for something in a leath- and then one caught the whiff of a cigar, and em bag, and presently the child turned round a suspicious smell of bad tobacco, that might ?fl her knee, with one biscuit disappearing find entrance from the door where the cab- into its mouth and another pressed tight to men were staggering in and out with their its little bosom, and carefully hidden by afat heavy burdens, hand, as though it feared the old gentleman The five-minutes-bell rang. The passen- was going to ask for the nicest ~)iece. gers bundled into the carriages; the porters The mother was very busi, and as her head stowed in the packages; the newspaper-boys came full under the lamplight, the old gentle- held 01) their baskets to the windows, and man had ample opportunity to observe her. screamed: PunchTo-days TimesEven- She did not look more than twenty, possibly ing StarGlobeBells LWe i not so much, rather under the ordinary stat- An old gentleman was already comfortably ore; with a small, oval face of pure, white ensconced in the corner of a first-class c ai~- coloring, very 1)ale a bout the lips, almost riage. His umbrella and stick were tidily ar- faultless in feature, but with such a sad ex- ranged above his head, his hat replaced by l)ression that the old gentleman felt at once a black velvet skull-cap, that nestled very that his fellow-traveller was in trouble. He warmly oii his bald crown, and his feet crossed was sorry for her, she looked so pretty and on the opposite seat, and covered with a interesting; and he made a feeble attem1)t to crimson and black railway-rag. The open draw her into conversation al)out the child. Punch, and the fresh-smelling book with a But she looked 01) at him with her serious, paper-knife sticking out from its uncut pages, dark eyes full of tears, and answered so sadly seemed to l)romise not so unpleasant a jour- and with such low tones, that he was dis- ney after all; for the lamp was burning couraged, and took refuge behind his news- bravely, the oil swinging from side to side of paper. the glass, and the window already dulled over The next time he looked 01), the child was in that pleasant manner which makes one asleep, with its head agailist its mothers congratulate ones self on being so warm atid breast, its round arm tossed over its l)elisse, comfortable inside, and its little fat fingers grasping a half-eaten Just at the last moment the door was has- biscuit, from ~vhich the motion of the train tily opened, and a porter thrust in a carpet- shook down a number of crumbs on the moth- bag. The old gentleman~clei.gyman though ers dress. The old gentleman made a men- UNE~ ta~ reservation to the effect that he should not have liked those crumbs on his new carpet at Haversham. Katee had never let his child be half so untidy. But a little low sigh from the mother at- tracted him. He looked up, and saw her reading a closely written letter on foreign pa- per. holding the thin sheet as far under the light as she could, ~vhile her other hand sup- ported the babys head. Something very like a smothered sob caught his ear, and he fan- cied he saw a tear fall down on the open sheet. iJe was afraid that his presence was a restraint to her grief, and, crouching into the corner, pretended to be asleep. She gave a quick glance up, showing a very tear-stained, l)ale face; then, apparently re- assured, turned over the page and ~vent on reading. By and by, she seemed to he forming some grave resolution, for she propped up the childs head, released her arm, and deliberately tore the letter into minute pieces. She held them irresolutely, crushed in her hand, as if at a loss how to dispose of them ; the window ~vas fast shut, and at last she drew the leathern hag towards her, and pushed them down in a little heap to the bottom. fIle old gentleman was really growing drowsy, and but once opened his eyes again ere he fell asleep. Then his companion was leaning over her b ahycrying over it, he thought. He saw her bend down more than once and l)~C55 a long, clinging kiss on its soft forehead; afterwards she drew her veil over her face, and leant back, and he remembered no more. He had a long, calm sleep and l)leasant dreams. His last thought was about his Kate and the little one at home, and they two reigned in his dreamsreigned with the new dress he was bringing as a Christmas gift for his ~vife, and the l)arcel of books for his daugh- ter, that he had had such difficulty in packing. They were in fancy waiting for him under the snow-covered, honeysuckled porch; a bright smile of welcome on Kates comely cheek, and their darling standing beside her, with the wind blowing her fair curls all over her face. And he ~vas scrambling down from the dog-cart, carrying the carpet-bag and its treasures; and the serving-man was holding the horses head and shaking the snow off his great coat. Rose was his only child, and he was look- 173 ing at her. She was the child of his old age, and he might he excused for the fond, loving partiality with which he regarded her; for she was so good, so gentle, so tender in her little attentions. No one folded his newspa~ per as Rose did; no one knew so exactly where to find his books of reference, or a missing sermon, or the spectacles he always mislaid and always wanted. And she was Kates childthe wife who had loved him in her first youthgiven up so much for his sakewaited for him and loved throu~h long, weary years, when every one else had de- spaired of the living that was so long in com- ing. It had come at last, however, and they had married; but by that time he was a bald- headed man, and though she was still beauti- ful in his cyes, she had lost her fresh bloom and showed more than one wrinkle in her forehead, more than one gray line in her hair. Yet, perhaps, during their fifteen years of married life no couple could have been hap- pier. He might have got into 01(1 bachelor habits and she have grown fidgety about trifles; but they were so firm in their mutual love, so assured of each others sympathy, that they had a constant fund of happiness in their own hands; and when Rose came she seemed to revive youth and love and beauty in a new lifethey grew young again in her young love. The old man slept till a faint hue of day- light was dawning in the horizon, and then he was awakened by a childs cr~. He roused himself, rubbed his eyes, put on his sl)ectacles, and thought how soundly the mother must be sleeping that she did not wake. The child cried louder, and he felt uneasy. It raised itself up with an effort, and, tugging with its little might at her cloak, called, Mamma! mamma! But she did not rouse. It was the first time her ear had been sealed to her childs crythe first time that Mamma! mamma! had J)assed unheeded. Still louder the child cried, and a strange shudder passed over the old mans form. He waitedshe was still motionless; and, at last, with choking breath, h ecame nearer and touched the hand that was lying on the arm- rest. It was cold, chill, clammy, and the child, frightened by his al)l)roach, pulled harder at her cloak and screamed Mamma! But it called in vain; its poor mother could 174 UNE. no longer comfort or be comforted. The old man raised the veil from her faceit was as he feare(l the eyes were open and glazed, a slight moisture resting on the cold lip. She was (lead! She was dead. She had died while he slept unknown, urcomfortedwith no one near even to wipe her lips or hold her hand with the slumhering babe on her lap her spirit had passed to its rest. The old man thought of that last kiss on the childs brow, and large tears rolled (lown from his eyes. It was in vain to atteml)t to attract atten- tion in that silent night-train. He let down the window, and, while the wind and snow- flakes swel)t over his thin, white hair and bald head, called loudly for assistance. But no one rej)liedonly the sound of the wheels on the line and the whistling of the wind. He drew up the window and tried to quiet the child. It was too late to attempt any thing for the mother; he just untied the strings of her bonnet, and for a few moments chofed her hands; but they were already be ~ en and the ~ of the g innin~ to s~fi were dilated, the whites discolored, and he dropped the veil again over the face. She must have been dead hoursno one could help her now. At first the child refused to leave her, and battled and cried as if its heart were break- ing; but when she found that she did not an- swer, and. no tugging at her dress attracted her attention, it gave way, consented to be lifted across the old mans knee, and, laying its little head close to him, sobbed itself to sleep. He sat and watched it, longing impa- tiently for the next station: and one by one he looked at the mothers things and the leathern bag, to see if he could find a direc- tion ticket. But in vain : there was no name, no ad- dress ; and he did not venture to examine further. He held the child to him, and with his other hand made notes of the time and circumstances on the back of an old letter. The train could not be far from and he strained his eyes eagerly into the darkness. There was a whistle; the train went slowerthey seemed to be letting off the steam. They were getting near the station; he saw the outline of some trucks at the side. An engine passed ~vith its gleaming lights, and the black figure of its driver standing out before the fireagain he let down the window, and called. The night wind rushed byhe called again : there was an answering voice, the flash of a lantern, the flicker of gas, and they were inside the sta- tion. How strangely sounded the old mans voice, as he leant forward and told of the presence of death where it was so little antic- ipated! There was a groan of horror, and every one gathered round the carriage. A doctor was hastily summoned ; the l)olicemall stood with his hand on the carriage-door, and em- phatically bade the by-standers to move off! They were carrying the body to the waiting- room, and all rushed for~vard to get a sight of the faceso pale, with its long, dark lashes resting on the cheek. More than one noticed the little, white, ladyshand, and told nfterwards that there was a wedding-ring on the third finger. Poor thing! who could she be? and where ~vas her husband? A murmur of compassion greeted the sleep- ing child ; then every eye turned to watch the closed door through which the doctor had disappeared. He came out at last; but in- quiry was scarcely needed, for he shook his head gravely, and already Heart tom- plaii~t was a l)yword in the crowd. The train had gone on, but the old man was left behind. He was the only witness, and had to stay for the coroners inquest; besides, he could not leave that little clinging child, who, since her mothers death, had crept so fondly to his side, and refused to leave him. So that winter morning Kate and the bright-faced Rose watched in vain for his home-coming; and when the late post hrought his hurried excuse, the parsonage at Hoverham was one scene of confusion and bustle. His wife packed a change of linen in her carpet-bag, and set out to join him. John would want a woman to help him, she said: and besides, they must see about getting the child to its own l)eol)le. But this last was more easily spoken of than done. The dead womans small lug- gage thre~v no light on her destination or namq. The few articles of her own, and the childs clothing, were of good, and even rich materkil; but they were unmarked, save by the letter U. There were no books or letters with directions. She seemed to have been making a hurried journey, with small prepa orj)han. So Une nestled at once to their hearts; and Rose met her with a kiss, and called her her sister. FouR years after there was another death and another l)urial, but a far different one. The old clergyman died in his bed, in the parsonage room where the jessamine peeped in at the windows ; and his faithful Kate watched beside him, and moistened his lips and Rose and Une knelt by his bedside with das1)ed hands. He died as a Christianin that sure hope of a glorious resurrection which robs the IJNE. ration. In her pocket was a portmonnaie, with about twenty sovereigns and a handful of small coinshe had not been in want. A little slil) of paper was in one of the cases whereon a womans hand had traced the pro- portions of some simple decoction for the nursery; a very small, ~vell-worn testament, that had lost its fly-leaf; a large bunch of bright keys; an ivory pencil-case, and a cam- bric handkerchief, in the corner of ~vbich ~vas embroidered one single ~vord UNE. This was the only clue by which she could be rec- ognized. Was it her name? Her linen and the childs were alike marked by that letter U. And at the bottom of the leathern hag were found l)ieces of the torn letter. But they ~vere so small that it was impossible to arran a e them. Only one little morsel showed the words Dearest Une ; and the hand- writing was ap~)arentiy a mans. The authorities of the town came forward and made the matter as public as they could, ia the hope of bringing it to the ears of those concerned: but days passed, and no one made any claim. A week later, and the beautiful stranger was lying in a crowded town churchya id; and Baby Une, as they had learnt to call her, was travelling with the old clergyman and his wife to their northern home. Kate had at first objected to her hus- bands prol)osal of adoption, saying truly that their fortune was small, and they must think of Rose. But when little Une looked up at ner so lovingly with her innocent eyes, and learnt to say Papa and Mamma in her childish voice, her prudence melted away, and ahe was sure that Rose was so unselfish she would be the first to share her little with the 175 and Une pointed her childish finger to the heavens, and said: lie is there, mother. The funeral was over, and they went back to the home they must so soon leave forever. Their faces were very sad, for they were going home for the first time without him. Kate crept to her own room and cried long and drearily ; p~o~ thing! till now she had never realized her loss. But that dreadful vacant room, with the tenantless fresh-made bed, and such a lonely look about those cold, new-washed hangingsshe covere(I her face with her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break. And in the chamher below, with Une on her lap, Rose sat over the firesat dreaming grave dreams ; for her father, in dying, had bade her take her mothers hand and hold it through life, and she was revolving in her unselfish young heart hov to work out her promise in its fullest meaning. She was eigh- teen now, with a fund of common sense in that small, ~vell-formed head of hers, handy fingers, and a blithe, buoyant spirit that could brave and endure much ~vhen urged by love. She sat and thought. All that her father had been able to save made a very small in- comea mere l)ittance; her mother had never been accustomed to plivation, and Une was too young to face suffering. Site must work; she must keep herself, and add to their little. Une fell asleep, with her head on Roses shoulder, and the firelight shining on her tear-stained face; and Roses thoughts and l)lans in that drowsy twilight were diluted into dreams. She built up a bright castle in the air something about a home of her own, with her mother resting comfortably by the blazing hearth, and Une provided with all that can CHAPTER H. make childhood happy. There was another figure too, prominent in the foreground, in- definite, but to which memory happily sup- plied name and features, and she gave the reins to her fancy till she had brought it quite near, given it the chief place by her home fireside. The servant brought in the tea-things; she started up with a guilty blush mantling her cheek, and, ~vitb an effort recalling herself to the present, dre~v out her desk, and began to grave of its horror; and light came to Kates write to a friend, whom she thought would tearful eyes as she stood by that lowly tomb; assist her in finding a desirable situation. 176 UNE. But the dream has given us an insight into Roses heart which nee(ls explanation. Rose loved. It was two years since the young squire of the parish had succeeded to his uncles estates, and since that time he had been a constant visitor at the ~)arsonage. He was not l)oPular in the neighborhood. 1-le was col(l and taciturn, and, l)eol)le said, had led a wild life before coming in for the prop- erty. But, if so, he was reformed now. He was always grave and quiet, mixing with none of the county families, and shunning society. It was thought that he found the parsons ~)retty Rose an attraction to the par- sonage. and it may l)e that Roses silly heart was flattered by the suggestion, for her great interest in the absent, unhappy-looking stran- ger had unconsciously deepened into some- thing warmer, though she would not allow it, even to herself. Certaiulv he came very often, and took a great deal of iuterest in Roses flowers and studies, and even showed a sort of good-natured kindness to the little sister, that he supposed Une to hefor the old l)alsoI1, in adopting Une, had made her as another daughter ; and though the strange particulars of the case at first caused much conversation and surmise, time had worn the edge off the romance; and in the quiet coun- try side, Tins as they called her, was merged into a member of the parsonage family, was coul)led with Rose Milburne in the villagers our young ladies. So, week after week, and month aftei month, the usually reserved Mr. Maxwell made his appearance in the parsonage draw- ing-room, and generally choosing the seat near the sofa where Rose sat with her work- basket; and during the time of her fathers illness he had come almost every day to bring papers, or make inquiries, sharing so really in the daughters grief and anxiety that that foolish little heart heat faster, and insensibly leant on his sympathizing, stronger spirit for rest and encouragement. But it was all over now. He had breathed not one word of love lie had been very kind, but it was a brotherly sort of kindness, nothing more. Rose said so herself to her mother, a week later, when Mr. Maxwell had been to wish them good-by, before leaving home on some troublesome business that might detain him beyond the six ~veeks that they were yet to remain at Hoverham. She said that if she had indulged silly fancies, it was her oWn fault: he had done and said nothing to war~ rant them; she alone was to blame, her mother must not say a word against him. How the womans heart spoke out in those few words, condemning itself to ward even a shade of blame from its beloved one! And when she ran up to her own room a few minutes after, how plainly again spoke the heart in the midst of her suffering, dwelling on his words of farewell, even to the expres- sion of his eyes as he bent over her, holding her hand as thou~h it grieved him to part! Something whispered in her spirit, Tie loves you; but she put away the thought, and set about positive workshe could no longer af- ford to dream. Mrs. Milburne found a small lodging in a neighboring town, to which she removed with Tiny; and Roses al)l)lications having proved successful, she at once started for her new home, to be coml)anion to an invalid lady, in one of the southern counties. A long days journey l)rought her to , where she was met by a servant and pony-carriage, for it was a three-miles (Irive to Atherstone, and the November day was darkening fast. The coachman stowed her small luggage into the back seat, touched the pony with his whip, and they started! Rose leaning hack, with her crape veil hiding her heavy eyes, and a sad weig ht on her young heart. She was still thinking of her mother and Tiny. As a sweep of the road brought the gray turrets of Atherstone into viev, her compan- ion slightly attracted her attention, and she roused and lonked with greater interest on the scene. They had l)assed the ivy-covereQ lodge, and were in the private grounds, the pony stepping briskly over the damp, decaying leaves that strewed the drive. A little to the right Atherstone Towers frowned above them a huge, ven~rable pile of building, with corner turrets and narrow windo~vs; one wing at the side of more recent date, with French windows, that looked incongruous with the rest. They drew up before a side entrance; and while the coachman took out the boxes, a ven- erable-looking butler came forward, and pro- posed to show Miss Milburne the way to the drawing-room. Rose laid down her bag, and followed with a nervous feeling of trepidation, on through a long, low, carpeted passage, skirted with dark oak, crimson curtains shading the deep, nar UNE. row windows; thence to a large hall, hung with family portraits, at the further end of which was a handsome double staircase; but instead of mounting this, they turned off into an ante-room, and the butler, going before, drew up the blinds in the drawing-room, and asked Miss Milburne to l)e seated. Rose glanced round the chamber as best she could by the dying daylight. It was cold and handsome, with a very uninhabited ap- pearance; but one arm-chair, moved a little from its angle, and a half-finished l)iece of fancy-work oi~ the table, to tell it was ever used. The butler had gone to acquaint the ladys- maid with her arrival. His lady would be lying down, he thought; and Rose waited a full half-hour in dreary solitude. When the door opened at last, it was the ladys-maid who entered, an aged, respectable-looking woman, with a kind face and a cordial voice. Her mistress was not so well this evening, she said, and was sorry she could not receive Miss Milburne ; she hoped to do so in an hours time. Meanwhile, would Miss Mil- burne like to have tea served in her own room? Rose thanked, and gladly followed her ul)- stairs. Her room was in the new part of the building, fresh fur~ii~l~ecl, with a bright glanc- ing fire, which her companion at once replen- ished. We must do our best to give you a warm welcome, she said with a smile; but I fear you will find it a dreary home. Forgive me, if I am too hold, miss; hut it is a rare pleas- ure to look on a young face now-a-days. She turned to the door, leaving Rose shyly thinking that she ought to have made some reply to the kind greeting, yet unable to do so. Presently came a maid with the tea-things, and servants carrying her boxes; and she was so well occupied that she felt almost sur- prised when Mrs. Jones again appeared, say- ing her mistt:ess was in the library, and would be happy to see her. The library was a room on the first floor, lined with book-shelves, and lighted by an oriel window of stained glass. Miss Drum mood was seated, in an arm- chair, over the fire, supported by pillows. She was a l)ale, emaciated woman, apparently aged by suffering rather than by years. When Rose entered she greeted her kindly, and THIRD SERIES. LIViNG AGE. 411 177 bade her be seated. There was a low chair placed temptingly on the hearth-rug, and Rose moved towards it; but a little exclama- tion of terror from Miss Drummond arrested her half-way, while the maid hastily touched her arm, and 1)ointed to a seat near her mis- tress. Rose felt very uncomfortable, without being able to tell why, and could hardly sum- mon courage to answer the few low inquiries about the journey; but it was better when Miss Prummond said kindly she hoped she would be happy, and that very little would be required of her. Rose cheered at the sound of a kind voice, and said brightly that she had no doubt she should be happy, and would try to do her best. Looking ~ip eagerly, she saw that Miss ])rummond had turned away her face, and was hiding it amongst the pillows. There was a long pause, and Rose fancied she heard her sobbing. Catching a sign from Mrs. Jones, she rose and quietly left the room. She wondered what she had done or said to ul)set her, and was relieved when the maid followed and said her mistress ~vas better. She often had these attacks; she would be more accustomed to Miss Milburne in a few days. But Rose did not see her again for more than a week, and then it was only f~r a short time each morning, when she was sent for into her bedroom to read aloud. Those first dreary days, she found the stillness and quiet of the house almost insul)l)ortah)le. Miss Drummond lived entirely in her own room, and no stranger came near the house. The change from the bright, cheerful parsonage at Hoverham struck Rose with a s~d chill. She felt so dull and lonely; she wished and pined for the familiar faces. It was better when she saw more of Mrs. Jones. flie motherly old woman was so anxious about her comforts that Roses heart warmed to her, and insensibly she told her, little by little, of her own home and trials of her mother, and her fathers death; of Tiny, and the dear old parsonage. And Mm~s. Jones listened with such evident interest and pleasure that she was teml)ted to tell more and more, and to look forward to the 01(1 wo- mans hearty sympathy and words of comfort. Sometimes Rose tried to persuade her to talk about herself and her mistress, for the lonely life of the rich old lady had excited the young. girls pity and curiosity, but rarely with any 178 UNE. effect. Mrs. Jones was willing enough to relate her struggles in the farmhouse at home, when she was an unruly child with a stepmother; hut she had gone into service at an early age, and of Miss I)rummonds affairs she would say nothing. Day and night she watched and waited on her, always naming her with almost reverent affection; but the mystery, that Rose was convinced existed somewhere, was frozen on her lips. She only sighed and shook her head sadly when Rose al)proached the suhject. Three days hefore Christmas, Rose was sit- tin g in her lonely room, when Mrs. Jones brought her an invitation to l)~55 the evening with Miss Prummond in the library. Any change from the monotony of her present life was agreeable, and hastily arranging her hair, she took her work and ran down-stairs. The library door was ajar. Miss Drum- mond had not yet left her own room. It was the first time Rose had entered it since the evening of her first arrival, and, glancing cu- riously round, she examined the titles of the books on the shelves, and the ornaments on the mantel-piece. When she seated herhelf it was without thought, in the little low chair on the hearthrug. A small table was near, covered with a green cloth, on which were an ivory inlaid box and a few hooks. She stretched out her hand and took one up. It was a handsome edition of Tuppers Proverbial Philosophy, with many l)encil marks on the margin. She read a few of the marked passages, and a curious feeling about the last reader made her turn to the fly-leaf to find the name. It was there; but not the Portia Drummond she had exl)ected, only one little worclUne. She jumped up with an exclamationan exclamation that was answered by a louder ery and a heavy fall. In the door~vay lay the insensible form of Miss Drummond, Jones bendiiig over her with an agonized face. 0 miss! she cried, as Rose came for- ward to assist her; how could you do it? Youve killed her. What have I done ? inquired poor Rose, more than ever perplexed ; what have I lone? How could you sit in that chair? She aw you, and thought it was her. Oh, my poor, 1)001 mistress! There was no time for inquiries and ex l)lanations. Rose ran to call assistance, and despatch a messenger for the doctor; but when she was hack again in her room, and the quiet of night was resting over the house- hold, the watchers gathering round the insen- sible sufferer, she sat and thought painfully over the occurrences of the (lay. What had that chair to do with the mvs- tery? Whom did Jones mean by her? Then, as she remembered the book, Was it Une? and if so, could it, might it have any thing to do with our Une? Miss Drum mond recovered consciousness, but one side was completely paralyzed, and Jones told Rose, with tears in her eyes, that she would never again be able to leave her bed. Ten days passed very slowly to poor Roses feverish anxiety. She had been again in the library and examined the books. All on the little table had the same name Une. and in one, Une Drummond: from her affection- ate aunt, Portia. So there had been a niece in this dreary house, though Rose had never heard of her. Where was she now? She resolved to brave all, and ask Jones. The old woman looked into the library while Miss Drummond was sleeping, and seemed astonished to find it tenanted. Rose held up one of the hooks. Whose is this? she said. Who, and where is, Une? Put it down, put it down, miss, Jones said, in a choked voice; dont speak of it; you have done enough harm already. But I must kno~v, said Rose, firmly. Jones, I have a reason in asking. Will you not tell me where is Une DrummondMis~ Portias niece? I cannotI wontdont ask me. 0 Miss Rose! what are you doing here? what is it to you about her? Go away, go away. Rose came nearer and took her hand. It is not mere curiosity that makes me ask, Jones; it is duty. You have heard me speak of I~inyof the little sister at home. Her name is Une; we have reason to think it was her mothers name before her; but who that mother was we cannot tell. Listen And Rose, with heightening color, told the story of her fathers Christmas journey, and the untended death-bed. Undeterred by Jones tears and exclamatione, she went oa to the very end, telling of the lonely burial and the helpless child. Then she paused, and knelt down by the weeping woman. Jones, can you throw any light on this strange history? she said; I have told you of my Unewho was yours? It was her; you have told me of her very self. I mind the ivory pencil, and the very clothes, and the childs dark eyesthey are her mothers; but how she came to die like that, or be away from her husband, I cannot think. 0 Une! Une! to think that you are dead, whom we loved so dearly, in spite of all that you died in this way. 0 my lamb! my lamb! Ah! you ask me about her mothers history: I will tell you all I can. Miss Portia had a brother, of whom her father ~vas fond and proud, and for whom he destined this fine old I)lace and his great riches. But, somehow, the young man dis- pleased himit was only in a slight matter; but the old man had a very fierce temper, and he swore that if he did not at once sub- mi~ he ~vould disinherit him. He refused, and the old man died ahortly after, leaving every farthing he possessed to his daughter, Miss Portia. Now, my mistress has a fine grand nature, and had been much grieved by the quarrel between her father and brother; and when the fortune came to her, she thought to make all straight again by giving it UI) to Mr. Archibald. But that dreadful J)ride! Mr. Archibald refused to take it as his sisters gift, and still smarting under his fathers injustice, set out to make a fortune in the Indies. They never met again. He married, and died; his wife died too; and Miss Portia sent for their one little orphan, and adopted it as her own. That was our childour Miss Une. She grew up in this old house, and we all lovQd her; but I dont think there ever was a right understanding between her and her aunt. Miss Drummond in those (lays had a haughty temper, and hid her feelings under an appearance of harsh- ness; and li(tle Une was very loving, and shrank from her fancied coldness. Some- times she would put her little arms round me, and kiss me, as she never did her aunt; and as she grew still older, I think she l)ined yet more for affection and sympathy, for many times I have found her crying and wailing in her own little room, or detected the marks of tears oii her cheeks when I looked in to say good-night at bedtime. But, cold as she UNE. 179 seemed, Miss Portia was right proud of her. Ive seen her sit, hour after hour, watching her as she sat on her low chair by the fire reading her booksfor Une liked reading and was always at it. But the girl didnt know it, and kept fancying she was uncared for and unloved. It was worse still when she grew up. Miss Portia did not like her to mix with any young people, and this was a lonely l)lace for a bright young thing like her. I cant think how we supposed she could bear it. At one time she cried and rebelled very much when she was not allowed to go here and there; but, by and by, she gave up ask- ing, and grew very thoughtful and silent, and took long walks in the grounds. We trusted her quite; we did not think she would deceive us. rJ~he blow fell very heavily when she left her home with a young officer, who was sta- tioned at thirteen miles off. I thought Miss iDrummond would have gone wild when we told her of Unes flight. She tore up and down like a mad woman, and sent right and left to overtake her. It was not until there came a note from Une herself, dated London, saying that she was married to one who loved her, and whom she lovedwho would give her the affection she had long craved for in vainMiss Drummond froze back into her- self, and forbade us to mention her name. Only to me she said, Une scorned my affec- tion; but she can still have it, and my help, too, when she is humbled to ask them. And on those few words I built a bright scheme of future reconciliation, like a foolish old wo- man. We lost sight of Miss Une after that, and my mistress pined sadly; I saw her change daily, and knew she was thinking and wondering about our darling, though she was too proud to say so. At last Jones stopped hurriedly, and looked round the room. At last? prompted Rose. It was just such an evening as thisa sno~v-storm, just before Christmas. 0 Miss Rose! I see now it was just the time of her deathit was her spiritbut my mistress was lying down on that sofa Opposite, as I thought, dozing, and I just went out of the room for a glass of toast-and-water. I was not gone five minutes, and when I came I)ack, I thought I should have died of fright. There, on that little chair that Miss Portia had never allowed to be amved, in just her old place and attitude, was Miss Une bending over the 180 UNE. fire. I thought she had come back; and I called her name, very low and soft, not to disturb my mistress, Miss Une! She lifted up her head, round which the heavy black curls were falling dank and disordered, and looked me in the faceoh, with such a glance! She was white as a bit of ~ia~~er, with drawn lines about her mouth and fore- head, and a sort of forced smile on her l)ale lip~. It was a corpses face that met mine, and I started back in terror. I was AVZC d, and could not speak; but I never took my eve off her. I saw her rise, stand for a moment on the hearth-rug, then move across the room, and disappear. I fancied she touched my mistress as she passed, but I could not be sure. Only when I came for- ward within sight of the sofa, I saw Miss Portia was in a fit, with her eyes gaziug straight. forward at the vacant chair. It was mouths before she recovered, or was about again, and then only as a confirmed invalid. You may judge what was the shock to her nerves when you rememl)er the effect of your sitting (lowli for one moment in that ill-fated chair. She thought it was Une againUne coming as she had done before. You never heard positively of her death then?, demanded Rose. No; hut that was enough. I mind that one evening a gentleman came and asked if she had been seen in this neighborhood; and by his card I knew it was her husband; hut I did not tell my mistress, but just ivent down and spoke to him myself. He was a ~vell- favored young man, and seemed in deep grief. He told me that he had been ill abroad, and she had left their home in Scotland to join him, but somehow they had missed, and he could meet with no trace of her. Beyond that I know nothing. What was the husbands name? Elliot IJalrym pie. He was Scotch, and it was said at the time that he Lried to keel) the marriage secret. But theres the bell. I told Jane to ring if my mistress awoke. Jones hurried away without observing that Roses head had sunk on her lap, and that great sobs were convulsing her fiame. Elliot Dalrymple. Elliot Maxwell was Elliot Dalrymple before lie came in for his uncles property. He then was Unes husband, Unes fat her; and the secret of his troubled brow and care-worn face, of his long silence, even of his conduct to her, was at last ex- 1)lained. He had never known the fate of his wife, did not even know that the Tiny of the parsonage was his own child. Rose could hardly tell whether her discovery filled her with rejoicing or sorrow. She laid her head on the pillow with tears and perplexity. * * * * * My story is told. There was a gay wed- ding at Hoverham the summer after, when little Une was bridesmaid to her new mamma, and Kate l)ut off her widows weeds to join the general rejoicing. Miss Portia sent kind messages and handsome gifts, and rejoiced in a long visit from Unes child, who certainly never had cause to utter her mothers com- plaints of a dearth of (lemonstrated love, but rather ran (langerous risks of being spoilt by over-indulgence. And Elliot Maxwell brightened up into a happy, useful man, mixing with the country- side, and rendering himself ever l)ol)ular as master and landlord. He had suffered much, and sorrow had made him wiser. Not e~en in looking on his bright Rose could lie for~et a his lost Une and the years of trial when he had been uncertain of her fate. How they had missed on that memorable journey was soon explained. They ~vere living in an out of-the-way Scotch village; for, aware of his imprudence, the young man wished to keep the knowledge of his runaway match from the ears of his old uncle; and business calling him abroad, he had left her behi,id with her little child. But he was taken ill in that for- eign laud, and she started to join him, reach- ing Aix-la-Chapelle as he left it on his home- ward route. The landlord of the lintel had borne witness to the arrival of the English lady, ~vhio seemed so disturbed not to find monsieur, and had told how she at once started on her return. That was the last thing that was known of her. She died on her way back, and the pencil-case and testa- ment and other things were there to corrob- orate the old mans statement of ~vhien and how. The torn letter was the one thing that puz- zled themthe husbands last letter, that she must have prized so muchbut the mystery was never unravelled. Perhaps she had a consciousness of her own state, and feared to leave any clue that might lead to the detec- tion of his secret. QUEEN BEES OR WORKING BEES? From The Saturday Review. QUEEN BEES OR WORKING BEES? Miss BESSIE PARKES, in a paper read be- fore the Social Science Congress, and since published in the Englishwomans Journal and subsequently recommended by the same authority which has also adopted Dr. Cum- ming and the so-called school of the prophets has, either consciously or unconsciously, commit ted an ordinary argumentative fallacy. She has mixed up two or three subjects be- tween which not the slightest connection sub- sists; and she suggests that the arguments for the one l)osition sup~)ort the others, only be- cause she chooses to place them together. The point which it has been the labor of her life to establish is that which she places first in her recent argument; viz., that it is the duty of middle-class parents to train their daughters to some useful art, however humble. She argues, secondly, that they ought not to consider tuition more genteel than any other nonest calling; and, thirdly, that it is their duty to insure their lives for the benefit of their daughters. Now, we might urge, and not unreasonably, that this last duty makes the first sul)erfiuous. If all women in the reformed social state are to be self-supporting (which is Miss Parkes first position), the motive and duty in parents to provide for them after death (which is her third) ceases. Given, all women trained to a useful art and capal)le of exercising it successfully, we cannot imagine any state of things which would more reason- ably release I)arents from all solicitude as to their daughters. The very notion of life in- surance implies making a provision for those who have no visible means or hopes of sup- porting themselves. The very notion of all women being trained to ivork implies that they have means and hopes elevated to a cer- tainty, of independence. And be it observed that Miss Parkes does not urge that these duties are alternative, but correlative. Make your daughters watchmakers and clerks, and leave them a provision out of your savings. She says that both duties are equally impera- tive and both equally neglected by parents. We do not dispute the obligation of life insurance. We only say that this considera- tion has nothing to do with Miss Parkes main subject; though, were it worth while, we should join issue here on the matter of fact. Had Miss Parkes merely urged that life insurance might with advantage be more gen erally used, we should not object to the propriety of such a hint. But we (10 say that, in l)oint of fact, life insurance is largely adopted, and, in nine cases out of ten, in order to insure provision for those very parties whom Miss Parkes complainsor else why her homily Pthat fathers systematically neglect. For one case in which a middle-class man ef- fects a life insurance for his sons, there are ninety-and-nine in whuich he makes this pro- vision solely and exclusively for those widows and female orphans whose hard estate Miss Parkes bewails. Then as to her second pointthat govern- esses are badly paid, and often get into diffi- cultiesthis is only an indirect mode of urging the proposition which nobody disputes, that female education is very bad. Governesses get little, because the wares they sell are worthless. This is a mere matter of political economy and it requires no social lecturess to urge the need of improving the education of girls. If governesses had a better education to impart, they would get a better price for it. Their pay is next to nothing, l)ecause their services are next to nothing. This journal has not been very backward in urging the deficiencies of female educators; though we certainly are not eager for extending the Ox- ford middle-class system of examinations so as to include lady candidates for the degree of certificated associatea plan which Miss Parkes recommends as a remedy for an evil which we admit to the full. To have better governesses, however, they need be fewer, which is Miss Parkes suggestion; but if all governesses were better, all would get better stipends, of which Miss Parkes does not seem to be aware. She seeks to raise the average standard of skill by limiting the number of workmenan economical fallacy which she shares with the trades 1)0W on strike. For it comes to much the same thing whether, with the bricklayers, you say no man shall be skil- ful beyond a certain point, or whether, with Miss Parkes, you say you must only employ trained workwomen. In either case, the thing sought is to limit the amount of competing labor: and it would be a just application of Miss Parkes argument to urge that there ought to be none but the best trained masons and engineers, and that the inferior hands should turn to agriculture and soldiering. Miss Parkes is perfectly right in saying that improved female education would be a great 181 182 QUEEN BEES OR WORKING BEES? social gain; but, having stumbled on a truth, daughter some useful art. The prevailing she misses its value. Its value would be to theory is, let as many women as possible be not, she deendent marriaae. Let raise the governesses wages as p on woman be thinks, to diminish the numbers of govern- trained to this as the end of her being. And esses. Female education wants great and though it is not seldom more roughly ex- substantial improvements; but to admit this pressed, there is the highest social wisdom in is no stel) whatever towards Miss Parkes real it. Distressed governesses and distressed conclusion, that every woman should be workvomen are social anomalies, hut the so- taught a trade. cial fabric is for the greatest happiness of the She argues thus :If every woman could greatest numl)er. And this is attained by marry, it might perhaps be best to leave the making marriage the rule. In a community bread-winning department to the man, and where all the women were clerks, telegraph- to submit to the conclusion to which even workers, watchmakers, and bookkeepers, the Tennysons Princess ~vas driven, that womans inducements to marriage would I)e lessened sphere is to be provided for, and not to pro- on either side. Men do not like, and would vide. But, as things are, there are a vast riot seek, to mate with an independent factor, number of women who never get husbands, or who at any time could quitor who at all who lose them ~vithout jointures or life insur- times would be tempted to neglectthe tedi ances; and what is to be done for them P Miss ous duties of training and l)Iinging Oh) chil Parkes answer is; Educate every woman on dren, aiid keeping the tradesmens bills, and the assumption that she never will get a mending the linen, for the more lucrative re husband. Now, it would be quite enough to turns of the desk or counter. It is not the dispose of the whole question by reducing it interest of states, and it is not therefore true to this very elementary conception. Our an- social policy, to encourage the existence, as a swer is summary, thereforethat, as the rule, of women who are other than entirely cnances are very much in favor of every wo- dependent on man as well for subsistence as man getting a bus band, there is really no call for protection and love. upon us even to entertain the other hypothe- Possibly Miss Parkes may reply with the sis. But we say much more than this. We old story of the man and the lion. All our say that the greatest of social and political laws are man-made laws, and our social the- duties is to encourage marriage. The inter- ones are of the male manufacture. This is no est of a state is to get as man~ of its citizens reason why it should be so, she and the Wo married as possible. The equality of the mens Rights conventions would reply. It is sexes demonstrates this to be a la~v of nature, not, we admit; butand it really comes to And we add that man, in European communi- this after all Miss Parkes grievance lies ties, has deliberately adopted the view that, deeper, and hei complaint is with human na as much as j)055i1)le, women should he re- ture. Lady Psyche found the same fault; hieved from the necessity of self-support. and the remedy is the same. The answer to The measure of civilization is the maximum these theories is, fall in love and get a hus- at which this end is attained in any given hand. It is a prosaic way of putting it; but community or nation. Women laborers are this according to the apostle, common sense a 1)roof of a barbarous and iml)erfect civihiza- and the verdict of mankind, is the long and tion. Vile should be retrograding in the art short of it. Let them marry. But they and science of civilization were more women cant. Mores the pits, we say; but we are encouraged to be self-supporters. And the not disposed to innovate on society, and to reason of this is plain enough. Wherever make that more difficult which alre~dy is too women are self-supporters, marriage is, ipso difficult. Miss Parkes not only argues as facto, discouraged. The factory l)Opulation though every woman were a possible old maid is l)roof of this. In the manufacturing dis- and a contingent widow, but contends that her tricts women make worse wives and worse education is to be framed to meet this, which helpmates than where they are altogether is only an accident of life. Married life is wo- dependent on the man. And where there mans profession; and to this life her train- are fewer marriages there is more vice. Miss ingthat of dependenceis modelled. Of Parkes says, make your women, as a rule, course byno t getting a husband, or losing him, capable to support themselves teach every she may find that she is without resources. QUEEN BEES OR WORKING BEES? All that can be said of her is, she has failed in business; and no social reform can prevent such failures. The mischance of the dis- tressed governess and the unprovided widow, is that of every insolvent tradesman. He is to be pited; hut all the Social Congresses in tne world will not prevent the possibility of a mischance in the shape of broken-down tradesmen, old maids, or widows. Each and all are frequently left without resources; and each and all always will be left without re- sources; l)ut it would l)e just as reasonable to demand that every boy should be taught two or three professions because he may Ihil in one, as it is to argue that all our social hab- its should he changed because one woman in fiftyor whatever the statistics areis a spin- ster or widow without any resources. We fear we are driven, in spite of Miss Parkes, and a writer in the Times, to the old-fashioned ~iew, that it is better for all l)altiesmen and women, for the state and for societythat wo- men should not, as a rule, be taught some useful art, and so be rendered independent of the chances of life. We do not want our wo~ men to be androgynous. We had rather do what we can for the Governesses Institution. and, if need be, sul)scribe to a dozen more such institutions, than realize Miss PnrkesUtopia of every middle-class girl taught some useful art. For woman is not undevoipt man, But diverse: could we make her as the man, Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference. Collected by The Transcript. HOLY BELLS. I LOVE to hear the sound of holy bells, And peaceful man their praises lift to Heaven. Joanna Baillie. THE MESSIAH. The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; But, fixed, His word, His saving power remains; Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns. Pope. THE SAVIOUR. Oh! unexampled Love! Love nowhere to be found less than Divine! hail Son of God, Saviour of men, thy name Shall be the copious matter of my song Henceforth, and never shall my harp thy praise Forget, nor from thy Fathers praise disjoin. Milton. CHURCH TiME. In time of service seal up both thine eyes, And send them to thy heart; that spying sin, They may weep out the stains by them did rise: Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in. Who marks in church-time others symmetry, Makes all their beauty his deformity. Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part; Bring not thy plots, thy plough, thy pleasures thither. Christ purged his templeso must thou thy heart. All worldly thoughts are but thieves met to- gether To cozen thee. Look to thy actions well, For churches either are our heaven or hell. George Herbert. A RISEN SAVIOUR. Jesus is risen! triumphal anthems sing! Thus from dead winter mounts the sprightly spring; Thus does the sun from nights black shades return, And thus the single bird wings from the Ara- bian urn. Jesus is risen ! He shall the world restore Awake, ye dead! dull sinners, sleep no more I - Wesley. THE SAVIOtTES PRAISE. Oh, may I pant for Thee in each desire! And with strong faith foment thy holy fire! Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize Which in eternitys deep bosom lies! At the great day of recompense behold, ])evoid of fear, the fatal book unfold! Then wafted upward to the blissful seat, From age to age my grateful song repeat; My Lightmy Lifemy Godmy Saviour,. see, And rival angels in the praise of thee. Young. PUBLIC WORSHIP. Some there are Who hold it meet to linger now at home, And some oer fields and the wide hills to roam And worship in the temple of the air! For me, not heedless of the lone address, Nor slack to meet my Maker on the height, By wood, or living stream; yet not the less Seek I his presence in each social rite Of Ilis own temple: that he deigns to bless, There still he dwells, and that is his delight. Bishop Meat. 183 184 From The Saturday Review. THE INTELLECT OF WOMEN. THERE is a set of persons who are al~vays troublin~ themselves about the intellect of a women, and who wish to persuade the world that women are laboring under some great wrong, which would be instantly remedied if men would hut dispassionately consider the facts of the case. They urge that Lady Jane Grey learnt the classical languages, that An- gelica Kaufmann and Rosa Bonheur have painted pictures that command a high price, and that Mrs. Somerville knows more science than most scientific men. The object of all this is not to establish the political rights of women. These disputants do not go in for female jurors or female senators, and there- fore do not take us into a field of discussion where we should have to attack an opinion which, however opposed to our own, comes before us with the great authority of Mr. Mills advocacy. To know what they want we must go to humbler sources. This talk about the intellect of women has lately found a representative in a Mr. Reeve, who has written a small volume on the subject, and who, although rather an unpretending cham- pion, says probably all that is to be said ; and from his hook we gather that the point aimed at is to introduce a change in the education of women. If it could be proved that the intel- lect of women is equally strong, solid, and large as that of men, it is supposed to follow that they ought to receive the same educa- tion. All men of sense take interest in the education of women, and like to examine the process by which their wives have been formed, and for the application of which to their daughters they have to pay. Any plausible view on tbe sul~ject is, therefore, worth ex- amining, and perhaps the view that a natural equality of intellect exists in women, and de- mands a similar education with that bestowed on men, may, in courtesy, be called plausil)le. The great argument against the existence of this equality of intellect in women is, that it does not exist. If that proof does not sat- isfy a female philosopher, we have no better to give. But we never heard its existence maintained, except by clever women talking for talkings sake to men, or by men of the stami) who write little books like Mr. Reeves. The question is not whether some women have not done some things as well as some men, but whether they have ever given proofs THE INTELLECT OF WOMEN. of the same height and variety of capacity. If Adam Bede was written by a woman this is as great an achievement as the sex has ever reached; but it does not lend the least l)rol)- ability to the supl)osition that a woman could have written Don Quixote or Tom Jone8. But we do not think that we need argue the 1)oint fully, for even supposing that the sexes are equal in intellect, it is evident that nature, l)esides this equality of mental wealth, has also bestowed on women certain sl)ecial and peculiar qualities, ~vhicb are very valuable to society at large. It may be merely a piece of good economy that the higher intellectual pursuits are generally reserved for men. Wo- men might be equally fitted for these pursuits, but then there are also things for which they are exclusively fitted. In the first place, wo- men have the po~ver of pleasin~. Accom- plishments are cultivated as instrumental to the successful exercise of this l)ower, and therefore are not to be rejected on the ground that they waste the time that might be given to mathematics. The common sense of the world has long ago settled that men are to be l)leased and women are to please. Accord- ingly, women acquire an agreeable expertness at the piano, and view the acquisition as~ a solemn duty; whereas a man who fiddles or flutes to please women is barely tolerated by the women to whom he is musically attentive, and is heartily despised by the rest of the world. Jhen, again, women have a wonder- ful fund of patience, which is denied to men. They can bear any kind and amount of l)ain without flinching. They can wait contentedly in a room as the twilight deepens, without longing for candles. They do not much mind sermons, or crossed letters, or morning calls. They are happy while waiting for hours at a railway station without any thing satisfactory to eat. Men can do none of these things; and, as society necessarily requires that a cer- tain stock of patience should exist in it, it would be a great ~)ity if women were to in- sist on absorbing themselves in the cultivation of their equal intellects, and thus forcing situ- ations requiring patience on men, who are so very ill suited to fill them. There are many other points in which women have sl)ecial ex- cellences, and we cannot mention them all. Wre will, therefore, content ourselves with a.- luding to that which is perhaps the most sig- nal and valuable. Women recoil from being the victims of small frauds. They are en- THE INTELLECT OF WOMEN. dowed with a spirit of resistance to servants landladies, and shopkeepers. It is a mistake to suppose that the encounters of ladies with their domestics are a source of unmixed pleas- ure to them. They feel wearied and annoyed. but then they do not give in. On the other hand, the vast majority of men are so con- scious of a childish helplessness in such mat- ters that they never dream of entering into conflicts in ~vhich they know they must be worsted. If, therefore, women were to with- draw from household cares the time necessary for the cultivation of their equal intellects, so- ciety would be one vast playground for petty larceny to revel in. We must not quarrel with the appointed order of things. It has pleased Heaven that there should be one sex, and only one, that dare examine a lodging- house bill or a cooks system of management. Let us cling to the protection which this spe- cial courage affords us. Mr. Reeve wishes that the education of girls should be made more solid and serious. So long as the solidity of education is limited by the consideration that the girls, when they have become women, must exercise their spe- cial gifts, there can he no objection to it. The education of women in England has greatly improved within the last twenty years, and nothing has contributed to the improvement so much as the employment of men to aid in their education. It is now a very common practice with girls schools to have male lec- turers in history, astronomy, geography, and so forth. The classes instituted by distin- guished for& gners in London for instruction in continental languages and literature have been very successful, and parents, by adopting a system so strange to English domestic hab- its, have shown how deeply they have the education of their daughters at heart. Then, the heads of the best schools show the keenest avidity to bring ~vithin the range of their in- struction every ne~v department of human knowledge. Directly any sets of facts, or supposed facts, have been brought into any sort of scheme, young ladies learn them. Men are half dazzled and half amused at find- ing how quickly female patience and female trustfulness are brought to bear on new fields of learning. It is wonderful, for example, to flr,d what some young ladies know about Egyptian history. They can tell offhand when Thoth the Second succeeded Rameses the Fourth, and seem to have formed or im- l)ibed a shrewd opinion as to the respective merits of those tvo l)ritlces. In geography, again, their acquirements are prodigious. When a man comes across the name of one of the great standing difficulties of geography, such as the name of a South American re- public, or a Scotch county, lie is at sea. He has a sense, closely resembling a vague sense of smell, that the places are somesvhere in South America and somewhere in Scotland. But a woman is quite at home, and when she reads of a shocking accident in Bolivia or Cromarty, she knows perfectly, not only where those territories are, but what are their chief towns, and what their chief towns are most famous for producing. We really cannot see that English girls need any greater solidity of education than they already possess. If a change is required in any direction, it is prob- ably in the direction of learning the Englisl. language and literature more thoroughly. French girls are made to devote a great por- tion of their educational time to learning French ; and although the excess to ~vhich this is carried springs mainly from the Catho- lic notion of teaching girls only what is safe, and cannot therefore be a precedent for Prot~ estants, yet the example might be advan- tageously followed to some extent, and Eng- lish women might be forced to bestow more attention than they do now on standard Eng- lish authors, and on the construction, com- pass, and niceties of the English language. Perhaps it may be thought that the ac quirements of women are rather too superfi- cial and extensive. It is certainly necessary that they should learn some things thoroughly well, in order to gain a conception of what thorough kno~vledge is; but a certain sul)er- ficiality of knowledge is by no means un- suite(l to them. Philosophers say that wo- men have the deductive intellect, and not the inductive. By this is practically meant that they have great quickness in suggestion, in the detection of possible consequences, and in hazarding skilful remarks. In order to do themselves justice, they must therefore have a kind of notion of what the subject is that falls under discussion, and a general conception of the elementary facts on which it rests, and the technical expressions it carries with it. Directly they have got so much, their deduc- tive intellect can begin to work. They do 185 THE INTELLECT OF WOMEN. not proceed by arriving at argumentative con- clusions from clearly defined premises, but they throw out observations which they can- not tell how they came by, but which give the discussion a new turn, and open 01) ne~v lines of thought. However equal, therefore, their intellect may be, yet, as it works in a different way from that of men, their education must be accommodated to this difference. There is also another very valuable quality which they possess, and by possessing which they greatly aid the intellectual advance of the world. This is enthusiasm. Nothing can he more pleasant or more useful than the enthusiasm which ~vomen feel for all literature and all in- tellectual l)o~ers, es~)ecially if displayed in a way that appeals to the feelings. The stand- ard of society is raised by this noble admira- tion of something not material or sensual, and men gain from it a source of strength and a power of recruiting their emotional faculties, of which, if they were deprived, they would soon flag. In the absorption of l)rofessional pursuits, or business, or sJ)ort, or through an increasing acquaintance with the processes by which literature is made, men are very apt to ose their relish for poetry which once de- lighted them, or which would have delighted them if they had read it in a different frame of mind. There is a deficiency in their en- thusiasm; but fortunately they have abundant wells from which the deficiency can be sup- plied. Women are as ready to furnish en- thusiasm as a hatter is to furnish a hat. In some treasure their superiority in this respect is due to their temperament and to the gen- eral cast of their minds ; but it also greatly proceeds from the character of their educa- tion and their different habits of life, which preserve them from being mentally used up. Here, again, are two precious qualitiesun- argumentative suggestiveness and enthusiasm which are peculiar to women, and which society cannot afford to tam p~r with or lessen. It is only another side of Mr. Reeves views about the intellect of women, when other in- novators recommend that girls should be ac- customed to play at the same games and in- dulge in the same amusements as boys. If they are to do the same lessons, they must want, it max be thought, the same recreations; and both sexes ought to balance the composi- tions of Latin Elegiacs by cricket and foot- ball. We do not feel attracted by the pro- gramme. Young ladies surely can attain and preserve health without any thing like pul)lic games; and if it is only meant that brothers and sisters should play together at home, they do that already, and very wisely, without any l)hilosopher being required to instruct them, We confess that neither in education, nor in manners or ways of conducting themselves, does there seem much room for iml)rovement in ordinary good English girls. Humanly speaking, the best sort of British young lady is all that a woman can he expected to be civil, intelligent, enth usiastic, decorous, and, as a rule, prettier than in any other country. We are perfectly satisfied with what ~ve have got. Even the characteristic foibles of young ladies are to be imputed to the general tone of society rather than to themselves. They are certainly a little too much bent on exter- nal sho~v, but so is all English socie ty;a~d their talk is much worse than their acts. No women bear privations, hardships, and diffi- culties of all sorts more cheerfully, unaf- fectedly, or bravely. They are also infected ~vith an unhappy taste for religious squabbles and ecclesiastical partisanship. But this is one of the fancies they share with a large portion of the world around them; and in nine cases out of ten, they are simply guided by the opinions and prejudices of some man whom thei esteem, revere, or love. They are generally willing to be convinced by the su- peiior attractions of some one of a different school ; and they usually take a very miti- gated ~ie~v of l)oints that once seemed to them of overwhelming iml)ortance, when the realities of later lifr~children, bills, servants, and sicknessleave them time to attend to nothing but the essentials of religion. 186 A LOST LOYE.PATHWAYS IN PALESTINE. A LOST LOVE. So fair,and yet so desolate; So wan, a~d yet so young; Oh, there is grief too deep for tears, Too seald for telltale tongue With a faded floweret in her hand, Poor little hand, so white And dim blue eye, front her easement high She looks upon the ni ht. Only a little rosebud Only a simple flower But it blooms no more as it seemd to bloom Througl~ many a lone, lone hour. As they float from her feverd touch away, The l)etals witherd and l)rown, All the hopes she deemd too bright to be dream d Sink trembling and fluttering down. It needs no hush of the present To call back the sweet, calm past; The lightest snmme r murmuring May be heard through the wintry blast; And the wind is rough with sob and with sough To-night upon gable and tree, Till the bare elms wail like spectres pale, And the pines like a passionate sea. But she thinks of a dreamy twilight On the garden walk below, Of the laurels whispering in their sleep, Anti the white rose in fall blow. The early moon had sunk away Like some pale queen, to die In the costly shroud of an opal cloud To the June airs tremulous si ~h. All, all too freshly real; The soft, subdued eclipse, Hand in hand, and heart in heart And the thrill of the wedded lips Those tender memories, how they flush Pale cJwek and brow again, Though heart be changed, and lip estranged, That swore such loving then Tis but the old, old story Sun so often in vain: For man all the freedom of passion, For woman the calm and the pain. Tell it the soul whose grief is read In the poo~~ pale, suffering face, It will still cling on to a love that is gone With the warmth of its first embrace. Oh tis well for the careless spirit To weave the web of rhyme, And prison the idle memories That float on the breath of time; But better for many an aching heart, If ever it might be so, To forget, to forget the light that has set, And the dreams of long ago. -Once a Week. R.A. B. PATHWAYS IN PALESTINE. THE pathways of Thy land are little changed Since Thou wert there; The busy world through other ways has ranged, And left these bare. The rocky path still climbs the glowin~ steep Of Ohivet; Though rains of two milienniums wear it deep, Men tread it yet. Still to the aardens oer the brook it leads, Quiet and lotv; Before his sheep the shepherd on it trends, His voice they know. The wild fl~ throws broad shadows oer it still, As once oer Thee; Peasants go home at evening up that hill To Bethany. And as when gazing Thou didst weep oer them, From height to height The white roofs of discrowned Jerusalem Burst on our sight. These ways were strewed with garments once, and palm, Which we tread tItus; Here through Thy triuntph on Thou passedst, calm, On to Thy cross. The waves have washed fresh sands upon the shore Of Galilee; But chiselled in the hill-sides evermore Thy paths we see. Man has not changed them in that slumbring land, Nor time effaced: Where Thy feet trod to bless, we still may stand; All can be traced. Yet we have traces of thy footsteps far Truer than these: Whereer the poor and tried and suffering are, Thy steps faith sees. Nor with fond, sad regrets Thy steps we trace; Thou art not dead Our path is onward, till we see Thy face, And hear Thy tread. And now, wherever meets Thy lowliest band In praise and prayer, There is Thy presence, there Thy Holy Land, Thou, Thou art there! The Three Walcings. 187 DESCRIPTIVE ETHNOLOGY. From The Economist. Descrsptive Ethnology. By R. G. Latham, M.A., MI)., F.R.S., late Fellow of Kings College, Cambridge. Vols. I., II. (East- ern and Northern Asia; Europe; Africa; India.) London: Van Voorst. 1859. THE learned and elaborate work of which these two volumes form the first instalment, promises to be one of the most valuable and readable of those for which we are indebted to Dr. Lathams indefatigable pen. The plan on which be has l)roceeded is best and most characteristically described in his opening sentences : I follow the Horatian rule, and plunge, at ouce, in medias res. I am on the Indus; hut not on the Indian portion of it. I am on the Himalayas; but not on their southern side. I am on the north-western ranges; with Tartary on the north, Bokhara on the west, and Hindostan on the south. I am in a neighborhood where three great religions meet; Mahometanism, Buddhism, Brabminism. I must begin somewhere; and here is my beginning. That these parts are my starting points means little; perhaps nothing. At any rate it does not mean that I hold them to be the centre of our civiliza- tion. Still less does it imply that they are the cradle of the human race. No hypothe- sis attaches to them. I must simply begin somewhere. But why begin here? If I had begun elsewhere the same question might have been asked; and the same answer would be given. My object is to describe. If a certain amount of classification accompany the description, well and good. If specula- tions arise, they may or may not be pursued. At any rate they will form no notable por- tion of the ~vork. As I have already stated, it is simply descriptive. Dr. Lathams book literally carries out this programme. It condenses into the compass of two average octavo volumes of good clear type, an amount of information which it has rarely fallen within the capacity of one man to bring together with such a quiet and com- plete mastery of the subject in every point of view. A more thorough book it would be difficult to imagine. Every paragraph gives the result of a careful and minute investiga- tion; and every page contains the cream of all the best authorities, with the adjunct of a vigorous and well-sustained critical commen- tary on the part of the author. It is, in fact, a dictionary of the social history of three continents, on a geographical basis. Every tribe or nationality which now exists is de- scribed more or less fully, according to the amount of our information, or the importance of its social character. Its origin; its ethno- logical affinities ; its history and prospects; its social usages and language; its religion; and its general l)osition in the scale of civili- zation, are all more or less fully treated of, as we pass, under the authors guidance, as of a comprehensive Murray, from land to land, and from shore to shore. Yet, with all this vast accumulation of well-sifted informa- tion, there is no l)arade of learning, and no wordy didactic obscurity. The work is an equivalent for a whole library of hooks, with the addition of the matured judgment of an accomplished scholar, who has made the sub- ject the labor of a life. The natural and geographical plan ~vhich Dr. Latham has pursued in his present work, harmonizes also remarkably well with the critical tone of his mind. He is candid to a fault, for, instead of imposing upon the nearly universal igno- rance of his readers a number of ingenious theories of his own, which it would be quite beyond their power to separate from as~r- tamed fact, he almost recklessly, in all his works, exposes the nakedness of our certain knowledge on most points, and if he suggests a theory, does so with almost too marked a caution that it is an hypothesis onlyhighly probable, but possibly wrong. Such candor, it will be seen at once, stands sadly in the way of the positivism essential to a good synthetical treatise; and in some of his for- mer works has impaired Dr. Lathams qual- ifications as an instructor of the many, who have not the power of forming or susJ)ending a judgment, and are alarmed and perplexed at not finding it laid down dogmatic ally what they are to implicitly believe and utterly re- ject. But a traveller has always a larger latitude of speculation allowed to him, and in this character, attractive to most readers, Dr. Latham can give the best and latest infor- mation ~ respecting our brother men, without being expected to repeat a personal credo after every statement. On the details of such a work it would be mere presumptuous affectation in us to pass a critical judgment, especially within our nar- row limits. We must content ourselves with 188 DESCRIPTIVE ETHNOLOGY. quoting one or two passages, which will give some slight idea of the general value of the book. In s1)eaking of the Burmese group, the author thus adverts generally to some of the conditions of social revolutions in nations Such is the notice of those members of the Burmese family with which the ethnolo- gist most especially concerns himself, such the rude tribes of the hill and forest, always more important than the comparatively civilized men of the town or city; because they more truly exhibit humanity in its older and more primitive forms. Physical conform ations, so long as the ;)bysical conditions of soil, climate, aliment and the like, remain the same, alter (if at all) but slowly. Tbe same is the case with language. Religious beliefs, however, may be not only changed within tbe course of a few generations, but, when changed, modify the numerous characteristics that accompany them. It is as rare for one of the literate religions (by which I mean Cbristianity, Juda- ism, Mabometanism, the Parsi creed, Biab- mimsm, and Buddhism) to he introduced into a country wi bout carrying with it the alpha- bet by which its ritual is embodied, as it is for an alphabet to find its way into a country without a creed to attend it. Hence, the loss of a system of paganism is the gain of a literature; or, if not of an actual literature, of the means of creating one. When a I)op- ulation has arrived at this period of its devel- opment, foreign influences become rife and common. and actions and reactions take l)lace between it an(l its neighbors. When this has gone on beyond a certain time, nine-tenths of the individualities of the primitive l)ol)ulations are abolished. Small and independent streams meet in one large plain, and the wide expanse of a lake is the result of their confluence. Small and independent families become united to large and dominant nations; losing their characteristics; merged into uniformity. The following passage, which gives the au- thors judgment on the African negro, em- bodies a view which may be new to some of our readers Another caution. Of the numerous di- visions of the African family that which is best known to learned men is the negro; in- asmuch as nine out of ten of the Africans seen in either Europe or America belong to it. The slaves are chiefly negro. Some, in- deed, are Fulas, some Kafirssome, but few. The mass is from a single district, the coast of Guinea. That this gives us a fair sample of the varieties of the African physiognomy is unlikely. It may possibly give us the ex- ception rather than the rule. And this is what it actually does. The extreme negro is found on only a few areas. He is found on the coast between the Sene- gal and Congo; and he is found to some dis- tance in the interior. He is found in the I)arts about Lake Tshad, in Senonar, and in several isolated spots besides. But he is not found in the vast tract occupied by either the Ber bers of the north, or the Bitshuaoas of the south. He is not found in the Itighlands of .~thiopia. He is not found amsngst the widely spread Fulas. All these tribes are ex~)ressly stated to he other than negro. Then come the Bishari, the Nubians, and the Gallas; who, by tlteir length of hair and prominence of feature, are easily seI)arated from the true negro; though negro-like in many respects. Let these represent a second class of Africans. Let them stand between the ty~)ical negro and the Berber. Let the physical geographer now he called in, and let him divide the cOntinet)t of Africa into the dry l)lateaIls and the moist alluvia. The men of the Fula type will belong to the former, the true negros to the other. To say that there are no light-colored men in swampy localities ~vould be inaccurate. It would also be inaccurate to deny that some negroes are to be found on high levels. As a general rule, however, the negro conformation and the alluvial soil go together. Read any work upon the ethnology of the water system of the Nile. Read the descriptions (nut always free from exaggeration) of the fine Caucasian (so-called) Abyssinians; of the halt~African Copts ; of the negro-like (but not negro) Nubians; and finally of the Sennaar blacks. Mark, on a map, the areas over which these several varieties are sI)rea(I. Compare it with the ~geological cltart of iRussegger; and the closeness of the coincidences will, perhaps, surprise you. rI~lle blacks are found on the tertiary and recent deposits. The primitive and volcanic tracts will give the Eu- ropean faces. The intermediate conforma- tions will be found on the sandstones. Read Livingstone. The same results will l)resent themselves, and the author himself will draw attention to them. The negro is an excep- tional African. 189 A ~ ISIT TO ROCUDALE. From The Saturday Review. A VISIT TO ROCHDALE. ROCUPALE is perhaps unknown to many of our readers, except as the borough which furnishes a modest parliamentary retreat to the late representative of the West Riding. What is generally known of it might be summed up in copybook phrase A small town in Lancashire, chiefly noted for woolfen manufactures. Nor is there any thing in its appearance or architecture to distinguish it from other places of the same class. Its site, round the bottom of a closely pent valley, is one of the most unpromising that could be named ; nor does the nativity of Mr. Bright afford sufficient cause for a pilgrimage thither. A duller and less attractive spot a tourist could hardly select. But Roebdale boasts one institution which is likely to be remem- hered when Mr. Bright is forgotten. A few humble ol)eratives have there achieved more for the honor and service of their order than the great agitators wildest schemes of re- form can ever effect. Unaided from without, aimost unheard of beyond their own neigh- borhood, their labors have raised thousands of their fellow-workmen to a position of en- viable comfort and independence. Fifteen years ago, the condition of the weavers of Rochdale was below that of the majority of Lancashire operatives; now, both in prosper- ity and intelligence, they are, to say the least of it, on a level with the elite of their class. At this moment a capital of not less than 60,000, belonging to Rochdale working men, is invested in concerns of which working men alone have the management and control, and it increases almost faster than employ- ment can be found for it. The quarterly dividends, instead of being dissipated, as wind- falls are alit to be by working men, in extrav- agant indul~ence, are in great l)art re-invested at once in the concerns from which they flow. Two ~r three thousand men have been edu- cated in habits of thrift, foresight, and ra- tional temperance. More than half that number periodically assemble, and discuss their affairs with as much good sense and decorum as are usually found at the meetings of a great railway company; and the men by whose wisdom and energy this has been accomj)lished plait~ working men still in dress, language, and condition converse upon their achievements with unaffected modesty, listea to suggestion or dissent with more courteous patience than an ordinary mechanic will display, and indicate the causes to which they attribute their success, and the mistakes whicla they have learned to repair, with a candor and clearness of sight which go far to explain to the listener results which at first seeme(l incredible. Fifteen years ago, by hardly saved contri- butions of threepence a week, some forty working men, most of them more or less inoculated by the doctrines of Robert Owen, had amassed a common capital of 28. With this sum they hired the ground-floor of a small warehouse in a hack street. half their little capital was spent on rent and humble fixturesthe other half l)urchased flour and groceries for sale among the members. Their shop was open for a few hours every week, and the most zealous among them undertook the management. For many months these men worked hard with hope- ful faith and loyalty under desertion and dis- couragementwith, no pay and little praise. Perseverance brought slow success. Their numbers and their capital gradually increased. Their practical rules were admirable, and ex- perience, by whicla they knew how to pr~it, corrected the errors of principle with which they started. They learned to limit their ambition to such social regeneration as pa- tience and energy may effect. They learned the immutability of economical laws. They submitted to pay such interest on capital as working men could in no other way procure for their small savings. The Roebdale Sav- ings Bank failed, and the Co-operative Store practically took its place, with a capital now amounting to some 1200. Since that time its progress has been rapid and uninterrupted. In the following year (18~0) it was for the first time open the whole day long, and sala- ried officers were appointed. From their present l)osition the founders of the liochdale Society of Equitable Pio- neersto give them their full titlemay well look back with l)1ide upon their sma. beginnings. No rich philanthropist has aided them with money and bad adviceno patronage of influential neighbors has sup- ported themtheir work is all their own. To their own exertions they owe their capital of 20,000, their t~vo warehouses in that busy back street, their branch establishments, their butchers shop, their drapers shop, their shoemaking and tailoring business, their 190 A VISIT TO ROCUDALE. 191. amply stocked grocery and provision shop, only for ready money~a man who may have their well-supplied news-room, their evening 100 in the store cannot buy a pound of tea school, their library of three thousand vol- on credit. Thirdly, their dealings are all umes. To them is mainly due the creation simple, so as to be understood at a glance by of the Itoebdale Co-operative Corn Mill, with directors and auditors. In their own phrase, its 12,000 of independent cal)ital, besides every transaction must clear itself. The the ~5000 which they have lent to it. fhey, shareholder of 100, if lie wants a l)ound of too, are the chief authors of the Co-operative tea, and has no cash in his l)OCket, must with Manufacturing Society, in which they have draw a portion of his money from the hands invested 5000 belonging to the pioneers, of the cashier, and pay for his goods across and which has already an additional capital the counter. For the laws allow any sum of 30,000. But it is their highest honor to under fifty shillings to be drawn out without have emancipated the twenty-four hundred notice; and even for larger sums notice is, in members of their store from two of the worst l)ractice, never required, which is l)erhaps a servitudes which degrade and oppress the chief cause of the steady confidence reposed English workmanthe slavery of the Trades in the management. Fiuall~, the (li~i5iOO of Union, and ihe slavery of debt. For, by the profits is made in a manner somewhat re- natural progress of enlightenment and inde- markable. Salaries and expenses being paid, pendence, the store has almost starved out and a very liberal allowance made for depre- the Unions and superseded strikes in Roch- ciation of fixed stock, five per cent is paid on dale, and the nature of its operations relieves all capital invested, and one-fortieth part of its members from that incubus of indebtedness the remainder is allotted to an educational which hangs like a millstone round the neck fund, out of which the library and news-room of the operative ~~ho aspires to improve his are supported. The remainder is distributed condition, among the members in proportion to their Few of us probably are aware how general purchases. This arrangement is a somewhat is a state of debt among the working class. l)eculiar, and, at first sight, a somewhat unin- In his History of the Bochdale Storestrik- telligible, one. In discussing it with two or ingly different in character and value from three of the ablest members of the society we his other writingsMr. Holyoake, who thor- found that they defend it by arguments much oughly knows the working classes, has some less tenable than the arrangement itselfar- remarkable passages, which we have not space guments which go to impeach the whole exist- to quote. Suffice it to say that the weeks ing system of retail trade. They allege that wages are, too generally, spent beforehand, capital has received its due when interest has and that a large proI)ortion of families are been paid upon itthat the customers who in debt to much more than that amount. make the trade ought to have the profit. We They are kept by their debts in a state of need not waste words in exposing the fallacy hopeless dependence Upon the shopkeeper, of this doctrine. The arrangement in ques- are coml)elled to purchase inferior articles at tion may be defended on better grounds. high pricesand thus live in inevitable waste The store was instituted, not for the profit of and incurable discomfort. From this condi- capitalists, but for the benefit of l)uIchasers tion the Rochdale Store has extricated all an object neither more nor less legitimate. It who belong to it. It will not let them run is managed in the name and for the advan- into debt, it makes savings for them without tage of working-class l)11Icl)asers. Th# five trouble of theirs, pays them an interest on per cent, with liberty of withdrawal, attracts those savings which they could obtain in no more capital than they require; for working other vay, and allows them facilities for with- men with savings of 10, 20, or 50, can drawing their investments practically as great find no investment so profitable, except by as those offered by a savings-bank, means of co-operation. And it would be ab- The main distinctive l)Iincililes of the co- surd for the store to offer higher terms than ol)erative store mar be summed up as follows, those which suffice to~ attract all the capital In the first l)lace, adulteration and undersell it can profitably employ. To the workman~ ing are unknown; they buy only sound and capitalist it is a bank paving the highest rate wholesome goods, and sell only at the retail of interest that any bank offersto the work market price. Secondly, they buy and sell man-purchaser it is an agency in whose prof. A VISIT TO ROCHDALE. its he is a partner. The former has this ad- ditional advantage, that he has a vote in its managemeutthe latter, that his 1)rofits are, if he pleases, saved and invested for him; and there are few of the jiurchasers who have not also money invested in the store. In- deed, such only are members, and as mem- bers entitled to share the profits. Servants of the store receive a fixed salarythe direc- tors serve gratuitously. The corn mill is managed ou the same footiug. The manufacturing society has hitherto been a small conceru, renting one floor in a mill of moderate size. It is nov collecting cons1derallt capital, anti has made some prog- ress in building a factory of its own. After paying five per cent on cal)ital, and wages at the market rate, it divides profits on wages and capital alike. Thus, at the years end, if the net return he four per cent on the whole capital aud the sum paid iu wages added to- gether, A. B., who works elsewhere, hut has 60 in the society, will receive 2 lOs. inter- est, plus 2 profit, equal to 4 lOs.; and C. ID., having iuves ted nothing, l)ut receiving from the society 60 in ~vages, will he entitled to 2 profit only. By this means the society will be able to command the best ~vorkmen, and every man, beiug a paitnet in the con- cern, is likely to do his utmost. The society, therefore, look fortvard to considerable profits. On a small scale, they have already done well. Even in the disastrous tune of 1867, their ready-money dealings exempted them in great measure from the influence of the panic; and they made a small profit when the trade at large were losing heavily. Whether they will succeed so well with a large business whether they can command and will pay for the skill required to deal ~vith the complica- tions of the cotton trade and the difficulties of the Liverpool marketwe cannot j)letend to say. They are confident., however, and have earned some right to be so. We heartily wish them success. The good that they have done in Rochdale and its vicinity we have endeavored to describe. The good which their exam l)le may do else- where we can hardly estimate. Co-opera- tion in this form, purged from O~venism, and far removed from Coin munism recognizing that the latvs of political economy are as cer- tain as the law of gravitationrecognizing, too, in direct contradiction to Communism. that, while human nature remaius the same, the more direct and personal a mans interest in his work, the better for his work, for him- self, and for othersmay not improbably prove a most valuable ingredient in our social system. Certainly it has taught the men of Rochdale not ouly a most intelligent ap~re- hension of their own interests, but a respect for the rights and an appreciation of the good-will of other classes which are too rarely found among working men. MADAME I) STAEL.Slle was dressed as Corinne; a turban of aurora and orange-col- ored silk, a dress of the sarue, with an orange tunic, girtled so high as to leave tistle room for her heart ; her black brows and lashes glittered, as also her lips, with a tnysserious red; her long gloves ~vere drawn down, covering only her hand, in which she held the ~vell-known laural sprig. As the apartment where sIte was ex- pected lies much lower, she was obliged to de- scene four steps. Unfortunately she held up her dress before instead of behind ; this gave the solemnity of her reception a terrible blow; it looked very odd, as, clad in complete Orien- ta~ style, she marched down toward the stiff dames of the virtue-enrolled Frankfort society. Your mother darted a few daring glances at me, whilst they were presented so each other, I had stationed myself apart so observe the whole scene. I perceived Madame de Staels astonishment at the remarkable decorations and dress of your mother, who disptayed an im- mense pride. She spread out her robe with her left handwith her right she saluted, playing with her fan, and bowin~ her head several times with great condescension, and said, with an elevated voice, Je seis la mare de Goethe. Alt, je suis cltarrnJe, answered the authoress and then followed a solemn ssillness.Bretaao to Goethe. 192

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 817 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0064 /moa/livn/livn0064/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 817 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 28, 1860 0064 817
The Living age ... / Volume 64, Issue 817 193-256

THE LIVING AGE. No. 817.~8 January, 1860. CONTENTS. 1. Leaders of the Reformation 2. Hopes and Fears, Chap. 3, . 3. Trollopes West Indies, . . 4. Luck of Ladysmede, Part X. 5. Mind and Body, 6. Mrs. Murrays Morocco, Spain, and the Canaries, 7. The Twin Mutes: Taught and Untaught, 8. The Caribs 9. Dictionnaire Universel des Contemporains, 10. Women Artists 11. The First P1a~~house 12. Hoop Petticoats, Frasers Magazine, Author of Heir of Redclyffe, Saturday Review, Blackwoods Magazcne, Saturday Review, Spectator, Dublin University Magazine, canada Echo, Economist, Press, Once a Week, Notes and Queries, PoEntY.The Palimpsest, 194. Defence, not Defiance, 194. Sabbath Bells, 208. The Advent, 208. Twin Mutes, 237. The Flower of Night, 238. The Prayer of the Poor for the Poor, 238. A Christmas Carol, 238. SnoRT ARTICLES. Dr. Warren and Louis Napoleon, 233. Letters from Italy, 233. River Banks, 233. Christmas in Germany, 240. Love and Friendship, 240. New Book by John Stuart Mill, 244. The Heart of the Andes, 248. Pilgrimages to Mecca, 255. Li- braries in the United States, 25,5. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Living Age will be punctually for wardedfree of oostege. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-cix volume,, 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 5ale at two dollars a volume. ANY votusse may be had separately, at two dollars. bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. PACE. 195 200 209 213 230 234 237 239 241 245 249 256 THE PALIMPSEST. DEFENCE, NOT DEFIANCE. TIlE PALIMPSEST. LOVE turnd quite studious, grave, one day, And left his play. He folded close each azure wing, And ceased to sing: Casting from groves reverted looks, Took to his books. He chose a volume from his store, And gan to pore Upon a thickly-coverd page, Which youth or age Had writ, and crossd and so recrossd, Meaning scemd lost. Yet Love still gazed, all open-eyed, And almost sighd. But tenderness was soon beguiled, And so he smiled, As vagrant Memory, hovering near, Whisperd his ear. This manuscript, cried Love at last, Contains my past: The tale of passions following waves, Which found their graves, Leaving a wrinkle on the shore, And nothing more. First on the roll Aglads name, My virgin flame! Oh, how I loved thee! Offering flowers At matin hours, When birds filld all the sky with mirth, And joy the earth; And should have loved for aye, I ween, Had it not been That Doras eyes, so nunlike, sweet, My glance did meet, And drew me, at each vesper bell, To her green cell. I could have knelt forever there, But Sibyl fair Rose, like a conquering star, and then (We are but men) Led me beside her chariot wheel (Dear! what we feel!) Over her name I just can trace Thine, sweetest Grace. Thiae was the advent of the day: The rest were play. Ah, why should passions perfect noon Sink all so soon! Next there comes Zod; then Lucrece (Ii had no peace!) And heres a name I cant make out, Much loved, no doubt; And heres one I have clean forgot, Or, tis a blot. Then Clarice, large-eyed like a fawn (Love gan to yawn), And thy full charms, dear Amoret, I neer forget; Nor Lettice, frank and debonnaire, I do declare. Love kept deciphering his past Till sleep at last Drowsed him, but showd him in his dreams Beauties in streams, Whose lips still held the kiss he gave When he was slave: And ears that thrilld to whisperd praise; And cheeks his gaze Had tinged so ruddy; all slid on, And quick were gone, As snowflakes that the spring earth pelt Gleam bright and melt. Murmurd the lips of that quaint boy, I scatter joy. Im not inconstant, save in name; My sacred flame Burns ever. Circumstance doth move Deathless is Love! Once a Week. BEENI DEFENCE, NOT DEFIANCE. BY TENNYSON. NEAREE the muttering thunders roll, Blacker and heavier frowns the sky Yet our dauntless English soul Faces the storm with a steady eye; Hands are strong where hearts are stout~ Our rifles are readylook out! No one wishes the storm to roll here, No one cares such a devil to raise; And in brotherhood, not in fear, Only for peace an Englishman prays; Yet he may shout in the midst of the rout, Our rifles are readylook out! Keep to your own, like an honest man, And heres our hand, and heres our heart; Let the world see how wisely you can Play to the end a right neighborly part; But if mischief is creeping about, Our rifles are readylook out! No defiance is on our lips, Nothing but kindliness greets you here; Still in the storm our dolphin ships Round the eddystone dart and steer; And on shoreno doubt, no doubt Our rifles are readylook out! Not defiance, but only defence, Hold we forth for humanitys sake; And, with the help of Omnipotence, We shall stand when the mountains quake Only in Him our hearts are stout; Our rifles are readylook out. 194 LEADERS OF THE REFORMATION. From Frasers Magazine. LEADERS OF THE REFORMATION. THEOLOGY, fortunately, is fast becoming one of the lighter relaxations of a literary leisure, and not being serious readers we devote this windy morning to theological study. There are few more entertaining books than Mr. Mansels Lectures on the Absolute. Were he describing a Parisian flte or a petit- souper in a Viennese boudoir, he could not write in a pleasanter or more epigrammatic vein. He destroys time and space, and anni- hilates the Absolute with infinite smartness and bonhomie. Surely, to crush this adroit performer in the ttenchant way Mr. Maurice does is a little too unfeeling.~ We dont re- sent a conjurors tricks; and Mr. Mansels manipulation of the Infinite is managed with the skill and airiness of a finished artiste. But mortals quickly weary of these esca- pades into dreamless space. The chargers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long re- sounding pace,~~ are hard to hold, and the fate of Phaeton warns us. For what, alas is it to us Whether, i th moon, men thus or thus Do eat their porridge, cut their corns, Or whether they have tails or horns l lATe want life, warmth, color; the vivid inter- ests and the sharp contests of flesh and blood. So we turn to the noble drama of the Reformation as outlined in Principal Tul- lochs masterly sketches,* and mingle once more with the great men who animated and swayed the sl)iritual revolt against Rome. A lecture is nearly as dismal a business as a sermon; and to endure it with composure is the test of modern heroism, as the search for the San Greal was of the antique. But these lectures on the Reformers were well worth hearing; and the great interest they excited when originally deliverea in Edin- burgh, was no mean tribute to the cultivated intelligei~ce of a Scottish audience. Principal Tulloch no doubt possesses many of the natural gifts of the orator; he speaks with energy, decision, feeling, and admirable directness. But it was the thinker, even more than the orator, who captivated the attention of the listeners. A great theme was being worthily treated by one who appreciated its signifi ~ Leaders of the Reformation. By John Tul- loch, D.D. Edinburgh: Blackwood. 1859. cance and understood its lessons. An intel- tect singularly temperate and dispassionate was estimating with judicial calmness and generous sym~)athy the motives and fruits of a stormy struggle. There was no strained l)atlios, no artificial rhetoric; but the words were weighty and condensed, and colored throughout by the vivid light of a vigorous and glowing imagination. Dr. rrulloch is an eloquent writer, and his estimate of the causes and effects of the six- teenth-century struggle is at once luminous and profound. But to the reflective reader (if any specimen of that extinct species yet survives) the most interesting trait in the book is the teml)er of mind it discloses. Scotland was the land where the narrow and frigid Puritanism of the most narrow and frigid of the Reformers attained maturity; the land where any freedom of independent conviction or any diversity of religious life was rigorously crushed out. Not in Geneva itself was the Civitas Dei associated more closely with the police office. The bonds, no doubt are being loosed; the nation is free- ing itself from an inquisitorial authority as subtle in its ramifications, as complete in its machinery, and as arrogant in its l)retension~ as that of Rome. Yet the spirit which in- fected the fierce, dogmatic, unscrupulous Cal- vinism of the Covenanting assemblies is not dead; and at th~ present day Scotland strik- ingly illustrates the unhappy truth, that the most extreme liberalism in l)olitical sentiment may be allied with sl)iritual intolerance and social tyranny. It was therefore no doubt a pleasant surprise to many readers to find, within the very citadel of the system, a man like the writer of this book. To say that Dr. Tulloch is fair, candid, and dispassionate, is to say little. His sagacious moderation, his rare temperance, his thorough impartiality, would be notable anywhere; within the sanctuary of a stiff-necked sect the presence of these vir- tues is, in Mr. Mansels phraseology, a moral miracle. Moderation no doubt sometimes cloaks indifference, and impartiality is l)ro- verbially associated with the nil admirarz. But it is not so here. Dr. Tulloch is per- fectly moderate, but perfectly in earnest. He is tolerant because his own convictions are honest and deeply rooted. He is impartial because he has a generous. sympathy with the true and noble, wherever he finds them. The influence which an intellect of this kind 19~6 LEADERS OF THE REFORMATION. is fitted to exert over the church and nation to which it belongs cannot easily be overrated. A devout and tolerant ecclesiastic across the border at least, is a rara avis, and the calm and candid criticism of such a man must be listened to with peculiar attention. The Reformation has not yet been ade- quately illustrated, nor gauged with any fine- ness of critical al)prehension. The forces which l)roduced it were every~vhere indeed very much alike. It was a l)rotest against the practice as well as against the doc- trine of the j)apacy. The reviving spiritual life was alienated by the doctrinal material- ism of Rome: the reviving moral life was shocked hy its l)ractical licentiousness. The two motives were everywhere combined, though not always in the same proportions. In Germany the insurrection may be said to have been in great measure the fruit of a profound spiritual excitement; in England it was chiefly due to the political indignation which the corruptions of the monastic system had roused; in Scotland both forces worked with nearly equal activity. But these subor- dinate national l)eculiarities do not affect the vital unity of the movement. The ideas and feelings which the Reformation gave voice to were everywhere substantially the same: the form of expression alone varied. To throw the imagination back into that troubled age; to watch the manifestations of the strange new spirit that fire of Almighty God which was moving with an irresistible impulse all the northern J)eoples, the rude Prussen amber-fisher on the Baltic Sea, and the pol- ished courtiers and sharp logicians of Paris, and Rotterdam, and Geneva; to discriminate the modifications which national habit, idio- sy ncrasy, and temperament impressed upon it; to estimate the social changes in the life of Europe which it effected; to track its progress, in one nation dying out after a brief volcanic life, in another quenched in martyr blood, in another clinging to the cliffs and keeping a pure flame alight in rough moun- tain hearts, in another wisely appropriated by prince and prelate, permitted to work out its work unmolested, and to mould in calmness and beneficence the policy of governments and the history of an empirethis is a task which has not yet been adequately performed, and which Dr. Tulloch is admirably qualified to undertake. In this present volume the leaders of the movement are sketched with vivid effect and graphic life. The genial heart and broad sym~)athies of Luther, his manliness, his sim- ple affectionateness, the bluntness and hearti- ness of his temper, the rude strength and hilarious riot of his humor; the wrapt, aus- tere, and passionless Calvin, his logical direct- ness and naked simplicity of intellect, his leg- islative capacity and the great practical and administrative genius which cast the stormy forces of the Reformation into a compact and symmetrical mould; the caustic irony and benevolent piety of Latimer; the humor, the narrowness, the bitterness, and the harsh sense of Knoxare all portrayed with re- markable truth and skill. Dr. Tulloch could not fail to make an accomplished critic, for he brings to the work a rich and felicitous style, a keen and searching insight, a temperate and unprejudiced judgment, and the capacity for analysis which men whose sympathies are broad and active generally l)Ossess. The sketch of Calvin and of the Calvinistic system is of special interest, being, as it is, the first honest attempt that has been made to appre- ciate the true l)osition of the man and the l)recise value of his work. The Genevese reformer has been hitherto written about~in hysterics and heroics; he has been ignorantly worshipped and ignorantly defamed; Dr. Tulloch has at length supplied a fair, intelli- gent, and exhaustive estimate. We have spoken more strongly than is our wont of the merit of this book; but we are sure that such of our readers as have perused it will feel that our estimate is not exagger- ated. For the sake of those who are yet un- acquainted with it, we sul)join a few extracts, taken almost at random from its pages. Luther and Erasmus While Luther was thus standing in the breach, in favor of social order, against the peasants, and feeling, in the odium he thereby incurred, that he was no longer the l)OPular chieftain he had been a few years before, he was made, at the same time, somewhat pain- fully to feel that he was no longer in unison with the mere literary or humanistic party in the Reformation. Erasmus, the recognized head of this party, had long been showing signs of impatience at what he considered to be Luthers rudeness and violence. lie could not sym~)athize in the intense earnestness of the Wittenberg reformer: the religious zeal, the depths of persuasion, and especially the polemical shape which the latters convic- tions had assumed in his doctrine of grace, 196 LEADERS OF THE REFORMATION. were all unintelligible or positively displeasing to him. No two men coitld be more opposed at once in intellectual aspiration and in moral temper ;Luther aiming at dogmatic c-er- tainty in all matters of faith, and filled with an overmastering feeling as to the importance of this certainty to the whole religious life, with the most vivid sense of the invisible world touching him at every point, and excit- ing him now with superstitious fear, and now with the most hilarious confidence ;Eras- muslatitudinarian and philosophical in re- ligious opinion, with a strong perception of both sides of any question, indifferent or at least hopeless as to exact truth, and with a consequently keen dislike of all dogmatic ex- aggerations, orthodox or otherwisewell in- formed in theology, hut without any very liv- ing and l)o~erful faith, cool, cautious, subtle, and refined, more anxious to expose a 501)hism, or point a barb at some folly, than to fight manfully against error and sin. It was im- possible that any hearty harmony could long subsist between two men of such a different sl)irit, and having such different aims. To do Erasmus justice, it must be remembered that his Gpl)osition to the papacy had never been dogmatic, but merely critical; he desired lit- erary freedom and a certain measure of relig- ious freedom; he hated monkery; but he had no new opinions or truths for which to con- tend earnestly, as for life or death. He was content to accept the Catholic tradition if it would not disturb him; and the Catholic sys- tem, with its historic memories and proud associations, Was dear to his cultivated im- agination and taste. It is needless to blame Erasmus for his moderation; we might as well blame him for not being Luther. He did his own work just as Luther did his; and although we can never compare his character, in depth, and l)ower, and reality of moral greatness, with that of the reformer, neither do we see in it the same exaggerations and intolerance that offend many in Luther. Here is a delightful glimpse into the do- mestic circle of the German reformer It is iml)ossible to conceive a more simple and beautiful l)icture of domestic life than in the letters and table-talk of Luther hence- forth. There is a richer charm and tender- ness and pathos in his whole existence, rather enhanced than otherwise by the slight glimpses, we get of the fact that Catherine had a spirit and will of her own, and that while she greatly loved and reverenced the doctor, she nevertheless took her own way in such things as seemed good to her. Some of the names under which he delights to address her seem to point to this little element of imperiousness, though in such a frank and merry way as to show that it was a well un derstood subject of banter between them, and nothing more. My Lord Kate, My Em- peror Kate, are some of his titles; and again, in a more circumlocutory humor, for the hands of the rich dame of Zuhlsdorf, Doe- toress Catherine Luther : sometimes simply and familiarly Kate my rib. Nowhere does his genial nature overflow more than in these letters, running riot in all sorts of freakish extravagance, yet everywhere touched pith the deep, mellow light of a healthy and happy affection. What a l)leasaI)t glimpse and sly humor in the following: In the first year of our marriage my Catherine was wont to seat herself beside me whilst I was studying; and once not having what else to say, she asked me, Sir Doctor! in Russia is not the maitre dh6tel the brother of the Margrave? And again, in the last year of his life, and when he is on that journey of friendliness and benevolence from which he is never to return to his dear household, the old spirit of wild fun and tender affection survives. He writes to his heart-loved housewife Catherine Lutheriun, Doctress Zulsdorferess, Sow Mar ketress, and whatever more she may be, grace and peace in Christ, and my old l)OO~ love in the first place. * * * * * The birth of his eldest son was an event of immense interest to the reformer. I have received, he writes to Spalatin, from my~ most excellent and dearest wife a little Lu- ther, by Gods wonderful mercy. Pray for me that Christ will pineserve my child from Satan, who, I kno~v, will try all that he can to harm me in him. And then again, in answer to Spalatins good wishes, and in reference to his own hopes of the same character, John, my fa~vn, together with my doe, return their warm thanks for your kind benediction ; and may your doe present you with just such an- other fawn, on whom I may ask Gods bless- ing in turn. Amen. As the little fellow gro~vs and is about a year old, he writes to Agricola, My Johnny is lively and strong, and a voracious, bibacious little fellow. It was to this son that he wrote, when stationed at Coburg during the Diet of Augs- burg, that most beautiful and touching of all child-letters that ever was written. Mercy and peace in Christ, my dear little son. I am glad to hear that you learn your lessons well and pray diligently. Go on (loing so, my child. When I come home I will bring you a l)retty fairiug. I know a very J)retty, l)leasal)t garden, and in it there are a great many children, all dressed in little golden coats, picking up nice ap~)les and pears and cherries and l)lumns under the trees. And they sing and jump about and are very merry; and besides, they have got beautiful little horses with golden bridles and silver saddles. 197 LEADERS OF THE REFORMATION. Then I asked the man to whom the garden belonged, whose children they were, and he said, These are children who love to pray and learn their lessons, and do as they are bid; then I said, Dear sir, I have a little son called Johnny Luther; may he come into this garden, too? And the man said, If he loves to pray and learn his lessons and is good, he may; and Philip and Joe too And so on in the same tender and beautiful strain mixin(r the hiohest counsel and richest a poetry with the most childlike interest. Only a very sound and healthy spirit could have preserved thus fresh and simple the flow of natural feeling amid the hardening contests of the world, and the arid subtleties of the- ological controversy. The contrast between the German and Gal- ic reformers is enforced in a passage of great beauty Altogether, it is sufficiently easy to fix the varying characteristics, however difficult it may be to measure the relative greatness of the two chief reformers: moral and intellec- tual power assumes in the one an intense, concentrated, and severe outline,in the other, a broad, irregular, and massive, yet childlike expression. The one may suggest a Dbric column, chaste, grand, and sublime in the very simplicity and inflexibility of its mouldings; the other a Gothic dome, with its fertile contrasts and ample space, here shad- owy in lurking gloom, and there riant in spots of sunshine, filled through all its ampli- tude with a dim religious awe, and yet, as we leisurely pause and survey it, traced here and there with grotesque and capricious imagery the riotous freaks, as it were, of a strength which could be at once lofty and low, spiritu- ally grand, yet with marks of its earth-birth everyvhere. * * * * * There are nowhere in all Calvins letters any joyous or l)athetic exaggerations of senti- mentany of that play of feeling or of lan- ~uage which in Luthers letters make us so love the man. All this he ~vould have thought mere waste of breathmere idleness, for which he had no time. The intensity of his purpose, the solemnity of his work, prevented him from ever looking around or relaxing himself in a free, happy, and outgoing com- munion with nature or life. Living as he did amid the most divine aspects of nature, you could not tell from his correspondence that they ever touched himthat morning with its golden glories, or evening with its softened splendors, as day rose and set amid such trans~)orting scenes, ever inspired him. The murmuring rush of the Rhone, the frowning outlines of the Jura, the snowy grandeur of Mont Blanc, might as well not have been, for all that they seemed to have affected him. No vestige of poetical feeling, no touch of descriptive color, ever rewards the patient reader. All that exquisitely conscious svm- pathy with nature, and wavering responsive- ness to its unuttered lessons, which brighten with an ever-recurring freshness the long pages of Luthers letters, and which have wrought themselves as a very commonplace into modern literature, is unknown, and would have beeii unintelligible to him. And no less all that fertile interest in life merely for its own sakeits own joys and sorrowsbright- ness and sadness; the mystery, pathos, ten- derness, and exuberance of mere human affec- tion, which enrich the character of the great Germanthere is nothing of all this in Cal- vinno such yearning or sentimental aspira- tions ever touched him. Luther, in all things greater as a man, is infinitely greater here. And in truth this element of modern feeling and culture is Teutonic rather than Celtic in its growth. It springs out of the compara- tively rich and genial soil of the Saxon mind, deeper in its sensibilities and more exuber- ant in its products. The Church of England The spirit of this church is not, and never has been, definite and consistent. From the beginning it repudiated the distinct guidance of any theoretical principles, however ex- alted, and apparently Scriptural. It held fast to its historical position, as a great insti- tute still living and powerful under all the corruptions which had overlaid it; and while submitting to the irresistible influence of re- form which swept over it, as over other churches in the sixteenth century, it refused to be refashioned according to any new model. It broke away from the media~val bondage, under which it had always been restless, and destroyed the gross abuses which had sprung out of it; it rose in an attitude of proud and successful resistance to Rome ; but in doing all this, it did not go to Scripture, as if it had once more, and entirely ane~v, to find there the principles either of doctrinal truth or of practical government and discipline. Scrip- ture, indeed, was eminently the condition of its revival; but Scripture was not made anew the foundation of its existence. There was too much of old historical life in it to seek any new foundation; the new must grow out of the old, and fit itself into the old. The Church of England was to be reformed, but not reconstituted. Its life was too vast, its influence too varied, its relations too compli- cated,touching the national existence in all its multiplied expressions at too many points, to be capable of being reduced to any new and definite form in more supposed uniformity 198 LEADERS OF THE REFORMATION. with the model of Scripture, or the simplicity of the primitive church. Its extensive and manifold organism was to he re-animated by a new life, but not remoulded according to any arbitrary or novel theory. This spirit, at once progressive and con- servative, comprehensive rather than inten- sive, historical, and not dogmatical, is one eminently characteristic of the English mind, and, as it appears to us, in the highest degree characteristic of the English Reformation. It is far, indeed, from being an exhaustive characteristic of it. Two distinct tendencies of a quite different character, expressly dog- matic in opl)osite extremes, are found run- ning alongside this main and central tendency: on the one hand, a mediteval dogmatism; on the other hand, a puritanical dogmatism. The current of religious life in England, as it moved forward and took shape in the six- teenth century, is marked by this threefold bias, which has perpetuated itself to the pres- ent time. There was then, as there remains to this day, an upper, middle, and lower ten- dencya theory of High-churchism, and a theory of Low-churchismand bet~veen these contending dogmatic movements the great confluence of ~vhat was and is the peculiar type of English Christianitya Christianity diffusive and practical rather than direct and theoreticalelevated and sympathetic rather than zealous and energeticScriptural and earnest in its spirit, but undogmatic and adap- tive in its form. Nothing, we think, can be better than this on Latimer A simplicity everywhere verging on orig- inality is, l)erhaps, his most l)rominent char- acteristica sim~~licity as far as possible from that which we noted in Calvin: the one, the naked energy of intellect; the other, a guile- less evenness of heart. The single way in which Latimer looks at life, with his eyes un- blinded by conventional drapery of any kind, and his heart responsive to all its broadest and most common interests,of which he speaks in language never nice and circumlocu- tory,. but straight, plain, and forcible ,gives to his sermons their singular air of reality, and to his character that sort of piquancy which we at once recognize as a direct birth of nature. He is a kind of Goldsmith in the- ology; the same artless and winning earnest- nessthe some sunny temper in the midst of all difficultiesthe same disregard of his own comforts, and warm and kindly individualism of benevolencethe same bright and playful humor, like a roving and gleeful l)resence, meeting you at every turn, and flashing laugh- ter in your face. It would be absurd, of course, to push this comparison further. There ia be- neath all the oddities of Latimers character a deep and even stern consistency of purpose, and a spirit of righteous indignation against wrong, which, apart from all dissimilarities of work, destroys any more essential analogy be- tween the great humorist of the Reformation in England and the later humorist of its liter- ature. Yet the same childlike transparency of character is beheld in both, and the same fresh stamp of nature, which, in its siml)le originality, is found to outlast far more bril- liant and imposing, but artificially cultured qualities. In mere intellectual strength, Latimer can take no place beside either Luther or Calvin. His mind has neither the rich compass of the one, nor the symmetrical vigor of the other. He is no master in any department of intel- lectual interest, or even of theological inquiry. We read his sermons, not for any light or reach of truth which they unfold, nor because they exhibit any peculiar depth of spirituaL apprehension, but simply because they are in- terestingand interesting mainly from the~ very absence of all dogmatic or intellectual l)retensions. Yet, without any mental great- ness, there is a pleasant and wholesome har- mony of mental powers displayed in his writ- ings, which gives to them a wonderful vitality. There is a l)roportio1~ and vigor, not of logic, hut of sense and feeling in them eminently English, and showing everywhere a high and well-toned capacity. He is coarse and low at times; his familiarity occasionally descends to meanness ; but the living hold which be takes of reality at every point often carries him also to the height of an indignant and burning elo- quence. But we must stay our hand; and the quo- tations we have made are sufficient to show that this unpretending little volume contains much ripe thought and felicitous criticism, and that it merits a very hearty welcome, from all who esteem honesty, independence, and the greatest of these charity. 199 e HOPES AND FEALRS. CHAPTER III. There is a reaperhis name is Death, And with his sickle keen He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. A LET~ER from Humfrey! how Honors heart fluttered! Would it announce an en- gagement, or would it promise a visit on which her fate would turn, or would it he only a business letter on her money matters? Angry at her own trepidation, she opened it. It was none of all these. It told her that Mr. Saville, his brother-in-law, was stay- ing at the Holt with his second wife, and that he begged her to take advantage, of this o portunity to come to visit the old place, add- ing, that he had not heen well, and he wished much to see her, if she could spare a few days to him from her children. Little doubt had she as to the acceptance. The mere words going to Ililtonbury, had power by force of association to make her heart hound. She was a little disappointed that he had not included the children; she feared it looked as if he were really ill; hut it might be on account of the Savilles, or may be he had that to say to her which oh, non- sense ! Were that the case, Humfrey would not reverse the order of things, and make her come to him. At any rate, the children should be her first condition. And then she concentrated her anxieties on his most unusual confession of having been unwell. Humfreys substantial person was ready to meet her at the station, and the first glance ~1ispelIed her nervous tremors, and calmed the tossings of her mind in the habitual sense of trust and reliance. He thanked her for coming, handed her into the carriage, looked after her goods, and seated himself beside her in so completely his ordinary fashion of taking care of her, that she forgot all her intentions of rendering their meeting momentous. Her first inquiry was for his health, but he put it aside with something about feeling very well no~v, and lie looked so healthy, only perhaps a little more hearty and burly, that she did not think any more of the matter, and only talked in happy desultory scraps, now dwell- ing on her little Owens charms, now joyfully recognizing familiar objects, or commenting upon the slight changes that had taken place. One thing, however, she observed, Humfrey did not stop the horse at the foot of the steep hill where walking had been a matter of course, when he had been a less solid weight than now. Yes, Honor, he said, smiling, one grows less merciful as one grows old and short breathed. You growing old! you whom Ive never left off thinking of as a promising lad, as l)OO~ old Mrs. Mervyn used to call you. He turned his face towards her as if about to say something very seriously, but appar- ently changing his intention, he said, Poor old Mrs. Mervyn, I wonder how she would like the changes at Beauchamp. Are the Fulmorts doing a great deal? They have quite modernized the house, and laid out the gardenwhat I should cal. very prettily, if it were not for my love of the old Dutch one. They see a great deal of company, and go on in grand style. 1-low do you get on with them? Oh! very well; 1 have dined there two or three times. He is a good-nattired fellow enough, and there are some nice children. I like to meet with their nurses in the woods. Good-natured ! exclaimed Nora. Why, you know how he behaved at St. Wulstans. No more than ~ a-year would he ever give to any charity, though he was making thou- sands by those ginshops. Probably he thought he was doing very liberally. Ay, there is no hope for St. Wulstans til. people have left off thinking a guinea their duty, and five very handsome! and that Au- gusta Mervyn should have gone and married our bite noireour lord of ginpalacesI do think it must be on purpose for you to melt him. I shall set yoti at him, Humfrey, next time Mr. Askew writes to me in despair, that something wont go on for lack of means. Only I must be quite sure that you wont give the money yourself, to spare the trouble of dunnincr It is not fair to take other peoples duties on oiies self; besides, as youll find, Honor, the Holt purse is not bottomless. As she would find! This was a very odd way of making sure of her beforehand, but she was not certain that she did not like iL It was comfortable, and would save much pre- liminary. The woods were bursting into spring: del- icate, deeply creased leaves were joyousiy emerging to the light on the birches, not yet devoid of the silvery wool where they had been packed, the hazels were fluttering their 200 HOPES AND PEARS. goslings, the palms were honey sweet with yellow tufts, the primroses peeped out in the banks of moss. 0 Humfrey, this is the great desire of my life fulfilled, to see the Holt in the flush of spring! I have always said you cared for the place more than any one, said Humfrey, evidently gratified, but with an expression which she did not understand. As if I did not! But how strangely dif- ferent from my vision my wish has been ful- filled. How strangely! he repeated, with even greater seriousness than had been in her voice. The meadow was bright with spring grass, the cattle grazing serenely as in old times the gardenah! not quite so gayeither it was better in autumn than in spring, or it wanted poor Sarahs hand, the dogs, notA the same individuals, but with much the same manners, dancing round their masterall like, all home. Nothing wanting, but, hias! the good-natured, narrow-minded old mistress of the house to fret her, and notable Sarah to make her comfortable, and ~vonder at her ec- centric tastes. Ah! and how much more was wanting the gentle mother who did all the civility and listening, and the father, so happy to look at green woods, read poetry, and un- bend his weary bow. How much more pre- cious was the sight of the one living remnant of those days! They had a cheerful evening. Mr. Saville had a great deal of old-fashioned Oxford agreeableness; he was very courtly, but a sensible man, with some native fun and many college stories. After many years of donship, his remote parish was somewhat of a solitude to him, and intercourse with a cultivated mind was as l)leasant to him now as the sight of a lady had been in his college days. Hon- or liked conversation too; and Miss Wells, Lucilla, and Owen had been rather barren in that respect; so there was a great deal of live- liness, in which Humfrey took his full share; while good Mrs. Saville looked like what she was, her husbands admiring housekeeper. Do you take early walks still, Humfrey? asked Honor, as she bade him good-night. If you do, I shall be quite ready to confront the dew; and therewith came a revulsion of the consciousness within. Was this courting him? and to her great provocation there arose an uncomfortable blush. Thank you, he said, with something of a mournful tone; Im afraid Im past that, Honor. To-morrow, after breakfastgood- night. Honor was a little alarmed by all this, and designed a conference with the old house- keeper, Mrs. Stubbs, to inquire into her mas- ters health; but this was not attainable that night, and she could only go to bed in the friendly, old wainscotted room, ~vhose white and gold carved monsters on the mantel-piece were well nigh as familiar as the dove in Woolstone Lane; but, oh! how it made her long for the mother whom she used to kiss there. Humfrey was brisk and cheerful as ever at breakfast, devising what his guests ~vould like to do for the day, and talking of some friends whom he had asked to meet Mr. Saville; so that all the anxieties, with which Honora had risen, were dissipated, and she took her part gayly in the talk. There was something therefore freshly startling to her, when, oii rising, Humfrey gravely said, Honor, will you come into my study for a little while? The study had always been more of a place for guns and fishing-tackle, than for books. It was Humfreys usual living room when alone, and was of course full besides ofjustice books, agricultural reports, acts of l)arliament, piles of papers, little bags of samples of wheat, all in the orderly disorder congenial to the male kind. All this was as usual, but the change that struck her was that the large red leather lounging chair, hitherto a recep- tacle for the overfiowings of the table, was now wheeled beside the fire, and near it stood a little table with a large print Bible on it, which she well remembered as his mothers. Humfrey set a chair for her by the fire, and seated himself in the easy one, leaning back a little. She had not spoken. Something in his grave prel)aration somewhat awed her, and she sat upright, watching him. It was very kind of you to come, Honor, he began; more kind than you know. I am sure it could be no other than a treat He continued, before she could go further, I wished particularly to speak to you. I thought it might l)erllaps spare you a shock. She looked at him with a terrified eye. 201 HOPE8 AND FEARS. Dont be frightened, my dear, he said, leaning forward, there is no occasion. Such things must come sooner or later, and it is only that I wished to tell you that I have been having advice for a good many uncom- fortable feelings that have troubled me lately. Well, she asked, breathlessly. And Dixon tells me that it is aneurism. Quick and fast came Honoras breath; her hands were clasped together; her eyes cast about with such a l)iteous, despairing expres- sion, that he started to his feet in a moment, exclaiming Honor! Honor dear! dont! theres no needI did not think you would feel it in this way ! Feel? what should I feel if not for you? o Humfrey! dont say it! you are all that is left meyou cannot be spared! and as he came towards her, she grasped his hand and clung to him, needing the support which he gave in fear of her fainting. Dear Honor, do not take it thus. I am very well nowI dare say I shall be so to the last, and there is nothing very terrible to the imagination. I am very thankful for both the preparation and the absence of suffering. Will not you be the same? Yes, you, said Honora, sitting up again, and looking up into his sincere, serene face; I cannot doubt that even this is well for you, but it is all selfishnessjust as I was beginning to feel what you are to me. Humfreys face lighted up suddenly. Then, Honor, he said, evidently using strong restraint upon his voice, you could have listened to me now.~~ She bowed her headthe tears were drop- ping very fast. Thank God! he said, as again he leant back in his chair; and when she raised her eyes again, he sat with his hands clasped, and a look of heavenly felicity on his face, raised upwards. 0 Hnmfrey! how thoughtlessly I have trifled away all that might have been the happiness of your life! You never trifled with me, he said. You have always dealt honestly and straightforwardly, and it is best as it is. II ad we been together all this time, the part- ing might have been much harder. I am glad there are so few near ties to break. Dont say so! you, loved by every one, the tower of strength to all that is good! Hush, hush! nonsense, Honor! said he, kindly. I think I have tried, he went on, gravely, not to fall behind the duties of my station; but that would be a bad depen- dence, were there not something else to look to. As to missing me, the world did very well without me before I was born; it will do as well when I am gone; and as to you, my poor Honor, we have been very little togethe: of late. I had you to lean on. Lean on something stronger, he said; and as she could not govern her bitter weep- ing, he ~vent on Ah! I am the selfish one now, to be glad of what must make it the worse for you; but if one thing were wanting to make me happy, it was to know that at last you cared for me. I should be a wretch not to do so. So many years of patience and forbearance Nobody could be like you. I dont see that, said Humfrey, simply. While you continued the same, I could not well turn my mind to any one else, and I always knew I was much too loutish for you. Now, Humfrey ! Yes, there is no use in dwelling on this, he said, quietly. The reason I asked you to be kind enough to come here, is that I 4o not think it well to be far from home under the circumstances. There, dont look fright- enedthey say it may very possibly not come for several months or a year. I hope to have time to put things a little in order for you, and that is one reason I wished to see you. I thought I could make the beginning easier to you. But Honora was far too much shaken for such a turn to the conversation; she would not mortify him, but she could neither listen nor understand. He, who was so full of stal- wart force, a doomed man, yet calm and happy under his sentence; he, only discov- ered to be so fondly loved in time to give poignancy to the parting, and yet rejoicing himself in the poor, tardy affection that had answered his manly constancy too late! His very calmness and stillness cut her to the heart, and after some ineffectual attempts to recover herself, she was forced to take refuge in her own room. Weeping, praying, walk- ing restlessly about, she remained there till luncheon time, when Humfrey himself came up to knock at her door. Honor dear! he said, come downtry to throw it offSaville does not wish hi8 wife 202 HOPES AND FEARS. to be made aware of it while she is here, lest she should be nervous. You must not betray meand indeed there is no reason for heing overcome. Nothing vexes me hut seeing you so. Let us enjoy your visit, pray. To he commanded to hear up by a strong, manly character so much loved and trusted was perhal)s the chief support she could re- ceive; she felt that she must act composure, and coming down in obedience to her cousin, she found the power of doing so. Nay, as she saw him so completely the bright hos- pitable host, talking to Mrs. Saville about her poultry, and carrying on quiet jokes with Mr. Saville, she found herself drawn away from the mornings conversation., or remembering it like a dream that had passed away. They all went out together, and he was apparently as much interested in his young wheat as ever, and even more anxious to make her look at and appreciate crops and cattle, speaking about them in his hearty, simple way, as if his pleasure. in them was not now flagging, perhaps because it had never been excessive. He had always sat loose to then, and thus they could please and occupy him even when the touch of the iron hand had made itself felt. And again she saw him engrossed in ar- ranging some petty matter of business for one of the 1)001 people; and when they had wan- dered (lown to the gate, pelting the turn-out of the boys school with a pocket full of apples that he said he had taken up while in confer- ence with the housekeeper, laughing and speaking merrily as the varlets touched their caps to him, and always turning to her for sym ~)athy in his pleasures of success or of good-nature, as though her visit were thor- ough enjoyment to him. And so it almost was to her. The influ- ence of the dear old scenes was something, and his cheeriness was a great deal more; the l)eaceful l)lesent was not harassed or dis- turbed,, and the foreboding, on which she might not dwell, made it the more precious. That slow wandering about the farm and village, and the desultory remarks, the old pleasant reminiscences, the inquiries and re- plies ahout the villagers and neighbors had a quiet charm about them, as free and happy as when, youth and child, they had frisked through the same paths; nay, the old scenes so brought hack the old habits that she found herself discoursing to him in her former eager fashion upon the last historical character who had bitten her fancy. Mv old way, she said, catching herself up; dinning all this into your ears as usual, when you dont care. Dont I, said Humphrey, with his sin- cere face turned on her in all its sweetness. Perhaps I never showed you how much, Honor, and I beg your pardon, but I would not have been without it! The Savilles came up, while Honors heart was brimful at this compliment, and then it was all commonplace again, excel)t for that sunset light, that rich radiance of the sinking sun, that seemed unconsciously to pervade ai Humfreys cheerfulness, and to give his mirth and l)layfulness a solid happiness. Neighbors came to dinner, and the evening was not unlike the last, quite as free front. gloom, and Mr. Charlecote as bright as ever, evidently taking his full share in county husi-. ness, and giving his mind to it. Only Honor noted that he quietly avoided an invitation to a very gay party which was proposed; and a squire friend seemed rather vexed with hint for not taking part in some new and expen- sive experiment in farming, and asked incred- ulously whether it were true that he wishe& to let a farm that he had kept for severa~ years in his own hands. Humfrey agreed that it was so, and said something further of wishing to come to terms quickly. She~ guessed this was for her sake, when she. thought all this over in her bedroom. Such was the effect of his calmness that it had not been a day of agitation. There ~vas more peace than tumult in her mind as she. lay down to rest, sad, but not analyzing her sadness, and lulled by the present into put- ting aside the future. So she slept quietly,. and awoke with a weight at her heart, but softened and sustained by reverent awe and. obedience to~vards her cousin. When they met, he scanned her looks with a bright, tender glance, and smiled commen- dation when he detected no air of sleepless- ness. He talked and moved as though his secret were one of untold bliss, and this was. not far from the truth, fo.r when, after break- fast, he asked her for another interview in the study, they were no sooner alone than he rubhed his hands together with satisfaction, saying So, Honor, you could have had me after all! looking at her with a broad, un- disguised, exulting smile. 203 ROPES AND FEARS. 0 Humfrey! Dont say it if you dont like it; but you cant guess the pleasure it gave me. I could hardly tell at first what was making me so happy when I awoke this morning. I cant see how it should, said Honor, her eyes swimming with tears, never to have met with any gratitude forI have used you too illnever valued, scarcely even believed in what you lavished on poor silly meand now, when all is too late, you are glad Glad! of course I am, returned Hum- frey; I never wished to obtrude my feelings on you after I knew how it stood with you. It would have been a shame. Your choice went far above me. For the rest, if to find you disposed towards me at the last makes me so happy, and he looked at her again with beaming affection, how could I have borne to leave you if all had been as I wished? No, no; it is best as it is. You lose nothing in position, and you are free to begin the world again, not knocked down or crushed. Dont talk so, Humfrey! It is breaking my heart to think that I might have been making you happy all this time. Heaven did not will it so, said Humfrey, reverently, and it might not have proved what we fancy. You might not have found such a clodhopper all you wanted, and my stupidity might have vexed you, though now you fancy otherwise. And I have had a very happy lifeindeed I have, Honor; I never knew the time when I could not say with all my heart, The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground, yea, I have a goodly heritage. Everybody and every thing, you and all the rest, have been very kind and friendly, and I have never wanted for happiness. It has been all right. You could fulfil your duty as a daughter undividedly, and now I trust those children will be your object and comfort only, Honor, not your idols. Perhaps it was jealousy, but I have sometimes fancied that your tendency ~vith their father Oh! how often I must have given you pain. I do not mean tlzat, but, as I say, perhaps I was no fair judge. One thing is well, the relations will be much less likely to take them from you when you ax~e living here, She held up her hands in deprecation. Honor, dear, he said, pleadingly, yet with authority, pray let me talk to you. There are things which I wish very much to say; indeed, without which, I could hardly have asked this indulgence. It is for your own sake, and that of the place and people. Poor l)lace, poor people. He sighed, but then turned his smiling countenance towards her again. No one else can care for it or them as you do, Honor. Our goodly heritage it was so when I had it from my father, and I dont think it has worsened under my charge, and I want you to do your duty by it, honor, and hand it on the same whoever may come after. For your sake, Humfreyeven if I did not love it. But Yes, it is a duty, proceeded Humfrey, gravely. It may seem but a hit of earth after all, but the owner of a property has a duty to let it do its share in producing food, or maybe in making the number of l)leasant things not less. I mean it is as much my office to keep my trees and woods fair to look at, as it is not to let my land lie waste. She had recovered a good deal while he was moralizing, and became interested. I did not suspect you of the poetical view, Humfrey, she said. It is l)lain sense, I think, he said; that to grub up a fine tree, or a pretty bit of cops~ without fair reason, only out of eagerness for gain, is a bit of selfishness. But mind, Hon- or, you must not go and be romantic. You must have the timber marked when the trees are injuring each other. Ab! Ive often done it with you. 1 wish you would come out with me to- day. Im going to the outwood, I could show you. She agreed readily, almost forgetting the wherefore. And above all, Honor, you must not be romantic about wages! It is not right by other proprietors, nor by the l)eople them- selves. No one is ever the better for a fancy l)1iee for his labor. She could almost have smiled; he was at once so well pleased, that she and his goodly heritage should belong to each other, so confident in her love and good intentions to- wards it, and so doubtful of her discretion and management. She promised with all her heart to do her utmost to fulfil his wishes. After all, he said, thoughtfully, the best thing for the placeay, and for you and every one, would be for you to marry; but theres little chance of that, I suppose, and it is of no 204 HOPES AND FEARS. use to distress you by mentioning it. Ive been trying to put out of my hands things that I dont think you will be able to manage, but [ should like you to keep up the home farm, and you may pretty well trust to Brooks. I dare say he will take his own way; but if you keep a reasonable check on him, he will do very well by you. He is as honest as the day, and very intelligent. I dont know that any one could do better for you. Oh, yes! I will mind all he tells me. Dont show that you mind him. That is the way to spoil him. Poor fellow, he has been a good servant to me, and so have they all. It is a thing to be very thankful for to have had such a set of good servants. Honora thought, but did not say that they could not help being good with such a mas- ter. He went on to tell her that he had made Mr. Saville his executor. Mr. Saville had been for many years before leaving Oxford bursar of his college, and was a thorough man of business, whom Ilumfrey had fixed upon as the person best qualified to be an adviser and assistant to Honora; and he only wished to know whether she wished for any other selection; but this was nearly overpow- ering her again; for since her fathers death, she had leant on no one but Humfrey him- self. One thing more he had to say. You know, Honor, this place will be entirely your own. You and I seem to be the last of the Charlecotes, and even if we were not, there is no entail. You may found orphan asylums with it, or leave it to poor Sandbrooks chil- dren, just as you please. Oh, I could not do that, cried Honor, with a sudden revulsion. Love them as she might, Owen Sandbrooks children must not step into Humfrey Charlecotes place. And, besides, she added, I want my little Owen to be a clergyman; I think he can be what his father missed. Well, you can do exactly as you think fit. Only what I wanted to tell you is, that there may be another branch, elder than our own. Not that this need make the least difference, for the Holt is legally ours. It seems that our great grandfather had an elder sona wild sort of fellowthe old people used to tell stories of him. He ~vent on, in short, till he ~vas disinherited, and went off to America. What become of him afterwards I never could make out, but I have sometimes questioned how I should receive any of his heirs if they should turn up some day. Mind you, you need not have the slightest scruple in holding your own. It was made over to my grand- father by will, as I have made it sure for you; but I do think that when you come to think ho~v to dispose of it, the possibility of the ex- istence of these Charlecotes might be taken into consideration. Yankee Charlecotes, she said. Never mind; most likely nothing of the kind will ever come in your way, and they have not the slightest claim on you. I only threw it out, because I thought it right just to speak of it. After this commencement, Humfrey, on this and the ensuing days made it his busi. ness to make his cousin acquainted with the details of the management of the estate. He took such pleasure in doing so, and was so anxious she should comprehend, that she was forced to give her whole attention, and putting all else aside, was tranquilly happy in thus gratifying him. Those orderly ranges of conscientious accounts were no small testi- mony to the steady, earnest manner in which Humfrey had set himself to his duty from his early youth, and to a degree they were his honest pride toohe liked to show how good years had made up for bad years, and there was a tenderness in the way he patted their red leather backs to make them even on theL shelves, as if they had been good friends tc him. No, they must not run into confusion. The farms and the cottagesthe friend~ ly terms of his intercourse, and his large- handed but well-judging almsgiving all revealed to her more of his solid worth, and the simplicity that regarded all as the merest duty touched her more than all. Many.a time did she think of the royal Nor- wegian brothers, one of whom went to tie a knot in the willows on the banks of the Jor- dan, while the other remained at home to be the blessing of his people, and from her broken idol wanderer, she turned to ~vorship her steadfast worker at home, as far as his humility and homeliness made it possible, and valued each hour with him as if each moment were of diamond price. And he was so calmly happy, that there was no grieving in his presence. It had been a se- rene life of simple fulfilment of duty, going ever higher, and branching wider, as a good 205 HOPES AND FEARS. mans standard gradually rises the longer he lives, the one great disappointment had been borne without sourness or repining, and the affections, deprived of the home channel, had spread in a beneficent flood, and blessed all around. So, though, like every sinful son of man, sensible of many an error, many an in- firmity, still the open loving spirit was child- like enough for that blessed sense; for that feeling which St. John expresses as if our heart condemn us not, then have we confidence towards God;~ confidence in the infinite merits that atone for the errors of weakness, and occasional wanderings of will; confidence that made the hope of a sure and steadfast one, and these sentenced weeks a land of Beulah, where Honoras tardy response to his constant love, could be greeted and valued as the precious fulfilment of long-cherished wishes, not dashed aside as giving bitterness to his departure. The parting was broken by a promise that Honora should again meet the Savilles at the Holt in the autumn. She assured herself that there was no danger before that time, and Humfrey spoke cheerfully of looking forward to it, and seemed to have so much to do, and to be so well equal to doing it, that he would not let them be concerned at leav- ing him alone. To worship Humfrey, was an easier thing at a distance than when beside him. Honora came back to Sandbeach thoroughly restless and wretched, reproaching herself with hav- ing wasted such constant priceless affection, haunted by thc constant dread of each morn- ings post, and longing fervently to be on the spot. She had self-command enough not to visit her dejection on the children, but they missed both her spirits and her vigilance, and were more left to their nurse; and her chief solace was in long solitary walks, or in even- ing talks with Miss Wells. Kind Miss Wells, maybe she guessed how matters stood be- tween the two last Charlecotes, but she hinted not her suspicions, and was the un- wearied recipient of all Honoras histories, of his symptoms, of his cheerfulness, and his solicitude for her. Those talks did her good, they set the real Humfrey before her, and braced her to strive against weakness and despondence. And then the thought grew on her, why since they were so thoroughly each others, why should they not marry, and be together to the last P Why should he be left to his solitude for this final year? why should their meetings be so prudentially chaperoned? Suppose the disease should be lingering, how hard it was that she should be absent, and he left to servants! She could well imagine why he had not proposed it, he was too unselfish to think of exposing her to the shock, or making her a widow; but how came she never to have thought of it? She stood beyond all ordinary rulesshe had nothing worldly to gain nor to lose by being his wife for these few remaining monthsit surely was her part, after the way she had treated him, to meet him more than half-way, she alone could make the proposalshe wouldshe must. And oh! if the doctors should be mistaken ! So spoke the midnight dream oh! how many times. But what said cool morning? Propriety had risen up, grave de- corum objecting to what would shock Hum- frey, ay, and was making Honors cheeks tingle. Yes, and there came the question whether he would not be more distressed than gratifiedhe who wished to detach him- self from all earthly tieswhether he might not he pained and displeased at her thus clinging to himnay, were he even gratifi~d, might not emotion and agitation be fatal? Many, many times was all this tossed over in Honors mind. Often the desperate reso- lution was definitively taken, and she had seen herself quietly meeting him at dear old Hiltonbury church, with his grave sweet eyes resting satisfied upon her as his darling. As often had the fear of offending him, and the instinct of womans dignity turned her away when her heart was beating high. That autumn visitthen she would decide. One look as if he wished to retain her, the least air of feebleness or depression, and she would be determined, even if she had to waive all feminine reserves, and set the matter in hand hers4f. She thought Mr. Saville would highly approve and assist; and having set- tled into this period for her project, she set herself in some degree at rest, and moved and spoke with so much more of her natural ease, that Miss Wells was consoled about her; and knew not how entirely heart and soul were at Hiltonbury, with such devotion as had never even gone to the Backwoods. To meet the Savilles at Hiltonbury in the autumn. YesNora met Mr. Saville, but not as she had intendei By~that time the 206 HOPES AND FEARS. stroke had fallen, just as she had become habituated to the expectation, just as her promised visit had assumed a degree of prox- imity, and her heart was beating at the pros- pect of the results. Humfrey had been scarcely ailing all the summer, he had gone about his occupations with his usual cheerfulness, and had taken part in all the village festivals as sunnily as ever. Only close observers could have no- ticed a slackness towards new undertakings, a gradual putting off of old ones, a training of those dependent on his counsel, to go alone, a preference for being alone in the evening, a greater habit of stillness and contemplation. September had come, and he had merrily set off two happy boy-sportsmen with the keeper, seeing them over the first field him- self, and leaning against the gate, as he sent them away in convulsions of laughing at his droll auguries. The second was a Sunday, a lovely day of clear, deep blue sky, and rich sunshine laughing upon the summer wealth of harvest fieldspart fallen before the hand of the reaper, part waving in their ripe, glow- ing beauty, to which he loved to liken Ho- noras hairpart in noble redundant shocks of corn in full season. Brooks used afterwards to tell how he overtook the squire slowly strolling to church on that beauteous summer morning, and how he paused to remark on the glory of the harvest, and to add, Keep the big barn clear, Brookslet us have all the women and children in for the supper this timeand I saysend the spotted heifer down to-morrow to old Boycotts, instead of his cow that died. With such a crop as this, one can stand something. And, said Brooks, Thank God for it! was as plain written on his face as ever I saw It was the first Sunday in the month, and there was full service. Hiltonbury church had one of those old-fashioned altar-rails which form three sides of a square, and where it was the custom that at the words Draw near with faith, the earliest communicants should advance to the rail and remain till their place was wanted by others, and that the last should not return to their seats till the service was concluded. Mr. Charlecote had for many years been always the first par- ishioner to walk slowly up the matted aisle, and kneel beside the wall, under the cum- brous old tables o~ commandments. There, on this day, he knelt as usual, and harvest labors tending to thin the number of com- municants, the same who came up first re- mained to the end, joined their voices in the Eucharistic Lords Prayer and Angelic hymn, and bowed their heads at the blessing of the peace that passeth all understanding. It was not till the rest had risen and were moving away, that the vicar and his clerk re- marked, that the squire had not risen. An- other look, and it was plain that he had sunk somewhat forward on his folded arms, and was only supported by the rail and the wall. The vicar hastily summoned the village doc- tor, who had not yet left the church. They lifted him, and laid him along on the cushioned step where he had been kneeling, but motion and breath were gone, the strong arms were helpless, and the color had left the open face. Taken at once from the heavenly feast on earth to the glory above, could this be called sudden death? There he lay on the altar step, with hands crossed on his breast, and perfectly blessed repose on his manly countenance, sweetened and ennobled in its stillness, and in every lineament bearing the impress of that holy spirit of love who had made it a meet temple. What an unpremeditated lying in state was that! as by ones and twos, beneath the clergy- mans eye, the villagers stole in with slowly, heavily falling tread to gaze in silent awe on their best friend, some sobbing and weeping beyond control, others with grave, almost stolid tranquillity, or the murmured He was a gentleman, which in a poor mans mouth means he was a just man and patient, the friend of the weak and poor. His farmers and his own laborers l)ut their shoulders to bear him once more to his own house, through his half-gathered crops The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that arc hoary, Bat the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. No, bewail him not. It was glory, indeed, but the glory of early autumn, the garnering of the shock of corn in full season. It was ~vell done of the vicar that a few long, full grained ears of wheat were all that ~vas laia upon his breast in his coffin. There Honora saw them. The vicar, Mr. Henderson, had written to her at once, as Humfrey had long ago charged him to do, 207 HOPES AND FEARS. enclosing a letter that he had left with him for the purpose, a tender, soothing farewell, and an avowal such as he could never have spoken of the blessing that his attachment to her had been, in drawing his mind from the narrowness to which he might have been lia- ble, and in elevating the tone of his views and ol)inions. She knew what he meantit was what he had caught from her youthful enthusiasm, second-hand from Owen Sandbrook. Oh! what vivid, vigorous truth not to have been weakened in the transit through two such na- tures, but to have done its work in the strong, practical mind able and candid enough to adopt it even so filtered! There were a few words of affectionate commendation of his people and his land into her keeping, and a parting blessing; and, lastly, written as a postscriptwith a blot as if it had been written with hesitation Lit- tle children, keep yourselves from idols It was not bitter weeping. It ~vas rather the sense of utter vacancy and hopelessness, with but one fixed purposethat she would see his face again, and be the nearest to him when he was laid in the grave. She hastily wrote to the housekeeper and to the clergy- man that she was coming, and Miss XVells kind opposition only gave her just wilfulness and determination enough to keep her spirit from sinking. So she travelled alone, and came to Hil- tonbury in the sunset, as the last long wains were slowly bearing their loads of wheat into the farmyard, the wagoners walking dejectedly beside them. Mr. Saville had come before her, and was at the door to receive her. She could not very well bear with the presence of any one, nor the talk of coldblooded arrangements. It seemed to keep away the dreamy living with Humfrey, and was far more dreary than the feeling of desolateness, and when they treated her as mistress of the house that was too intolerable. And vet it ~vas worth something, too, to be the one to authorize that harvest supper in the big barn, in the confidence that it would be any thing but revelry. Every one felt that the day was indeed a harvest home. The funeral, according to his e xl)ressed wishes, was like those of the farmers of thc parish; the coffin borne by his own laborers in their white, round frocks; and the laborers were the expected guests for whom proviston was made, but far and wide from all the coun- try round, though harvest was at the height, came farmers and squires, poor men and rich, from the peer and county member down to the poor travelling hawkerall had met the sunny sympathy of that smile, all had been aided and befriended, all felt as if a prop, a castle of strength were gone. Charlecotes innumerable rested in the chan- cel, and the last heir of the line was laid be- neath the same flag where he had been l)laced on that last Sunday, the spot where Honor might kneel for many more, meeting him in spirit at the feast, and looking to the time when the cry should be Put ye in the sickle, for the harvest is come. But ere she could look in thorough hope for that time, another page of honors life must be turned, and an alloy, as yet unknown to herself, must be purged from her heart. The last gleam of her youthful sunshine had faded with Humfrey; but youth is but a frac- tion of human existence, and there were fur.. ther phases to be gone through and lessons to be learnt; although she was feeling as if all were over with her in this world, and nei- ther hope, love, nor protection were left her, nor any interest save cherishing Humfrey Charlecotes memory, as she sat designing the brass tablet which was to record his name and age in old English illuminated letters, surrounded by a border of ears of corn and grapes. SABBATH BELLS. THE ADVENT. The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Messiah comes !Let furious discord cease; Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Be peace on earth before the Prince of Peace! Disease and anguish feel His blest control, Of one who from the far-off hills proclaims And howling fiends release the tortured soul! Tidings of good to Zion. The beams of gladness hells dark caves illume, C4arles Lamb. And mercy broods above the distant gloom. 4 Bishop Heber. 208 TROLLOPE S WEST INDIES. From The Saturday Review. TROLLOPES WEST INDIES.~ IT is a great thing that the author of a book should he clever. It is a great thing for the reader, and a great thing for the author himself. Mr. Trollope seems to us to be more accurately described by the word clever than perhaps any other living English writer and his cleverness tells 1)0th in our and in his behalf when he takes so unpromising a sub- ject as the West Indies. Every thing in a book written about so forlorn and insipid a part of the civilized world must depend on the ~vriter; and Mr. Trollope has sho~vn him- self equal to the task of making the narrative of a tour in the West Indies very amusing and very instructive. We are glad to say that he respects himself far too much to en- liven the story of his travels with small jokes and galvanized fun. The amusement he af- fords us lies in his clear, racy, vigorous dc- scriptions of the men and things with which he came in contact. To most English readers this volume will he like a ne~v discovery of the West Indies. Hitherto, they have been mere names of hot places l)eopl-edl with the ghosts of ruined l)lanters and lazy niggers. Mr. Trollope has made us acquainted, for the first time, with them and their inhabitants. We do not, indeed, feel at the end of his book that we care to know more about the West Indies. They are desolate, broiling places, with bad society and insecure means of earn- ing a subsistence. But as a great l)art of them belong to England, and are inhabited by Englishmen, and as they have been made the scene of an interesting experiment in the sight of the present generation, it is worth while to gain a general conception of their condition and prospects. Mr. T. gives us ex- actly what we want, and he gives it us in a shape which we cannot praise too highly. His lxavels show the same cleverness as his novels, but the cleverness is tempered by the practi- cal sense which he brings to bear on the dis- cussion of matters of real life. His portraits of West Indians and their homes are not quite so brilliantly executed as those of the Signora and Mr. Slope, but then they wear in a much greater degree the appearance of pos- sible truth. Mr. rI~1.ollope devotes a larger space to Ia ~ The West Indies aad the Spanish Main. By Anthony Trollope. London: Chapman and Hall. 1859. THIRD SERIES. LIYII~G AGE. 413 maica than to any other island or settlement. It has so long been an English colony, its re- cent history has occupied so much attention, and the whole set of questions that have to be solved for the West Indies are exhibited for investigation there so clearly and on so extensive a scale, that it deserves the pre- eminence. Mr. Trollope uses Jamaica as a ground on which to sketch the characters and present condition of the different races of the islands. To understand these races and their mutual relations is really to understand the West Indies. That the soil ~vould l)roduce sul)plies of all tropical l)roduce which, as com- l)aiecl with the l)resent amount of the worlds consuml)tion, may be called inexhaustible, is known to all men. But how are these sup l)lies to be l)roduced ~ White men cannot work under an equatorial sun, and black men, without white men to guard them, fall into the helpless anarchy of Hayti. Once the white men made the black men work, but now that is over, and the white men have to look on at the black men sleeping in idleness. Between them, however, comes the colored man, and it is he who, as Mr. Trollope thinks, is master of the future. Mr. Trollope ~visely occul)ies nearly a quarter of his volume h~ giving graphic sketches of the negro, the Creole, and the mulatto, and we venture to recommend all readers of th~ book to make themselves thoroughly acquainted ~vith these prelimiiary chapters. For they are the key to the whole work. Different s~ttlements are really nothing more than different combina- tions of black men, white men, and half- castes; and although Mr. Trollopes skill in ~vriting makes his accounts of successive hotels, mountain ascents, voyages, and jour- neyings amusing enough, yet all these are but a variety of trimmings round the same sub- stantial joint. The heavy reality in the middle is always the relative arrangement of the ruling and subordinate races. About the negro, Mr. Trollope takes some credit for telling the truth. 11e boasts to speak of this man and brother without malice or extenuation. An ideal negro has been the pet creation of pious and philaiithropc circles gentle, loving, religious, and intelilgent eccentric, l)erhaps, and not very industrious, but with fine feeling and a disposition to im ~ Mr. Trollope found the actual nigger a different sort of animal. The black man in the West Indies is a complete anomaly. lie 209 TROLLOPE S WEST INDIES. has no country of his own, he has no language of his own, he has no pride of race. To be called a nigger is the worst reproach he can undergo, and so far is he from wishing to cast in his lot with his African brethren that he will not eat or drink or walk with a new im- migrant from the land of his ancestors. Physically he is capable of the hardest bodily work, hut his fatal content keeps him in sen- sual idleness. Mr. Trollope studied him closely, and writes of him thus He despises himself thoroughly, and would probably be content to starve for a month if he could appear as a ~vhite man for a day; but yet he delights in signs of respect paid to him, black man as he is, and is always think- ing of his own (lignity. If you want to win his heart for an hour, call him a gentleman; but if you want to reduce him to a despairing obedience, tell him that he is a filthy nigger, assure him that his father and mother had tails like monkeys, and forbid him to think that he can have a soul like a white man. Among the West Indies one may frequently see either course adopted towards them by their unreasoning, ascendant masters. I do not think that education has as yet done much for the black man in the western world. TIe can always observe, and often read; but he can seldom reason. I do not mean to assert that he is absolutely without mental power, as a calf is. He does draw conclusions, but he carries them only a short way. I think that he seldom understands the purpose of industry, the objects of truth, or the results of honesty. He is not always idle, peihaps not always false, certainly not always a thief; but his motives are the fear of im- mediate punishment, or hopes of immediate reward. He fears that and hopes that only. Certain virtues he copies, because they are the virtues of a white man. The white man is the god present to his eye, and lie believes in himbelieves in him with a qualified faith, and imitates him with a qualified constancy. As to the negros piety, Mr. Trollope re- marks that he knows the negro loves the Bibleloves it as the Roman Catholic girl loves the doll of a Madonna which she dresses with muslin and ribbons; but he ventures to state that the very first meaning of the common terms of Christian teaching does not often reach the negros mindeven the minds of those among them who are enthusiastically religious. As to the negros affection ateness he says I do not deny their family attach- ~nents, but it is the attachment of a dog. Affection and fidelity are things of custom only with them. When, however, it is only his minor good qualities that are spoken of Mr. rrollope finds much to like in him. There is much, he says, that is prepossess- ing in the ordinary good-humor of the negro, and much also that is picturesque in his tastes. The women especially astonished Mr. Trollopes practised eye by their skill in dressmaking, and the remarkably neat fit of their boddices. And they go through a great deal to be fine. It appears to be a custom for two female friends to agree that they shall have a very smart dress, a parasol and gloves, all of virgin white, between them, and that one of them shall wear these things one Sun- day and the other the next Sunday, while her colleague shall personate the maid of this grand lady and carry her mistress Bible on her head. The curiously irrational way in which the negroes try to maintain their dig- riity has long been the laughing-stock of their white observers, and Mr. Trollope concludes his chapter on black men with an amusing story to illustrate it I was in a shoemakers shop at St. Thomas, buying a pair of boots, when a negro entered quickly, and in a loud voice said he wanted a pair of pumps. He was a laboring man fresh from his labor. He had on an old hatwht in Ireland men would call a caubeen; he was in his shirt-sleeves, and was barefooted. As the only shopman was looking for my boots, he was not attended to at the moment. Want a pair of pumpsdirecterly, he roared out in a very dictatorial voice. Sit down for a moment, said the shop- man, and I will attend to von. He did sit down, but did so in the oddest fashion. He dropped himself suddenly into a chair, and at the same moment rapidly raised his legs from the ground; and as he did so fastened his hands across them just belo~v his knees, so as to keep his feet sus- pended from his arms. This he contrived to do in such a manner that the moment his body reached the chair his feet left the ground. I looked on in amazement, thinking he was mad. Give I a hit of carpet, he screamed out; still holding up his feet, but with much diffi- culty. Yes, yes, said the shopman, still search- ing for the boots. Give I a bit of carpetdirecterlv, he again exclaimed. The seat of the chair was very narrow, and the back was straight, and the position was not easy, as my reader wil. ascertain if he attempt it. Tie was half choked with anger antl discomfort. The shopman gave him a bit of carpet. 210 TROLLOPE S WEST INDIES. Most men and women ~vill remember that such bits of carpet are common in shoemak- ers shops. They are supplied, I believe, in order that those who are delicate should not soil their stockings on the floor. The gentleman in search of the pumps had seen that people of dignity were supplied with such luxuries, and resolved to have his value for his money; but, as he had on nei- ther shoes nor stockings, the little bit of car- pet was hardly necessary for his material comfort. The white men of Jamaica are the true aristocracy of the West Indies. They are by descent and tradition the highest and the most completely English of all the English inhabitants of the islands. A Jamaica planter, says Mr. Trollope, has so many of the characteristics of an English country gen- tleman, that he does not strike an English- man as a strange being. He has his pedi- gree, and his family house, and his domain around him. He shoots, fishes, and is in the commission of the peace. But now his palmy days are over, and of all the ruin that has come on the West ludies, the ruin of Ja- maica is the greatest. half the sugar estates, and more than half the coffee plantations, have gone back into a state of bush, and the planter cannot really screw up his mind to realize his l)osition and face its consequences. It is perfectly impossible that the Jamaica planter, with the present arrangement of the population, should grow sugar to compete with the slave-grown sugar of Cuba. His capital is gone, and his labor is gone, and he cannot hold up his head against the cal)italist owner of slaves in Cuba. He has, however, two resources. He might turn his attention to those l)roducts of the island svhi~h require scarcely any labor to bring to market. He might su~)ply Europe with log~vood, mahog- any, l)imento, and ginger. Or he might set himself energetically to import new laborers. Coolies and Chinese might repay the capital invested in their transport, and not only work themselves, but force the negro to work also. But the energy of the planter does not seem great enough for him to turn into new paths. He has been brought up to grow sugar, and if he does not grow sugar he will not grow any thing. He cannot bring himself to work very heartily in introducing more dark-skinned men into the island. He, in fact, feels that he is being sul)l)lanted by men of a race which he despises; and the social contest in which lie endeavors, with increasing ineffectualness, to snub and depress the colored man, absorbs and paralyzes him. He feels the negro and the half-caste treading on his heels. When the old planter sits on the magisterial bench a colored mali sits beside him, one probably on each side of him. At road sessions he cannot carry out his little project because the colored men outvote him. The old planter scorns the House of Assembly, and a colored man is chosen who votes away the white mans taxes. Even in days when Jamaica was piospemus, when great fortunes were made and spent there, and when every man had the fullest power to do what he pleased with his nigger, the Jamaica planter used to speak of England as home, and think the island that made him rich a strange country to him. Now that he is not only far from home but poor, he is less than ever attached to his place of residence, and he only protracts his stay there in gloom, anger, and despondency, be- cause he cannot help it. There are seventy thousand colored men in Jamaica to fifteen thousand whites; and these colored men, although not equal to the blacks in bodily strength, or to the whites in intelli- gence, are yet able to labor under a tropical sky as whites cannot do, and to enter on oc- cupations requiring thought beyond the ca- pacities of the black man. They are begin- ning to thrive. They practice as statesmen, as lawyers, and as doctors in the colony. They fully hold their own in the legislative body. They have forced themselves to such a l)osition that they are now seen at the table of the governor and at public balls. Of course the social battle they have still to fight is a very fierce one; but they do now fight it, and do not acquiesce in a position of l)assive ex- clusion. They are hated by the negroes end by the whitesby the negro, who thinks them too near himself to be worthy of any respect, and by the white man, who thinks them tainted and accursed. Naturally enough the brunt of the battle lies where woman meets woman. The white ladies cannot bring themselves to meet mulatto ladies with the outward equanimity which the white men at- tain who come across colored men every day in political or professional life. These crea- tures marry now, was the remark made to 211 TROLLOPE S WEST INDIES. Mr. Trollope by a lady who wished to express the height of audacity to which colored ivo- men had arrived. In the good old days they were thankful to be mistresses, but they pre- sume to wish their children to be legitimate. There is bitter hatred felt towards the colored race, and it is of no use to deny it; and the feeling is one which was inevitable. Mr. Trollope says, most justly, that nothing can oe more shallow than the superiority of gen- erous feeling affected by those who meet a enance mulatto or negro in England, over those who shrink from close association with inferior races in a country where the question of blood is brought home to every family: It is singular, however, how little all this is understood in England. There it is con- ceived that white men and colored men, white ~adies and colored ladies, meet together and amalgamate without any difference. The Duchess of This and Lord That are very happy to have at their tables some intelligent dark gentlemen, or even a well-dressed negro, though he may not perhaps be very intelli- gent. There is some little excitement in it, some change from the common; and per- haps also an easy opportunity of l)ractisit~ on a small scale those philanthropic views which they preach with so much eloquence. When one hobnobs over a glass of champagne with a dark gentleman, he is in some sort a man and a brother. But the duchess and the lord think that because the dark gentleman is to their taste, he must necessarily be as much to the taste of the neighbors among whom he has been born and bred; of those who have been accustomed to see him from his child- hood. There never was a greater mistake. A colored man may be a fine prophet in Lon- don; but he will be no prophet in Jamaica, which is his own country; no prophet at any rate among his white neighbors. This all points to the coming, not, perhaps, of a political change, but of a social and economical one. England may still continue to govern her West Jndian colonies, but the settlements over which she rules will have changed their character. The white men are not replenished from the home country. The stream of English colonization has set in a totally different direction. In Jamaica there may soon be a large l)ol)ulation of Asiatics as ~vell as of Africans, and the old Creole plant- ers will be swallowed up, as Mr. Trollope prophesies; and he has apparently good ground for the prophecy. They and the col- ored population will amalgamate, and in the colored population there is no point of stop- ping. The colored race fades into the black race, and in a hundred years there may be quite a ne~v distribution of races in Jamaica, and a cessation, more or less complete, of the sharp distinction between men of different blood. Jamaica is the most typical and the most interesting of our ~Vest Indian settlements, and what is true of it ~vill probably be true of all in some degree. But differences exist now, and probably will always exist. British Guiana is much the most flourishing of the settlements, because it is inhabited by a very enterprising race of settlers, who have capi- tal and courage enough to adopt the latest improvements of sci~nce, and who sink large sums in importing ships full of immigrants from India. Barbadoes, in a much smaller way, also gets on pretty well and pays its way, because it happens to have a population large in l)roportion to its size. But substan- tially, Jamaica is, as we have said, the key to all the islands. Mr. Trollope visited all the more remarkable of them, and touches off their cbaracte:istic features in his pleasant and lively manner. For the record of his travelling adventures, and for his special ob- servations on the different localitles, we must refer our readers to his book itself, as ~vhat he says is spoilt unless it is said in his way. rfhere is, however, one part of his book which is quite distinct from the other, and which treats, not of the West Indies, but of Cen- tral America. As it is full of interesting matter, and gives a clear and succinct account of much that has hitherto been stated vaguely and confusedly, we shall take another oppor- tunity of noticing this portion of Mr. Trol- lopes volume. 212 THE LUCK OF LADYSMEDE.PART X ChAPTER XXVII. THE WATCHERS. ON the evening preceding the day on which he was to answer Sir Godfreys sum- mons at Huntingdon, Abbot Martin was closeted until late in the night with the treas- urer, in the little stone chamber which that functionary occupied in right of his office, and where the records of the house were kept. Once more he had the accounts of the brother- hood laid before him, and spent more time and pains than he had hitherto done in en- deavoring to master their complicated details, and to l)lace in a clearer point of view the present state of their revenues and liabilities. The employment was not a pleasant one, least of all to one of the abbots tempera- ment; nor were its results satisfactory. But he manfully went through his ungenial task; and though at last lie laid the rolls aside with a heavy sigh, it was partly an expression of relief, and he spoke a cheerful word or two to his subordinate at parting. The night was bright and cold, and feeling restless and heated with long sitting and la- bor of an unaccustomed kind, the abbot, in- stead of seeking his own chamber at once, ascended the broad flight of steps which led to the river-terrace, and paced slowly along its extent, gazing thoughtfully into the moon- light that played on the broad stream below. The thoughts which now crowded on his heart had little to do with the fortunes of Rivelsby. lie who walked there was no longer the grave Benedictine, the ruler of a peaceful house of recluses, lie lived again amidst the stirring scenes of his earlier manhood, when the world nad for him all its best still to offer. He did not feel the cold breeze that swept up over the marshy meadows of the Ouse, or see tihe dank mists that rose below him. For him, the moon shone on the waters of the Bisagno, and the night air came loaded with the tier- fumes of the south. He was walking once more, in spirit, under a trellis of Italian vines, and listening to the gentle tones of a voice which had long been hushed in its last silence. He saw again before him that face of calm apd gentle beauty, in which the blue Saxon eye lighted with its soft radiance all the rich hues of southern loveliness; and it seemed to him now, as it had seemed before, that its glance met his own with a half-conscious meaning. The intoxicating dream which comes but once in life was on himin mem orystill. It must surely have been so! he could not have been self-deceived; though the jealous pride of the old Genoese nobility had taken alarm at the pretensions of a foreign adventurer, who had little besides his sword, and had buried her from his sight and his searchstill, he felt in this hour a stronger assurance than ever that Giulia Camaldoni loved, or would have loved him. He had been so absorbed in his own medi- tations, that, still as the night was, lie either did not hear, or did not notice,tlie cautious movement of oars upon the river. Nor did the closing of the postern-gate, which led down from the terrace to the river-entrance in the outer wall, reach the abbots ear, so noiselessly was it effected. But lie ~vas startled back into a sudden recollection of the present, when he saw, as he turned in his walk, the figure of one of the brethren appear suddenly from the postern steps, and cross the terrace rapidly towards the broader flight which from a point nearly opposite conimuni cated with the cloister. The monk, whoever he was, turned his head in the direction of the abbot as he passed across, stopped for an instant, and seemed to hesitate, and then, drawing his cowl over his head and quickens ing his Stel)5, disappeared in the quadrangle below. The moonlight was so clear and strong, and shone so full upon the face as it was turned towards the abbot, that in spite of the puzzling uniformity of the monastic habit, he felt convinced that lie had recog- nized the gait and the features of the prior. His first natural iml)ulse was to stop and question him, and his lips actually pronounced the name. Not so loud, however, as to make it certain that the other heard him; if lie did, it had not the effect of recalling him. The steps died away in the distance before the abbot had fully recovered himself; and it was then for the first time that he caught the sound of oars upon the water. It was more distinct, indeed, than it had been at first, as if the rowers, as they got further from the abbey walls, cared less to betray their movements. Looking from the battlements, he saw dis- tinctly a small boat, containing two or three persons, come out from the shadow of the bank under which it had hitherto kept, and make its way down the river. He turned, and descended into the quadrangle; there all was still and calm, as became a religious house within an hour of midnight. Massive 213 THE LUCK OF LADYSMEDThPART X. and solemn, some hidden deep in shadow, some clothed with light as with a frost-work of silver, the fretted pinnacles and stately arches reposed under the full moon. So was it, perhaps, with the souls that slept within;. on som~, the darkness of unrepented sin, the shadow of evil passions, hung with a heavier and deeper gloom because of the holy beams around them; others, though weather-worn and tempest-stricken like those old towers, had caught there something of the brightness of heaven. But the abbot had no time now for such reflections. What he had just seen filled his mind with a new source of disquiet. It was evident that the person, ~vhoever it was, who had just entered by the postern-gate, had either been absent from the monastery on some secret errand, pr had been holding rendezvous at that late hour with some par- ties who wished their visit to pass unobserved. He hesitated whether he should proceed at once to the chamber where the prior slept at the end of the long dormitory, and ascertain, if possible, whether his suspicions of the iden- tity of the person were correct; and if so, whether there might not still be some rea- sonable explanation to offer. On considera- tion, however, he determined to defer any in- quiry of that nature, at all events, until the morrow. He glanced once more round the vast range of buildings, where all was dark and silent, and passed through the archway into the smaller court, where lay his own al)artments. Besides the little lamp which burnt continually in his own chamber, and the dim gleam from the quarter where the sacrist lay, or rather watched, ready to a~vaken the brethren for the midnight office, he saw a light also in the room now occupied by his guest Waryn Foliot. He had a longing at that momentthough he chided himself for it as a weaknessfor the tones of some kindly human voice. He had missed, beyond what he himself could have thought possible l)ut two months back, the daily companionship of the little Giulio, who was still under Gastons faithful charge at Morton Grange; and Waryn, who had been to him almost as a son in his boyish days, still retained a hold of the same nature on his affections. It might have been a weakness in his own characterit might have been the freshness of a simple heart but Ahbot Martin always felt most happy and unrestrained 4n tae company of the young. He felt, too, that in Foliot, young as he was, he could, if need were, repose a confidence which lie would hesitate to risk in many of his own househeld. Without any very defi- nite purl)ose, then, lie bent his steps at once towards Waryns chamber. Having knocked gently at the door, the abbot entered, and found the occupant seated at a table covered with parebments and ma- terials for writing. Waryn rose, and received his visitor with a smile in which some natural surprise was al)parent. What! said the abbot, at your studies so late, young friend ! I am studying men rather than books, at l)resent, father, replied Waryn, answering with some little embarrassment; I have business here which the lord legate has done me the grace to put into my hands. These letters which you see are of some impor- tance,pardon me that I borrow of the night for it. William of Ely knows how to choose his friends, said the abbot; I wish well that King Richard had half his discretion in that point. I would he had a score of such stout friends in this realm as the bishop of Ely, said Foliot; he were a match for all his enemies then. But there is false dealing everywherefalsest of all are they of his own blood. Have you any suspicion, my goon lord, that the Earl of Morton has any friends in this house of Rivelsby? The abbot started, and hesitated for a mo- ment or two before he answered. He be- thought himself, almost involuntarily, of what be. had just witnessed on the river-terrace. No, said lie at last, I have no cause to think so. But he spoke with an embarrass- ment that could not escape Fohiots observa- tion. Pardon me, my dear lord, said lie, if I seem to wrong your venerable brotherhood by such an inquiry. But Prince John ~vill leave no stone unturned to overthrow the bishops .power by any means he may; and he has abettors in many quarters where they should least be looked for. There are those who think our gallant King Richard wi~l1 scarce return alive from Palestine, and are ready to buy them favor at any l)rice with the king that shall be. I know there are faults in the lord legate; but no man can gainsay him as a bold and upright governor, and 214 THE LUCK OF LADYSMEDE.PART X. loyal to the high trust he bears. God forbid we should fall under the hands of the Earl of Morton ! Certain expressions which the prior had let fall in conversation touching the rival claims to po~ver on the part of the kings brother and the bishop of Ely, came into the abbots mind irresistibly; he tried to banish the thought as an unworthy one, but still it would return. And now, when he ~vas about to leave his househe knew not for how long under the priors absolute government, it seemed to him like an imperative duty to as- certain, if possil)le, ho~v far he might trust his loyalty to the king. That he bore little good- will to himself, as his superior, Abbot Martin was well aware; but that was only a personal matter, which he was too honestly proud to resent; it made him even more careful lest he should judge him harshly in the more im- portant question. I trust I am not wont to he suspicious, said he; St. Mary forgive me if I wrong any man! but yet he was uncertain even now whether be should go on. Waryn made no remark when the abbot stop~)ed abruptly, but there was a look of anxious intelligence which made it evident that he had not made the inquiry lightly. Yielding partly to the conviction that he was acting wisely, and partly, I)erhaps, to his own confiding disposition, Abbot Martin told his listener briefly what he had seen that evening, and that he still retained his belief that it was the prior who had passed him. At the same time he explained that he had, until now, connected this nocturnal visit in his own mind with some of the emissaries of Sir God- frey. Foliot only gravely smiled in reply, as from the l)archrnet~t before him he selected one containing a list of names, which he handed to the abbot. The name to which his finger pointed was that of the prior of Rivelsby. And who are these d asked the abbot with some astonishment, as he glanced over the roll which he held, and read some other names there which were familiar to him. You ~vill not surely tell me that these have any l)art in the plot you spoke of! There is but too good proof of it, I fear, rel)lied Foliot, gravely; I have that here, he continued, laying his hand U~Ofl a folded document which he singled from the rest, which some of them at least will find it hard to reconcile with tbeir allegiance to the king. And the bishop, said the abbot, what course will he take upon this? He waits his time; but his measures are taken; and if the men of England have no mind to change their king, these hunters after power will find the chase a dangerous one. It seems to me scarcely prudent, said Abbot Martin, if it be as you say, to leave the guiding of this house in such hands even for a short space; albeit, as St. Mary knows, we can be of little help to the bishops cause or the Earl of Mortons. Yet it must needs be, according to our rule, that Prior Hugh should supply my l)lace in my absence. Let it be so, said Foliot ; better for the present, that these, men think themselves undetected; let the evil come to a head, and the remedy is easier. You ~vill remain here to await the lord legate? said the abbot. I much mistrust the knight of Ladysmede, Waryn, and I am not over-confident that he may not make a pretext to keep me a~ a hostage, as it were, for this child Giulio. I would gladly leave some one behind me here whom I might safely trust to l)revent the lord-bishops being deceived by evil whisperers. You will give me leave, father, to ride with you to Huntingdon to-morrow? You have good counsellors in your own house, I know well, but I might chance to do you some poor service. It should have been my fathers office, if he were here, and I must pm~~y you to look on me as his substitute. Sir Godfrey must not think that the abbot of Rivelsby lacks honest friends. I thank you, son Waryn, from my heart, said the abbot, warmly ; it is what I should have wished, loth as I am to embroil others in my quarrel. I accept your escort readily the more so because I propose to take with me none of my house but what are absolutely needful. A good-night, then, for we set forth at daybreak. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE rILORIM. THE slumbers of Hivelsby, scant and brief at all times under the strictness of the IJene dictine rule, were fated to be unusually dis- turbed that night. Scarcely had the abbot shut himself in his chamber, and thrown him 215 rilE LUCK OF LADYSMEDE.PART x. self on his pallet-bed, to think rather than to sleel), when Peter the porter, who knew but few cares, and was blessed with a very quiet conscience, was roused from a very comfort- able slumber by a loud and repeated sum- rnons at the gate. Peter was exeml)ted, by reason of his age and office, from the harass- ing duties of the midnight service; and it was seldom indeed that he was called upon to Ol)Cfl the abbey gates at such an unrea- sonable hour. He ~vas sleeping, too, even sounder than usual ; for there had been a caritas, or extraordinary distribution of beer, that evening, in commemoration of a departed abbot, who had chosen that mode of having his good deeds kept in remembrance; and two shares of the legacy had found their way to the porters lodgingsone for Peter him- self, and one for his deputy. Now it chanced that the deputy was not at his post that even- ing, having received permission to pay a visit to his relations; and Peter, having to l)erform as it were a double duty in his absence, very fairly considered this double l)ortion of the perquisites to be included. The knocking at the gate might even have continued longer, had not the boy who lay always in his cham- ber, an(l acted as his general servant (for Peter was an official of some dignity), heard it at last, though possessed of a strong boyish capacity for sleep, and awakened his master with some difficulty. It was long before the old man could shake off his memento of the hospitable abbot sufficiently to understand that he was wanted at the gate; and when he did proceed there, it was in no very intel- ligent or amiable mood. The key at th~~t hour was deposited, ac- cording to custom, with the cellarer of the abbey, so that there was no opening the gate without that officers permission, even had Peter been so inclined. He flung open the little wicket, through the bars of which a ~isitor cculd be seen and questioned, and saw two figures standing in the shado~v. Peter had it in his heart to abuse them roundly, but he could not be sure what their rank or their business might l)e. He put on, there- fore, a tone ns little objurgatory as could be exl)ected of him under such circumstances. Now who are ye, friends, and what may be your errand here at this hour? A strong gleam of moonlight shot upon the face of one of the figures, as he moved out a little from the shadow, and Peter shut the wicket with a howl of terror. It was indeed a remarkable object which his eyes had rested on. A black face it seemed, ~vith keen bright eyes, and white locks streaming down; and on its headPeters imagina- tion filled up the rest of the picture. There ~vas one very like it on the valls of the ante- chapel of St. Michael. He staggered back- wards against the boy, who had run out at the old mans cry. A lo~v sound of chuckling laughter outside did not serve to re-assure either of them; the old monk tried to say a paternoster, but he could not remember the words. PeterUncle Peter! said a voice out- side the gate, which he thought he recog- nized. But he rel)lied only by a low groan. It is I am here, Peter; open the gate, in our Ladys name! The boy, more courageous or more curi- ous, ol)ened the wicket aain and looked out. Peter had covered his eyes with his hand, but he listened while the boy again inquired the visitors business. Either he did not see the fearful visage which had presented itself to the ])orter, or he had stronger nerves. Again a laughing voice without was heard in rej)ly. Tis unconscionable to disturb ye, Uncle Peter, but I bring ye here one of your own flock that is in tribulation. What! said the porter, recovering from his alarm a little, and letting his suppressed wrath find vent now on a safe OI)ject; is it thou, graceless varlet? What fools trick is here? and who hast got with thee? If that shameless young Rupert bath been brawling with Hob Miller again, let him lie abroad all night, and do thou keep him company: tis a crying disgrace, and a scandal to the brother- hood. Hold, hold! said the other laughing; do not waste a wholesome chiding ~vhich may serve the poor brother for another time. I have no brawler here, uncle; tis but a l)OO~ monk from foreign parts, if I guess rightly, ~vho has more need of pity than hard words. And how has he fallen into such worship- ful company, Master Picot? said the porter, who had at once recognized the familiar voice. The hunter had been often sent to the abbey, in Sir Miles time, with presents of choice game and fish for the abbot, aad had drunk many a cup from the abbey cellars in the little chamber where Peter sat, who 216 THE LUCK OF LADYSMEDE.PART X. gladly kept him there to hear what news was stirring in the neighborhood. So intimate had he been with the old man in those days, that he had been accustomed to address him by the familiar term uncle, though no such relationship existed between them. But Picot had never been sent to the abbey on such friendly errands since the present lord had been in possession at Ladysmede. lie might chance to fall into worse coni- pany than mine, uncle, said the hunter; and I would have brought him to a better place if I could have found one; but he is not to lie at your gates here like a dog, I suppose, when he gets half-drowned in the river, be- cause your miller yonder chooses to let the little footbridge lie out of repairwell for him that I chanced to be passingI was on the watch for a wolf hard by. What the plague made him seek to cross that way ? said Peter; the bridge has been down these three years. How should I know P ask him yourself, said Picot, testily and I wish you joy of the ans~ver. Who are you, friend, and what has befal- len you ? inquired the l)orter, eyeing the stranger cautiously, as well as he could through the wicket. lie wore, as far as could he discerned, something of a monastic costume, but his face still seemed, as far as Peters hazy eyes could make it out, to have something strange about its features and coml)lexion. Peter could have fancied he looked like a negro. Ask him again, said Picot; he did not hear you. Peter repeated his question, but there came only a shake of the head from the stranger in reply. But he made the sign of the cross upon his breast (whereby Peter was much comforted) and laid his fin0er on his lips. Is he dumb? asked the porter in aston- ishment. Picot chuckled for an instant at the old mans perplexity. I reckon so, said he, for that is all the conversation we have had on the road. The stranger had drawn from his breast a small parchment roll, which he had handed to Peter through the wicket. Ay, said the hunter, as he marked the action; he offered that to me, poor soul, as we came along; but that is a way of talking I never could master. The official received the scroll, and looked at it in the moonlight as carefully as if he were reading every letter. The li aht was not in fault, for that matter; the broadest sunshine could not have taught old Peter the mysterious art, of which he knew as little as the hunter. He did not choose to confess the fact, however, and rolled up the parch- ment with a little grunt, which might have been taken. as an expression either of doubt or satisfaction, but in either case seemed to imj)ly that he had made himself perfectly master of its contents. Wait there a while, said he to Picot ; I must with this to our cellarer; he will give orders for this strangers admission, if it is to be so. The old man hobbled off to awaken the custodian of the abbey keys, not much to that officers gratification, for he was but newly appointed to his office, and rejoicing in the immunity which it gave him from some of the more rigid observances of the rule, and had not calculated upon such interruptions as belon~ing to his new dignity. lie rose, how- ever, and spelt out the strangers credentials by the light which the poiter carried. lIe has a vow upon him, said the eel- larer, when he had made out the sense; he hath bound himself to make a pilgrimage to three shrines in each of the lands of Christen- dom, and to cover his face and speak no word till it be accomplished. We must give him shelter, Brother Peter, for here is the abbot of Walsioghams mark and seal attachedhe hath come last from thence. He is marvel- lous late upon his road. The porter explained the acci,lent which, by Picots account, had befallen him. Humph! said the cellarer, as he gave the keys, and bestowed himself to sleep again, a man should travel by daylight. With this not very gracious order for the travellers admission, the old porter returned to the gate. He started again, as he ad- mitted him inside, and observed his appear- ance more closely. In the long gown, lank and dripping as it was with the waters of the Ouse, and the girdle of rope, there was noth- ing remarkable; but the upper part of his face, down to the lips, was covered with a vizard of black stuff, through which a pair of keen dark eyes looked out with an unnatural expression; while a heard of flowing white hair, by way of contrast, reached nearly to 217 THE LUCK OF LADYSMEDE.PART X. his girdle. If Peter had seen such an appli- cant for admission at the gate alone, in the moonlight, he would have had a strange tale for the brotherhood the next morning. Even now he looked with very considerable awe and mistrust at the strange guest whom he had admitted. Picot, after assuring his old friend of the travellers harmlessness, ~vent his way from the gate laughing heartily, and reter, still keeping as much as possible at a respectful distance, led the pilgrim to a lodg- ing for the night. Long before daybreak, Abbot Martin had completed the preparations for his journey. He had determined that none of the brethren should accompany him to Huntingdon, ex- cepting his chaplain Wolfert and the treasurer of the house. Foliot was to form one of the party, and the rest of his escort were as few as might serve for the decent maintenance of his dignity. Early as it was, the convent was all astir; and as he descended into the court attended by his chaplains, the cellarer came to report to him the arrival of their pilgrim- guest. He listened to the announcement which the official brought with some uneasi- ness, though he was careful not to betray it by word or look; for the circumstance itself was by no means so uncommon, except as to the hour at which the stranger made his ap- pearance, as to call for any special remark or inquiry. For a moment he hesitated whether he should see and examine the new-coiner for himself; but time was now precious, and as he looked at the scroll which the cellarer put into his hands, and recognized the well-known seal of his friend the abbot of Walsingham, he felt that the occurrences of the past night were threatening to make him over-suspicious. Merely giving brief directions, therefore, for the pilgrihs hospftable entertainment so long as he should see fit to remain, and for every furtherance to be given him in the perform- ance of his vow, he moved towards the spot ~vhere his escort and horses were awaiting nim. The monks were gathered in the courts and cloisters in little I)arties, finding in the supe- riors journey to lluntingdon on such an er- rand a topic of more than ordinary excitement. Most of them were selfishly more concerned for the interests of their house, which they held to be imperilled by the unscrupulous en- emy whom the abbot had provoked, than for any personal risk which he himself might be incurring. Some, however, saw his departure with unfeigned regret, and more than one felt a misgiving that he was leaving enemies be- hind him not less dangerous than those whom he was going to meet. There was a general move towards the gateway by which he was to pass, and some who pressed to the front fell on their knees to ask his blessing, and to bid him God-speed. I thank you, my children, said the abbot, in a broken voicehe was easily moved by any show of affection I thank you all; I trust to return to you in peace, and speedily. Stay with us, my good lord, said the sacrist, abruptly; there is evil before you let us meet it here together. Stay with your children, father, said one of the older monks; there is no trusting these men of violencethey hewed down St. Thomas at his o~vn altar. And did not his blood cry against the king from the ground P But fear not, my children, ho continued, smiling in his old, cheery fashion, though it was but to hide a stronger emotion which their honest affection called forth I am no saint, to be worthy of such a martyrdom. I were more fit to die in harness; never man struck me, altar or 1io altar, but he might chance to get as good as he gave. Farewell; be of good cheer; God and St. Mary have you in their holy keeping! CHAPTER XXIX. JUSTICE AND HER ASSESSORS. THE court was set in the county-hall at Tluntingdon. There, as justiciary for the king, sat Sir Hugh Bardolph, who had little pretension in his own pe~son to represent jus- tice, except that he was nearly blind. He was a sworn companion of the knight of Ladysmede, had fought by his side in many a fray, and sat with him at many a deep ca- rousal. But sword and wine-cul) trembled alike no~v in the half-palsied hand, though it was the excesses of a wild youth and man- hood, rather than the advances of age, which had affected those strong nerves, and given him the aspect of an almost worn-out man. By his side sat Sir Godfrey himself, with a sterner countenance than his wont, and a restless look that sho~vcd he was under some strong excitement. At a table in trout sat scriveners and notaries, and others who held some inferior office under the great majesty of law. A strong force of l)ikemen and ha 218 TIlE LUCK OF LADYSMEDE.PART X. berdiers occupied the immediate space around, and the rest of the hall was thinly filled by the idler spirits amongst the citizen~ Sir Nicholas le Hardi was present there, hut he was seated apart at some distance behind Sir Godfrey, and took no part in the proceedings. Some two or three plaints of minor impor- tance had already been heard, and judgments given, which had the single recommendation of being rapid and decisive, though they were guided less by the rights of the case than by the preconceived opiniol~s or the supposed interests of Sir Godfrey and his friend the justiciary. The morning was fast wearing on, and as yet there was no appearance of the answering party in the more important cause for which