THE LIYING- AGE. No. 905.5 October, 1861. CONTENTS. 1. The Weakness of Giants, . 2. Baron Bunsen.By the Rev. F. ID. Maurice, 3. Flocci, 4. The Last Lewises.Little Capet, 5. Science and Arts for July, . 6. Last Travels of Ida Pfeifler, . 7. German Amusements, . . 8. Arsenic-Eating and Arsenic-Poisoning,. 9. Rival EaselsLawrence and Hoppner, 10. The Consulate and the Empire, 11. American Affairs, . . 12. Slavery and the Rebellion, . 13. An Arab Newspaper, . London Review, Macmillans Magazine, Saturday Review, Chamberss Journa4 Examiner, Saturday Review, Chamberss Journa4 Athenaeum, Macmillans Magazine, Philadelphia Press, Athenceum, POETRY.The Way by which He led thee, 2. Little Shoes and Stockings, 2. The Brave at Home, 2. The Invisible Armies, 25. The Comet, 1861, 25. SHORT ARTIcLES.New Relic of Columbus, 13. Accident on Mont Blanc, 15. Heraldic Jen DEsprit, 21. Death of Atkinson, the Traveller, 27. Bishop Taylor, 27. Wolseys Repentance, 30. Auctumnalia, 34. Wine Corks, 44. 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WHEN WC reach a quiet dwelling On the strong, eternal hills, And our praise to Him is swelling Who the vast creation fills; When the paths of prayer and duty, And affliction, all are trod, And we wake, and see the beauty Of our Saviour and our God ~Vith the light of resurrection, When our changbd bodies glow, And we gain the full perfection Of the bliss begun below; When the life that flesh obseureth In each radiant form shall shine, And the joy that aye endureth Flashes forth in beams divine While we have the palms of glory Through the long eternal years, Shall we ecr forget the story Of our mortal griefs and fears? Shall we eer forget the sadness And the clouds that hung so dim, When our hearts are filled with gladness, And our tears are dried by him? Shall the memory be banished Of his kindness and his care, When the wants and woes are vanished Which he loved to soothe and share? All the way by which he led us, All the grievings which he bore; All the patient love he taught us, Shall we think of them no more? Yes! we surely shall remember How he quickened us from death low he fanned the dying ember With his spirits glowing breath: We shall read the tender meaning Of the sorrows and alarms, As we trod the desert, leaning On his everlasting arms. And his rest will be the dearer When we think of weary ways, And his light will seem the clearer As we muse on cloudy days. Oh, twill be a glorious morrow To a dark and stormy day! We shall recollect our sorrow, As the dreams that pass away. LITTLE SHOES AND STOCKINGS. LITTLE shoes and stockings! What a tale ye speak, Of the swollen eyelid, And the tear-wet cheek! Of the nightly vigil, And the daily prayer; Of the buried darling, Present everywhere. Brightly plaided stockings, Of the finest wool; Rounded feet and dainty, Each, a stocking full; Tiny shoes of crimson, Shoes that nevermore Will awaken echoes, From the toy-strewn floor. Not the wealth of Indies, Could your worth eclipse, Priceless little treasures, Pressed to whitened lips; As the mother nurses, From the world apart, Leaning on the arrow That has pierced her heart, Head of flaxen ringlets; Eyes of heavens blue, Parted moutha rosebud Pearls, just peepin~ through; Soft arms softly twining Round her neck at eve, Little shoes and stockings, These the dreams ye weave. I Weave her yet another Of the world of bliss, Let the stricken mother Turn away from this; Bid her dream believing Little feet await, Watching for her passing Through the pearly gate. Congregational Herald. THE BRAVE AT HOME. BY T. BUCHANAN READ. THE maid who binds her warriors sash, With smile that well her pain dissembles, The while beneath her drooping lash One starry teardrop hangs and trembles. Though Heaven alone records the tear, And Fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As ever delved the field of glory. Tile wife who girds her htjsbands sword, Mid little ones ~vho ~veep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheeting word, What though her heart be rent asunder Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of war around him rattle, lath shed as sacred blood as eer Was poured upon the plain of battle! The mother who conceals her grief, While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God, To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds hply blood as eer the sod Received on Freedoms field of honor! THE WEAKNESS OF GIANTS. From The London Review. THE WEAKNESS OF GIANTS. MYTHOLOGY, tradition, and history agree in the fact that giants, though strong in body, are weak in mind; and that nature, which does so much for them in respect of thews and sinews, is, for the most part, niggardly to them in the matter of brains. Their brute force is not equalled by their intellect; and the biggest and most formida- bly pretentious of them are continually rep- resented as falling easy victims to the skill or cunning of comparatively small antago- nists. Samson was but a poor creature if he ~$re not a positive idiot; and great Goliath of Gath, fell easily before nimble little David. The Jotuns, in Norse my- thology, were, with all their tremendous strength, very easily circumvented by strip- lingsand even by children; and the famous achievements of the universally popular and highly esteemed Jacksur- named the Giant-Killerhave no other moral than to show how infinitely superior to the mere bodily force of the hugest mon- sters in human form are the skill, patience, address, and pertinacity, that are given to smaller people, in order to keep true the balances of nature, and rescue the world from oppression. When a giant becomes the friend of a dwarf, it is only that he may have the advantage of the little mans intel- lect; and the dwarf generally ends by mak- ing himself, as he ought to be, the ruler and governor of his bulky associate. It is an old, and all but universal instinct, which has contributed largely to the delight of men in ull parts of the world, and given them treasures of poetry and romance, which have gone on accumulating from the earliest ages to our own. The fight for the championship of Eng- land, which took place on Tuesday last in an island in the river Medway, safe from the interference of a police that was doubt- less instructed not to be too zealous in the performance of its duty, was in itself a very disgusting business. Yet, in its re- salts, it was so remarkable a proof of the old wisdom of the world, as represented to us by the traditions of every age and race, as to justify the journalist in commepting upon it. Most people of education~ look upon pugilism with dislike, and some even with abhorrence; but it cannot be denied 3 that very many of the educated and refined, as well as larger numbers who have coarser tastes, see a substratum of goodness under the evil thing, and defend it as not without its advantages in keeping up among the people a love of fair play, in discouraging or rendering impossible amongst us the use of the knife or the stiletto, and above all things in imprinting upon the whole course and current of an Englishmans character a con- viction of the base cowardice of hitting a man when he is down. XVithout entering upon that question at all, and recognizing to the fullest extent the brutality of the late fight between Hurst and Mace, for the greatly coveted belt of the championship, we cannot but read the details of the struggle with a certain sort of admiration for the pluck, as well as the skill of the little man, who so effectually defeated the big one. Hurst, the possessor of the belt, which he had won some months ago at the close of a short fight, by a single and all but accidental blow, stood nearly six feet three inches in height, and weighed sixteen stone. Mace, his antagonist, was but five feet eight inches in height, and weighed only ten stone and a half. It was known by the friends and backers of the giant, that he had but to strike one blow to make an end of the battld, if not of his ad- versary, and that that one blow would fell a stronger man than Mace, as effectually as a childs hand would fell a ninepin. Mace, if not his friends and backers, was precisely of the same conviction, and never lost heart, or doubted the issue, even when Hurst, to add to his other advantages, ac- quired the right of choosing his corner, and stood with his own back to the sun, and the light full in the face of his adversary. After a little preliminary sparring to feel his way, Mace, says the graphic account of an eye-witness, began the fight with a terrific blow, which completely closed Hursts eye, and seemed to make his bulky frame tremble to his very feet. Before the first round, which lasted nearly twelve min- utes, was over, Hurst was half smothered in his own blood, and his face so gashed, that, as far as appearances went, Mace might have been assaulting him with a razor. Hurst knew evidently nothing of boxing,. and his antagonist therefore merely drew aside with the most perfect 8ang-froid from TUE WEAICNI~S~ O~I? GIANTS. the. slow, awkward movements of the pon- derous arms, delivering his own strokes fall on the head and face of the giant, witha force and rapidity that was terrible. In vain, like a blind Cyclops, Hurst threw his arms abroad, and strove to grasp, to strike, even to touch his lithe, wiry foe; in vain he strove to hem him into a corner. Mace would simply inflict his tremendous blows full on the smashed face of his opponent, pass under his arm, and be gone, almost before the eye could follow his movements. We have no intention of giving all the sickening details. After a struggle of fifty minutes, during which eight rounds were fought, Hurstdisfigured, bleeding, ghastly, and insensiblewas compelled by his back- ers to give in, without having struck one blow, or even so much as touched his an- tagonist. It is not our purpose either to defend or apologize for the exhibition, or to say one word for the good taste or bumanity of those who witnessed or permitted it; but, nevertheless, in spite of our better judg- znpnt, we find it impossible to withhold the expression of a certain amount of sympathy for the poor giant~~ so sadly belabored, and of approval of the personal daring and incomparable skill of the conqueror. Yet, had it been only to express such feelings, we should not have given any addi- tional publicity to the details of so vulgar a fight. It is only because we find in it a specimen of the mightier conflicts that are being fought, or that will shortly have to be fought in the world, that we tolerate it at all, and look upon it as a kind of represent- ative battle, in which far greater issues are very palpably prefigured. All history tells us that the fiercest giants, who depend upon force alone, are inevitably beaten when it comes to the point; and that the mightiest empires follow the same law, and are doomed to fall victims to the skill and intelligence which they ignore or de- spise. We need not go back to the classic or the middle ages for proofs of the fact. We have only to look around to see it. Is not Austria a stupid giant like Hurst P and Italy a lithe, little, patient, and dexterous combatant like Mace? The fortunes of that great match, with the whole of the civilized world for its spectators, are as yet marvel- lously similar to those which were this week decided in Kent; and the issues will be the samc, or there is neither truth in. nature nor in histoi~y. hurst will, it is to be hoped, recover from his defeat; and so it is to be hoped will Austria when Italy has done ~vith har. But Hurst and Austria will have to fight other battles, with other challengers, or retire,the one from the ring, and the other from her high position among king- doms and empires. Who will challenge Hurst we cannot say, but every one can s~e fat enbugh into the future to know that Hungary will be the next nimble and skilful boxer that will try the fortune of battle with the bulky giant of Vienna. And, ~ course, the bulky monster will be beaten. In like manner that tremendous old giant, who sits at Rome, has been so belabored by the nimble little men of intellect, who have been hitting him such heavy blows, that he presents at this moment a spectacle almost as frightful to contemplate as poor Hurst did a few minutes before the fight was over. Substitute for the name of Brettle, the giants backer, in the following para- graph, the name of Napoleon III., and for that of Hurst the Papacy, and there comes out a truthful picture of the present condi- tion of one of the most formidable giants who ever appeared in the world to overcome and oppress it. iBrettle, Hursts chief backer, says the Times reporter, at last rushed into the arena, and insisted on his fighting no more; but the maimed giant seemed incapable of understanding his de- feat, and groped and staggered out again. Blind and fainting it only required one or two more blows to finish the affair; but the infliction of those on the helpless heap of flesh was horrible and sickening beyond all description. His seconds and backers gave in for him without his knowledge, and kept Hurst in his corner till he gradually became almost insensible, and all the restorative arts of the ring were exhausted in efforts to keep him from fainting, which, in the ab- sence of a surgeon, and in his then fast- failing power, might have been a most seri- ous affair. And a very serious affair it will be, when the Brettle of Pie None withdraws him from the ring, and confesses on his behalf, that the long, unequal fight is at an end for- ever. We need not pursue the course of our illustrations. They are obvious and nu- merous, and lie upon the surface of all con- temporary history. Let the giants beware! There are evil days before thi~m; and intel- lect will conquer brute force now, as it always has done, both in personal and in national conflicts. 4 J3A110N I~UNSE~. 5 From Macmillans Magazine. of one who is supporting the champio~of BARON BUNSEN. BY THE REV. F. D. I some cause in which he is interested. An~ MAURICE. no one will be able to charge the memory of IN the Times, of Jan. 9, a short article a groat man with any of the follies which he appeared on the death of Baroz~ j3unsen. may discover in his admirer. It was translated from the .Thvue Chr.~tienne, The first impression, I think, which was and was signed by M. Pressens~. ~I2he arti- left upon all who saw Bunsen during his cle was worthy of the subject & ~nd of the residence in this country, or in any other writer. It would not be easy tQ, fInd s.ny- country, was that they had seldom met with where a more beautiful obituary, on~ ~r~r a1man so thoroughly friendly and genial, so from flattery and exaggeration, and fuljor resay to meet people of all kinds on their of genuine affection and admiration. M. own ground, so little affecting dignified re-. Pressens6 is not a follower of Baron Bunsen. serve, so free from the airs of diplomacy. He professes. a dislike to many of his epin- Frankness will have struck them as his pe- ions. His appreciation of the man is the culiar characteristic. They will, of course, more real because he does~ have been surprised by the variety of his But just and generous as this testimony information upon subjects which they sup- from a Frenchman is, an Englishman could posed to lie out of the circle of an ambassa- scarcely read it without some pain. Baron dors business. What will have surprised Bunsen lived among us, and was more still more will have been his personal inter- closely associated with us than with the est in each of those subjects: his power of people of any country eicept his own. He throwing his heart into the one by which was known intimately to men of all classes the person he was conversing with was oc- and all parties in this land; some of all eupied at the moment. They will have classes and all parties expressed no ordinary found that this vivacity of mind did not affection for him. Why are they ~ silent? only manifest itself in general topics; their Is separation from our land or the separa- own private and domestic concerns were re- tion of death a destroyer of all the links membered with a sympathy which was at which bind us to those with whom we have least as pleasant, and I should suppose interchanged thoughts, from whom we have somewhat more rare. Those who were received benefits? Or are we so behind struck by his intellectual accomplishments French Protestants in Christian graces that may have thought that he was too encyclo.. difb~rences of opinion make it impossible for p~edic, that his mind wanted concentration. us to say what we feel and know respecting But they will certainly have observed that the inner worth of those whom we cannot his attachments were as diffusive as his accept as guides? Some I am sure who studies, and that in them there was no defi~. received from him a series of undeserved ciency of distinctness or personality. His kindnesses have preferred to seem ungrate- affections were the more alive in the family ful than to inflict on hi~ memory the burden circle, amongst his intimate friends, because of their awkward praises and their bad rep- they were catholic. utation. Such motives may fairly influence I have spoken of firstimpressions. Those them to a certain extent. But what they do which I have described were, I think, very ill, others may be stirred up to do better; general. I never remember to have met their partial conceptions or misrepresenta- any one, even of the Malachi Malagrowther tions of him, may call forth the friends who species, who did not share in them for understood him to vindicate his character. awhile. But I have known many, not ill- I should abstain from speaking if I did not disposed persons, who fancied they. saw think that a slight testimony from one who reason to suspect the man of duplicity, difh~red from him more widely.. than M. whom they had given credit for so much Pressens~ is likely, to have donewho straightforwardness; to suppose that he looked at all objects from a different, nearly professed with his lips what he did not in- the opposite, point of view to hismay be wardly believe. Every one knows how rap- of some use at this time. I do not pretend idly such doubts spread when they have~ to he a reluctant or an impartial witness. once entered into our minds; what revenge But my evidence will, at least, not be that we take for our previous credulity; how we BARON BUNSI~N. 1ab~r that others may not indulge the un- ~e confidence which we have abandoned. As such feelings, when they are not well founded, are most demoralizing and mis- chievousas I am well convinced that in this instance they have no foundationI will explain how I think they originated. When Baron Bunsen came to England, many of us fancied that he was half an Englishman. We knew he had many ties to this country; we had heard that he was suspected in his own of Anglomania; we were specially pleased to have the witness of a philosopher of extensive observation as well as reading in favor of our habits and institutionsagainst his own. When we desire to be deceived, every phrase carries the meaning, not that it has, but that we give it. Any kindly appreciation of that which we have done or thought, any willing- ness to meet us on some common ground, is taken to imply preference for us, nay, to in- timate how much better other lands would be if they could be cast in our mould. Many eminent foreigners have suffered grievously from these complimentary opinions respect- ing them. The moment they have shown any of the patriotism which it would have been their shame to want, there has been an expression of more than disappointmentof anger, as if we had been tricked. It is not, we say, what we Eflf,*lish call con- sistency and good faith;~~ as if we Eng- lish~~ did not show by that very language that we should think ourselves bound in duty to recant every observation we had ever made that could by possibility imply the superiority of any country to our own. No one ever was subjected to a greater share of this injustice than Baron Bunsen. If he had formed an exaggerated estimate of our meritsexaggerated, I mean, for a foreigner the very near view he had of our corrup- tions and our discontents might naturally have shaken it. But I venture to doubt whether even in the commencement of his stay here he felt or gave indications to any fairly judging person that he felt the slight- est disloyalty to his own na1~ional traditions. At that time I would have given much to believe that he had some Anglican tenden- cies; yet no cunning sophistry which I could exercise on the words I heard him speak, or that were reported to me by those who knew him better, could bring me to the conclusion that he had. Every thing convinced me that he was a German to his hearts core; that he had resisted, and would resist, every in- fluence from without, every temptation from within, to be any thing else. But if he was exposed to this kind of sus- picion, he fell just as much under an oppo- site one. ~English laymen tormented with questions of which they did not find their divines willing or able to offer a solution. English divines finding that what they had been in the habit of preaching in their pul- pits or teaching in their classes, did not sat.. isfy others or themselvesmight naturally turn to a German, free from the trammels of our education, acquainted with a variety of religious beliefs, conversant with the vicissi- tudes of opinion in his own country, most ready to communicate his thoughts and ex- periences, for some relief from their embar- rassments. Many who sought this relief may have fancied for awhile that they had found it. A number of thoughts would be brought before them to which they had not been accustomed; they would find them- selves irfts different atmosphere from that which they had been used to breathe; they could not be deceived that it was an atmos- phere, not of speculation merely, but of earnest practical faith. To some this last discovery would be most consolatory. But, in process of time, some of them might per- ceive that practical faith in them must c on- nect itself with other feelings and supports than those which the German seemed to re- quire. What was natural to him, was un- natural to them. How it should be so, they might be unable to ~letermine; the experi- ence of the fact is more than any explana- tion. On the other hand, many in a differ- ent, though equally discontented, state of mind would regard this so-called faith as a mere heirloom from Luther and the six- teenth century, which interfered with the scientific processes and idealizing processes into which they had hoped that a philoso- pher of the nineteenth century would initiate them. Each of these for different reasons would express a disappointment, perhaps an indignation, not inferior to that of the An- glican doctor, whom both abhorred. The German prescriptions do not suit our corn- plaints, would be the groan of the one. The other would threaten the imperfect per- former of the miracle of liquefying facts BIVRON BUNSEN. 7 into ideas, much in the tone of the Neapoli- he reformation; reformation always has tan on a like occasion. Oh cattivo St. meant, always must mean the recovery of a .Tanuario ! would he the mildest phrase of form which has been lost, the pursuit of lamentation when the too solid flesh did not ends which are marked out for us and which melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew. we have forgottenthe return to a real be- The former would not have the fairness to lief of that which we profess in words. remember that the German physician did That this was the end which Baron Bun- not volunteer his advice to the English pa- sen set before himself in reference to the tient; did not profess to say what kind of country of his birth, and of his mature affec- bath might suit his constitution! It did not tion, I am fully convinced. Whether the occur to the other that he made no pro- means which he chose for the end were the fession of any special power to liquefy facts; best possible, I, of course, am utterly incom- that he was in the habit of denouncing many petent to decide. But, as I trace them, I who performed that portent in his own land cannot help perceiving that they were, at as enchanters and false prophets; that he least, consistent; that he had a distinct probably envied the English reverence for sense of a vocation, which Germany and her factsif it did not convert all facts into cot- sons ought not to forget; that he had also ton or bank notesthough he might not a sense of certain dangers attending that find it easily attainable by himself, vocation which it became her sons to watch The true lesson from these different kinds against, and so far as in them lay to coun- of unfairness which Englishmen are prone teract; that he never supposed they could to commit, and from each of which Bunsen be counteracted except by influences which suffered discredit, is, I conceive, that we should bring the life and heart of the coun- never honor one anotherthat we never are try into fuller play, which should give it a even ordinarily just to one anotherunless practical as well as a scientific interest in the we have a position of our own which we are past, which should awaken its hopes for the resolved not to abandon; and unless we like future. those foreigners best ~vho are resolve4d that The belief of a special vocation for his they will try to understand their position people cannot have been learnt by Bunsen and to hold it fast. If we adhere to this in any of those schools to which he is ac- rule, Bunsen will not only retain all those cused of having addicted himself. It must titles to our esteem which he earned when have been received from the old Hebrew he first came amongst us, but we shall prophets. Would to God we had more of reckon it a very great additional title that, it! Would to God that when we talked of after seeing all the wealth and grandeur of our callings we meant that they were call- Englandafter seeing what may have at- ings! If it were so, with how much more tracted him much more, its scientific prowess reverence and fear should we pursue them! and the results which that prowess has pro- If he was right in thinking, as his master ducedits religious freedom and its relig- Niebuhr had taught him, that philology, un- ious activitiesin spite of strong affections derstanding by the name not only the study and domestic ties which bound him to us of language but of the historical documents he nevertheless retained unsoiled and intact of nations, is the work for which Germans his devotion to his fatherland, and would have special gifts that other nations want not suffer any tastes, feelings, opinions of from how many rash conclusions might he Englishmen to sway him the very least in save themwhat courage might he give his projects for its amelioration. And I them, supposing he could persuade them think we cannot show our respect for him that it is indeed a vocation; that God has more than by going and doing likewise. We designated them to it! shall utterly fail to extirpate any of the evils What was the measure of his own philo- which we mourn over most, if we ~ieek to logical success in his Egyptian Inquiries, or extirpat~hem by foreign and not by native in his larger work on the History of Man- methods; the plans which we borrow will kind, I must leave to those who are qualified he in our practice artificial and clumsy, the to judge. But this, I think, must be appar- notions we borrow, generally exaggerated, eat to all who only look into those books; always feeble. For no mere change can ever that they are not merely antiquarian; that 8 BARON BUNSEN. the writer has felt a human interest in Ida cries, confessions, thanksgivings~ to the liv-. subjects, and has given a human interest to ing God, Qf the most devout men, of all his discourses on them. Merely acientific ages which Germany has produced not Whe~i inquirers may be shocked at such motives, they were speculating or debating, but wheti but I cannot help thinking that zeal for the they were in the midst of individual and na- honor of Germany and of Niebuhr gave him tional suffering. an interest in penetrating hieroglyphics, and For the same purpose Bunsen, long before enumerating Egyptian dynasties, which the he caine to England, composed a liturgy. mere topics would have wantecL I do not The largest work which he wrote while he doubt his love of truth for truths- sake, but was in England contains more than one vol.. I apprehend that, to an affectionate warm- ume which is especially devoted to the ancient hearted man, truth brings greater evidences Liturgies of the Church. As I think the of itself when it can show itself surrounded writers of the Olney Hymns would have with living and personal associations, esteemed the Ge8angbuch a more effectual But, if Bunsen thought that his country- antidote to what they would have called the men ought to pursue such investigations as unevangelical tendencies of modern Ger- these with unflinching ardor, and not to be many, than any prelections against those stopped in them by any consideration of the tendencies, so I believe Jeremy Taylor would results to which they might lead, he was have valued these actual exhibitions of the certainly as strongly convinced that the life and devotion of primitive martyrs and German mind requires something to balance fathers very much more than any arguments its merely intellectual energies. His Ge- to prove that Germans were undervaluing sangbueh, which has been in part naturalized the authority of fathers or martyrs. I do among us by Miss Wentworths admirable not say this because I regard this part of translations, must have been the result of Bunsens labors as establishing a special this conviction. Such a book, coming from ground of sympathy between him and mem- a statesman, would have astonished the hers of the English Church. On the con English public; must have astonished the trary, khere is no part of his writings which German public still more; must have laid brings out the contrast between him and us him open to the charge of pietism at a time more strikingly. The ante-Nicene fathers when that charge was especially offensive, were precious to him, in contrast with those As it was not original it could procure him who adopted and wrestled for the creeds no personal fame to compensate that disa- which we take for the groundwork of our greeable imputation. Yet, if a statesman devotions. I have no words to express how desires to call forth the life of his people, to entirely I dissent from his opinion. If the give it an interest in its own past history, to conflicts of the first centuries had not issued deliver it from sordid aims, to substitute an in the proclamation of the Nicene Creed, the earnest practical faith for mere theories, to Church, it seems to me, would have passed contrast the dreams of modern revolution jute a mere collection of devout opinions; with the actual convictions of old reformers; its various schools would have sunk into I know not how by a thousand protocols, or warring philosophical sects. The Creed was speeches, or repressing edicts, he could have the proclamation of a Divine kingdom, fulfilled his function half as well. There are which was to strfiggle with the imperial some worthy men, both in England and Ger- kingdom in Constantinoplewhich was to many, who suppose that they can rekindle keep up a battle in all ages with every form faith there by continual denunciations of of imperialism, whether it came forth under Rationalism, who say also that Bunsens a secular or an ecclesiastical name. The aim was to weaken faith and strengthen Creed going forth from Nice, stifled no in- Rationalism. Let them ask themselves se- quiry.was able to check no opposing opin- riously in any quiet moment what ~1~ey have ion. Athanasius had to fight alone against accomplished by their labors, to awaken the world in defence of it, and to pvail be.. faith, or destroy that which is opposed to it cause he was fighting for the people against in any single heart? And then let them the doctors. When it became a mere sub consider what may have been done for that ject of debate among doctors in the Churches end by bringing together the most earnest of Greece, the mighty proclamation of an BARON BUNSEN. 9 a~vtual Living will by Mahomet and his suc- in all quarters of the world. They were ~ess~rs crushed the professors of it. It perplexed to find much space devoted to dis. ~oula only make head against them in the cussions of minute points of organization wes1~ by appearing once more as the an- affectinS Prussia, possibly the north of Ger- nounQement of a kingdom that rules over manynearly uninteresting, scarcely intel- ali. 1i1 that form it has had to endure the ligible anywhere else. I owe great thanks i~ciibus of papal domination; it has had to to the book for this very reason. It made ~ght with the fury of Protestant sects. It me more conscions than any book I had will, as I think, overthrow them bothbe ~ ever road before, than any book written with witness for the union of Greeks, Itomanists, a less honest and simple intention coiAd Protestantsand batter down the devil- have donehow impossible it is to conceive worship which prevails so mightily amou~ a Universal Church, how the most enlarged all three. Not for an instant would I sur- philosophy can only describe a merely local render it to the objections or arguments of Church, if the starting-point is the Geme- Bunsen, or of all other objectors, lay and inde. Suppose a Divine Being, who calls clerical, together, however much I may honor out a man, a family, a nation, who then re- them; because I believe in my heart it will veals the Head of all nations, and you can do the work which they longed to see done, explain what excuses men have found for and which their religious instincts, philo- contracting the dimensions of such a body, sophical theories, even practical devotions, so that it shall be subject to the mortal cannot do without it. By all means let bishop of a particular city; so.that it should them speak out their objections and difficul- be merely national; so that it should rep- ties; it has power to encounter them, and, resent some special opinion. But take conquer them. By all means let each man the opposite course; try to ascend from the pursue honestly his own search after unity; notion of the society to those who minister I am satisfied it will meet all their different in it, to Him who is the object of its adora- searches, and willhelp to make them effectual. tion, and that society adapts itself unawares What I have said about Bunsens efforts to the notions, education, epoch, circum- to restore the literature of the early Church, stances of the person who describes it. His explains what I shall venture to say about desire to be useful and practical forbids him his Church of the Future. The book to lose himself in considerations which would which bears this title embodies, it seems to fit any place, and therefore are fit for no me, the feelings which were likely to be cx- place. And this is only a small part of the cited by the democratic movement of the difficulty. The ministers chosen by the age, in a man who was full of strong reli- Gemeinde are merely officials. By the gious convictions, and who was vehemently hypothesis they can be nothing else; offi- averse to the old hierarchical system. The cials with the same temptations as men have Gemeinde is every thing. All ministers are felt everywhere to exercise tyranny over merely its officials. The services of the their flocks; to make that tyranny good by Church are acts of united thanksgiving, appeals to the grandeur of their work. And That which was supposed to be a sacrificial the object of the worship is,what P Bun- act, deriving some virtue from the presence sen would have answered reverently, The of the priest, is the offering of the heart and God of our fathers; the God who is revealed spirit of the people to God. This is the de- in Christ. But saying so he brings back vout aspect of the doctrine of popular sove- the idea of a Church grounded on that reve- reignt~y. In this form he hoped it might be lation; the Church of the past is the Church emancipated from its atheistical accompani- of the future. Not saying sothe old story meats; in this form it might combine the is repeated. The object of worship is really old Protestant testimony for individual faith created by the worshipper; the official be- with the social cravings of a later time. comes, in the worst sense of the word, sacer- On most men this book left an impression dotal; he is the victim and organ of all the of great disappointment. Its magnificent superstitions of the Gemeinde; not less, but title led them to expect something which more for that, its oppressor. None of these should be satisfying to the hopes and wants consequences were present to Bunsens mind~ of people in all parts of Christendom, nay, He is in truth not more responsible for 10 BARON ~ them than a hundred theories which prevail amongst ourselves. He has the great merit of bringing these theories to the test; of showing how inconsistent we have been in combining them with another much older doctrine. His noble ambition to assert the rights of the Gemeinde, to clear away priest- craft, to give sacrifice a real meaning, forces us back upon that earlier faith. Without that faith I do not see how any of these ob- jects can be accomplished; they must be ac- complished some day, if it has any reality. I do not complain of him in the least for maintaining the position he has taken up in this book. His business as a German might be to ask what kind of society is necessary that the rights of men as social and spirit- ual beings may be fully assertcd, and to see whether he could construct such a society. We who are not constructors at all may be very grateful for the experiment, may learn much more from its failure than from many successes upon which we plume ourselves. We have had ages of political experience to compensate our want of the power of theo- rizing. Institutions have not been devised by us, but have grown up in the midst of us. We may ask ourselves what they sig- nify; whether we have ever understood them; whether we are not continually un- dermining them through our carelessness respecting their nature and purposes. That self-examination will surely be more profit- able to us than complaining of what foreign- ers, better and more earnest than we are, have done or have not done. They will help us if we are true to ourselves; if not we shall destroy ourselves, without their inter- ference. In his book On the Signs of the Times, which Bunsen wrote after he left England, he did full justice to the freedom of relig- ious opinions from state interference which our people have obtained; he claimed the like freedom for Prussia; he attributed the presence of it among us in a great meas- ure to the action of the sects upon the Es- tablished Church; he attributed the ab- sence of it elsewhere, principally to sa- cerdotal in~fkience. As an assertion of the safety of entire religious freedom, of the danger of any restraint upon it, under one pretext or other, the book seems to me of great value. As an explanation of the method by ~vhich it has been won, and by which it can be maintained, I must oons.ide~ it defective. To remind English Chur~k-., men that the Puritanand espeeialJy tiw Independentwas at one time a witn~ ~ a liberty which they were dispo~d, ~o, re strain, can do them no harm. It i~ not a novel announcement to them; they heard it a century ago from the historian who disliked the Puritans most. But that historian would not have confessed that the disposition in English Churchmen to persecute arose froxu their disposition to merge the invisible in the visible ruler, civil or sacerdot4; that the force of the protest of the Covenanter.~ and of the Independent, when the Cove- nanter had become a mere believer in the Presbyterylay in his proclamation of a God who actually governed in the affairs of men, and to whom the monarch and the eccle- siastic were equally subject. So long as that faith is strong, there will be a witness against the attempt to take the power from Him to whom it belongs, to assume the right of pro- tecting that which He alone can protect. The faith is strong when men are crushed by mortal hands, when they can only take refuge in the unseen. Therefore the argu- ments against persecution come from the suf- ferers; are forgotten so soon as they have earned dominion. But it is the faith of a Church; emphatically it is not the faith of a sect. If the sects have helped to keep alive in us the belief that we are witnesses for a kingdom of God, not for certain opinions, we should be very thankful to them. For it is that belief which can alone save us from being a sect, which can alone extinguish sects. And with sects persecutionsince persecution is good to maintain the domin- ion of sectsis a denial of the dominion of God. We in England have owed any degree of freedom we have to a faith, let it have been ever so weak, in this dominion. There has been a dim sense in our mindshowever much we have resisted itthat those who touch the ark to keep it from shaking may incur the sentence of him in old time who ventured onthat experiment. To strengthen this feeiing,to deepen it, i~, I suspe6t, the one method of perpetuating the religious liberty we have, and of making it greater. The maxim of Barneveld, says Mr. Motley, was Nil scire tutissima Jides; on that he based his doctrine of toleration. God wishes all to know seems to me a much 11 BARON BUNSEN. safer faith; the foundation of a much more the English thought, perhaps of the eigh- comprehensive toleration than Barneveld teenth century, perhaps of some section in dreamed of. How Prussia may he saved this century. But if the message of the Bi- from herriotion of a paternal interference to ble is a message to mankind, not in one age keep nien straight in the faith how she is to but in all agesa message to those wants escape from state tyranny without thi~owing which are nQt satisfied by, not expressed in, herself back into ecclesiastical tyranny, I do the peculiar tendencies and conceptions of not pretend to affirm. So far as Ba~ron Thin- ~ny age or place, rather which are crying to scn has spoken on that subject in his Sign~ be emancipated from those tendencies and of the Times, I should abstain from criticis- conceptions, each new adaptation is only a ing himfor other reasons, and because he new form of bondage. And if the Bible is has shown in this volume that such a knowi- any thing less than this.if it does not speak edge of England as none of us possess re- to us, but only repeats what we first put into specting his country did not save him from it, will the Gemeinde, will any man con- mistakes about us which an ignorant native tinue to care for it P Is not the notion that could not have committed. We ought only it is not thisthat it is only a book in which to speak for ourselves. In mere protests divines or philosophers find what they hide against sacerdotal government thousands of the cause of the indifference to it in Eng- Englishmen would join him, who like a lit- land and in Germany, which~ Bunsen de- tie persecution very dearly. The abuses of sired to cure? Some learned and able men sacerdotal government have come, not from remongst us hold that our people when the conviction that there is a truth for all they hear the Bible, are too ready to think men, which it is good for all to confess to- they are hearing the words of God. If, gether but from uncertainty whether there say they, Englishmen generally, could be is an~ such truth, or whether it is not better delivered from this superstition, if we, the to force men into a nominal acknowledgment teachers, did not encourage it, there would of something which will do in the place of it. be no dread of philological and physical These remarks have a close application to inquiries, lest the Bible should be over- the last work in which Bunsen was engaged thrown; other literature would not be dis- upon earth, his Yollstdndiges Bibelwerk paraged for the sake of a single book; we fUr die Gemeinde. For an incredible num- should give full play to our faculties in the her of hours in each day, he toiled at a new study of it, and in all other studies. My translation of the Bible. It was to be own solemn conviction is that our people do printed along with the version of Luther. It not half enough believe that they are listen- was to be accompanied by historical and ing to the words of God when they are lis- spiritual explanations, which he hoped would tening to the Bible; that we, their teachers, remove some of the difficulties of the .Ger- do not half enough believe it. If we did, mans to the acceptance of it as a national we should not be afraid of any physical or and family book, such as it was held to be philological inquiries. If we did, we should by the Reformers of the sixteenth century. not try to make people understand, by a From this hook, so far at least as the inter- heap of preparatory evidence, ttiat God is pretations were concerned, an Englishman speaking to them in the Bible; we should may be pardoned for not expecting much. be confident that he would make them un- For nearly two centuriesfrom philosopher derstand his speech. If we did, we should Locke to the last issue of the Tract Society prize all liteiature much more than we do. men of different schools have been labor- Those who would take from us the fragments ing to adapt the Bible to our own tastes and we have of this faith would make us tenfold capacities. That is to say, it has been made more slaves of the letter than we are. They to echo our voices; the temper, habits, con- would make us indifferent about scientific victions of our age or our coterie, have been truth, because we should cease to believe more or less skilfully brought forth from its that any thing has he~n established or can pages. An interpretation, which should ex- be established. They would turn us into hibit as faithfullymore learnedlythe Ger- critics of Homer and Shakspeare, not read- man thought of the nineteenth century might ers or learners of either. Designing to make be some counteraction to those which exhibit us more earnest students, they would drive 12 BARON BUNSEN. out the spirit of patient, childlike reverence he said, to utter a short prayer that it ~may and hope which contains the only promise please God, either to shorten n~y sufferin~~ of result in any pursuit of any kind, or to give me strength to bear the~i~ ~11i~t But I would repeat once more that the when I try to think of higher ui~.tt~ijs,, my maxims which we can discern for our owii illness drags me down~ ]3efo~r~ the Ja~t half~~ guidance ought to be most cautiously applied hol4r all I could say, and I rerieatedi it; eon- in our judgment of men in different circuim. stantly, was Schiafesgnadc bi~ ~um Tag; stances from ours. There can be no diIl~r- hut for the last hour I was able, to say ence in the general principle, that we must Scldafesgnade, ~o du witist; and now look, become little children in order to leern any there is the first dawn of mornings ~nd I can truth of divinity or of physical science. hear to be awake. There may be the greatest possible differ- A deep human experience ~ssure4ly; only onces in the indications of this. childlike to want the grace of sleep till morning, and spirit, in the obstacles which hinder usfrom not to find that! But how near is this loss attaining it. The Exeter Hall orator may of all spiritual consciousness and power to think that nothing interferes with itso much the discovery of that which lies beneath it as the habits of the German student. The all, its groun4 and support. Ich Itabe ge- German student may think that nothing in- funden, he said, dass atle Brileke, die man terferes with it so much as the assumption gebaut hat zwisehen diesem und .jeneni Leben, and arrogance of the platform, as the echoes failt, und die eine, Clsristus, bleibt stehen~ and applause of an obedient crowd. Each It was what he had been saying always may give the other some warnings which it in hymns and litanies, what he had felt in- may be worth his while to heed. Those of wardly. To perceive that it was real, when us who are neither orators nor German stu- hymns and litanies could not be spoken, dents may be better for the admonitions of when feeling was dried up, this was surely both. Bunsen brought his doings to a brave a recompense for much agony. And it was and noble test when he appealed, not to pro- not only when all else seemed to be sink- fessors, but to the people. I cannot think ing (alles ge/it unter, as he said one night, that a work undertaken with such earnest~ nur Gott bleibt) that he felt this standing ness, and in such a spirit, would have been ground. Brighter moments were granted in vain, even if his own part of it was in when he could delight in the faces around vain. The book would have made its him, and in the memory of those whom he strength felt above his interpretations, as I could not sec. Then came forth his strong trust it will do above ours. And surely, a personal affections; his gratitude to old ben- man who desires to be honest and childlike, efactors; his sympathies for freedom and if he cannot find what he seeks in cloisters truth in every land. He remembered Prus- or platforms, will have it granted him in sia and England. lie longed for the unity some way which his divine Teacher knows of Italy in which he dwelt so long. He could to be better. listen again to the hymns and the organ That final education was bestowed in full which had been so dear to him. He could measure on Baron Bunsen. There came a say, It is a wonderful thing to look back time in which a frame that had been tasked from above on this life and this world! to more vigorous and tremendous efforts in Now first we know in how much darkness reading and in writing, than most of us can we have been dwelling here (was fur cm bring ourselves to think of or to believe, dunkles Basein wir hier geftihrt haben). broke fairly down; when a man who had en- Upwards, upwards. Nothing dark; no, joyed work as much as most enjoy the cessa- bright, ever brighter. lie could assure tion of it,had to exchange it for the in- those who were dearest to him that his love tensest anguish. What the suffering of any to then~ had been a2lways grounded upon a complaint in the heart is few of us can even love that was deep and eternal. lIe could guess; his form of the~compiaint is perhaps say to the one who was dearest of all, I the most terrible of all to bear or to witness. shall meet thee in the presence of Go& He felt the deep humiliation of being un- One, who had read these and other roe- able to soar above the most ordinary neces- ords of his last days at Bonn, writes sities of self-preservation. I am just able, thus BARON BUNSEN. 13 They seem to me too sacred for any but man life can have been. And yet there is th~ eyes of his dearest friends. Yet I am nothing which I remember of that, which glad that they should be known at least to would lead me to doubt those records of his same besides. Simple and devout English- later hours, or to wonder at them. lie ap- men and Englishwomen will at once ac- peared a diplomatist without trickery; a kziowledgo their sincerity and their depth. man in the world without frivolity; a states- They wiLL joyfully throw aside any suspicions nan with ever-increasing desires for the that they may have formed of him. They good of the people and the kingdom of God; will judge more kindly and hopefully of a philosopher with a human heart. There many besides him, whose statements may are, however, other recollections which come often puzzle them. They will trust more in more home to me as I read the story of his Gods judgment and less in their own. I death-bed. A little more than twenty years cannot cast stones at these countrymen of ago, just before the accession of the last mine for hard thoughts which they may have king of Prussia, he was for a short time cherished respecting Bunsen. With far less the Minister to the Swiss Cantons. his excuse, with far more evidence to confute house, which had been once occupied by the them, I have often allowed the like to bar- English Minister, Mr. Morier, lay about a bor in my own mind. But I have always I mile outside of the town of Berne. The discovered that they proceeded not from the i situation was one of the most beautiful in liveliness of my faith, but from the poverty that beautiful neighborhpod. The prospect of it. They belonged to that arguing, dis- from the garden was such as one could putatious, godless state of mind, which in scarcely see in any other country. I was sit- my arrogance I should, perhaps, have at ting with him and with some others in that tributed to him. I look back upon all such garden one afternoon, when all its near love- suspicions as reasons for shame and contri- liness seemed to pass away and be forgotten. tion. For it seems to me, casting my thought j For there came a sudden discovery of another over a number of years, that he approved world behind thata world that was alto- himself in a variety of circumstances to be gether of light and glory. The same spec- essentially a true man; one who felt more tacle may have been granted to one since in keenly almost than any one the influences the same regions. But each of these vis- by which he was surrounded, yet did not ions surely has its own significance; each take his color from them; one who could not should be remembered along with the faces have been what he was to all about him, if that looked upon it. The bright outward his life had not been sustained from a hidden world in which Bunsen dwelt, and which he source. I did not see him in all the posi- enjoyed so heartily, had a brighter inner tions in which some of my countrymen saw world behind it. i/tat was partly revealed him; I only know by the report of others to him in his chamber at Bonn. May we what he was to those who visited Rome whilst he was the Gerfrxan Minister there. not be confident that -it will be revealed But the existence of an ambassador in Lou- hereafter to us all, and that human faces, don seems a greater contrast to those scenes earthly sights, will be transfigured in its in the chamber of Bonn, than even his Ro- light? COLUMBUS.ThO following anecdote may be nut shell was a piece of pnrchment covered with interesting to some of your readers very old writing, which none of those present Captain DAuberville, in the bark Chieftain, could read. An American merchant in Gib- raltar then read it, and found that it was a brief of Boston, put into Gibraltar on the 27th of account, drawn up by Columbus in 1493, of his August, 1851. He went, with two of his pas. American discoveries up to that time. It was sengers, across the Straits to Mount Abylus, on addressed to Ferdinand and Isabella. It stated the African coast; as they were on the point of that, according to the writers judgment, the returning, one of the crew picked up what ap- ships could not survive another day; that they penied to he a piece of rock, but which the cap- were botween the ~vestern isles and Spain; that tam thought to he a kind of pumice-stone. On two similar narratives were written and thrown examination it was found to be a cedar keg into the sea, in case the caravel should go to the completely incrusted with barnacles and other bottom. marine shells. The keg was opened, amid within Captain DAubervilles narrative was given was found a cocoa-nut enveloped in a kind of in the Louisville Varieties, whence it was copied gum or resinous substance. Within the cocoa- I into The Times of that year.Notes and Queries. 14 FLOCCI. From The London Review. FLOCCI. THE latins chose this word for a thing of little value without consulting the Sib- ylline books; or perhaps the day when cot- ton would decide the fate of nations was foreshadowed in the volumes which the Sybil could not sell. That day is certainly come; cotton, if the uncomfortable meta- phor may pass, is in every mans mouth; and half the interest of a great wnr and more than half the hopes of Indian admin- istration centre on the flocculous seed-vessel of a malvaceous shrub. The naturnl world seems to ~ymbolize the social in this im- mense preponderance of small things over great. Those debaters of back-street par- liaments, who discuss in cloudy conclave the question, Was Creation a Mistake ~ would feed their world from forests of bread-fruit, and clothe it with ready-grown garments. But the food of men is a little grainthe lowest of his standards of measure; his ~dress is spun for him by a worm, or grown for him in a seed-cup or a stalk; and the coral insect rears islands for his foot to rest upon from the deeps of the sea. The many a little in labor and its product, makes a muckle which subdues and sustains the earth; and so the wool-tree, a curiosity to Herodotus, is become an imperial care to us. In no proverbial sense, indeed, there is at present much cry and little wool. True, ~the deficiency in cotton is rather feared than felt, but it is one that can no more be awaited, than if a householder should defer his in- surance till the back-stairs were in a blaze. Whatever comes of this American disruption, will include American cotton among the in- terests it affects. The civil warcertain is- sue of principles set aside for expediency, just Nemesis for ingenious joint-worship of God and mammoncannot rage long with- out a servile rising, general or partiaL When that is afoot, before that even, by the distractions and drains of the war, the cultivation of cotton will be stopped; and with it, if no remedy is provided, a thousand mills, and a million active hands will be thrown out of work. Already the transmis- sion of bales is checkedalready the chances of hostile movements imperil a crop badly and scantily harvested, as Mr. Cheetham as- sures us. It is fortunate, at such a crisis, that commerce is in some degree prepared, and that a happy coincidence of even~ utakes Americas grave diffi6ulty, ~n~i~s golden opportunity. It is on he ~rd~ tp give the ryot of Hindoosta~n h~s1~re~a~ie ptofits of a trade of twenty nillions.p~r.~rw num. It is on the cards to destr~y a~mo- nopoly, which endangers the ihark~ts and the industry of half the world. It is on th~ cards to deal an indirect blow at the slave trade, which shall complete Englands ran- som of the African, and set her ships free from a costly watch. What do you play, Messieurs the Rulers of the East ~nd Mer- chants of the West P Nations watch your game and history will follow its issue. No fitter opportunity than this can recur for the development of Indian cotton-grow- ing. Mr. Laing, like a second Camillus, has flung his shears into the ill-adjusted scale of Indian finance, and the beam is at last even. The cotton districts, thanks to Lord Dal- housies administration, are, to a beegak, ours. Practical experience and the atten- tion of interested bodies have been brought to bear upon the subject since the report of 1847. The old-fashioned gin, the ekhatkee, has given place to those inventions whose introduction to America wrought almost a miracle of improvement. Above all, rail- ways and roads are opened, or just opening, into the cotton countries. Omrawuttee, Bar- see, and Sholapore are names of stations on the Great Indian Peninsula, instead of cotton marts, separated from the sea by a hundred koss of ruts, miscalled roads, and a mountain chain as steep and difficult as the Apennines. In spite of these obsta- cles, and greater, India has been supplying the shortcomings of America. Year after year the long line of ox-carts has toiled over the plains of the Decean with bales of cot- ton, ill picked and roughly ginned, some- times weighted, too, with earth and stones, interesting to a geologist, but interfering with the mill-owners purposes. What the oxen had not meditatively chewed from the bale before them, or spoiled by the sweat of their much-ei4uring bodies in passing the Gh~t, reached Bombay, and the screw-press, and an English market, to give Indian cot- ton a bad name. From this opprobrium, circumstances and the Cotton Supply Asso- ciation are beginning to clear it. The black, disintegrated trap-rock of the Deccan can grow cotton to rival Sea Island; and the soil 15 FLOCCi. of the Southern. States deteriorates indeed; ground. The middle-man.-the wakkavia as i~ recedes through many crops from the absorbs the profits, which the Government qualities inherent in virgin forest-earth. assessment sufficiently reduces. Nor is c6t~on a crop which delays to render If regard is not had to the condition of a return! The annual yield of Egypt lay the cultivation cotton may be grown, but it eontained, a few years ago, in the pods of a wjll not be planted in India. It is a crop plant in a garden at Cairo; and the seeds which is put in and taken off the land too and stalks, too4 repay the process oC cleans- easily to be permanent without assured and ing. lasting inducements. Let the society, which The 7Ynses, in devoting a leader to the has done so much, press for an amelioration subject, has relegated it to the domain of of the poor Hindoos status. They will find demand and supply. Emphatically we ob- him, like the mass of the Hindoo people, serve that the ryot knows nothing of politi- nexus and addictus, bound hand and foot to cal economy, and will grow no cotton be- the money-lenders. Not cotton only, but cause he ought to do it by reason of Adam order and peace will be impossible unless Smith. Mr. Money has shown us that the the cultivators of Hindoostan be rescued system by which the Dutch Government re- from maltajun and marwarrie. All India generated Java, and which enriched the vii- lends or borrows money at ruinous usury; lagers as well as the state exchequer, was by but the lenders are few, and the borrowers no means let to grow. We cannot, in- many and miserable. In the mutiny, a town deed, imitate the paternal despotism of Van or village, bursting into license, attacked den Bosch, who used no compulsion, but first the books of the usurer, and then the only observed to his Malays, You must. Nabob whose courts protected him. Let Lord Canning has justly defined the limits Mr. Haywood and the able coadjutor whom within which Government aid can be afforded Sir C. Wood has given him in Dr. Forbes, to cotton enterprise, but these include the look to this. Cotton may so be instrumental passing of good laws. The cotton-grower in in helping slaves in the East as well as the Indiathe ryotstarves under bad ones. West. His crop is mortgaged before it is above the ACCIDENT ON MONT Bt.& nc.,A party as- cending Mont Blanc, consisting of Messrs. H., B., and others, all firstrate menntaineers, with their guides, had slept out all night, and afier breakf~ist Mr. B. left the others for a few min- utes, being on a slight slope near a precipice. In returning to the party Mr. B. slipped, fell on his hack and then over. He slid down 1,500 feet at an angle of 45 deg. by measurement, at a velocity of not less than sixty miles an hour, over frozen snow covered by little peas of ice like hail, and being brought up at a crevasse by the collected sno~v in his clothes; this, owing to the arrangement of his dress at the time of the accident, his trousers being down, no doubt saved him, by tying his legs together. Dr. Metcalfe was sent for to St. Gervais late that night, and arrived there at six AM. the follow- ing morning. He found Mr. B., a young gen- tleman of nineteen, in a state of collapse, wrapped in cold wet sheets, which were at once removed and restoratives given until reaction set in. Sensible; no alteration of the pnpil; face looking like that of a man four or five days in the water, covered with blood, much swollen; skin off the right side of the nose and face; forehead abraded, hands burnt black on the backs, swollen, the fingers as if the ends were ground down on a coarse grindstone; nails all right; arms and elbows clear from wounds, but bruised from under the left arm to the ankle; the side scratched in every direction, as if with a sharp currycomb, the right side not marked so high; the calf of each leg on the outside is fairly burnt black and dead, back of the calf tin- hurt; nates burnt off by the friction, and sides of the thighs the same, theseparts hem,, red or white. Pulse from 0 got to 120, weak, thready, intermittent; stupor considerable; memory good; head not affected beyond what any severe shock would cause. Diarrhma came on with much irritation, frequent micturition ; thirst great; tongue white, pale. There was no blame attributable to any one. He fell at seven AM., and was got to St. Gervais at six rn., after a most perilous carriage on a portable sledge. No bone broken. J)r. Metealfe has been unremitting in his attention, and informs me that he is doing well, and in a few weeks will probably be all right, and not marked or injured in any visible way. He is sensible, and has been up already. This is a very interesting example of a severe brush-burn, and the con- sequent shock to the systemMedical Times. THE LAST LEWISES. From Chamberss Journal. THE LAST LEWISES. LITTL1~ CAPET. A SKILFUL Belgian has painted a very touching picture of a wan, squalid child, crouching and shivering on the ground in the corner of a miserable room. The face is one of those oval, French-child faces, very smooth and very yellow, patterns of which we see flitting by us in scores over the Fields Elysian, distracting their screaming and bon- netless bonnes. A French boys face to the life; wanting only the little frill round its neck, and those other elegancies of dress with which the exquisite taste of French mammas love to invest their offspring. But this French childs face looks out with a pit- eous, stony insensibility. It seems to shrink away from an unseen, uplifted hand. Its clothes are torn and ragged: its thin limbs, much shrunk away, protrude. Shown at the Great Dublin Exhibition, in 1853, among other notable pictures, it drew succeeding hemicycles of commiserating spectators; facesof mothers especiallywith tearful eyes, sorrowing over that miserable child. The name of the skilful Belgian is Wappers, and a little Bonnet Rouge, or French Cap of Liberty, tossed lightly in a corner, tells us who is this boy with the French boys face: the most unhappy childtaking him in ref- erence to his station-..-that ever lived; the miserrimus of little ones, the scapegoat of tender years driven out into the desert, third of our series, and Louis the last but one. Miserrimus of royal children: the little proto-martyr of kings sons! This is a pite- ous distinction; a wretched notoriety. Never did child of a royal line bear so many sor- rows. When the courtiers and noble ladies poured in to see him at Versailles on the night of his birth, which took place at five minutes before seven in the evening for events of this character are noted as with a stop-watchand the cannon was thundering from all the fortresses, and the fireworks were squibbing off in the Place dArmes, and there was universal delight and congratula- tion at this fresh introduction of royal flesh and blood into the worldhow would that smirking, simpering ruck of fine ladies and gcntleman have been aghast, had it been whispered to them that the splendid infant just arrived, that tender fleur-de-lis whom in a few hours the minister was to invest in all state with the Order of the Holy Ghost, would by and by become as the most squalid little Arab of the most squalid quarter of the city, and would give up its persecuted spirit on a stone floor, fairly eaten away with dirt and vermin, its heart worn out with ill-usage and starvation! It would be only natural that the suggestionbesides being ungen- ted and out of place in a royal palace should be dismissed as impossible. Poor child! that walked from its cradle, always prattling and gambolling and saying pretty things, straight to that hideous destiny. Better had some of the hundred and one ogres croup, whooping-cough, and other ailments, that wait in ambush for children of tender yearsburst out and strangled it; even with the result of obliging the noble gentlemen and ladies of the court to ex- change their bleu-de-roi and rose-colored silks for unbecoming sables, and putting them through all the gradations of the greater and the little grief. We know this Royal Boy intimately. Even in the horror and agitation of those days of June and August which preceded their re- moval to the Temple, they thought of mak- ing him sit to Monsieur iDumontthe fa- mous miniature painterand who was besides painter in ordinary to the queen. Turn- ing over the fashionable Whos who? of the yeara boastful octavo of vanity, burst- ing with strings of names and offices; and christened the Royal Almanackwe light upon this gentleman, set out gloriously with all his style and titles. Someway a refer- ence of thi8 sort, a scrap, a newspaper cut- ting, brings a period home to us with a greater vitality. It is as though we had sent for the Directory, and were searching out M. Dumonts address with a view to calling on him professionally. His miniature has come down to us; for a marvel having escaped be- ing crunched under the hoof of an un- breeched. The most lovely chestnut hair, tumbling in profuse ringlets upon his shoul- ders, large blue eyes of wortd& ful sweetness and intelligence, with the rich vermilion lips of his beautiful mother, and a special dim- ple, for which she was noted exactly repro- duced. He was the child whom ladies wQuld love to call over to them and take on their laps and smother with kisses. His little neck was open with a wide collar, turned 16 THE LAST LEWISES. over, and a dainty frill; with a diminutive coat and small Robespierrean flaps and but- tons. Such a pretty boy! so young, so sweet-tempered, so gracious, so ready and clever! We may be sure gossips marvelled at the absence of the true Bourbon elements, and wondered suspiciously how he could ever come to be shaped into the true aiud genuine Bourbon type. We, who look back, cannot see the makings of that perfect character, which should develop themselves into the stiff-neckedness, mulishness, insensibility, cruelty, and other virtues which adorn scions of that famous line. The chronicles of this pretty childs say- ings and doings are very fullindeed, are almost Boswellian in their abundance. If we are to trust these note-books, he was making wise, affectionate, smart, and witty speeches all day long. But the truth is, most of these details come from a suspicious direction, being furnished by a sort of dy- nasty of valets, whose works must necessa- rily have a savor of their office. No doubt there were brave and faithful menials about him, from whom wa~ purged away, as by fire, this corrupting influence. Still, Mr. Carlyle cautions us against what he calls men of the valet species, not professionally filling that office, yet who have a crooked, fiunkey twig tied up with their bundle of ec- centric sticks. Much more should we be on our guard against an original unplnted arti- cle. There is a valet way of viewing thii~s, an innocent menial exaggeration which mag- nifies, a gaping bumpkin wonder and conse- quent distortion, and a gradual gathering of moss as the narrative stone rolls on. The valet historian, become of a sudden the de- positary of important faets, finds his details accumulate prodigiously with every fresh re- cital, and as he grows older, thickens his var- nish, and deepens his colors. Sowas it with the showman at Waterloo: so is it with that ex-valet who now tells and sells his stories at the Invalides. Therefore must we accept these legends of little Capet with a grain of salt. It must have been a fearfully wise child that at four years old could address its fa- ther ia a speech of this description: Papa, I have a fine immortelle in my garden; it will be at once my gift and my compliment. In presenting it to mamma, I shall say, May mamma resemble my flower! Only con- THIRD SERIES. UVI~G AGE. 762 I 17 ceive, four years old! How his amazed parent must have looked at him as he lisped his way through this elaborate period. An- other timestill rising four yearshe as- tounds us by a neat and ingenious turn which should be held up to all ordinary children at their lessons. He was making some strange sounds with his mouth over his task, and was scolded. Mamma, said the mysteri- ous infant, I was hissing myself, because I said my lessons so badly. Some one tried to stop him forcing his way through some briers. Opposition was instantly silenced by the reply, Thorny ways lead to glory! He fell down on the gravel-walk, and picked himself up with ~7~ir lines of an apt quota- tion from La Fontaine. He made puns; checking himself in his intention of bring- ing some soucis (a species of flower) to his mother, because she had already a suffi- ciency of them (cares). He was fearfully ready with his classics, and told some one that he was more fortunate than Diogeiies, because he had found a man and a good friend. He liked his garden grenadiers (flowers) very much, but would rather be at the head of living grenadiers. He was, in short, a royal, terrible child. No, this is the valets child, the change- ling of the servants halL The poor hapless boy has been so bewailed, talked over,wept over, that he has been actually gossiped into a new shape. There is a handsome margin left for the good and the sympathizing, who would weep over the wretched destiny of the most gifted and promising child ever born to a crown. As a matter of course, he was soon put to take his part in the theatrical shows of the time. The little Royal Red Book alluded to, shows a catalogue of namescrowded as the names of an army listwho form the rank and file of the various houses of his majesty, the queen, of monsieur, and the other persons of the blood; and, natu- rally enough, the little Capet had his share in the show. He was splendidly glorified, this royal bambino, as yet only toddling across the palace saloons, with a whole department to himself, labelled Education of my Lord the Dauphin. He was encumbered with a superfluity of stately supervision, and watched over by a governor-ia-chief, two sub-governors, two clerical tutors or in 18 TUE LAST LEWISES. stitutors, a reader, a secretary in ordinary, crowded with gaudy scenes, horrid night- a governess, and four sub-governesses, mare pictures, and snatches of Elysium, all We have always some picturesque glimpse jumbled together in violent contrast! A~ of this favored child. Now we look down he shall lie hereafter, shrunk and coiled up at him from the Tuileries wiadows~ pacing in a corner of his dark cell, with a film be~ his gardens at the head of a tall company of fore his eyes, and brain disordered by dis- National Guards, he himself a tiny National ease, literally rotting away, what a company Guard in a miniature uniform. How comic of spectresshall be with him all night long! the contrast between this Tom Thumb IDau- How the black veil, which always hung be- phin pacing up and down in his Lilliputian fore the dark walls, must have parted and regimentals, and the grave giants in the floated away to the right and to the left, cocked-hats stalking solemnly behind him! showing him ghostly pictures, theatrical He made speeches to these warriors with a tableaux, such as he had often gazed at from quaint old-fashioned ceremoniousness that the royal box in the Paris theatre I We, makes us smile. He apologized for the too, can see them as well as he. smallness of his own private garden, where he himself was gardener, regretting that its TABLEAU FIRST. little walks could not accommodate the gen- A snatch of Elysium! There was surely tlemen who came to visit him. That fatally one happy night to look back to, that in the precocious wisdom, and strange readiness hall of the theatre at Versaillesthat pretty of speech, someway suggest the childish playhouse which strangers and holiday-folk partner in the firm of IDombey and Son. now go down to admire. There has been a The Tom Thumb uniform was soon weight of care over the great palace, for the changed, and we see him presently in the monster dungeon has been destroyed; the full dress of a miniature colonelColonel of people are growing strangely insolent and the Piceoluomiaior, more respectfully, the even dangerous; and the little prattling child Royal Dauphin Regiment. Royal Bonbon, keeps down its spirits, seeing how dejected said the French gamins, screaming with and anxious seem the king and queen. laughter, as the little men fluttered their When, of that first of October night, he is colors, beat drums, saluted, carried arms, dressed smartly and taken down with mamma and relieved guard at important posts, in -a and papa into the theatre, where the newly droll parody on their elders. By and by this arrived officers are dining, he goes silent Tom Thumb colonel will appear in other and wondering. What a blaze of light. dresses. Alas! not uniforms. He will be what cries of joy and enthusiasm; for the looking back with despair in that boy-old officers are all standing up in wild excite- age of his, from out of darkness of soul and meat, having sprung to their feet on their body, to that mimic coloneling! entrance, and are sh6uting Vive le Roi, Our little Capet was fated to know some and swearing eternal fidelity. The vision troubled nights during his short span of ten of that beautiful mamma and her children years. It seemed to be his destiny to be has had much to do with this. They will ~perpetually awakened from his first sleep die for that lovelylady. Down with the towards midnight, and to be snatched from vile cockades of the ~nation, and trample his cot and hurriedly dressed. Or else, them under foot! The color has come back where all the elements were raging, and the to her cheeksthe kingly face smiles benig- human storm howling, to be brought out and nant. Let us all join,scarlet-coated Swiss, held up by way of show, to soothe the agi- Guard National in the Hogarthian sugar- tation. On a childs mind those midnight loaf soldiers hats, and officers of the Royal rousings must have left a bewildering im- Flanders Regiment,.and, drawing swords, ~pression. drink frantically to our dear sovereigns. I For, indeed, into that ten years which see them all nowin an old print..standing made up his little life were compressed the up and pledging that beautiful ladyand I whole seven ages of man. He saw a kind see the orchestra in cocked-hats, high up in of copy of youth, of manhood, and the tern- I a corner, just striking up the sweet air, 0 ble enforced decay of a childish old age. I Richard! 0 my king! though all the world fancy no life of that duration was ever so abandon thee! Halcyon night! We may THE LAST LEWISES. 19 be sure there was joy and soft serenity up- now upon the writers shelvesappears a stairs in the palace bed-chambers as it was print of this crossing of the Carrousel; corn- talked over. There were sweet tranquil ing out within a week of the transaction, as it dreams. All would yet be well. We are might be a cut in the Illustrated Paris News. strong in the love of those dear French The king has a round wide-awake hat and hearts! a lantern, the ladies have the pillow-shaped An ugly twinge of recollection. Four bonnets and pelisses of the time, and the days after, the savage fishwomen are storm- fiacre is seen waiting in the archway with its ing the splendid palace. They are in the letter and number conspicuous, L 16. salons, the gardens, everywhere! And then When our little prince opens his eyes followed the hot, dusty, weary procession to again, they are in the huge berline, rumbling Paris. Then are brought back in triumph and creaking over the rough stones of some the baker, the bakers wife, and the bakers highway leading from Paris. It is very dark, boy. Little Dauphin wonders why they and the tall trees lining the road flit by like should call him a bakers boy. spectres. Drivers whip is heard cracking loudly, and we roll and totter forward at a TABLEAU sEcOND. great speed. No wonder; we have six post- ~Tery often he must have been back again, ing-horses attached. Are we indeed going on that hot June day twentieth of the to act a comedy P For here, crowded to- monthwhen he and his little sister no- gether inside, are the Baroness Korif and ticed that papa and mamma were whispering, her two daughters (of which you, Agla6 are and seemed agitated; and the confidential one), and her governess, played by mamma, ladies flitted to and fro, and whispered se- and a ladys maid, and a valet, performed by cretly withtheir majesties. Sharp, penetrat- papa. At any other time we might laugh. ing child as he was, we may be sure he put See, papa has even a passport, with the bar- many penetrating questions to that sub-gov- oness name. (We are told that paper is to erness of his, and lady in waiting, who took be seen to this day; that official document, them out for their five oclock evening walk. with the round letters tumbling backwards, Then, that strange awakening at eleven and the official writing and the seal, and oclock, when the lamps were all lighted, and Louis own signature.) his drowsy eyes scarcely able to keep open, Sleep again! Was there ever such a long saw the room full ofpeople, and faces bending night P So chilly, toosuch a sense of weary over him, and his dear mamma, hurried and protraction! Now, indeed, we are roused by agitated, in a travelling-dress. The good roar of voices, and lanterns flashing in at the Madame Brunier whispers that he is to get windows, and fierce, scowling faces looking up, for they are going a journey, and he is so angry, and we can see, too, that mamma to be very still, like a dear child, for mamma. is very pale and frightened. It is midnight And here is a little girls frock of brown cal- by the church clock of this little country ico, which he is to put onno matter why, town that looks so strange, and here we are he will be told another time. No wonder all getting down, and enter a mean house. he thinks, They are going to act a comedy. Soldiers, crowds, lights, guns, bells ringing, No matter, he will hear all about it in the roarwhat does it all mean P But we drop morning; and now he is so dreadfully sleepy off to sleep again, in a corner of the room, that he lets his head drop on Madame de for we are very tired, and wake up next Nevilles knees, who haa sat down on the morning back again in Paris with the sun stairs, and is dreaming in a moment. shining, at the very gate of the Tuileries. Here is the cool night air and here are Still in the great coach, but despair in main- the stars, and we are in the Carrousel court. mas and papas faces! A horrid,, feverish What does it all mean P Here are the sea- night that we must never think of! tries challengingand here is the street. Where are we going P Hush, little Agla~ TABLEAU THIRD. (strange rechristening that !). So he turns Again roll away the black dungeon walls; round, and in a moment is again asleep on and here are lights, and flowers, and scenes, the ladys shoulder. and gallery over gallery, and a whole sea of In an inflammatory journal of the time I faces turned upwards and looking towards THE LAST LEWISES. the royal box. This night has the king and queen and little prince visited the French comedy. They are playing a piece with a straI~~ely significant title, Unforeseen Events and from the front of this box the pretty child of six years looks dowa and laughs and makes his remarks. No doubt the burr and mur- murs abroad, the fierce insolent figures, so free with their bold speeches and depo4- ment, who cluster in mobs at the palace gates, and speak to his mother as the Aus- trian, are beginning to weigh upon his lit- tle soul and puzzle his brain. But here, to- night, was a strange scene: a house crammed from floor to ceiling, a parterre densely packed, rising to cheer their majesties. Hats and handkerchiefs waving! Hale a dozen voices groan a protest, but are over- powered and driven out by the loyalists. Hark to the comic valet and the soubrette, who are at the foot.lights singing couplets in praise of their master and~mistress up-stairs. Ah! they join in the burden Surely we must make them happy! Surely we must make them happy! and the pit is on its feet cheering and vocif- erating Yes! yes! Something very sweet in this night of ro- mancethe lights, the music, that delicious rapture of our subjectsto send us home with tears of joy. Royal mamma and papa, supremely happy, dream that all may yet be well. TABLEAU FOURTH. The horrid day of the twentieth June, when the red-capped breechless poured in with pikes, and flooded the palacehe would shut that out, if possiblewhen there was the crash of doors broken in, andthe royal lady, clutching him to her arms, is hunted from chamber to chambersliding panels secret passagesand a howling mob out- side !when, too, a table was drawn in front of her as a feeble barrier against the frantic human waves pouring in at the door. A roar, and the vile red cap is upon that noble ladys flowing hair: another roar, and a cry of Little Veto! and that decoration is upon his own head! Pikes flourish in the air, wild women come up to his mother and shake their closed fists in her face. Savage men gather round him and question him, and he gives them his quaint answers. So it rolls on, wearily, anxiously, until night, when the waters recede slowly, and the :pal~ ace is at peace. Close, in a disorde~ed ~e- quence, follow other terrible days: thl~ rrn~- ing of him at midnight by beating of dru~rs and tocsin, and the great bells ringing far and wide over Paris, as for fire, and the woman rushing in and dressing him hur- riedly. Not without a shudder can he think of that awful daybreak. The messengers hurrying in with news that all in lost, and the king must die, and of that sad proces- sion when he was carried in the grenadiers arms, and heard the air rent with the cries Death to the tyrant! As he looks back over the grenadiers shoulder, he sees the smoke from the windows, and through the smoke the scarlet coats of his fathers Swiss, and cannon lumbering by him with fierce men in blouses and the eternal red cap, tugging them on with ropes. Then the interminable day, cramping in the little box in the As- sembly, with myriads of hostile faces glar- ing on them, the stifling overpowering heat, the shots outside, the periodical eruption of savage men, all smirched and bloody, their hands full of rich gold and silver, plundered from papas palace. But it comes to an end, like other long weary days we shudder to think of; and then the black pall rolls its dismal folds over all! l,~Te are most of us familiar, by aid of Valet Cl6rys touching narrative and M. Duchesnes researches, with the stages of that martyrdom of the little St. Louis. We know the minutest details of that fright- ful persecution, the degradation of mind and body, that masquerading in the red cap, that drugging of him with strong spirits, that forcing upon his innocent tongue vile street songs and licentious ballads. Nay, there are yet to be seen those shaking trembling signatures, wrung from him by a fearful terrorism; and even the tailors bills, for furnishing the son of Capet with striped Pekin waistcoats, and the ells of super- fine cloth for a coat. These little records, like Mr. Filbys bills, recovered for us by Mr. Forster, touch us more than volumes of description. We may follow the steps of his sufferings, with a minuteness unparal- leled in the history of jails. We have a se- cret yet unsubstantial trust that there has been some exaggeration. We take one glimpse at that piteous picture, which some- 20 THE LAST LEWISES. how comes home to ourihearts nearest of all, when the child was discovered at midnight kneeling on his pallet, and praying in his drean~, in a sort of divine rapture; and when the savage who guarded him came with a pail of water and so brought him back to life, and sent him crouching and cowering into a corner. Was he dreaming of the celestial palaces, and of that dear papa and mamma whom his affectionate heart had already enthroned there, and who were hold- ing out their arms to him from those happy sunny gardens where there would be no more terrible days of blood, and wild savage men and cruel jailers? The end and a happy delivery came speed- 21 fly. Joyful days, long wished for, came about, when a slow wasting-away and lassitude set in, and his strength gave way, and his gen- tle spirit was beaten in the struggle. During those hours kind voices whispered to him, kind faces bent over him, and smoothed his pillow. On that last day, a little after noon, he heard a sort of divine music filling the room; then, looking eagerly towards the fdll light streaming in at the window, called to his keeper that he had something to tell him. The keeper bent down and listened; but the head was sinking gently, lower and yet lower, upon the young breast; and the spirit of the little Capet had sped to where the wicked cease to trouble and the weary find repose. HERALDIC JEU JYEspnrr.The following verses are written with much point, and relate, I imagine, to a case of breach of promise. Can you give the ladys name here alluded to l I have only seen the poem in MS. among some collections made, about the year 1732, by one W. 0. (Qnery, William 0ldis~vorth l) Is there any clue to the author l It is entitled as fol- lows Knox Ward, King-at-Arms, disarmed at Law. Ye fair injured nymphs, and ye beaus who deceive em, Who with passion engage, and without reason leave em, Draw near and attend how the Hero I sing Was foiled by a Girl, tho at arms be was King. Crest, ~nottos, supporters, and bearings knew he, And deeply was studied in old pedi,,ree. He would sit a whole evening and, not with- out rapture, Tell who begat who to the end of the Chapter. In forming his tables nought grieved him so sorely That the man died Grlebs, or else sine prole. At last, having traced other families down, He began to have thoughts of his encreasing his own. A Damsel he chose, not too slow of belieG And f~in would be deemed her admirer Ia cli~f. He blazoned his suit, and the sum of his tale Was his field and her field joined partg per pale. In different stile, to tie faster the noose, He next would attack her in soft billet dour! His argent and sable were laid aside quite, Plain English he wrote, and in plain black and white. Against such atchievements what beauty could fence I Or who would have thought it was all but pretence ? His pain to relieve, and fulfil his desire, The lady agreed to join hands with the squire. The squire, in a fret that the jest went so far, Considered with speed how to put in a bar. His words bound not him, since hers did not confine her; And that is plain law, because Miss is a minor. Miss briskly replied that the law was too hard, If she, whos a minor, may not be a ward. In law then confiding, she took it upon her, By justice to mend those foul breaches of honour. She handled him so that few would, I warrant, Have been in his coat 6n so sleeveless an errant, She made him give bond for stamped argeat and or, And sabled his shield with gules blazoned be- fore. Ye heralds produce, from the time of the Nor- mans, In all your Records such a base non-perform- ance; Or if without instance the case is we touch on, Let this be set down as a blot in his scutcheon. Notes and Queries. SCIENCE AND ARTS FOR JULY. From Chamberss Journal. SCIENCE AND ARTS FOR JULY. GLORIOUS summer weather has been fa- vorable to floral exhibitions; and whatever there may be of art or of science in the cul ture of flowers, has had full exemplification, during the past few weeks, in the Royal Gar- dens at Kew, the newly opened Gardens of the Horticultural Society, and the Botanic Garden in the Regents Park. Rhododen- drons in full bloom under a tent are very beautiful; but some people prefer the dis- play of magnificent foxgloves in Kensington Gardens.A curiosity of vegetation was shown at the closing meeting of the Linna~aa Societytall tassels of silica growing from a lump of petrified sponge. The tassels are composed of slender threadlike stalks, spring- ing from a sheath, beautifully transparent, and so light, that they tremble like gossa- mer at the slightest movement. It is a re- markable instance, so to speak, of mineral vegetation. The Surrey side of London is making a demonstration in favor of establishing a mu- seum within its own limits, as a means of education for that division of the metropo- lis. Government is to be asked to give 10,000, and twice as much more to be raised by contributions. We shall be glad to hear of the success of the project; but let us remind the promoters, that something more is needed besides a proper house, and a collection of noteworthy things, natural or artificial; which is such a spirit of manage- ment as shall best accomplish the object in viewthe diffusion of useful knowledge. Now that Professor Max Mullers Lectures are published as a book, readers at a distance, who had not the privilege of hearing them delivered, will be able to acquaint themselves with the present condition of the science of language, and a highly interesting branch of study. Perusal of the Lectures will discover to many a significance and importance in words which they were never before aware of.A professorship of epigraphy and Ro- man antiquities has just been established at the College of France by command of the emperor. It is only of late years that the study of inscriptions has become a real sci- ence; and if as a science it can be turned to the advancement of knowledge, then the new professor may do some good. The study has now its principles, rules, and methods, as many published works suf1~ciently testify; among which, Dr. Bruces volume on -Nw Roman Wall, and the handsomely-illustrated books on Roman Camps and Stations in Northumbria, brought out at the cost of the Duke of Northumberland, are especially re- markable. We know, moreover, what has been accomplished by Rawlinson and Lay.. ard, and by Dr. Hincks of Dublin; and that the subject is not exhausted, is proved by the broad folio volume of cuneiform inscriptions just published by the Trustees of the British Muscum.The Academy of Berlin are pub- lishing a collection of the inscriptions of the Romau empire, going back to the first years of Christianity. The Royal Academy of Sciences at Munich have lately put forth a series of works on the earliest discovery of America, printed from heretofore unnoticed originals, and accompa- nied by large maps, which curiously exem- plify the geographical knowledge of the time in question. And there has been printed in New York, a translation of a rare and re- markable tract, which first appeared in 1494, or 95, writ ten by Nicolo Scillacio, a Messi- nese, on the second voyage of Columbus to America. Little by little our knowledge of that great discovery widens. Captain Jervois, commandant 2f the mili- tary convalescent establishment at armouth, has delivered a lecture at the United Service Institution on Recreations as a means of health for the army, showing the deterioria- tion, bodily and mental, brought on by want of sufficient occupation, and the benefits arising from rational means of recreation. He ad- vocates the introduction of recreation-rooms in all barracks, hospitals, and camps, with dominoes, draughts, chess, billiards, and other games, excepting cards, and in these rooms he would allow -the men to smoke and have tea and coffee. At Hong-kong in 1851, and at Yarmouth in later years, he has found the most favorable results follow from offer- ing to the men a resource which many were prepared to accept at once, and which many others preferred, after a little experience, to their usual dissipations. Ho woulj have rec- reation-marquees for troops in camp at home, or abroad on active service; and argues that though the marquees would be an additional burden, there would be a counterbalancing diminution of hospital baggage. The cap- tain shows, moreover, that it is bad economy 22 SCIENCE AND ARTS FOR JULY. to aim at producing cheap soldiers, iaasmueh as, like other cheap things, they soon become unserviceable. Another lecture, On an Improved System of Ship4uilding, delivered by Mr. 0. R. Tovell, at the same Institution, will com- mend itself to merchants and persons inter- ested in navigation, for it shows that speed and capacity for stowage are possible, and have been accomplished. Accepting Mr. Scott Russells proposition, that a good ship should have the easiest form to go ahead, and the most difficult to get to lee- ward, Mr. Tovell takes the salmons head and shoulders as the model for the fore- body of his ship, and the hinder part of the swan for the after-body; and it is found in practice, that while the circular form gives great strengththere being little or none of that creaking noise usual in ships-.--a vessel built on the improved system will behave better in a gale of wind, and sail faster in any weather, than a vessel built on the ordi- nary system. When deeply laden, the im- proved vessels sail better than when light, for the reason that they are then longer at the water-line, and that below the water-line, no portion of the timbers is straight. Straight- ness in the sides of a ship, says Mr. Tovell, is a hindrance to speed. Moreover, be- sides firstrate sailing qualities, and ability for scudding or lying-to, and other operations appreciated by mariners, the improved ves- sels cost less than others to build, because they require less curve in their timber, less labor to bend the planks into shape, and no steam for the bending. The captain of the Laughing Waters, a swift ship, reports: I can, now I am used to her, make her do any thing but speak. Dr. Frankland has been investigating the effects of atmospheric pressure on flame, car- ryipg out a course of experiments which may be said to have been begun on the top of Mont Blanc in 1859, by observing that a candle burnt at that elevation consumed less of its substance, and was less luminous than when burnt at Chamonix. In his trials with coal- gns, he finds that a quantity of gas which gives a light equal to that of one hundred candles when the barometer marks 3l~, yields the light of eighty-four candles only when the barometer falls to 28g. Hence we see that ordinary atmospheric fluctuations have a noticeable effect on illumination; and, 23 in so far as experiments have been carried with a higher pressure than that of the atmos- phere, it appears that the same law prevsils. Certain medical men of Manchester have been studying the effect of atmospheric changes in another way,namely, the influ- ence of the changes on disease,and they find a marked relation between the fluctuations of health in that great town, and the rise and fall of the barometer, and increase or decrease of humidity. Fevers, and especially scarla- tina, are most likely to prevail when the at- mosphere is damp; represent diarrhoea by a curved line, and it immediately begins to ascend as the thermometer rises above 600, mounting rapidly with increase of heat, and immediately sinking as the temperature falls below 600. The reverse is shown in diseases of the lungs and throat; in these cases, the curve rises as the temperature falls. Thus far, the inquiry only confirms popular theory on the subject; but there is no doubt that if all the meteorological elements were em- braced, and the inquiry carried on over large districts simultaneously by competent observ- ers, who would compare the state of public health with the prevalent winds, the electric- ity of the atmosphere, and its chemical con- dition, and with the rain and amount of moisture generally; if this were done, re- sults of importance to sanitary science would not fail to be arrived at. Those readers who wish for more information on this subject, may find it in a paper by Messrs. Ransome and Vernon, published in the Memoirs of the Literary and Philosophical Society of Man- chester, At the last meeting of the Geological So- ciety, a paper was read by the Rev. R. Ev- erest, On the Lines of Deepest Water around the British Isles, in which, by trac- ing the several lines of soundings, he shows that the Isles constitute an unequal-sided hexagonal figure, while the lines around Ire- land represent a pentagonal figure; and so on, giving other examples from smaller isles. He finds, moreover, some relation between these lines and present geological phenom- ena, such as dip and other characteristics of strata; and is of opinion that shrinkage is the cause of the special features in question. In England, as also in some continental. countries, there are appearances as of huge polygons broken up into small ones, as if the surface of the earth had once formed part of 24 SCIENCE AND ARTS FOR JULY. a basaltic causeway.At the same meeting Burder of Clifton on the morning of Sunday, an account was given of the recent outburst of June 30, in the constellation of Auriga, from a volcano near Edd, on the African coast of which it receded in the course of two nights the IRed Sea; and a notice of that terrible to the muzzle of the Great Bear. It had earthquake at Mendoza, where eighty-five passed the perihelion on the 10th of bue at shocks occurred in ten days, and more than the distance of seventy-six million miles from ten thousand persons perished. The effect the sun, and in its recession, on the 28th, it was felt in the Upsallata Pass of the Cordil- had come within thirteen million miles of the leras, for at that elevation travellers met a earth. The nucleus is described as having shower of ashes, and found the way obstruct- had three luminous envelopes. One observer ed by rocks and newly opened chasms. And has announced the probability, that on the at Buenos Ayres, nine hundred and sixty- 30th we were within the luminosity of the nine miles from Mendoza, it was observed comet. At one time, the tail extended over that the pendulums which were swinging seventy-six degrees of the northern sky. A north and south were accelerated, while those French astronomer believes that this is the swinging east and west were not affected. celebrated comet of Charles V., which ap- The astronomer-royals Report to the peared in March, 1656, and caused the retire- Board of Visitors shows that astronomy suf- ment of that monarch, and the ieturn of fers as well as corn and fruit in unfavorable which has for the last few years been looked weather. A plan had been formed for a se- for; but Mr. Hind, whose opinion in sucfr a .ries of observations of Mars, with a view to matter is entitled to the highest respect, af~ the accurate determination of his parallax; firms it for certain not to be that comet. but the weather was unusually bads in It has been ascertained, from many years 1860, and the observations could not be observation, that the wind makes a number made. However, as the Report testifies, of revolutions all round the compass in the good work in abundance was accomplished; course of a year, turning usually in tbe di- the quasi-permanent existence of a belt in- rection of the hands of a watchthat is ,!from dined to the ordinary belts~ was noted on N. to E.S.WT., and round to N.; but last Jupiter; Saturn presented at times the year the directions were retrograde, or in the square-shouldered figure which Sir. W. Her- contrary direction.N.W.S.E. and N. Two schel long ago attributed to him; time-sig- entire revolutions were made in this direc- nals have been, and are sent to many parts tion, and the phenomenon having attracted of England; the post-office clocks are regu- attention, the observations of past years were lated from the clock at Greenwich; the time- examined, and the remarkable fact was as- ball at Deal has been regularly dropped by certained, that there appears to be a seven- signal from the Observatory; and Mr. Airy yearly cycle in the course of the wind. In constantly bears in mind the desirability of 1853, the wind made rather less than two ro- exhibiting daily time-signals at Portsmouth tations in the retrograde direction; in all and Plymouth, and hourly time-signals at the other years, the opposite direction has Start Point. These would manifestly be of prevailed. But taking any period of seven great use in nautical astronomy. The Ord- years, we find it commencing with a small nance Survey, in which the junction between number of revolution~, then increasing to a England and Belgium is to be repeated, has maximum, twenty-one times, twenty-three or been commenced under direction ofSirllenry twenty-four times round the compass, then James, and after that is complete, steps will sinking to a minimum, and rising once more be taken to determine the galvanic latitude in the following period. On this remarkable of Valentia or Lowestoft. fact Mr. Airy observes, supposing always The astronomical world was gratified on that the septennial cycle be confirmed: I the last day of June with the sudden appear- should suggest as possible cause, no cycle ance of a comet, generally allowed to be of actions of external bodies, but a periodi- larger than that of 1858, and which, it is be- cal throb of temperature from the interior of lieved, would have made a finer sh~v than the earth. It seems likely that a very small ~any in the present century but for the twi- change of superficial temperature might suf- light lingering in the midnight summer sky. ficiently influence the currents of air to pro- This bright stranger was observed by Mr. duce the effect whichhas been observed. 25 THE INViSIBLE ARMIBS.THE COMET, 1861. THF INVISIBLE ARMIES. On ! think not, armies of the earth, A~ in the march ye go, To hail a j~ations second birth, Or wrest it from the foe, That here, upon this mortal field, Do all your forces stand revealed: The eternal scenes outstretching time ~Are now in movement more sublime! Hail! heroes of the ages gone, Of sacred story all, Who led the hosts of Israel on, Who broke the ancient thrall Of tyrants clamoring for reign Oer the rich Orients domain, Thy spirits, stirring from their height, Shall lend to us their former mi lit. For, saith the High and Mighty One, Who sitteth in the heaven, Tis not of earth and time alone That nations thus are riven; Behold ! the armies of the skies, The embattled legionssee them rise, Arrayed, and officered, and led, By angel chieftains from the dead! The solemn vision deepening, lo! What mighty numbers swell, Rising from their dark pits of woe, The serried ranks of hell! Great God! it is the conflict dire Which raged of old on plains of fire! Jesus, the mighty Victor, knew, Both ~vorlds were open to his view. And when again, on Canaans land, The rebel armies stood, Behold! the angel in command How soldierly his ~vord Im captain of the hosts he said, With sword drawn in his hand,and led, Unseen by Joshua before, To victory all the tribes of ~var! And so when Syrias gutlty king Gainst Israel led the foe, And evil omens gan to spring From out that threatening woe, Fear not, saidisracls prophet bold, Oar numbers cannot now be told, And lo! the mount of visioa came, With hosts and. chariots of flame! And shall not fair Columbia too Land of the brave and free, Her ancient heroes ~vake anew, To lifeto liberty Ho! all ye martyred sons of flame, Statesmen and warriors of fame, Filled be the air afresh with fire Which your immortal minds inspire. And when, in conflict with the foe, The nations reel and rock, Trembling as if beneath the blow Of some tremendous shock, Remember, tis the Lord that fights He rules the deeps, he crowns the heights, Sends the destroying angel forth, Or heavens strong legions bids to earth. AImi~hty God! to thee we raise To thee our souls rehearse, Oar song of triumph and of praise, With thy vast universe! Firm is the centre of thy power, Vast and controlling, every hour, And heaven, and earth, and hell shall be Moved by thine own infinity! Transcript. W. M. P. THE COMET, 1861. Terroresque in emlo, et signa magna. & Luc. xxi. I. WHENCE art thou? sudden Comet of the sun? In what far depths of God thine orient place? Whence hath thy world of light such radiance ivon, To gleam and curve along the cone of space 3* II. Why comest thou? weird wanderer of the air! What is thine oracle for shuddering eyes? WiLt thou some myth of crowaless kings declare, Scathed by thy fatal banner of the skies? III. Or dost thou glide, a seething orb of doom, Bristling with penal fires, and thick ~vith souls, The severed ghosts, that throng thy peopled womb, Whom Azrael, warder of the dead, controls? Iv. Throne of some lost archangel! dost thou glare Afier long battle, on that conqtmering height? Vaunt, of a victory, that is still, despair, A trophied horror on tIme arch of night 3 V. But lo! another dream: thou starry god! Art thou the mystic seedsman of the sky I To shed new worlds along thy radiant road That flow in floods of billowy air on high. VI. Roll on! yet not almighty: in thy wrath Thou bendest like a vassal to his king: Thou darest not oerstep thy graven path, Nor yet one wanton smile of brightness fling. VII. Slave of a mighty master! be thy bmw A parable of night, in radiance poured: Amid thy haughtiest courses what art thou? A lamp, to lead some pathway of the Lord! Notes and Queries. * The Cone of ~Space.Space is that measured part of Gods presence, which is occupied by the planets and the sun. The boundary of space is the outline of a cone. THE LAST TRAVELS OF IDA PFEIFFER. From The Examiner. The last Travels of Ida Pfe~Jfer; inclusive of a Visit to Madagascar. With a Bio- graphical Memoir of the Author. Trans- lated by II. W. Duicken, Ph.D. Rout- ledge and Co. MORE interesting than the main part of this book is the short memoir with which it opens. From babyhood to death, Madame Ida Pfeiffers career was an odd one. She was born at Vienna in 1797,the sin- gle girl among five brothers. In boyish ways she was therefore at home: indeed, in later life, she boasted that she was bolder and more forward than her elder brothers. She dressed always in their clothes, scorned dolls and needlework, and delighted in drums and swords and all out-of-door pranks. Her fatheron other points a stern discipli- narianapproved of these ungirlish tastes, and promised in jest, which was earnest to her, that she should be sent to a military school, and should be brought up as an ofil- cer. But he died when she was nine, and her mother tried to put her into petticoats. Since the attempt made the child ill out of sheer anger, the doctor who was called in prescribed a pair of trousers as the only remedy. Four years later she had sense enough to consent to change her clothes, although, as she averred, at the cost of many tears and much unhappiness: How awk- ward and clumsy I was at first! how ridicu- lous I must have looked in my long skirts, jumping and racing about, and behaving generally like a wild, restless boy! But next year a T came to be tutor in the family, and Ida straightway fell in love with him. For his sake she grew coy, and learned sewing and cookery. When she was seventeen, the appearance of a wealthy suitor drove T to a proposal of mar- riage, which she very gladly accepted. Not so the mother, who desired her daughter to be wedded to some husband with a fortune at any rate equal to her own. The poor tutor was accordingly banished, but Ida re- fused to accept any one of the lovers, who were, it would seem, as many and as diverse as bewildered Portia herself. Each rejec- tion being followed by a severe motherly scolding, at last the girls spirit was broken. She promised that she would marry the next elderly suitor who offered himself. The for- tunate man was Dr. Pfeiffer, a lawyer of Lemberg, with forty-six years to he? tvitV- two, and apparently rich. Loth to fdl~1 ~heV pledge, she told him of her love for the tutor, hoping thus to disgust him. lie, however, said that he liked her all the bet- ter for having such an affectiontt~ di~posi- tion. In a few weeks they were married. In a few weeks more the doctor, being de- prived of his employment through no fault of his, lost all his own and all his wifes money. Ten years of extreme poverty fol- lowed. Madame Pfeiffer had to give draw- ing and music lessons that her children might get even dry bread, and she now and then begged some small help from her brothers. Then her mother died, and be- queathed her a little more money. Loving her children more than her husband, she left him to live at Lemberg, and betook herself to Vienna, where good schooling was much cheaper than elsewhere. So time rolled on. Once the mother went to Trieste, and saw the sea for the first time. It roused in her her old longings after a travellers life; axid in due course, the boys being started in life, and she a voluntary widow of forty-five, the longing was still to be satisfied. With strict economy she reck- oned that her little income would supply her needs, and in 1842 she started secretly, and quite alone, on a visit to Palestine. The journey furnished matter for a book; the book brought her money, and the money was enough to take her, in 1845, to Iceland and back. It was an odd craze for an elderly lady to leave an aged husband and a couple of youthful sons, and wander about the world with no other object than the gratification of mere passion for travel. But this was Ma- dame Pfciffers mania, and it grew ~stronger with her years. In 1846 she began a thirty months tour round the world, visiting many strange regions, some of them never before trodden by white men, and certainly never by lone European woman. The first of this was her Womans Journey round the World. A second journey, taken on a dif- ferent route, occupied the time from 1851 to 1854; and this also was duly chronicled in a well-known book. The last expedition was that of which record is to be fonnd in the book before us. Of this little need be said. It comprises an account of the authoress experience of English, Frc.ch, and Dutch life, and a more 26 THE LAST TRAVELS OF IDA PFEIFFEA. full and stirring narrative of her journey to NiI2~idagnscar. It is like her other books, full of gossip which is always entertaining, gen- erally instrnctiye. With a womans aptness to write down all the strong expressions of like or dislike which each scene or circum- stance arous?d in turn, her statements are often overcolored, but the intention is always honest and simple-minded. The visit to Madagascar was very disas- trous. Unfortunately, instead of travelling alone, she went in company with a Mr. Lam- bert, who meddled in the politics of the isl- and, and thereby incurred the wrath of the 27 cruel Queen Ranavola. At first the white Christians were doomed to die for giving aid to the black converts. As an act of clem- ency, this sentence was remitted, and they were banished the island. Such studied hardship, however, was enforced by the es- cort which took them to the shore, that Ma- dame Pfeiffer was seized with a fever which never entirely left her. Afte a long illness at the Mauritius, she planned a voyage to Australia; but the fever returned, and she was driven, in all haste, to find her way back to Germany and die. She died three years ago, her age then being sixty-one. ATKINSON, Tun TRAVELLER.A noticeable man has passed away in our Siberian illustrator and explorer, Thomas W. Atkinson. His death took place at Lower Wabner, Kent, on Tuesday, last week. For about a year, the great traveller bad been ailing; never having quite recovered from the waste of his long and arduous journeys in the wild country of tbe Amoor; hut no im- mediate danger had been feared by his physi- cian. Little or no suffering bad accompanied bis decline, and his most intimate friends had scarcely dreamt tbat his life was in peril, lie tried the country air; he rode; he walked; he handled his familiar gun. In the early summer he had a fall which sirnok and injured him. But he bore up well, and went down to Walmer, as every one goes down in August to the sea. At length he passed away as into a tranquil sleep. Atkinson was born in Yorkshire, on the 6th of March, 1799, and lie was consequently in his sixty-second year when lie died. He was in the truest and best sense a self-made man. Left an orphan when a child, lie began life for him- self at flue early a~e of ei~ht; from ~vhich time he gained his own living, while training himself into a good scholar and a well-mannered gentle- man. Those who met him in his later years in the drawing-room or the country-house, were struck by the undefinable grace and bearing which are sometimes thought to be the monop- oly of ancient race. He educated himself as an architect, and a church built by him in Man- chester testified to his skill as a builder; but his instrument was the pencil, and his vocation that of a traveller. Owing to an accidental remark of Alexander humboldt, he turned his eyes to the picturesque land of Oriental Russia. His pictures, which have been much exhibited at evening parties, and have been reduced for his books, are exceedingly clever, and lie wrote with as much po~ver and freshness as lie drew. In person, lie was the type of an artistic traveller, thin, lithe, anti sinewy, with a wrist like rock, and an eve like a poets ; manner singularly gentle, and an air which mingled entreaty with commaiid. The two great works which lie pro- duced on Siberia and on the Amoor, have made the whole world familiar with his name, and with his extraordinary assemblage of qualities and accomplishments. These books were not only great hooks, but great deeds. Like Livings- t~ones Travels, the Amoor is not so mticli a successful piece of writino as a series of accomplished facts, and it represents, with the usual amouiit of midnight oil, preliminary years of hard riding, scant fare, nervous watching, desert fever, hunter, thirst, and cold,the pri- vation of a tent,and the fag of a savage life. Out of that misery and adventure has come to us a most precious treasury of knowledge. By pen and pencil Atkinson opened to Western Europe, and even to the Russians of St. Peters- burg and Moscow, the vast re~ions of the Amoor. Before his day, those regions were a mystery and a blank; they are now as well known to us us the country of the Orange River, and better than the shores of Carpentaria. if it be a noble thing to add to the stock of human knowledge, Atkinson had gained a high de~ree of glory.Atlueaceum, 24 Aug. CHARACTER OF BIsHOP JEREMY TAYLOR. The following note on the character of Bp. Taylor is written in an old copy of the Holy Living, in handwriting of a date at about the end of the seventeenth century The author of this excellent book bath the good-humor of a gentleman, the eloquence of an orator, the fancy of a poet, the acuteness of a schioolman, the profoundness of a philosopher, the wisdom of a counsellor, the sagacity of a prophet, thin reason of an angel, and ~lie piety of a saint.N.tes and Queries. TENNYSON is expected to write the pocup for the opening of the great Worlds Fair at Lou. don, during thin coming year. 28 GERMAN AMUSEMENTS. From The Saturday Review, they take no exercise except a little awi~n- GERMAN AMUSEMENTS. ming. However that may be, the ~a~t ~e- TRAVELLER after traveller has described mains. The Germans can go on with their how easily the Germans amuse themselves, amusements, and find a continual relish in and has painted, with contempt or admira- them. No wonder that this provokes the tion, the happy air of the leisurely groups investigation of foreigners. Surely, a people that pass the long hours of a summer day that can get so much nmuse~nent must he in beer-gardens or dancing-halls. If the happy, and have much to teach the rest of amusements ~ the Germans are amuse- the world in the art of living. That the ments at all, it must he confessed that they Qermans are very happy is not impossible. are good of their kind. With the exception They really, we are inclined to think, haye a of their execrable cigars, they have every large share of placid content, and strike a thing they want of a very excellent sort. happy balance between a morbid appetite for When they listen to music, they listen to the excitement and complete stagnation. But best bands science and art can turn out when we begin to fancy they may read a les- when they dance, they generally secure large son to their neighbors, we must look a little rooms and a slippery floorwhen they go further into the matter; and we shall then to the theatre, they see good acting. They find that the Germea mind is divided on sit in well-ordered and often magnificent the head of amusements from the French houses, and rest their limbs on seats that and English by a chasm which cannot be are as comfortable as they are cheap. Many bridged over. of these amusements are intensely slow to At first we do not understand what is English people. Let any one try, and hon- meant by people having no wish for excite- estly state his feelings after he has passed ment. We see the bad side of excitement, the third hour of the third evening at a beer- and know all the sin and misery to which it garden, and he will acknowledge that he leads. When we hear of amusement with- feels a peculiar and utter sensation of wean- out excitement, we think that this would be ness which is unknown except on the Conti- the very thing for us. We feel like a person nent. But no one can doubt that the Ger- who, after a season of venison and turtle, mans are thoroughly happy. This is shown craves for plain food and mountain fare. By not only by their air of gentle content, hut plain food, however, he means good meat by the extraordinary importance which they and bread, and good cooking. If he comes attach in common conversation to what we to real mountain fareto sour black bread should think the most insignificant occur- and curdled milkhe cannot touch it. It rences. Such an event as a brewery giving is not that he wishes to be dainty, but the its grand yearly festival, or new cellars be- difference between such fare and that which ing inaugurated by a treat to the workmen, he has been accustomed to is overpowering. is discussed with the strangest outpounings So it is with amusements. We can fancy of triumph, pleasure, and pride. ILong prac- simple amusements; we do not wish for any tice, too, or hereditary taste enables the Ger- thing feverish, or fast, or exaggerated; we mans to take more of these pleasures than are willing to content ourselves with mao- English pe?ple can do. We speak of a Ger- cent and unpretending pleasures. But the man spending seven or eight hours a day in German extremethe utter absence of cx- smoking and drinking as a curious trait of citement which that happy nation can endure character, as an odd national custom, as a is beyond us. Perhaps theatnicals furnish habit of an animal different to ourselves; the best example. The pieces that will go but why on earth does net all this beer and down in Germany are inconceivable. how smoking make Germans bilious? A Ger- any human beings should think it pleasanter man considers that, on busy days, he must to behold them than to be in bed, surpasses limit himself to about twelve or fourteen our comprehension. We are not speaking cigars, while on holidays he takes from of obscure theatres, or small towns, or un- twenty to twenty-five. Brewers alone could successful pieces. At Munich, where there calculate how much beer would be in pro- is one of the largest and best theatres in portion. We should like to know why this Germany, a piece has lately been played, does not make Germans ill, Particularly as called Die Grille. It has been much ad- 9 GER~AN AMUSEMENTS. 29 mired, and & raws capital houses. On the captivated her friends in the pit and boxes. phy~.hill it is offered as a Picture of Char- She was called for again and again. So long acte~, and the public evidently accepts it did this last that the theatrical arrange- as a very creditable and philosophical crea- ments began to proceed without reference to tion. Now, this play has one very remarka- her ovation. The clouds began to disap- ble featare in it. It is in five acts, and the pear. Next, the cottage in front of which acts are of a very considerable length, but she sang went away on the shoulders of an nothing whatever happens. We know at able-bodied porter; and then the attendants once that no reasoning, no wish to do itself got emboldened, and placidly prepared a credit, no anxiety for a new development of banquet for the next scene under her nose. art, could possibly induce an English or [he audience did not at all mind. They French audience to sit through five acts of a and the young lady were all at home, and play without any incidents. What takes the there were no strangers to make a fuss. So place of incidents is the one thing that to strong is this union between the audience the spectators of Western Europe is most and the stage, that the actors themselves utterly repulsive. The substitute is a sue- behave like a second audience when the per- cession of dialogues between two persons de- formance of any one of their number espe- scribing their feelings. There is a girl- who cially delights them. This may be seen in describes her feelings, and an old couple who places that might have been supposed to be describe theirs, and two brothers who de- too grand for such artless exhibitions. In scribe theirs. Many of our readers will re- Vienna, and at the principal theatre, a comic member the dreadful passages that cast a opera was lately given, in which the leading gloom over Sheridans Rivals, in which Julia buffo fairly finished off his comrades. The and Falkland exchange the statements of prima donna broke down without shame or their mental troubles. If all the Rivals had disguise, and hopped away behind his back been like these passagesif Julia and Falk- to have her laugh out. The chorus was land had talked for five actsthen there equally amused, and at one moment the would have been a play not unlike Die,Grille. funny man was literally in possession of the It is not a question of goodness or badness, whole house, and separated a laughing audi- of taste cultivated in a wrong or a right di- ence before him from a laughing audience rection, when such a play is liked or not behind him. This may show that the Vi- liked. In England such a play would be ennese are very happy and are easily amused, impossible. In Germany it is not only pos- and people who behave in a more reserved sible but popular, and admired. The differ- and decorous way may really have to regret ence is too radical to admit of the one na- their supposed superiority. But at any rate tion learning from the other. this degree of artlessness in amusement is There are other features, too, in the public unattainable for us. We cannot play our amusements of Germany which make us feel games in this way, and are fettered by our how far we are apart from them. A famil- traditions of superiority. iarity and an easy, sociable understanding It is much the same in literature. Ger- binds together those who amuse and those mans write novels in abundance, but their who are amused. As in the games of chil- novels are almost unintelligible to us. Per- dren, the players and spectators are still one haps the only recent German novel known group. When a German player or singer in England is Debit and Gredit. This was has done his or her part, the audience testify considered a wonderfully good novel in Ger- their approbation by repeatedly asking to see many, and this speaks volumes. Its merit the performer. In every theatre players are consisted in not being utterly vapid. It de- called for, and approval is shown by shout- scribe7d, in a faint way, scenery,. characters, ing when they come. But in Germany it is and habits that were not utterly trite. It done in a different way. The audience do was therefore endurable, and for a German not much care about scenic proprieties so novel to be endurable is to be famous. long as they and their favorites have a pro- Generally, German novels have, according longed friendly meeting. At a summer the- to our ideas, nothing whatever in them. If atre in a small German town for example, Mrs. Hannah More had grown rather less a prettyish actress sang a little song that moral in her old age, she might have written 30 GERMAN AMUSEMENTS. them all. And yet this is in the country of in the people that commands our respect in Goethe, of Wieland, of Tieck, and of many the midst of all their aberrations. But iii other writers of imagination. This is the Germany no one who studies the groups most astonishing thing about Germany, that in the beer-gardens, or watches them in a its great writers and its ordinary writers are theatre, or reads the books written for so very widely apart. Out of this harmless, them, can find traces of force. There is, in- - innocent people, with its beer and tobacco, its deed, no visible feeblenessthere is no theatrical pictures of character, and its so- timidity or shamefacedness. The people ciable audiences, have arisen great men and dare to be happy in their own way, and writers. They have shown, in the midst of would not resign their way of being happy their greatness, that they were Germans, and without an intense and protracted struggle; the leading features of the German mind but energy and the love of energy seem dc- may be clearly traced even in the peculiar ments that never entered into their compo- and original creations of Goethe. But this sition. higher literature of Germany seems to have It seems a simple and humble conclusion been a lucky accident in the history of the to say that, where nations are constituted so nation. The race of considerable writers differently, where society has long moved in has faded out of Germany with the most as- such different tracks, and where the inter- tonishing rapidity. Nor has the influence ests of daily life are so dissimilar, the amuse- of these writers left the impress we might ments of the people cannot, be the same. have expected on the national mind. If we But most Englishmen will be ready to con- are not to mince matters, we may say that fess that it is only slowly that this conclu- the prevailing characteristic of all Germans, sion is brought home to them. It is not except the very best, is that of a placid and apparent without reflection and experience gentle mediocrity. At Berlin, in the circles that the antidote to a pernicious excitement of the better courts, in the best society of does not lie in childish pleasures. In the the best minor towns, there is undoubtedly midst of a complex combination we long for abundance not only of intelligence, but of something simple, as the French philosophers vigor of intellect. But the run of the na- of the last century longed for the ideal say- tion is, we venture to think, essentially see- age and hia ideal virtues. Gradually we ond-rate. In the width of separation which, discover, as the philosophers or their sue- with regard to intellectual cultivation and cessors discovered, that these cannot be. freedom, divides the great from the ordinary The amusements of the Germans are as im- minds of the nation, Scotland presents a tol- possible in London as the philosophical say- erably close parallel to Germany. But no age was in Paris. Our amusements may be one would think of calling the bulk of the simplified, but the simplicity will be the sim- Scotch nation second-rate. There is a vital plicity of a higher refinement, and not that force, a self-dependence, and a thoroughness of a contented and puerile mediocrity. WOLsEYs REPENTAvCEIn N. & Q. hardly suppose the resemblance to be accidental; appears an historical parallel between two luck- but of this your readers will judge less statesmen, Cardinal Wolsey (1530) and Sir One of the Viziers went before Ziin Kiln of James Hamilton (1540), who, at their last hour, Egypt, and desired his opinion, saying: I am regretted that they had not served their God as engaged day and night in the service of the Sal- well as they had served their king. Pcrhap~i the tan, hoping good from him and fearing punish- latter may have unconsciously borrowed from ment. Ziin Kiln wept, and said: If I fcarcd and copied the former. But may not ~he cx- God as you do the king, I shoi4d be one of the pression be derived from the East I So many company of the saints. oriental tales, proverbs, and maxims, were waft- ed from oriental marts in Venetian galleys to If a I~urwaish hoped not ease, and (feared Italy, and thence dispersed over Europe, that not) pain, they became household words, and the ground- lie would mount to the heavenly dome; work in many instances as well of amusement And if a Vizier feared God as much as the as of thought. I enclose a tale from the Gul is- King, t~n of Saadi (An. 1258), which expresses the He would be an angel. same idea in words so similar, that one can -p--Notes and Queries. ARSENIC-EATING AND ARSENIC-POlSONING. From Chamberss Journal. ARSENIC-EATING AND ARSENIC-POISON- ING. THE practice of arsenic-eating, which pre- vails in Styria, was first brought before the world by Dr. Von Tschudi, in the Vienna Weekly Medical Times. We believe that the first mention of the subject in England was made in the pages of this Journal (No. 416, New Series, published on the 20th De- cember, 1851), in the form of a little paper framed by a foreign contributor from the ob- servations of Dr. Von Tschudi. That such a practice existed was treated in scientific circles with the usual sceptical derision; but in a little time the fact obtained credence with the late Professor Johnston, and a few other chemists. It appears that in Lower Austria, which is an arsenic-producing coun- try, this deadly poison is eaten in small quan- tities with a view to producing plumpness and good looks, and also for the purpose of imparting strength in long journeys. There is reason to believe that it was first taken by the men engaged at the arsenic-furnaces, as a means of warding off (on the principle of inoculation for the small-pox) the effects of the poisonous fumes arising from the manu- facture. In a paper on this subject, read before the Literary and Philosophical Society of Man- chester, Dr. H. E. Roscoe mentioned that through the kindness of his friend, Profes- sor Pebal of Lemberg, he had been furnished with copies of letters written by seventeen medical men to the government inspector at Oriitz, one of the principal cities of Styria, concerning the practice of arsenic-eating. From that correspondence, containing re- ports by trustworthy persons, as well as the record of cases under personal notice, it ap- peared that arsenious acid, under the name of hidrach, was well known to, and distrib- uted amongst, the Styrian peasantry. That this substance is pure arsenious acid, Dr. Roscoe proved by an accurate chemicalanal- ysis of six grains of a white substance for- warded by Professor Gottlieb of Gratz, ac- companied by a certificate from the district judge of Knittefeld in Styria, stating that this substance was brought to him by a peasant-woman, who told him that she had seen her farm-laborer eating it, and that she gave it up to justice, to put a stop to so evil a practice. On the question whether arsenic 31 was consumed in quantities usually supposed to produce death, we learn that Dr. Holler of Hartberg was acquainted with forty, and Dr. F5rcher of Grdtz with eleven persons, who indulged in the habit; and that in one case recorded by Dr Selifer, and attested by Dr. Knappe of Oberzehring, a maa in good health, aged thirty years, ate on the one day four and a half, and on the succeed- ing, five and a half grains of arsenic, with- out the least detriment. This man stated that he was in the habit of taking like quan- tities three or four times a week. We shall see now the value of the evi- dence brought forward by Mr. Heisch. Having put himself k~ communication with Dr. Lorenz, formerly of Salzburg, that gen- tleman informed him that the practice of ar- senic-eating was well known to exist, but that access to individual cases was exceedingly difficult, since the vice was proscribed by a government enactment, that arsenic be al- lowed only under the sanction of a medical certificate. Dr. Lorenz confirmed the state- ment so often made, that huntsmen and wood-cutters were in the habit of using it to improve their wind and prevent fatigue. The usual dose to begin with was about the size of a pin-head, increasing from this grad- ually to that of a pea. Those who were in the habit of taking it, did not look so old as they really were, retained a more than usually healthy complexion, were long ljved, and ap- parently exempt from infectious diseases, but were liable to die suddenly, if they did not break off the practice. Dr. Lorenz, however, was not prepared to endorse the opinions of Professor Johnston as to its power of in- creasing the beauty and charms of the fair sex. At the arsenic-works in the neighbor- hood of Salzburg, the only men who can long stand the fumes are those who are in the habit of eating portions of this poison, and the director of one of these establish- ments furnished Mr. Heisch with the partic- ulars of his own case. Destined at an early age to enter the ar- senic factory, with the view of eventually becoming the superintendent, he was ad- vised by his teacher M. B5nsch of Eisleben, to become an arsenic-eater, as otherwise the fumes from the smelting ore would soon destroy his health, and render it imperative that he should leave his employment. From an early age, therefore, up to the time at 32 ARSENIC-EATING AND ARSENIC-POISONING. which he wrote to Mr. lleisch (being then dren, and the old age which a large propor- forty-five years old), he had been in the tion of the inhabitants of the village attain, habit weekly of consuming a large amount are to be attributed to the arsenic present in of arsenic. This gentleman forwarded to the water. Mr. Heisch a quantity equal to the dose he It is well known that this poison is, of all first took, and also the amount he was at others, the most readily detected after death, that time taking. The latter was weighed even at a period so remote from the inter- at the factory, as well as by Mr. Heisch on meat as six or seven years; and on re-open- receipt, and it was found that this gentle- ing graves which had been closed for twelve man, who had begun with three, was now years in Styria, the bodies of arsenic-eaters taking twenty-three grains of pure white were found so unaltered as to be at once arsenic in coarse powder, three or four readily recognizable by their friends. This times a week! This was the only instance must be owing to the strong antiseptic pow- of which Mr. Heisch was able to obtain full ers of the mineral, and wQuld lead us to in- particulars, but many others were mentioned fer that the tissues had become so thor- to him by gentlemen who knew the individ- oughly impregnated as to be able to resist uals, and could vouch for the truth of their for a longer period the process of decay. statements. What a stumbling block is here to the The practice of arsenic-eating can barely be physiologist, what a mine of cross-question- said to exist in England. Mr. Heisch men- ing from which the judge may furnish him- tions the case of a gentleman in Lincoln- self with arguments, to torture and perplex shire, who began taking it for some skin dis- the medical witnesses! Those who consume ease, and eventually reached the quantity of this substance tell us, that the first dose of five grains daily. This, according to the re- arsenic invariably produces symptoms of poi- port, he had taken for six years, till at length soning, such as burning pain in the stom- the remedy became so necessary to him, that ach and sickness, which, when it subsides, is he could not leave it off without great incon- followed by a keen appetite, and feeling of venience, and a return of his old complaint, excitement. Like symptoms, with the i~x- In the Pharmaceutical Journal for Novem- ception of pain, are produced by every in- ber, 1860, we observe mention made of a crease of the dose. The superintendent of village of arsenic-eaters in the north of Eng- the factory at Salzburg, previously alluded land, where the mineral is found in appreci- to, informed Mr. lleisch that he never ex- able quantity in the water drunk by the in- perienced any ill consequence from the prac- habitants. A stream called Whitbeck, tice, except when he endeavored to give it rising in the Blackeombe Mountains, in up. He was then attacked with such violent West Cumberland, contains arsenic in de- palpitation of the heart, fainting, depression terminahle quantity. Ducks will not live if of spirits, and mental weakness, followed by confined to it, and while trout abound in all long confinement to bed, as necessitated his the neighboring rivulets, no fins are ever return to the habita habit he resolved found in the arsenicated stream. But its never to leave off, until he attained the age use by the villagers does not give rise to any of fifty, as originally directed by his in- symptoms of arsenical poisoning, but rather structor, M. Biinsch, and then only by grad- to the effects which are observed in Styria ually retrograding to the dose from which he among the arsenic-eaters there. When the started. Like most arsenic-eaters, he scm- railway was being carried past Whitbeck, pulously avoided spirits, and took his stumn- the first use of the water produced the usual ulant in some warm liquid on an empty stem- marked effects on the throats both of the ach. men and horses employed on the works. If in Styria the 61d adage has been real- The soreness of the mouth from which they ized, that familiarity breeds contempt, and at first suffered, soon, however disappeared, this deadly poison has become a thing of and the horses attained that sleekness of every-day use in almost every dwelling in coat assigned as one of the effects produced that district; on the other hand, for two or by the administration of minute but re- three years back, a perfect arsenicophobia peated doses of arsenic. It is a question has raged in England, hunting up suspicions how far the rosy looks of the Whitbeck chil- of poisoning from manures, ferreting out ARSENIC-EATING AND ARSENIC-POISONING. death in the paper of our walls, the covers dividuals from the quantity of arsenic used of our sofas, the very paint upon our shelves, in paper for covering walls. As was to be and threatening the absolute condemnation expected, arsenical pigment-makers and pa- of green pigments in every branch of manu- per-hangers immediately raised the cry of facture. the craft in danger, and each party mar- Some years ago, a toxicologist ofgreatnote, shalled their witnesses and adduced their evi- Dr. A. S. Taylor, was one morning about to dence. The makers of the pigment averred cut the loaf on the breakfast-table, when he that the men engaged in their manufactories observed upon the outer crust some green never experienced any bad effects, though stains which appeared exceedingly like employed for years in the production of it mould. On paring these off, and applying a on a very large scale, and naturally expressed strong power of microscope, he was much sur- surprise that though these hangings had prised to find the substance resolve itself into been so long in use, no instance of poison- a mineral powder resembling Sheeles green, ing from them had ever been previously ad- a chemical analysis of which substantiated the duced; and if they were to be charged with correctness of his suspicions. On examining being noxious and dangerous to health, why several other loaves which ~vere in the house were not leather, cotton and woollen stuffs, at the time, and had come from the same which alike owed their brilliant green color bakers, he found them in like manner stained to the same poisonous mineral. with patches of the green arsenite of copper. The evidence brought forward to condemn As this was a very serious affair, and threat- the paper-hangings, consisted in the detail ened to be the cause of inflicting much bod- of several instances of suspected poisoning, ily injury, if not death, upon other customers occurring to parties living in rooms the walls who were less observant than Dr. Taylor, he of which were covered with green papers. posted off to the bakers shop, carrying with So insensibly does this deleterious agent be- him his crusts of bread and extracted arsenic. come detached, and mingle with the air of On entering, he immediately detected the the apartment, that a gentleman whose sus- unintentional cause of so much danger. The picions were aroused as to the green paper- baker had but recently refitted his shop with hangings being the cause of his bad health, shelves, and to enhance its appearance, had discovered arsenic in the dust which had been having them decorated with paint of a slowly accumulated on the top of his books, bright grass-green color. When the loaves, carefully preserved within a glass case. The smoking hot from the oven, were placed very air of the room, though in constant use, upon these shelves, the paint immediately and well ventilated, presented evidences of adhered to them, and they became the acci- arsenious acid, on suspending in it sheets of dental medium of administering arsenic. paper saturated with one of the most deli- The baker was readily persuaded of the er- cate tests for this poison, and a chemical ror into which he had fallen, and promptly analysis of the paper showed a drachm of followed the suggestion of having the re- arsenite of copper to every square foot. maining loaves rasped, and the shelves The public mind had not been long re- planed over; but the painter was not so will- lieved from the exaggerated fear of being ing to yield to the sanitary caution, but main- poisoned by every green paper that deco- taming that no good green could be obtained rated their walls, before a similar agitation without arsenic, seemed resolved to wait till was raised against the occurrence of arsenic some more practical and fatal experiment in manures. A communication was read should undeceive him. This is but one of before the Dublin Agricultural Society by many instances which might be adduced in Professor Davy, stating that certain plants proof of the impropriety of allowing prepara- which he had watered with a solution of tions of arsenic to be injudiciously or care- arsenic, not only throve well, but absorbed lessly employed, the poison to such an extent that it could be When the Sale of Poisons Bill was before detected in any part of them; consequently, the House of Lords in 1858, tue above cmi- that the growing of turnips and other cscu- nent chemist, while under examination be- lent roots in manures containing this ruin- fore the Select Committee, adverted to the eral, might lead to symptoms of poisoning, danger likely to accrue to the health of in- more especially so if arsenic was not expelled THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 763 34 from, but accumulated in, the system, as is generally believed. The minds of nervous individuals were, however, soon quieted by the knowledge that other experimenters had striven to make plants thrive under arsenical soaking, but had found that they either per- tinaciously persisted in dying in a few days, or obstinately refused to imbibe any of the poison. Moreover, it was shown that, even allowing that turnips grown upon these ma- nures absorbed arsenic, the quantity was so small that one hundredweight of roots would not contain more than half a grain; and that, notwithstanding the custom of soaking wheat in arsenical solutions previous to sow- ing it, in order to destroy the spores of the smut, no poison could ever be detected in the grain thrashed out. It is much to be regretted that some other and perfectly harmless green pigment is not substituted for this dangerous compound, since it leads one to look with suspicion on all cakes, lozenges, isinglass, gelatine, and confectionery, otherwise rendered doubly tempting by the beautiful tint. The very seductive manner in which this painted con- fectionery if offered for sale, is well illus- trated by a case of poisoning mentioned some time ago in the Times. At a fair in the south of England six children were seized with symptoms of poisoning. On inquiry, it was ascertained that they had been eating some colored sweetmeats called birds-nests, which they had purchased at the fair. On apprehending the person who sold them, several other birds-nests were found in his possession; and as he averred that they were bought from a confectioner in Exeter, a war- ARSENIC-EATING AND ARSENlC-POISONlNG~ rant was obtained to search the premises of the latter, when a quantity of green color- ing matter, used for tinting sweetmeats, was discovered, which on analysis proved to be Scheeles green. There are many other ar- ticles in every day use, in the manufacture or finishing of which arsenic forms a danger- ous ingredient; candles, for instance, are not uncommonly made up with either white or green preparations of arsenic, which may in combustion give rise to deleterious fumes; and onlyltist February, the Tribunal of Cor- rectional Police of Paris condemned a flower- maker to six days imprisonment, and a fine of three hundred francs, for having severely injured the health of one of his workmen by employing him to spread a green powder over certain flowers, assuring him at the same time that it was not arsenical. One form yet remains to be mentioned, in which arsenic is unguardedly allowed to be sold, and might become the means, either intentionally or not, of poisoning; we allude to the papier moure, or fly-papers, so much in use in summer weather for destroying these little household pests. Chemical anal- ysis has detected no fewer than from three to five grains of arsenious acid, the white arsenic of commerce, in each separate paper; and yet, when offered for sale, we are told that they are harmless to any thing save in- sect life. Surely, if the use of unglazed green paper-hangings and green confectionery is so much to be condemned, a stop should be put to the sale of these fly-papers, two or three of which contain arsenic sufficient to poison a whole family. AUCTUMNALIA. LONDON is empty; sport begins; Statesmen are seen in tweed apparel. Hey for the flash of silver fins, The glory of the double-barrel! Some vagrants crowd the Scotch express Some fly by steam the Channel over. Brougham doth the Irish mind address, And Palmerston is off to Dover. And Crinoline goes out of town To country-houses cool and pleasant, Plays billiards (if mamma wont frown), And by and by will mark her pheasant; In Lincoln-green enchants the men, A charming areberess, lithe and lissom; Fishes a little now and then Shell catch her fish: they never miss em. Glad will the new Lord Warden be To bear the Cinque Ports townsfolk cheering; Glad, too, the Chancellor, if he Succeed in his electioneering. Yet of the Whigs, their joys amid, One painful thought will take possession: Surgit amen aliquid How shall we last another Session ? Presa RIVAL EASELS. 35 From Chamberss JournaL passing through gradually the various stages RiVAL EASELS. of studentship, and emerging at last a can TnEIu~ have always been factions in art; didate for the highest prizes of~the institu- and while the schools have hattled corpor- tion. He underwent few of the privations ately, there have been plenty of single corn- of the beginnerfew of the struggles of the bats amongst individual artists. Pordenone, ordinary student. As soon as he could draw painting his frescoes in the cloisters of S. and color decently, there were patrons for Stefano at Venice, with his sword drawn, and him; almost a royal road was open to buckler at hand, prepared for the violence of him. Mrs. Jordan sat now as the Comic Titian, is a sample of the masters who found Muse, now as Hippolite; a lady of qual- it necessary to combine the profession of the ity appeared as a Bacchante. Then came fine arts with the business of a bravo. Do- portraits of the iDuke and Duchess of York, menico Veniziano was brutally assassinated the Prince of Wales, and the Duke of by Andrea del Castagno; Annibale Caracci, Clarence. He resided in Charles Street, Cesari, and Guido were driven from Naples, close to Carlton House, and wrote himself and their lives threatened by Belisario, Spag- portrait-painter to the Prince of Wales. noletto, and Caracciolo; Agostino Beltrano, The king and queen were quite willing to surpassed by his own wife Aniella di Rosa favor their sons favorite, especially as they (the niece of a painter of eminence), mur- thought, with many other people of the time, dered her in his jealous rage; Michael An- that the Prince of Wales, like Visto, had gob was envious of the growing fame of a taste. But soon obstacles seemed to Sebastiano del Piombo; Hudson quarrelled intervene between them and the painter. with his pupil Reynolds, who, in his turn, They had never liked Reynolds. He had grew uneasy at the progress of his rival always been calm and unembarrassed in Romney. Northcote says: Certain it is their presencenever awed or troubled that Sir Joshua was not much employed in and the near-sighted king, looking close into portraits after Romney grew in fashion! his pictures, had pronounced them rough Reynolds spoke of him always as the man and unfinished. He preferred the smooth- in Cavendish Square, where he lived, in the ness of West and Ramsay. Hoppner, full house No. 32, afterwards Sir Martin Archer of honest admiration for Sir Joshua, did not Shees.. Hoppner, on his death-bed, writhed hesitate to sound his praises even in the un- under the polite attentions of Sir Thomas willing royal ears. This displeased the king Lawrence. In his visits, said the poor sick very much. The Carlton House court, too, man, there is more joy at my approaching was going on in a way desperately annoying death than true sympathy for my sorrows. to good Farmer George, and Hoppner The mother of John Hoppaer was one of made himself celebrated there, for he was the German attendants at the royal palace. gay and witty, and high-spirited. The He was born in London, in the summer of Prince of XVales having joined the Whigs, 1759. The king took a personal interest in Hoppner became a zealous politician, and of the bringing up and education of the child~ the party opposed to the king. He could ex- I who, from his sweet musical voice and cor- pect nothing from their majesties after that. rect ear, was in time adorned with the white Certainly he was imprudent. What had a stole of a chorister of the royal chapel. Of painter to do with politics ?~ He thus dimin- course there were motives attributed in expla- ished the area of his prospects. It became nation of the kings kindness and benevolence, quite impossible for Tory noblemen to sit to and the boy himself was in no haste to con- a stanch Whig portrait-painter. Ho might tradict the slanderers who credited him with caricature them: and having painted all the royal descent. The world chose to see con- Whigs, what was he to do? With a rival firmation of these rumors in the favor sub- in the field, too, by no means to be despised sequently extended to the young man by the or spoken lightly of. Prince of Wales, who supported him ac- Thomas Lawrence, the son of a man who tively against such rivals as Lawrence, Owen, had been by turns a solicitor, a poet, and and Opie; and brought a stream of the aris- artist, a supervisor of Excise, a farmer and tocracy to his studio. He entered, as a pro- innkeeper, and, of co~irse, a bankrnpt, was bationer, the school of the Royal Academy, born at Bristol ten years later than Hoppner. 36 He was the youngest of sixteen children; an infant prodigy, on a chair reciting poetry, when four years old; a little later, and he begins to draw. He can take your like- ness, or repeat you any speech in Miltons Pandemonium, says the father, landlord of the Bear Inn, posting-house, Devizes, al- though he is only five years old. And at this age he produced a striking likeness of Mr. afterwards Lord, Kenyon. At seven, the portrait of the prodigy was taken and engraved by Mr. Sherwin the artist. At eight, it seems his education was finished. Perhaps he was wanted at the inn, for the readings of the child attracted crowds of visitors from Bath. He recited at various times before Garrick, Wilkes, Sheridan, Burke, Johnson, and others. All were charmed with the boy. He was splendidly handsome, with long redundant dark curls that tumbled over and hid his face when he stooped to draw. He longed to go on the stage, as much that he might at once assist his family as for any other reason, but he was overruled. In 1785, he received a medal from the Society of Arts for his crayon drawing of Raphaels Transfiguration. In 1787, being then eighteen, he exhibited seven pic- tures at the Royal Academy. He painted his own portrait, and wrote of it to his mother: To any but my own family, I cer- tainly should not say this; but, excepting Sir Joshua, for the painting of the head, I would risk my reputation with any painter in London. It was broadly painted, three- quarters size, with a Rembrandtish effect, as Sir Joshua detected when the canvas was shown to him. You have been looking at the old masters; take my advice, and study nature. He dismissed the young artist with marked kindness however. In 1789, Sir Martin Archer Shee wrote of him, as a genteel, handsome young man, effeminate in his manner; adding, he is wonderfully laborious, and has the most uncommon pa- tience and perseverance. About this time he painted the Princess Amelia, and Miss Farren the actress, afterwards Countess of Derby, in a white satin cloak and muff; and whole-length portraits of the king and queen, to be taken out by Lord Macart~ey as presents to the emperor of China. In 1791, after one defeat, he was admitted an associate of the Royal Academy by a sus- pension of the law against the admission of RIVAL EASELS. an associate under the age of twenty-tour. He was opposed by many of the academi- cians, and virulently attacked by Peter Pin- dar. In 1792, he attended the funeral of Sir Joshua in St. Pauls Cathedral, when Mr. Burke attempted to thank the me~ubers of the academy for the respect shown to the re- mains of their president, but overcome by his emotion, was unable to utter a word. In 1795, Mr. Lawrence was elected a member of the academy, having previously succeeded Sir Joshua as painter in ordinary to the king Benjamin West being elected to the pres- idential chair. Add to his unquestionable art-abilities, that he was courtly in manner, an accomplished fencer and dancer, with a graceful figure and a handsome face; that he possessed an exquisitely modulated voice; and large, lustrous expressive eyesthe light in which seemed to be always kindling and brilliant. Byron did not criticise leniently his contem- poraries, but he records in his diary: The same evening I met Lawrence the painter, and heard one of Lord Greys daughters play on the harp so modestly and ingeniously, that she looked music. I would rather have had my talk with Lawrence, who talked de- lightfully, and heard the girl, than have had all the fame of Moore and me put together. The only pleasure of fame is, that it paves the way to pleasure, and the more intellect- ual the better for the pleasure and us too. It will be seen that the portrait-painter to the Prince of Wales had no mean oppo- nent in the portrait-painter in ordinary to his majesty. The factions of Reynolds and Romney lived again in the rivalry of Hoppner and Lawrence. The painters appeared to be well matched. Iloppner had the advantage of a start of ten years, though this was nearly balanced by the very early age at which Lawrence obtained many of his successes. Hoppner was also a handsome man, of re- fined address and polished manner; he, too, possessed great conversational powers, while in the matter of wit and humor he was prob- ably in advance of his antagonist. He was well-read one of the best-informed paint- ers of his time, Mr. Cunningham informs us frank, out-spoken, open-hearted, gay, and whimsical. He had all the qualifications for a social success, and was not without some of those Corinthian characteristics which RIVAL EA~SELS. 37 were indispensable in a man of fashion, from white muslin that swathed the chins and the Prij~ice of Wales point of view. With necks of the sitters; and the coats, with E~lridge) the associate miniature-painter, fanciful collars and lappels; and the waist- e~ud two other artists, he was once at a fair! coats, many-topped and many-hued, winding iii th~ oountry where strong ale was abound- about in tortuous lines. It is not to be much ing, ~nd much fun, and drollery, and din, marvelled at that such items of costume as Hoppner turned to his friends. You have Cumberland corsets, Petersham trousers, always seen me, he said, in good com- Brummel cravats, Osbaldeston ties, and ex- pany, and. playing the courtier, and takea quisites crops, should be only sketchily rca- me, I dare say, for a deuced well-bred fel- dered ia paint. Of course, Mr. Opie, who low, and genteel withal. All a mistake. I went in for thorough Joha ]3ullism in art, love low company, and am a bit of a ready- who laid on his pigments steadily with a made blackguard. He pulls up his collar, trowel, and produced portzaits of ladies like twitches his neckcloth, sets his hat awry, washerwomen, and gentlemen like Wapping and with a mad humorous look in his eyes, publicans.-...of course, unsentimental, unfash- is soon in the thickest of the crowd of rustic ionable Mr. Opie denounced the degeneracy revellers. He jests, gambols, dances, soon of his competitors style. Lawrence makes to quarrel and fight. He roughly handles a coxcombs of his sitters, and they make a brawny wagoner, a practised boxer, in a reg- coxcomb of him. Still the quality ular scientific set-to; gives his defeated an- flocked to the studios of Messrs. Hoppner tagonist half a guinea, re-arranges his toilet, and Lawrence, and the rival easels were al- and retires with his friends amidst the cheers of the crowd. It is quite a Tom-and-Jerry scene. Gentlemen delightcd to fight coal- heavers in those days. Somehow we always hear of gentlemen being victorious; perhaps if the coal-heavers could tell the story, it would sometimes have a different denouement. Unfortunately for Hoppner, he had to use his fingers, not his fists, against Lawrenceto paint him down, not fight him. - He was a skilful artist, working with an eye to Sir Joshuas manner, and following him oftentimes into error as well as into truth and beauty. Ridiculing the loose touches of Lawrence, he was frequently as faulty, without ever reaching the real fasci- nation of his rivals style. He had not the Lawrence sense of expression and charm; he could not give to his heads the vivacity and flutter, the brilliance and witchery, of Sir Thomas portraits. They both took up Reynolds theory about it being a vulgar error to make things too like themselves, as though it were possible to paint too truth- fully. And painting people of fashion, they had to paintespecially in their earlier days strange fashions; and an extravagant, and fantastic, and meretricious air clings as a consequence to many of their pictures; for the Prince of Wales had then a grand head of hair (his own hair), which he delighted to pomatum and powder and frizzle; and, of course, the gentlemen of the day followed the mode; and then the folds and folds of ways adorned with the most fashionable faces of the day. For a time the rivalry was continued in a spirit of much moderation. The painters were calm and forbearing, and scrupulously courteous to each other. Lawrence was too gentle and polite ever to breath a word against his antagonist, if, indeed, he did not respect his talents too highly to disparage them. Perhaps he was conscious that vic- tory would be his in the end, as Tloppner might also have a presentiment that he was to be defeated. He was of a quick temper; was a husband and a father; entirely de- pendent on his own exertions, though he could earn five thousand a year easily when fully employed; but certainly the innkeep- ers son was stealing away his sitters, even his good friends the Whigs. He chafed un- der this. He began to, speak out. He de- nounced Lawrences prudent abstinence from all politic~l feeling as downright hypocrisy. He thought it cowardice to side with neither faction, and be ready and willing to paint the faces of both; and then he commenced to talk disrespectfully of his rivals art. He claimed for his own portraits greater purity of look and style. The ladies of Law- rence, he said, show a gaudy dissolute- ness of taste, and sometimes trespass on moral as well as professional chastity. This was purposed to be a terrible blow to Law- rence. Of courset here were plenty of repe- titions of the remark, and people laughed 38 over it a good deal; but in the end it in- jured Hoppner rather than Lawrence. The world began to wonder how it was that the painter to the purest court in Europe should depict the demure and reputable ladies of St. James with such glittering eyes and car- mine lipsa soup~on of wantonness in their glances, and a rather needless undraping of their beautiful shoulders ; while the painter to the prince was bestowing on the giddy angels of Carlton House a decency that was within a little of dull, a simplicity that was almost sombreness, a purity that was prud- ery. The beauties of George III.s court were not displeased to be pictorially credited with a levity they did not dare to live up or down to; and the ladies of the princes court, too honest to assume a virtue they had not, now hastened to be represented by an artist who appeared so admirably to com- prehend their allurements. Poor Mr. Hopp- ner was deserted by the Whig ladies; he had now only the Whig lords to paint, un- less he took up with landscape art, for which he had decided talent, as many of the back- grounds to his pictures demonstrate. He grew peevish and irritable. He took to abusing the old masters, and cried out at the neglect of living men. Examining a modern work, he would say: Ay, its a noble picture, but it has one damning defect its a thing of to-day. Prove it to be but two hundred years old, and from the brush of a famous man, and heres two thousand guineas for it. Northcote tells of him: I once went with him to the hustings, to vote for Home Tooke, and when they asked me what I was, I said, A painter. At this Hoppner was very mad all the way home, and said I should have called myself a por- trait-painter. I replied that the world had no time to trouble their heads about such distinctions. Hoppuer now produced but few pictures, and these met with small success. He looked thin and haggard, talked incohe- rently, with occasional bitter repinings and despondency. He resented and misinter- preted, as has been shown, Lawrences in- quiries as to his health. Certainly, there is every appearance of feeling in Lawrences letter, where he writes to a friend, You will be sorry to hear it. My most powerful com- petitor, he whom only to my friends I have acknowledged as my rival, is, I fear, sinking to the grave. I mean, of course, Hoppner. He was always afflicted with bilious an,d liver complaints (and to these must be gre~sdynt- tributed the irritation of his mind),rand.now they have ended in a confirmed dropsy. But though I think he cannot recover, I do not wish that his last illness should be so re- ported by me. You will believe that I can sincenely feel the loss of a brother-artist from whose works I have often gained in- struction, and who has gone by my side in the race these eighteen years. Hoppner died early in April, 1810, in the fifty-first year of his age. To quote Lawrences let- ters again: The death of Hoppner, leaves me, it is true, without a rival, and this has been acknowledged to me by the ablest of my present competitors; but I already find one small misfortune attending it; namely, that I have no sharer in the watchful jeal- ousy, I will not say hatred, that follows the situation. A sor~ of Iloppner was consul at Venice, and a friend of Lord Byron in 1819. For twenty years Lawrence reigned alone. After the final defeat of Napoleon, the artist was commissioned by the regent to attend the congress of sovereigns at Aix-la-Cha- pelle, and produce portraits 9f the principal persons engaged in the great war. These European portraitstwenty-four in number now decorate the Waterloo Hall at Wind- sor. In 1816, he was knighted by the re- gent; on the death of West, in 1820, he was elected to tha presidentship of the academy. Well, well, said Fuseli, who growled at every thing and everybody, but was yet a friend to Lawrence, since they must have a face-painter to reign over them, let them take Lawrence; he can at least paint eyes! In 1829, he exhibited eight portraits; but his health was beginning to decline. He died on the 7th June, 1830. He had been painting, on the previous day, another por- trait of George IV. in his coronation dress. Are you not tired of those eternal robes? asked some one. No, answered th~painter; I always find variety in themthe pictures are alike in outline, never in detail. You would find the last the best. In the night he was taken alarmingly ill; he was bled, and then seemed better; but the bandage slipped, he fell off his chair into the arms of his valet, Jean Duts. RIVAL EASELS. 4 RIVAL EASELS. This is fainting, said the valet, alarmed. No, Jean, my good fellow, said Sir Thomas Lawrence, politely correcting him, it is dying; and he breathed his last. fljg remains were interred in St. Pauls Cathedral, near the coffins of his predeces- sorsthe presidents, Reynolds and West. Since the days of Nelson, said Etty, who followed the hearse, there has not been so marked a funeral. The estate of the dead man was only just equal to the demands upon it. His popu- larity ought to have brought him wealth, but, strange to say, he was always embar- rassed. Yet he did not gamble, was never dissipated, never viciously extravagant; but he kept no accounts, was prodigal in kind- ness to his brother-artists, and in respond- ing to the many appeals to his charity. Perhaps, too, he rather affected an aristo- cratic indifference to money. He spent much time in gratuitous drawing and paint- ing for presents to his friends. It is prob- able that his death was hastened by his in- cessant work, to meet the demands made upon him for money. Washington Irving saw him a few days before his death, and re- lates that he seemed uneasy and restless, his eyes were wandering, he was as pale as marble, the stamp of death seemed on him. He told me he felt ill, but he wished to bear himself up. In one of his letters the painter wrote: I am chained to the oar, but painting was never less inviting to me business never more oppressive to me than at this moment. Still he could play his courtier part in society, and was always graceful and winning. Haydon, who never loved a portrait-painter much, yet says of Lawrence, that he was amiable, kind, gen- erous, and forgiving. Further on he adds: lie had smiled so often and so long, that at last his smile bad the appearance of being set in enamel. But then Mr. Haydon prided himself on his coarseness, defiance, and hatred of conventionality, deeming these fitting attributes of the high artist. It is only as a portrait-painter that Sir Thomas can now be esteemed. His at- tempts in another line of art were few and 39 not successful. His Homer reciting his Poems was chiefly remarkable for its re- semblance to Mr. Westalls manner, and for containing a well-drawn figure of Jackson, the pugilist. Of his Satan calling up the Legions, Anthony Pasquin cruelly wrote: that it conveyed an idea of a mad German sugar-baker dancing naked in a conflagra- tiori of his own treacle. Over an attempt at a Prospero and Miranda, he subsequently painted on the same canvas a portrait of Kemble as Rolla. And was he a male coquette? No, an- swers a lady,.-and it is a question that re- quires a ladys enswer,~- he had no plan of conquest. . . . But it cannot be too strongly stated, that his manners were likely to mis- lead without his intending it. He could not write a common answer to a dinner invita- tion without its assuming the tone of a bit- let-doux. The very commonest conversation was held in that soft, lQw whisper, and with that tone of deference and interest which are so unusual, and so calculated to please. I am myself persuaded that he never inten- tionally gave pain. Perhaps he was not capable of very deep feeling, and liked to test the effects of his fine eyes. He wooed the two daughters of Mrs. Siddons, never being quite clear in his own mind which he really loved, lie tired of the one, and was dismissed by the other, or so rumor told the story; however, his friendly relations with the family do not ap- pear to have ceased. One of the sisters died. From the day of her death to that of his own, writes a biographer, he wore mourning, and always used black sealing- wax. Uncontrollable fits of melancholy came over him, and he mentioned not her name but to his most confidential friend, and then always with tenderness and respect. It would have been more desirable, perhaps, that he should have exhibited a little more feeling during the lifetime of the lady; but perhaps marriage was not in the programme of the courtly rival of Jloppner, of the painter that began where Reynblds left off, as the sinking Sir Joshua is reported to have declared of him. 40 From The Athennum. History of the Consulate and the Empire. [Histoire du Consulat ei de lEmpire, par M. A. Thiers. Tome XI.] Paris, Lheu- reux; London, Pulan, & Co. TirE scene narrows to Elba and widens to the Field of May. At length the squadrons are gathered which will ride against the Eng- lish squares at Waterloo. The next volume is to open upon that battle of battles. To Napoleon in his islet dominion M. Thiers de- votes only a few disdainful sketches. It was not tempting to exhibit the man of Auster- litz and Lodi, like a veteran in second child- hood, amusing himself with a toy army, min- iature politicians, and a mimic fleet. Yet those little battalions and that light flotilla, opened the path to the Tuileries. It is all but demonstrated that, after the adieux of Fontainebleau, when seventy thousand men might still have been rallied behind the for- est, the emperor insincerely signed his abdi- cation. He had not renounced the sceptre; he submitted, in order that he might breathe, and that the world might contrast the glory of his reign with the impotence of the Bour- bon monarchy. Certainly, it was impossible to believe too implicitly in the imbecility of the legitimate race. The Restoration began with a masquerade of hypocrisy, and it is difficult to decide whether the king or the Imperialist, who pretended to be cajoled, proved himself the worst imposture. But the Bourbons could never wheedle cleverly. There was always a strut in their affability, an affability in their condescension. What- ever they did well, they did too late. And in their policy, organized for the security of the restored throne, a similar dilatoriness displayed itself. In January, 1815, there yet remained in Europe a fragment of the Bon- apartist Empirethe kingdom of Murat. All was at length prepared for its overthrow. France and Austria were united to consum- mate their last revenge, when the seal of Sol- omon was broken, the giant was once more at liberty, and the patched-up dynasty van- ished like an image of snow. Louis the Eighteenth had left himself absolutely with- out support. He could not be, to the army. the successor of Napoleon; he hesitated to invoke a political power by assembling the Chambers; he evinced a strange desire to tamper with established rights; old preju- dices and hatreds were raised from the tombs HISTORY OF THE CONSULATE AND EMPIRE. of the Revolution; the king showed in faot~ that, as one prerogative of his position,iie was determined to provide himself withene- mies; and this with the legions of the pop~. ular C~esar encamped around him. A mili- tary plot preceded the Elba exodus. It was reported to the emperor in his island. Great names and great influences hovered near it, half resolved and undeclared. The matter ripened swiftly, while the downcast master of nations acted Robinson Crusoe in the pur- ple over his few miles of territory, and, by dint of military genius, contrived to parade eleven hundred men. The people who, a few days before his arrival, had burnt him in effigy, were now his rejoicing subjects; they were delighted to see his engineers scarping and building at ]?orto-Ferrajo; they expected infinite results when they saw the Napoleonic horses and cattle turned forth on the pastures ofPianosa, where, on the peak~ of a rock, stood a solitary fort, which, says M. Thiers, fifty men might haV rendered im- pregnable. Suppose that, instead of hum- bling him at Waterloo, a coalition had locked him up in that cloudy, little Gibraltar, or blown the hill from beneath him! Now, all was ready at Elba, except a Treasury. Na- poleon waited, vaguely. His mother watched him closely. The Princess Pauline Borghese divined, perhaps, the mysterious hopes of his soul. Moreover, she had partly been taken into his confidence, when, as bearer of a mes- sage to Murat, she told that unlucky Pala- din to reserve himself for future opportuni- ties. And so the Elba potentate held his court, went to the theatre, rode, walked, boated, contemplated writing his own his- tory, read the French newspapers, and, it cannot be doubted, convinced himself that he might and must return to France. M. Thiers is not emphatic on this point; but the truth speaks in every act, and, so to speak, every attitude of Napoleon during his Elba retreat. The sovereigns of Europe, persuaded by Alexander of Russia, had grotesquely deluded themselves when they thought to imprison this explosive spirit for- ever within sight of the continent which he had swept with his victories. When too late, they regretted the error, and it was in contemplation at Vienna to change his place of exile from the Mediterranean to the Atlan- tic. Not from his imperial wife did he receive this intelligence. She, the real avenger of HISTORY OF THE CONSULATE AND EMPIRE. 41 Josephine, was waiting for the ultimate down- professions. Louis the Eighteenth, however, fall of her husband to-lean on the arm of Wel- was stunned, and again did the right thing liugton at a court ball. The beginning of at the wrong time. He made a constitu- the end was come, and then began the march t~onal speech in the Chambersa fortnight from Cannes to Paris. too late. Efforts were made to blind the It is a fiiuiiliar story, but M. Thiers tells it public; reports were circulated that Bona- in a way. to fascinate all readers. The little parte had been defeated, and had taken refuge army sweeps on exultingly, gathering power among the mountains, in which, it was added, and volume as it goes; the march becomes he would speedily be entrapped, and executed triumphal; gates open; arches are flung like a common malefactor. Destiny, faith- across the streets; regiment after regiment less to the Bourbons, did not permit their links itself to the lengthening column; Na- mild representative to hang the conqueror of poleon bares his breast and asks what sol- Austerlitz; or, as they preferred to express dier of the empire will fire at the emperor; it, the cowardly brigand. Neys part was the Royalist cities are avoided: the eagles the most ignoble of all. He ~vent to the are flying from steeple to steeple until king, promising to lead an army which they settle upon the towers of Notre Dame. should return with Napoleon, vanquished At first the returned exile is familiar ahd and a captive. M. Thiers says that he was popular; as his force increases he becomes reported to have added in a cage of iron. slightly more imperial; - his manifestoes He thinks the words might have been used, change into proclamations: his offer of ser- and that they would have been pardonable vice to France assumes the tone of author- in a soldier. Were they pardonable in Mar- ity; he is a candidate at Grenoble, but at shal Ney? Perhaps Macdonald behaved Lyon he is a king; in the former place he better when, afraid of being reconciled with lodged at a tavern; at the latter he drove the emperor against his will, he put spurs to direct to the door of a palace. On the road, his horse, and galloped away as though an a carriage is stopped. It contains the Prince enchantment were pursuing him. Assuredly, of Monaco, once devoutly Imperialist, now that he and Ney never fought Napoleon was Royalist to the marrow. Where are you owing to no treachery on their part. The going P asked Napoleon. I am going troops, even at Paris, refused to shout Vive home, answered the prince. And so- am le Roi !in presence of Napoleon they I, said the emperor. And then the emper- thronged to their idol as Xenophons Greeks or met an old woman who had never heard might have thronged had the great God of of his downfall, fancying him still at the War suddenly appeared to them, helmeted Tuileries. So he fell musing on the vanity and sandaled, to lead the war. The mar- of human ambition, but he did not on that shals were nothing in their eyes, unless they account, think of returning to Elba. No.: were marshals of the empire. They would France, he exclaimed, was - crying aloud to die for Ney, if Ney were fighting for the Lit- him. How distinctly the cries of nations tle Corporal; they disdained him as the gen- are heard by the aspirants to thrones, before eral of Louis the Eighteenth. All this is they mount them, and how deaf are auto- most picturesquely and cogently set forth by crats sometimes in the rarefied atmosphere M. Thiers in one of the most admirable vol- of that altitude! The stream rolls on, swell- umes of his magnificent history. The brig- ing and brightening, and the demigod it was and of Elba was clearly making progress carrying upon its waves proclaimed that he when the pliant Ney exclaimed, Soldiers, bore in his hands the gifts of peace for Eu- the cause of the Bourbons is lost forever! rope and liberty for France. Neither Eu- A Royalist officer then broke his sword, say- rope nor France believed. M. Thiers is a ing, Sir, we must turn away, that we may votary of Bonapartism; but he admits that not behold this spectacle: all far-sighted men, even among those who loved the Bonapartist name, deplored the And what would you have me do P answered the marshal: Can I drive back attempt and foresaw the catastrophe. They the sea with my hand P Others, admitting knew how his invitation to Marie Louise the impossibility of compelling the soldiers would be received, and what credit the Em- to fight against Napoleon, expressed their peror Francis of Austria would attach to his regret that Ney shou~d, within so short a HISTORY OF THE CONSULATE AND EMPIRE. space of time, have played two such oppo- site parts. You are children, replied the marshal; it was necessary to decide in one way or the other. Could I go and hide my- self like a coward, in order to evade the re- sponsibility of events! The Marshal Ney could not have taken refuge in obscurity. Moreover, there was only way of mitigating the evil, which was to make an immediate declaration, in order to avert civil war, and in order to get into our power this man who is returning, to prevent him doing mischief; for, he added, I do not mean to give my- self up to a man, but to France; and if this man wants to take us again to the Vistula, I will not follow him. After having thus silenced his rebukers, Ney received at din- ner, besides his generals, all the commanders of regiments, with the exception of one offi- cer, who refused to be present. But it was distinctly understood, and on this point M. Thiers leaves us in no doubt, that the chiefs of the army were resolved to endure no longer the warlike tyranny of Na- poleon, his arrogance, his passion for con- quest, or his habit of crushing the French people while he flattered them. I am going to see him, said Ney; I am going to talk with him, and I will declare to him that he shall not lead us to another Moscow. It is not to him that I give my- self; it is to France; and if we adopt him as the representative of our glory, it is not to a restoration of the Imperial system that we shall lend ourselves. . . . He wrote a letter to his wife, in which he detailed all he had done, and concluded with these charac- teristic words, My friend, you will not weep when you come out of the Tuileries. There was a touch of shame in that; it betrayed, too, something ignominious in the nature of the man. The Tuileries then was the temple in which he worshipped; it mat- tered little whether a Bourbon or a Bo- naparte sat under the crimson canopies. Clearly, at the moment, the Bourbons were at a discount. Louis the Eighteenth was promising to die for his people, as a prelim- inary to running away. Napoleon had now recovered his dear Marshal Ney With profound sagacity, having divined all that the marshal had prepared to say, itre- quired but a moment to inform him that Ney would encounter him at once with excuses and remonstrances. Now, he wanted to dispense with the one, and to spare himself the other. He met him with open arms, exclaiming, Embrace me, my dear marshal. -Then Ney p unfolded his papers, and was aboi~t tobegin, when he interfered. You have no neqd to excuse yourself, he said; your excuses and mine are to be found in events, which are stronger than men. But let us speak no more of the past, and indeed only remember it that we may conduct ourselves better in the future. After these preliminary words, Napoleon, leaving the marshal no time to utter a word, explained to him the position of affairs. . . . He declared that he would ac- cept the Treaty of Paris; be mentioned what he had caused to be said at Vienna; that he relied much on this communication and the intervention of Marie Louise to prevent, a fresh struggle with Europe, and that, on his arrival at Paris, he would surround himself with the most enlightened men, in order to deliberate with them on the reforms to be effected in the Imperial constitution. Ney was anticipated in all that he had proposed to say. But he and the emperor pretended to be more mutually satisfied than they actually were. Napoleons road lay through the shadows of Fontaineblean At four in the morning, on the 28th March, he entered that court of the palace of Fontaineblean where, eleven months pre- viously, he had addressed his adieux to the Imperial Guard. Already a group of cav- alry, deserters from the army of Milan, had arrived to form his guard.- On setting foot inside the palace, where the first empire had reached its end, and where the second seemed likely to begin, his face became lit up as by a sentiment of intense satisfaction. The turn of fortune had been indeed amazing, and in that vast mind, which at Elba had been cured of all illusions (we shall presently see the proofs), joy, for an instant, silenced pol- icy. But the turmoil at the Tuileries! The feeble fury of the Royalists! The prospects of a second emigration! The glimpses of coat-linings in the wardrobes of gentlemen anxious to wear their garments inside out! All Paris was expectant. The very horses in the cavalry barracks seemed to sniff the approach of the man who had fed so many vultures. Napoleon being at Fontainebleau, the Bourbon thought better of dying; the gates of the palace court were closed at eleven oclock; the royal family entered a carriage; the old dynasty drove through the silent streets. Next morning :- Great anxiety was prevalent throughout a curious multitude to know what had hap- pened. Th~ were some servants in livery 42 HISTORY OF THE CQNSULATE AND EMPIRE. moving ~ibout, but not a single officer or a singic guard mounted, except the ordinary gtotips of the National Guard outside the gates. ~rhe white flag floated above the main dome; some cries of Five Ze Roi! were heard, bi~t that of Vive lEmpereur! the military, as yet, dared not utter. Soon the fatal secret was discovered, and the news filled Paris in the twinkling of an eye. Then assembled the spirits of the resurgent empire. First came Excelmans, who stalked through the chambers and corridors of the empty palace, and ordered the tricolor to be set floating. Then followed Bassano, Ro- vigo, Decres, Mollien, Gaudin, the Queen Hortense and the ex-qucen of Spain, the wife of Joseph. In a moment the Tuileries was c1o~vded with the Imperialist aristoc- racy. About nine oclock in the evening, a single carriage turned from the Boulevards, outside the Invalides, along the Quays, and thence to the gates: The carriage was driven into the court before any one knew whom it contained. But a moment sufficed to spread the intelli- gence. Then, Napoleon, snatched from the hands of Caulaincourt, Bertrand and ]~rouet, was carried in the arms of his old officers, seized with a delirium of joy. A tremen- dous shout of Vise VEmpereur! had given notice to the crowd of high functionaries that swarmed through the Tuileries. They rushed towards the staircase, and, forming a current opposed to that of the officers, who were struggling up, a sort of contest took place which was almost alarming, since they were smothering one another and stifling Napoleon. They carried him thus to the top of the staircase, uttering frenzied cries, and he, for the first time in his life, unable to conquer the emotion he felt, allowed some tears to escape, and then, being deposited on the floor, walked on without recognizing any one, but yielding his hands to those who pressed around him, kissing them, and overwhelming him with homage. In a few moments, recovering himself, he welcomed his most faithful adherents, embraced them, and, without taking a moment for repose, consulted with them as to the formation of a government. In twenty days the empire had been re- established. But wise men looked on and doubted. Horteuse, protected by the Em- peror Alexander, had remained at the French capitol, a circumstance which embittered Napoleon against her 43 You are at Paris! he said, on per- ceiving her; you are the only person I had not wished to see here. I remained, she answered, weeping, to nurse my mother. But after the death of your father ! Af- ter that death I found in the Emperor Alex- ander a protector for my children, and I was compelled to take care of their prospects. Your children! better for them exile and misery than the protection of the emperor of Russia. But you, sire, did you not consent that the king of Rome should owe the Duchy of Parma to the generosity of that prince? Not replying to this cogent argument, Na- poleon proceeded, And this actionwho advised you to it? (The princess was plead- ing before the French tribunals to recover the custody of her children.) They have forced you to reveal family miseries which ought to have remained ccncealed, and you have lost your causevery well done! But immediately repenting his severity, and open- ing his arms to an adopted daughter whom he loved, Napoleon embraced her, saying, I am a good father, you know, and we will speak no more of these things. You saw, then, our poor Josephine diein the midst of our disasters, that death was a blow to my heart.~ The file of ancient comrades lengthened Cambac~res, Bassano, the Dukes Vicenza, Gacta, Rovigo, flecres, Counts Mollien, Regnaud de St. Angely, Lavalette :then, the glorious Davoust. Fouch6 played a more careful game. To all Napoleon held moderate, re-assuring, even caressing lan- guage. I was a year in the Isle of Elba, and there, as in a tomb, I heard the voice of posterity. He thought Austria anxious for peace, and England crippled by her debts. Vanity might induce Russia, and hatred Prussia, to resume the war. And to France he promised the millennium. But he knew that war, and war on a terrible scale, was in- evitable. Alexander of Russia had pledged his last man and his last rouble to help in crushing him. France again assumed a martial aspect. Four hundred thousand men were to take the field; two hundred thousand were to garrison the fortresses. Europe burned with impatience to see these new legions dispersed and the dis- turber chained; and M. Thiers, in a series of eloquent passages, explains how it had become nest to an impossibility that the civilized world should be convinced or con- ciliated by Napoleon. But in the estimation of the English people, he assumes, the Bour HISTORY OF THE CONSULATE AND EMPIRE. bons had fallen, and Napoleon risen pro- portionately; so that the Cabinet, in resolv- ing on a war policy, had to announce with caution, and almost with an apology. There can be no question, however, but that the preponderating sentiment, in and out of Parliament, was in favor of the war. The narrative is diffnse in the explanation it affords of the exact views with which the most prominent statesmen in France re- garded the resumption by Napoleon ofthe Imperial authority, and of the feelings which animated the various classes of the popula- tion. There was, we-think, more excitement than confidence in the sudden show of zeal on the part of the populace. The revised Constitution was coldly received in all quar- ters of the realm. Because, says M. Thiers, France could no more believe a Napoleon when he talked of liberty than Europe could when he talked of peace. The Royalists were, of course, hostile; the Revolutionists suspected the champion who had put his feet on their necks. And now, on the first of June, Napoleon meets the citizens of Paris. Shall he appear as emperor or gen- eral? He wishes to appear as he would when taking the oath. He stands forth, then, in robes of silk, in plume and imperial mantle, in the coronation coach drawn by eight horses; fifty thousand soldiers greet him; a gorgeous amphitheatre receives the emperor, the army and the multitude; the altar fronts the throne; a hundred cannon thunder into the arena; but the countenance of Napoleon is sad: he has no wife on his right hand; on his left hand he has no son. Both are away from him. Laying aside his imperial splendor, he distributes standards to the legions which are to fetch his wife and son. He is impatient to be in the field, to spring from his throne into his saddle. People around him think he is melancholy; he never smiles; perhaps he has had a vision of Waterloo; possibly, he remembers what they had been saying at Vienna about an island in the Atlantic. And in this mood, after sundry strange night vigils, he went to Malmaison, where Josephine had died in the spring of the last year; he stayed several hours, walking through the chateau and the gardens full of Josephines flowers. Poor Josephine! he said to Hortense at every turn of the walk; I think I see her! So he ordered a portrait of Josephine; kissed Hortense; said to Madame Bertrand as he entered the carriage, Let us hope, Madanie Bertrand, that we may not soon have to re- gret the Isle of Elba,and went to Water- loo. A week later he did, most ~probably, regret Elba, and much else. M. Thiers has two superb opportuni- ties left; the battle in Brabant, and St. Helena. We doubt not but that he has nearly completed the picture, radiant with the life of an unrivalled epoch. Wixa CoRKsAll wines which have been The mould grows from the outside to the inside, long in bottle acquire a flavor which we ascribe and should it i-each the inner side of the cask or to the cork. This is as great a mistake as if we cork it imparts a taste to the wine. On this ac- count old wine-casks must from time to time be attributed the flavor of wine which has been cleansed outside and inside, and new corks long cellared to the cask. The cause, in both must be put into the bottles, even when the old cases, is fundamentally the same, though the ones arc unhurt. If theinside of the cork be accessory circumstancesmay differ. The moist covered with resin or sealing-wax, the entrance cork, one side of which is in contact with the of air is cut off, and the formation of mould air, allows, equally with the wood of the wine- hindered, though not prevented. Wines which cask, the development of mould plants. The have been long in bottle often acquire an un- taste and smell of wine is, under such circum- pleasant taste from this mouldiness; they are stances, identical with that of many other mouldy brought out to do honor to a guest, and praise substances, and is what we call musty. The is expected which cannot honestly be given. It mould of cork differs of course from that of really seems strange that in this age, when so wood, and the taste is consequently not exactly many other means can be employed, cork should the same. The smell may be distinctly per- still be made use of to stop bottles.Muldei-s ceived in almost every warehouse in the country. G/iemisti-y of Wine. S 44 45 AMERI~IAN AFFAIRS. From Macmillan s Magazine. AMERICAN AFFAIRS. Cromer, August 12, 1861. DEAn Mu. Ernrou,Your contributors are probably just now scattered, or scatter- ing, over the whole of Europe, if not farther. Having myself been away from town since the 3d~ I dont know much of what may have been the talk there about the Ameri- can war, and the defeat of the Northern army at Manassas Junction. You may have fixed on some one to write on the subject, and in that case you can consign this letter to the waste-paper basket; but, if there is no one told off for this duty, I hope you will let me volunteer, for I do think that the tone of all our leading journals (so far as I have been able to see them in this delightfully quiet little fishing village), has, with the sin- gle exceptioa of the ~pectator, been ungen- erous and unfair, and has not represented the better mind of England. At the same time, under present circumstances, it is bet- - ter, perhaps, to put what 1 have to say in the form of a letter, for which I alone am re7 sponsible. In the first place, then, this defeat, this panic at Manassas Junction, had it been ten times as disastrous as it has been, has not altered in the least, and cannot alter, the rights and wrongs of the great question at issue. A truism this, no doubt; but for all that, when one sees the way in which mere success is worshipped here, and the sudden spring which the South has made into popu- larity in newspnper columns since the last mails, a truism which needs repeating! If the North were right before, they are right now, though defeated. If the Confederates were rebels before, they are rebels still, though triumphant for the moment. If the United States were to remain a na- tion at all, they had not only the right, but were bound by every feeling of national honor to strain every nerve to bring the Se- cessionists to reason. How did they set about the work? Th~y were utterly unpre- pared, without troops, without officers, with- out military stores. Their troops had been carefu3iy scattered in small detachments over the Western and Southern States; the officers were almost all Southerners, who re- signed their commissions and joined the rebels; the stores had been accumulated in the Southern forts and arsenals. They waited as long as there was hope of an ami- cable arrangement; when that hope came to nothing, at the word of the President the whole North rose as one man. That rising was as grand, as noble a national act, as any which we have seen, or are likely to see, in our generation. It wrung an approval even from that portion of the press and peo- ple of this country who were most exasper- ated at the unlucky Morrill tariff, and at the menacing attitude which the Presidents gov- ernment chose to assume toward us. Have they flinched from their work? We hear, indeed, of a regiment or two of volun- teers enlisted for three months, who are going home; but the nation has not shown the slightest symptoms of turning back. On the contrary, the President, Congress, and the nation, though they may show their reso- lution in ways which do not please us which would not be ours, perhaps, under like circumstancesdo show the most un- flinching resolution to go through with what they have begun. When this is so no lcnger, it will be time enough to sneer at them. Then, as to the battle itself, and the panic; what is the fair view of it? By the time this letter is printed, we may, perhaps, have full details; at present one has nothing beyond the barest possible despatches, and a set of one-sided accounts, written under strong excitement, to go upon. From Lhese, however, we find that there was a deter- mined struggle of many hours before the Northern troops were beaten. Jefferson Da- vis despatch begins, Manassas Junction, Sunday night. Night has closed upon a hard-fought field; ourforces are victorious,~~ etc. There is no evidence whatever as yet that the troops which were in action did not behave gallantly, but much the other way. Some regiments are reported as cut to pieces. I think that these are most likely New England or New York Regiments, com- posed chiefly of Americans, and well organ- izedmen who knew what they were fight- ing for, and how to fight. All accounts agree in the statement that the troops which took the lead in the panic were a rabble of all na- tions, Americans, Irish, Germans and oth- ers, who had been hastily thrown together, and half drilled. They will fight well enough yet, when they have been made into regu- 1 lars; but volunteers, to fight well, must be 40 AMERICAN AFFAIRS. borne up by enthusiasm for a cause, which even fighting to keep the territories free here was wholly wanting. And, as to the if, as we are often told in newspaper t~rti- panic, we may just as well remember, what des, slavery has nothing to say to the war has been so well put in the Spectator, that at allI must repeat that they are emphat- these troops, in their maddest excitement, ically right. did nothing which was not done by the But does anybody seriously believe this? Frenchmen who, within five days, drove the Will any serious person get up and say, in first infantry in Europe back from the hill his own name, or write in his own name, that of Valmy. the meaning of the whole warthe point The advance was premature, badly really at issue, from first to lasthas not planned, and not well executed. This is been, and is not (to put it at the lowest), surely natural enough at the beginning of whether slavery shall he confined to its such a war. It seems that the Northern present limits in North America, or allowed press are largely responsible for the move- to extend as and where it can? That was the meat. And here, again, there are good issue; and perhaps it is so still. But those grounds for any thing but contempt and hard who entered on the war with this as the goal words. On the news of the defeat, all the of their hopes and efforts, who would gladly best of the Northern papers have acknowl- have accepted the limitation of slavery to its edged their error, and formally undertaken present limits a few months or weeks ago, to abstain from military criticism. Our own will, unless they are very different men from papers are so little in the habit of acknowl- what I believe them to beunless the teach- edging themselves in the wrong, or of ab- ing of nil history is vainnot be content staining from criticism, however ill-judged, now with this compromise. The great cause on any matter under the sun, that I confess of freedom will draw them, and the nation to being rather struck by this action of the after them, along paths which they would American journalists, never have sought for themselves. While speaking of American journals I It is the battle of human freedom whiui may remark that the passages cited in the the North are fighting, and which should Tzmes, and other papers, which have so dis- draw to them the sympathy of every Eng- gusted and angered many of us, are from lishman, and make him cast to the winds all the New York Herald, a notoriously South.~ Morrill tariffs and angry talk about Canada, em paper, and one of the most scurrilous all bad manners and hard words. If the journals in the whole States. At the break- North is beaten, it will be a misfortune such ing out of the war the office of this paper as has not come on the world since Chris- w~s with difficulty preserved from destruc- tendom arose. An empire will be founded tion. Since that time it has not dared to in these Southern States on the simple base ~how its Southern sympathies, but has de- of slavery, having no other starting-point voted itself, in the obvious interests of its or principle whatever than their right to en- clients, to the work of embroiling the North- slave men of their own flesh and blood. It era States with us hy its unscrupulous and is of no use to speculate upon what the acts lying virulence. I quite admit that the tone and policy of such a State will be. The of the government and people of the North world will see that soon enough, should it has been such as deeply to grieve and dis- arise. Meantime, the Northern States stand appoint every right-minded Englishman; alone between us and it, and the greatest but dont let us saddle them with the fran- misfortune which can happen to us and to tic slanders of the New York Herald. These mankind will be their defeat. must be put in all fairness to the credit of God grant that they may hold on, and be the South. strong! God grant that they may remem- Hitherto I have been speaking without ber that the greatest triumphs have always immediate reference to the great cause in is- come, and must always come to men through sue. I believe that, apart from that cause, the greatest humiliations. God himself could the North are entitled to our good wishes, not set men free but through this rule. They are in the right, apart from all ques- I am yours very truly, tions of slavery. If they really mean to leave THOMAS Hi~~nxs. State rights untouched~if they are not ~ Author of Tom Brown at Rugby. SLAVERY AND THE REBELLION. From (Forneys) Press, Philadelphia, 12 Sept. SLAVERY AND THE REBELLION. IT is a significant and singular fact that out of the very prosperity of the slave inter- est in this country, indirectly, arose the re- bellion which now threatens to terribly in- jure, if not to destroy it. While the halls of Congress were resounding year after year with clamors for better protection for slav- ery, the peculiar institution was so well protected that slaves were constantly rising in value much more rapidly than any other species of property in our country. This in- crease was not spasmodic or irregular, but steady and constant, and it was kept up un- til the slaves of the United States sold for a price far beyond that everobtained for them in any other nation in which slavery had been tolerated. All this continued to the moment when the long-cherished secession heresies of the South culminated in open in- surrection against the Government; and it afforded the very strongest proof that could have been given of the confidence of the cap- italists of the Slave States in the security of slavery while the Union was unbroken and unassniled. But out of this high price of slaves, which was an overwhelming and con- clusive nnswer to the flimsy pretences by which the secession demagogues endeavored to justify their treason, arose the very feel- ing which was one of the strongest levers used in precipitating the Cotton States into revolution. We allude to the demand for the revival of the slave trade which suddenly attained a surprising degree of popularity in that section. The planters grew tired of paying $1,400 or $1,500 for field hands from the Border States, and the poor whites be- gan to consider that there was something very unjust in compelling them either to pay for slaves a sum which they could not com- mand, or to dispense with their services al- together, when by an abrogation of the United States laws against the African slave trade they might obtain supplies for a few hundred dollars per head. The dissolution of the Union, which, until the last few ycars, was rarely or never spoken of without hor- ror, as one of the most frightful of calami- ties, by the masses of the Cotton States, be- gan to be considered by them an essential condition of their prosperitynot on account of the reasons they put forward, that slave property was insecure in the Union, but really because the policy of our Government had rendered it so secure and profitable that slaves commanded a higher price than they wished to pay. These pro-slavery philoso- phers, however, were as short-sighted in their views of their selfish interests as they were cruel and treasonable in their designs. They forgot that the first effect of their blows against the Union would be the infliction of a terrible blow, by themselves, upon their fa- vorite institutionthat in trying to destroy the Union for the purpose of getting rid of its laws against the revival of the slave trade, so that they might buy slaves for a small sum, they would so diminish the value of slave la- bor, destroy the sale of its products, and un- dermine the permanence and security of the institution as to render it doubtful whether slaves were worth having at any price, and in some states, questionable whether they could be held in bondage at all. The comparison may be a trite and not very complimentary one, but they acted like the dog who in cross- ing the stream lost his meat by grasping at its shadow. And now, whatever damage has been or may be done to their institution, they must attribute to the influence of the rash counsels of their own trusted leaders. Whatever glory or blame may be atta~hed to the infliction of the severe blows upon it, that have already injured or will hereafter injure it, is due to those great practical Abo- litionists in disguise who figure as the saints of the pro-slavery calendar. CANNON. To chase the glowing hours with flying feet But hark !that heavy sound breaks in once DID ye not hear it No! twas hut the wind, more, Or the car rattling oer the stony street; As if the clouds its echo would repeat, On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before; No sleep, till morn, when youth and pleasure Arm! arm! it isit isthe cannons opening meet roar. Bllron. 47 48 AN ARAB NEWSPAPER. AN ARAB NEWSPAPER. As the Athenceum takes cognizance of lit- erature and its ~5rogress in all parts of the world, it appeared to me that an Arabic newspaper, published at Beirout, in Syria, would merit your attention. This journal (of which by the kindness of the Royal Asiatic Society I have the number of the 7th of June now before me) is a weekly news- paper, which, in imitation of its European contemporaries, styles itself (sigasi, edebi, muttejeri) political, moral, and commercial, and is about the size of one of our local pa- pers. The amateur of Oriental languages will be much amused to see how such words as subscription, advertisement, office, agents are expressed respectively by ishtirak, ilan, mekteb (a most appropriate word, corre- sponding exactly to the one adopted by the modern Greeks to express this idea; viz., ypc~eicv); and, lastly, agents by those who write the names (of subscribers) chez eux. Again, he will be struck by finding the first rude attempts at leading articles. In the number of last month, for example, there were articles on the Warlike Preparation in Europe, the American War, the Warsaw Massacres, etc.,which, though weak com- pared to the articles in our newspapers, in- dicate a great step in advance. The very fact of their making this comparison, and their reflection on it, and their taking notice of the American affairs at all, is something for a nation whom many regard as complete barbarians. It is also somewhat curious to find the names of Lord John Russell and Mr. Griffith figuring in Arabic,the latter asking the former why the Austrians have not withdrawn their troops on the frontiers of Italy. Garibaldi (whom they call .Jari- baldi), the Emperor Napoleon (Emberatur .ATabulion), and Victor Emmanuel (Filcior Imanuel) may now see their names in Arabic and their acts recounted for the edification of the Mussulmans. In the same manner the doings of Cardinal Antonelli and the pope, the massacres in Warsaw, the state of affairs in Naples, etc., are duly reported. Amongst the words I have noticed imported, coined, or adopted to express modern ideas are: ,Jurnal, for newspaper, .Alejliss-ul we may even have the Arabs punctuating! umum, for House o~ Commons,Ji?eis-ul~ CHAnLEs WELLS. Musheikha, President of the Senate (in America),Fabor or Sefine bukhariye, for steamer or steam-vessel,and Besail tele- graft ye, telegraphic despatches. The mer- chant may also learn that discount (iskat) at the Bank of England is at six per cent (/1 el maye), the Turkish loan at seventy- three, and the state of the corn and silk markets. An advertisement, also, in one of the May numbers, whieb, by the way, had a conspicuous position and importance given to it, which its European brethren would much envy, stated that a certain Prof. Bet- ers had adapted the wonderful tale of Ru- binsun Kruri (Robinson Crusoe) from the English language, and that the first part was just printed, price twenty-two grush. In the number of the 7th of June is seen, un- der the head Home Intelligence, an ac- count of the withdrawal of the French troops from Syria; and in one of the previous num- bers a description of an asylum lately es- tablished for the widows and orphans of the sufferers in the massacres, and the pashas visit to it. The translation of the proclama- tion of the American President to the in- habitants of New York is also to be found in the number of the 30th of May. On the whole, the publication is exceedingly credit- able, and may become a great instrument of civilization. The fact that it has been es- tablished four years speaks much for the possibility of introducing such Anglo-Ori- ental productions. It must be confessed, however, although not very creditable to us, that the French in this;as in all matters in the East, seem to have got far before us, and their influence, language, and manners to have taken a deeper root than ours. Phere is every evidence of this paper being an imitation of a French one: they have adopted their word journal, although so chary of admitting any foreign word into the language,coin their new words after French models,and, in the French fash- ion, have a tale at the end, continued from number to number. In this tale is to be noted an immense improvementthe adop- tion of paragraphs. What may we expect, after this? Perhaps a time may come when

THE~LIYING AGE. No. 906.12 October, 1861. CONTENTS. 1. A National Currency and Sinking Fund, 2. Cortes and his Wife 3. The Salons of Vienna and Berlin, 4. The Rector 6. King Jerome and his American Wife, 6. home Ballads and Poems, by J. G. Whittier, 7. Experiments with Cannon and Armor Plates, P. Littell, Athenceum, Bentleys Miscellany, Blackwoocls Magazine, .Athenceum, Press, PoETRY.The Bells of Shandon, 67. Drawing Nearer, 67. Sweet Little Man, 96. Our First Mttrtyr, 96. SHORT ARTIcLEs.The EiI~perors Tobacco, 68. The Man of Sensibility, 66. High- land Epitaph, 66. Lost Party in the Alps, 92. John Knoxs Deathbed, 96. NEW BOOKS. Mr. Putnam continues his REBELLION REcORD,which will preserve for posterity some of the features of the monster,from whom God grant us a safe deliverance. CORRESPONDENCE. L. E. P.Will you not favor us with your address? P.Thanks! We felt that the sacrifice of space, then, was considerable. But it would not do to lose the article, or the others of that class. They increase the ~value of our vol- umes. And the proportion they fill is a small one, after all. To all our Friends.Please read the second page of cover, and help us to get over the evil days, and to b.egin 1862 with renewed courage. PUBLISHED KYERY SATURDAY BY LITTIELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in adYance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Lrvnco Aox will be punctually for. warded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand. somely hound, packed in neat hoxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free 01 expense of fres~,ht. are for ealq at two dollars a volnue. ANY VOLUME OSRY lue had separately, at two dollars. hound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBER may he had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers, or purchasers to complete any broken volumcs they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. PAOZ 50 61 69 68 83 90 93 A NATIONAL CURRENCY AND SINKING FUND. To the Secretary of the Treasury: Carrying out the subject of the letter of 17 July, - 1861, 1 now submit to you in full a plan for A NATIONAL CURRENCY AND SINKING FUND. Let the United States deposit Coin and Bullion in the MINT at Philadelphia, and make all the national expenditure by MINT DRAFTS at sight upon the same; such drafts to be payable also in New York and Bos- ton; and to be for the sums usually repre- sented by bank notes, not unaer five dollars. Persons who receive these drafts will pay them away to others, or deposit them in banks for safe-keeping. The banks will not ordinarily draw the coin, for they can usu- ally pay demands upon them by these drafts. Coin will only be needed for exportation, or for convenience of change. For the latter purpose it would be desirable to pay in quarter eagles, or in silver; for exportation, in large coin, or in stamped bars of bullion. Bearing in mind that the Bank of Eng- land has now a circulation equal to 100 mil- lions of dollars, and that this is considerably below its average amount, we may suppose that by next year it will be found that such an amount of MINT DRAFTS has remained in permanent circulation, that it would be safe to invest ten millions of dollars of the uncalled-for coin and bullion in the purchase from the people of United States Stocks; and an equal amount annually thereafter. iLet the half-yearly interest on these Stocks be also so invested. Our increasing population, capital, and trade would probably make it practicable to continue this annual investment for twenty years, say till 1881, by which time we shall have absorbed 400 millions of United States Stock, and shall have a national paper circu- lation, payable on demand at the most con- venient points, of 200 millions of dollars. Our currency, with a full proportion of gold and silver, will then be better than it ever has been. That such an amount of MINT DRAFTS would be needed, we may reasonably sup- pose, when we consider that our population will then be sixty millions, and that our business will have increased in still greater proportion. In calculating the following table, fractions are rejected to the amount of about ten millions. Living Age Office, Boston, 20 Sept., 1861. 1862 First investment, - Interest one year, - 1863 Second investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1864 Third investment, - Principal, say, - Interest one year, - 1865 Fourth investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1866 Fifth investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1867 Sixth investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1868 Seventh investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1869 Eighth investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1870 Ninth investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1871 Tenth investment, - Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1872 Eleventh investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1873 T~velfth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1874 Thirteenth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1875 Fourteenth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1876 Fifteenth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1877 Sixteenth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1878 Seventeenth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1879 Eighteenth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1880 Nineteenth investment, Principal, - - Interest one year, - 1881 Twentieth investment, 50 - $10,000,000 - i00,000 - 10,000,000 - 20,700,000 - 1,449,000 - 10,000,000 - 32,000,000 - 2,000,000 - 10,OOt),000 - 44,000,000 - 3,000,OOo - 10,000,000 - 57,000,000 - 4,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 71,000,000 - 5,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 86,000,000 - 6,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 102,000,000 - 7,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 119,000,000 - 8,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 137,000,00Q - 9,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 156,000,000 - 11,000,000 - - 10,000,000 - 177,000,000 - 12,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 199,000,000 - 14,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 223,000,000 - 15,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 248,000,000 - 17,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 275,000,000 - , 19,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 304,000,000 - 21,000,000 - 10,000~000 - 335,000,000 - 23,000,000 - 10,000,000 - 368,000,000 - 26,000,000 - 10,000,000 404,000;000 CORTES AND HIS WIFE. From The Athennum. CORTES AND HIS WIF~E. Summary of the Acts of Don Fernando Cortes[Archivo Mexicano: Documentos para la Ilistoria de Mexico. Sumario de la Residencia tomada a D. Fernando Cor- tes, Gobcrnador y 6~apitan General de la N. E. y a otros Gobernadores y Ojiciales de la Misma. Palmografiado dcl original por ci Lic. Ignacio Lopez Rayon]. (Mexico, Tipographia de Vicente Garcia Torres.) FASCINATED ourselves by the brilliant ca- reer and attractive qualities of Cortes, we should have cxpected that the modern Mexi- cansthe descendants of his ancient com- rades and compatriotswould have cher- ished his n~emory and been proud of his fame as their national hero. Strange to say, this is not the case. In 1823 the mob would have broken open his tomb, in order to scat- ter his ashes to the winds, had they not been anticipated by some friends who secretly re- moved the relics. In the present day, we cannot travel in Mexico without finding that the feeling towards Cortes is very different from that which is entertained by those who h~ve formed their judgment of him solely from a perusal of Prescotts pages. The Mexicans admiration of his showy qualities is seasoned by a liberal admixture of depre- ciation; and dark stories of guilt and cruelty, handed down by tradition, are readily pro- duced in support of their opinion. how comes such a feeling to prevail? Where there is smoke there must be some fire; and it may either be that this is the smoke issuing from the accusations made against Cortes in his lifetime, and dismissed by Prescott as unworthy of credit; or that Prescott has erred in so treating them, and that the opinion entertained by the Mexi- cans is the true onethat many of these ac- cusations were true, and that history must accept them asfiaws on the character of this great man. The author, or rather compiler, of the work which we have noted at the head of this article takes the latter view; and in his published extracts from the Mexican archives we have, doubtless, the long-for- gotten source whence many of these stories and much of this feeling have arisen. The documents here published exist in the archives of the city of Mexico, and were de- ciphered and copied by Rayon, a lawyer there. They consist of the instructions from the king to Luys Ponce de Leonhis secret 51 instructions.-the examination of the wit- nesses, etc., and a criminal process brought, at the instance of his wifes mother and brother, against Cortes for the murder of his wife. The cbarges involved in these documents were all known to Prescott, and summarily and ex cathedrd disposed of in a couple of pages, as follows A remarkable document still exists, called the Pesquisa Secreta, or Secret In- quiry, which contains a record of the pro- ceedings against Cortes. It was prepared by the Secretary of the Audience, and signed by the several members. The document is very long, embracing nearly a hundred folio pages. The name and testimony of every witness are given, and the whole forms a mass of loathsome details, such as might bet- ter suit a prosecution in a petty municipal court than that of a great officer of the Crown. The charges are eight in number, involving, among other crimes, that of a de- liberate design to cast off his allegiance to the crown; that of the murder of two of the commissioners who had been sent out to su- persede him ; of the murder of his own wife, Catalina Xuarez; of extortion and of licen- tious practices; of offences, in short, which, from their private nature, would seem to have little to do with his conduct as a pub- lic man. The testimony is vague, and often contradictory; the witnesses, for the most l)art, obscure individuals; and the few per- sons of consideration among them appear to have been taken from the ranks of his de- cided enemies. When it is considered that the inquiry was conducted in the absence of Cortes, before a court the members of which were personally unfriendly to him, and that he was furnished with no specification of the charges, and had no opportunity, conse- quently, of disproving them, it is impossible at this distance of time to attach any impor- tance to this paper as a legal document. ~Vhcn it is added that i~o action was taken on it by the government to whom it was sent, we may be disposed to regard it simply as a monument of the malice of his enemies. It has been drawn by the curious antiquary from the obscurity to which it had been so long consigned in the Indian archives at Se- villa; but it can be of no further use to the historian than to show that a great Paine in the sixteenth century exposed its possessor to calumnies as malignant as it has at any time since. Now, we hold that no historian has a right to form a verdict for the reader in this way withr~at producing the evidence upon which 52 he has arrived at it. It is no rAatter that the author has formed a right verdict. Let him give his opinion, plead in support of it, and sum up as he pleases, but, at least, let him, also, tell the reader what is the evidence which he has rejected, and why. If he does nQt do so, his verdict will not, and should not, pass unchallenged. It is so here. Had Mr. Prescott presented to the reader even a summary of the evidence for the charges which he repudiates, and discussed the evi- dence for or against them with greater de- liberation, the work which we are now notic- ing would probably never have seen the light. It is, we think, if taken without ex- planation or examination, calculated to dam- age the character of Cortes most materially; for there is an amount of vraisemblance and consistency in the evidence given which leaves an impression of its truthfulness; and yet, admitting its perfect truthfulness and bonajides, it seems to us to contain intrin- sic evidence of Cortes innocence. It will answer the readers purpose if we take the most flagrant, and apparently the best supported case,viz., thet of the mur- der of his wife,and give a summary of the evidence brought forward in support of it. For the better understanding of some of the allusions, we may shortly recall to the recollection of the reader the chief circum- stances connected with Cortes marriage with iDofia Catalina. Prescott tells us that ~mong the families who had taken up their residence in Cuba was one of the name of Xuarez, from Granada, in old Spain. It consisted of a brother and four sisters re- markable for their beauty. With one of them, named Catalina, the susceptible heart of the young soldier became enamored. How far the intimacy was carried on is not quite certain; but it appears he gave his promise to marry her, a promise which when the time came, and reason, it may be, had got the better of passion, he showed no alacrity in keepind. He resisted, indeed, all remon- strances to this effect from the ladys family, backed by the governor, and somewhat sharpened, no doubt, in the latter by the par- ticular interest he took in one of the fair sis- ters, who is said not to hate repaid it with ingratitude. This must have been about the year 1511. By and by, however, for some reason not explained, perhaps from policy, he now re- linquished his objections to the marriage CORTES AND HIS WIFE. with Catalina Xuarez. lie thus secured the good qffices of her family. There is some inconsistency here, for it seems difficult to understand what value could be attached to these good offices, when we are told by Pres- cott, in the next page, that his days glided smoothly away in the society of his beauti- ful wife, who, however ineligible as a connec- tion from the inferiority of her condition~, op- pears to have fulfilled all the relations of a faithful and affectionate partner. Indeed, he was often heard to say, at this time, that he lived as happily with her as if she had been the daughter of a duchess. Fortune, says Prescott, gave him the means in after- life of verifying the truth of his assertion. He should have said making comparison be- tween her and the daughter of a duchess; for whether he verified the & ssertion (not verified the truth of the assertion) or not, there is no sufficient evidence to show. A testamentary expression of confidence and love in his second wife can hardly he re- garded as such; and the issue is now raised fi~thcr, whether it was fortune that gave him the means of doing so, or a more direct in- terference of his own. After living with her for some time in pastoral retirement in Cuha, he sailed on the course of adventures which terminated in the conquest of Mexico; and it was not until he was firmly seated there as conqueror and governor that Catalina joined him. The remainder of the story is thus told by Pres- cott I-us own wife, IDofla Catalina Xuarez, was among those who came over from the Islands to New Spain. According to Ber- nal iDiaz, her coming gave him no particular satisfaction. It is possible, since his mar- riage with her seems to have been entered into with reluctance, and her lowly condi- tion and connections stood somewhat in the way of his future advancement. Yet they lived happily together for several years, ac- cording to the testimony of Las Cases, and whatever he may have felt, he had the gen- erosity or the prudence not to betray his feelings to the world. On landing, l)ofla Catalina was escorted by Sandoval to the capital, where she ~vas kindly received by her husband, and all the respect paid to her to which she was entitled by her elevated rank. But the climate of the table-land was not suited to her constitution, and she died three months after her arrival,of asthma, according to Bernal Diaz, but her death CORTES AND HIS WIFE. 53 seems u~ have been too sudden to be attrib- The evidence for the defence (if there ever uted to that disease. 11cr death happened was any) isewanting. so opportunely for his rising fortunes, that Independently of their interest from the a charge of murder by her husband has historic personages concerned in them, t,he found more credit with the vulgar than the documents are in themselves curious from the other accusations brought against him. Cortes, from whatever reason, perhaps from glimpses which they give us of the familiar, the conviction that the charge was too mon- every-day life of the times to which they re- strous to obtain credit, never condescended late. The close similarity of the law pro- to vindicate his innocence. But, in addition ceedings to those of the present day is not to the arguments mentioned in the text for very flattering to the progress made in their discrediting the accusation generally, we actual style of procedure by jurisconsults, should consider that this particular charge however much the principles of jurisprudence attracted so little attention in Castile, where he had abundance of enemies, that he found may have advanced. The verbiage and rep- no difficulty, on his return there, seven years etitions of the ~vriter, paid by the page, are afterwards, in forming an alliance with one shown to have been handed down to us un- of the noblest houses in the kingdom; that corrected for at least three hundred years. no writer of that day except Bernal Diaz We find here examination of witnesses upon (who treats it as a base calumny), not even interrogatories,the whole procedure being Las Casas, the stern accuser of the conquer- as nearly as can be that of a modern proof ors, intimates a suspicion of his guilt; and that, lastly, no allusion whatever is made to of the same kind. The witnesses are duly it in the suit instituted some years after her sworn to tell the truth. Their depositions death, by the relatives of Dofia Catalina, for conclude almost in the words of a deposition the recovery of property from Cortes, pre- of the present day. For instance, the closing tended to have been derived through her words of a modern English deposition would marriage with him ; a suit conducted with acrimony, and protracted for several years. he, All which he depones to he truth, as he I have not seen the documents connected shall answer to God; and in respect that he with this suit, which are still preserved in cannot write, makes his mark. here is the the archives of the house of Cortes, but the Spanish of 1529: Swears to the truth of fact has been communicated to me by a (us- the preceding deposition ; and not being tinguished Mexican who has carefully exam- able to write, makes a mark (unarubrica), med them, and I cannot but regard it as of and the mark, or rubrica, is not, as is sup- itself canclusive, that the family, at least, of me, a symbol or device special- Dojia Catalina did not attach credit to the posed by so accusation. ized by its user, but the same villanaus at- But tempt at a cross, which our own uneducated there is a very good reason why no classes still make. notice of the charge of murdering his wife The process thus proceeds is taken by her relatives, in the process here Criminal Process.Maria de Marcayda referred to. It is simply this, that at the against 1). hlernando Cortes.In the great time it was going on she was still alive; cityofTemistilan, Mexico, of this New Spain, and, were it not so, the existence of a proc- on the 4th of February, 1529, before the il- ess actually brought by them against him lustrious and magnificent Seiiur Nuiio de for this very charge would sufficiently prove Guzman and the licentiates Juan Ortiz de ~ elgadello, President that no inference favorable to his innocence Matienso and Diego D from their silence. The and Judges of the Royal Audience and Chan could be dra~vn cery, residing, by order of his majesty, in fact, however, appears beyond doubt, from this New Sl)ain, and in presence of me, the criminal process (in which on its side Geronimo de Median, Secretary of the said sufficient allusion is made to the lawsuit), Audience, appeared Maria de Marcayda and that the law process had been going on for Juan Suares, her son, in her name, and pre- years during the life of Dofia Catalina. sented a complaint and accusation in writing The criminal process takes the form of a against D. 1-lernando Cortes, the tenor ot mother and brother of Dojia which is as follows: Most Potent Signors, complaint by the we, Maria de Marcayda and Juan Snares, Catalina; an answer by Cortes; interroga- her son, appear before your majesty, and tories prOj)Oned by the complainers; and the complain of Don Hernando Cortes, Governor evidence adduced by them. There it stops. I and Captain-General that ~vas of this New CORTES AND HIS WIFE. Spain; and relating the cause of our com- plaint, we say, that, on a certain day and month in the year 1522, the said Hernando Cortes, being legally married according to the requirements of Holy Mother Church to my sister, Dofla Catalina Suares, in his house in Coyoacan; the said IDoi~a Catalina being in good health, and without having said or done any thing for which she should receive hurt or damage, and being with her said husband, whose duty it was to see after and take care of her, not only because he was her husband, but still more as the adminis- trator of justice,the said Don Hernando Cortes, the criminal by our denouncement and complaint, with little fear of God and of his King and Lord, under whose protec- tion we all live, with malice prepence, in their sleeping apartment, did hand-bind the said Dojia Catalina when it was out of her power to call for aid except of God Our Lord and Holy Mary his Mother, Our Lady, and tie certain cords round her throat, and tight- ened them until she was strangled and nat- urally died; and after dead, he put her down, and called his servants, and ordered one Villanueva, his valet, to tell me, Juan Suarez, to remain quiet in my room. That Villan- ueva, knowing or suspecting what had hap- pened, sent a neighbor, Esidro Moreno, to deliver the message, which he did, accompa- nied by many threats, in case I should ven- ture where my sister was. That the said Don Hernando Cortes then covered her face and neck, and with indecent haste caused her to be nailed up in a coffin, so that no one should see her or know the cause of her death. That it was immediately rumored abroad in Coyoacan that ID. liernando Cortes had killed her, because on the evening pre- vious, she had been very merry and in high spirits, not only with her husband, hut with the gentlemen and ladies who had been at the house. That, in consequence of this rumor, a friar of the order of San Francisco said to him, Selior, for the sake of your own honor, I tell you that they say publicly in the city that you have killed your wife. To which he haughtily replied, Who are the traitor knaves who say so P. That the friar answered: I only mention it to rec- ommend that the coffin be opened, and the peol)le allowed to see the body and satisfy themselves that your worship had no hand in her death. That the first Alcalde, Diego do Ocanpo, then stept forward, and said, Go to, father! Let them be for fools. No one can suppose such a thing of D. Her- nando Cortes, the Captain-General,and that he ordered the funeral to proceed, ~vhich it did, accompanied by a large concourse of; people. Therefore, we pray your majesty to receive the evidence required in such cases, and, when received, to order the apprehen- sion of the said B. Hernando Cortes, etc. And we swear by God and this cross t that this coml)laint is not made maliciously, but purely for the ends of justice. The reply of Cortes attorney is very short, and amounts simply to this, that it is a most atrocious lie (la mayor falcedad y meldad que ag en ci mundo)..the greatest falsehood and wickedness in the whole world, got up out of spite, because there is a lawsuit be- tween the parties about some two hundred and odd thousand dollars; and that it v~. only one of the many malicious devices re- sorted to for the purpose of obscuring the merit of his signal services. The judges then allow a proof, and a List of Interroga- tories are given in, which Juan Xuares de- mands shall be asked of his witnesses. The first witness is Ann Rodriguez, Doiia Cata- linas ladys-maid and the wife of JunirRod- riguez, mason. To the first three questions, which were whether the witness knew the parties and believed them to be married, etc., she rel)lied in the affirmative. The style of the Inter- rogatories is the following. For instance, take the next, the 4th: If she knew, believed, had seen, or heard tell whether, on a certain Occasion, in 1522, when Cortez and his wife gave a feast, at which many people of both sexes were pres- ent, and stayed to supper, and when the had a very pleasant party and a good time generally, the said iDofla Catalina Suarcz was in good health, strength, and spirits, without any symptom of illness. Let the witness say and declare what she knows. To this and other questions, propounded in the same leading fashion, she replied That on the night of the death of Dofia Catalina Suarez, the date of which she does not remember, she saw that Don Fernando gave a feast in the city of Coyoacan, at which Do~a Catalina was very happy and in high spirits (alegre y regocijada), and to all ap- pearance in perfect health, and at night, when about to retire to bed, she went to pray in a chapel (oratorio), which she had in the house, and when she came out this wit- ness saw her, with her color changed, and asked her what was the matter; to which she replied, that she wished God would take her from this world; also that she heard her pray to God in the chapel to take her away. On being asked if she knew why Dolia Cata- lina made this prayer, and what was the rea 54 CORTES AND HIS WIFEP son of her unhappiness, since she had so recently joined her husband after such a lengthened absence, in tbc island of Cuba, where she had received ill treatment at the hands of the Courts, and now she was with her husband and in prosperity, the witness replied, that she believed she was jealous, and was unhappy because Don Fernando feasted other ladies and women in the neigh- borhood. That on the same night she saw Don Fernando and Doila Catalina, in very good humor, retire to their chamber, and this witness being the ladys-maid of Dofia Catalina, undressed her and saw her to bed, apparently in good health; then ~vent to her own room to sleep, as usual, leaving the two in bed as she was wont. That a short time after this, on the same night, this witness being already asleep, an Indian woman came to call her and told her that Don Fernando wanted her; that she got up and dressed and went to his room, when he told her to fetch a light, for it was dark; that she did so, and on entering the room he said to her, I think my wife is dead, and this witness and the wife of Soria went to the bed and found her resting on the arm of Don Fer- nando, dead, and him calling on her think- ing she had swooned (for she was subject to fainting fits). There was also present Alonzo de Villanueva, his valet, and Violante Rod- riguez, who came along with this witness when she brought the candle. That Don Fernandos body-guard used to be in the ante-chamber, but she does not remember whether the guard was set that night or not. She knows, however, that he did not call any others but this witness and his servants, who came into this room before Dojia Cata- lina was laid out. That owing to her per- turbation on entering the room she did not take notice of the beads, * bitt, in the morn- ing an Indian woman gave her some gold beads, which Dofia Catalina had been in the habit of wearing round her neck, saying that she had found them in the room, and fur- ther that she saw some black marks on her throat; and suspecting that Don Fernando had strangled his wife, she asked what marks these were, and he replied, that he had taken hold of her there in trying to rouse her when she fainted; hut this witness and the other servants present suspected him of having strangled her, and murmured among them- selves to that effect. That she and Maria de Vera and others present covered the body with a shawl, not by order of Don Fernando, ~ This is in answer to a leading question (the 7th), whether on entering the room they found Defia C. Suarez dead, and the beads of her neck- lace strewed over the bed, some of them broken, the bed ~vet, and the body showing marks of vio- lence on the throat. 55 but of their own free will. That, after being laid out, Doila Catalina was put on a bier, until morning; and at dawn they put her in a coffin and carried her off to be buried. Then follow two fine specimens of leading questions, viz., 10th If she knows that after the coffin was closed, two San Franciscan friars went early in the morning to see Don Fernando Cortes, and said to him, Sefler, all the city says that you have killed your wife; for the love of God see and have that coffin opened, so that the people may see that there is no truth in the report, and that your own honor may be vindicated, otherwise everybody will believe it. And 11th: Item, if she knows that Don Fernando Cortes answered and said, Whoever says so, let him go to the Devil; I am not obliged to render an account to any one. And that the first Alcalde, Diego Ocanpo, being pres- ent, said, Such a thing is not to be pre- sumed of your worship, and let those who say it be considered evil speakers. To this curious style of hearsay interroga- tory, Ana Rodriguez consistently replies That she heard the matter in this ques- tion publicly mentioned at the time, and that in reply to the remark, Have a care, seflor, for they say that you killed your wife, he replied, She xvent to bed in good health, and in the a she was dead. The next interrogatory is, If she knows, believes, has seen, or heard tell, that immediately after her death, on the same night, about twelve oclock, Cortes sent Alonzo de Villanueva, his valet, to tell Juan Suarez, her brother, not to leave his room on pain of death, which message the said Alonzo de Villanueva did not like to deliver, but sent instead one Isidro Moreno to do so. To this she replies: That she heard that Don Fernando, after her death, but before her burial, sent word to Juan Suarez, her brother, that he had been the cause of her death, on account of some misunderstanding he had had with him. Elvira Hernandez answers most of the leading questions simply in the affirmative. The only additional circumstances mentioned by her are That on the day when Doiia Catalina died she saw her in church a~ a funeral ser- vice in perfect health, and that from the ~churchsheinvited~numberofladiestoher .CORTES AND HIS WIFE. house; * that this witness had heard it said and this witness and the other servants ol that on that evening she had been very merry the house went to sleep. In two or thtee and in great spirits, and had gone very late hours afterwards, as near as this witness can to bed; and that one Bartolome, a friar of~ judge, they came to call the mayor-domo him~ the order of Our Lady of Mercies, told this self and the other servants, saying that Do~a witness that before going to bed IDoiia Cata- Catalina was dead; and that this witness lina had gone into the chapel, and had cried and Diego de Soto, the mayor-domo, went to and sobbed much, and that Don Fernando Don Fernandos room, and found him with had asked her why she cried, and that she two pages, one called Salazar, and the other had replied, to let her alone, that she wished Villareal, cousin of Antonio de Villareal, to die, and that in the morning she was dead. now mayor of this city. That when they That she remembers hearing Maria de Vera came into the room, where A. de Villanueva [another witness] say, that when she ~vent had arrived a minute before them, they found into the room and found the deceased coy- Don Fernando shouting and beating himself ered with a shawl, she was about to remove against the wall, and the two pages endeav- it, when Don Fernando told her to let it oring to restrain him; that this was the room alone, that it was well enough, and that she where Don Fernando and his wife slept; had seen marks of violence on her throat, that after they were in the room as above and a stain of blood on her forehead, and related, they sent this witness to call a friar some beads of her necklace broken. Asked of the order of Mercy named Fray Bartolo- if she knows or believes that Don Fernando meo, and to tell him to come and console Don killed his wife. Replies that the whole town Fernando, for his wife was dead, and also to said so publicly at the time, and that she I tell Juan Suarez of Dojia Catalinas death, suspected it, because she had gone to bed and that he was not to go there, for that his well and was dead in the morning, and also importunities had been the cause of his sis- because at that time there arrived one Juan ters death. That he was sent to deliver Bono with proposals of marriage with a lady these messages by A. de Villanueva, the in Castile, and that the day previous he had valet, and D. de Soto, the mayor-dorno, who been shut up with this Juan Bono in a pri- said they were the orders of Don Fernando. vate interview the whole day, and they say Being asked what were the words which that this marriage was the subject of discus- passed at table between Don Fernando and sion. Dolia Catalina, which caused her to get up and go to her room weeping or in a pet, he replied, that when Don Fernando and Doiia Catalina, and other ladies and gentlemen, as above mentioned, were at supper, Doiia Cat- alina said to Solis, then a captain of artillery, Nothing will serve you, Solis, but you must employ my Indians in other matters than what I order, and I cannot get what I want done; and that to these words Solis replied, I, sefiora, do not employ them; there is his worship who orders and employs them ; and that she replied, I promise you that before many days I shall arrange matters so that nobody shall interfere with what is mine; and that Don Fernando answered and said, With what is yours, seliora? I do not want any thing of yours;~ and this he said as in joke, but the other ladies laughed, and Dofia Catalina felt ashamed (se avergonso), and re- tired as above stated. Maria de Vera merely corroborates the others. Maria Hernandez, wife of Fj~ancisco de Quevedo, says Anton Hernandez, wife of Baithazar Rod- riguez, and Violante Rodriguez, wife of Diego de Soria, do little more than answer the leading questions in the affirmative. Isidro Moreno knows of the party at Don Fernandos house, because he was a servant in the house, and had accounts with the mayor-domo relative to house expenses, and saw Doiia Catalina well and merry in the feast given that day. That after the entertainment, and at the supper- table, the cloth being already removed, in consequence of some remark made by Don Fernando, Dofia Catalina rose from the table, and, having made her obeisance (acatam~- ento), left the room in a pet, while Don Fer- nando remained with the visitors. After awhile, the company broke up, and he went into another room to undress, as was his custom. He remained for an hour or two talking with some of the peoI)le of the house, and then with his page retired to go to bed, This is lucousistent with the statement in the previous witness~ evidence, that she said she was jealous hecause lie, liushaud feasted other ladies, the invitatiou, in this instance, having come from her, not from her hushand; hut the inconsistency may have heen in Dofia Catalinas own statemejit, not in the eviderke of the witnesses:a jealous, passionate woman is not hound or expected to he consistent. - That on one of the days in the month of October, about All Saints Day, in the year 1522, Francisco de Quevedo, the husband of this witness, told her that Doila Catalina Suarez had gone to church, that day a very genteel woman, muy gentil muger (i.e., very well got up), more than on other days, and 56 CORTES AND HIS WIFE. 57 Lhat that same night, being in the city of protruding from their sockets, as of a per- Coyoacan at the feast at Don Fernan~ios son who had been strangled, and that her house, the said Doila Catalina had danced lips were thick and black, and that she had and enjoyed herself until a matter of 1O also two flecks of foam in her mouth, one on oclock at night, and that at 11 odock of each side, and a drop of blood on the shawl the same night it was said that the said where it had covered her forehead, and a Dofia Catalina was dead, and that this was scratch between her eyebrows, all of which told to this witness by Christopher Corral, appeared to this witness and to Gallarda to Captaia of the Guard of Don F. Cortes. he signs that Doija Catalina had been stran- That the day on which Dofia Catalina Suarez gled and had not died a natural death; and was found dead in the morning, this witness so it was ~mblicly said that Don Fernando heard the bells toll, and asked for whom Cortes had killed Do~a Catalina Suarez, his they tolled, and seeing a servant of Don wife, in order to marry another woman of Fernando Cortes pass, who was his macstre hi0her station, and that the said Christr. eala Ethe servant who announces visitors and Corral, Captain of the Guard of IDon Fer- shows them the way out, but in a household nando, told this witness that Don Fernando like that of Cortes probably an official of after the death of Dofia Catalina had gone some importance], who was called Manuel, into an orchard one day, dressed in a vel- who was dressed in a mourning cloak, and vet coat, and walking up and down in the this witness asked him for whom he was in orchard said to Corral, What think you, moarning and for whom the bells were toll- may a man now amarrv whom he l)leases? ing, and he told her that Dofia Catalina was And for this reason this witness suspected dead, and that this witness, suspecting that and still suspects that Don Fernando Cortes Doa Fernando Cortes had killed her, said to I killed Doila Catalina, his wife, and so it is Gallarda, a~neighbor of hers, who was a mid- held for certain in this New Spain. wife, that they should go and see Doila Cata- Here the evidence closes. There is none lina Suarez how she had died, and that this witness suspected and held it for certain that tendered on behalf of Cortes; the process Don Fernando Cortes had killed Doiia Cata- seems to have gone no further, and we are lina, his wife, for Dofia Catalina had much left to form our conclusions from the one~ conversation and friendship with this wit- sided materials brought against him. Is ho ness, because they had known each other in innocent or guilty? Notinnocent or guilty Cuba, and Dojia Catalina, oftentimes tcllin~ according ta human laws; hut in our hearts this witness of the unhappy life which she I passed secretly with Don Fernando Cortes, do w6 think that he did the deed or not? and how he often pitched her out of bed at The presumption of law is that every man is night and otherwise maltreated her, said to innocent until he is proved ~uilty. No such this witness, Ah! seliora, wife of Quevedo, presumption can be imported into the judg- one day you will find me dead in the morn- meats of posterityall legal rules are by it ing, judging by the life I pass with Don Fer- disregarded, and the moral evidence, or in- nando,and that she held him in terror, and tuitive conviction, is the test by which, also, because in this city it was publicly stated whether we like it or not, our actions will that one Juan Bono, master of a ship, came one day to where Don Fernando was, hay- be judged of by posterity. Disregarding, ing come from Castile,.nnd said to Don Fer- then, all the objections which a lawyer could nando, Ali! captain, if you were not mar- bring against the Interrogatories as leading ned, you might marry the niece of the Bishop questions against the answers as hearsay, and ofBurgos,aad they say that he brought let- against the whole procedure as contrary to ters from the bishop; and that, owing to this all principles of fair play, let us address our- suspicion, this witness and Gallarda ~vent to the house of Don Fernando at 8 oclock, and selves to it as it stands, and see what it is found Doila Catalina Suarez, shrouded and worth. And, first, is the testimony of the Placed on a bier in a room, and that this wit- witnesses true or false? To this, notwith- ness, with the said suspicion, went to her and standing the long delay in bringing the felt her feet, which were uncovered, the which chargeseveii years, and notwithstanding were not yet cold; that she appeared to be the family party of which they seem to be recently dead; and this witness told Gallarda composed, two IRodriguezes and three 11cr- to examine her well, for it appeared to her n that she was not yet dead; and that this andezes, who besides seem to have married witness, in presence of Gallarda and other interchangeably, we have no hesitation in women who were there, removed the shawl expressing our conviction that it is more true which Doiia Catalina had over her face and than false. Some portions are obviously saw that her eyes were open and stiff and either untrue or irrelevant; for instance, the 58 black marks upon the throat must be untrue if they are to be attributed to Cortes manip- ulation that night, because it is inconsist- ent with physiological experience that an ecchymosis, or black mark, would show it- self so rapidly as within an hour from such pressure as strangulation. A sharp blow on a bony part, such as the cheekbone, will raise a black mark instantly, but the effects of mere pressure on a soft surface like the neck ought not, in ~uch a short period, to have gone further than redness, or if the squeeze had been excessive, redness tending to brownness with excoriation. If, therefore, black marks on the neck were present, they regarded not Cortes, who could not have made them at the time speci- fied. But, taken as a whole, the evidence reads as truthful; the very futility of the grounds of suspicion, often going no further than, they say, it was everywhere said, etc., indicate a gossiping, credulous nature, but not a false or designing one. Taking, then, the details given as in the main truth- ful, what do they indicate? Is it stran~ula- a tion? Were it not for two trifling and incidentally mentioned circumstances, we might have had to reply, the symptoms are all those of strangulation. Most fortur~tely, the last witness adds to her description of the gorged countenance, protruding eyes, and black lips of the deceased, she had two flecks of foam in her mouth, one on each side. Here is the key to the whole case. This is no symptom of strangling, but it is the al- most constant accompaniment of a disease which simulates most of the tokens of death by strangling; namely, epilepsy. There is ~not a symptom mentioned which does not accord better with epilepsy than strangling. CORTES AND HIS WIFE. Even the black marks on the throat now be- come intelligible; they are the gorged veins of the throat standing out in relief; and these, as we have pointed out, as well as the flecks of foam, are inconsistent ~~ith stran- gling. If to this we add, that Ana Rodri- guez, her ladys-maid, says in connection with her supposition that she had swooned, for she was subject to fainting fits, we have it all before us as dear as day. The fainting fits were epileptic fits, one of which, at last, carried her off. The whole of Cor- tes behavior is to us also symbolic of inno- cence; his lively badinage at supper, his at- titude, supporting his wife on his arm, when the witnesses enter, his grief at her death, his haughty refusal (particularly when prompted and supported by the first Alcalde, obviously a toady and flatterer) to pay heed to the evil tongues of the city, knowing his innocence as he did, all bear to our minds the perfect stamp of naturalness and innocence. Not guilty, upon our honor! Cortes was peculiarly lucky, or unlucky, in having his enemies die off at periods crit- ically fortunate for him, but after so com- plete a disproval of the most circumstantial and by far the most heinous charge,.-for no one would think of comparing, in enormity, the wiping out of a rival or an enemy with the deep damnation of throttling his wife in his very bed, while sleeping in his arms, in all the confidence of love and affec- tion,we are ready to accept Prescotts ver- dict with more confidence. In fact, we can- not help thinking the publication of these Archives a most fortunate circumstance, were it for nothing but the clear, unwitting (and, therefore, more valuable) acquittal upon this the most serious charge. WHILE the Emperor Louis Napoleon was at Your majesty of course does not remember Vichy lately he was taking a walk on the banks me, but you ~vere once the cause of my passing of the Sichon and lost his way. A laborer two days in the black hole; for when you ~vas dt Ham I was a soldier there, and was punished chancing to pass at the time, his majesty made for passing you in a pound of tobacco. the necessary inquiry of him. Second to the Well, said the emperor, it shall be my torn right and then first to the left, sire, said the now, and in a few days afterwards the man man. What, you know me ~ Yes, and was installed in a well-stocked tobacconists ha~-e had the honor for years past. Where V shop. THE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. 59 From Bentleys Miscellany, persons who were gathered around her by TUE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. the force of her charms and her griefs. She Tim first symptoms of the awakening of possessed, besides, all those feminine quali- society in Berlin in the commencement of ties that are so particularly attractive to the present age, correspond to the era of men. Endowed with marvellous perspicuity, French domination. That epoch is one of she could see in a moment what was passing those which, morally speaking, is the great- in the mind of other persons, and could act est in the history of Prussia. She must be with them, and counsel them accordin6ly. contemplated at that moment, if we wish to At the time when Rahels salon sprang enjoy the always agreeable spectacle of a into existence ~var had ceased, and literary nation working all its energies and all its and intellectual questions were beginning to resources, even to the last available, to effect take the place of political debates. Philos- its deliverance. Berlin replied to the vigor- ophers, poets, and artists were congregating ous literary impulse of Weimar by a patri- at Berlin. Schelling, the two Seblegels, and otic rising in mass, and it is thus that the Tieck were already there, and were taking two capitals complete themselves the one by possession of the field, either by their per- the other. The influence of the salon in sons or their works. The reputation of this movement of Berlin has been depicted Thorwaldsen extended from Rome to the by M. Schmidt Weissenfels, in a work en- Baltic, and the Rhine rocks echoed the titled Rahel und ihre Zeit; but, accord- complaints of Overbeck. Then there were ing to the author of Les Salons de Vienne the two llumboldts, M. de Raumer, and a et de Berlin, this influence has been much host of others, who united to render Berlin exaggerated. The salon he declares not to a kind of metropolis of science, letters, fine be understood in Germany~as it is in France. arts, and of the genius of all Germany. To be at home in company is opposed, he M. de Varahagen was a native of Dussel- avers, alike to the character and the habits dorf, and he studied at Hamburg, Halle, of the Germana statement which, being and Strasburg, till his young imagination purely Gallican, may be taken at its just was carried to Berlin by the Arnims, Cha worth. misso, and Novalis. The wars of the It is to M. Yarnhagen dEnse, author, empire gave an entirely new turn to his soldier, and diplor~atist, and to his clever thoughts. He entered the service of Aus- and amiable spouse Rahel, that Berlin is tria, and fought at Wagram. He visited accredited with its first salon. There had Paris in the suite of Prince Schwarzenberg, been plenty of gatherings before. Queen and he afterwards entered the service of Sophia Charlotte had gathered round her at Russia, under General Tettenborn, whose Lutzelburg, the Charlottenburg of the pres- memoirs he subsequently indited. Acci- ent day, the Leibnitzes, and other eminent dent having brought him into relation with men of the day; the great Frederick had Hardenberg, he gave up the turmoil of the also his meetings of philosophers; but it camp for the more congenial pursuit of was not till Rahel, whilst still unmarried, diplomacy. He was present at the Congress assembled at her house all that was culti- of Vienna, where he became noted for the vated and refined in court and city, and at constitutional tendency of his ideas. He the head of whom were Prince Louis Ferdi- was afterwards appointed minister at Carls- nand and Charles of Mecklenburg Strelitz, rube, but dismissed at the same time as that the salon, in the Parisian acceptation William de Humboldt. lie does not appear of the word, was really founded. Rahel is to have taken office again. It was proposed said to have begun life with sad trials. She that he should be sent to the United. States, is said to have loved twice, and twice to but he declined the expatriation; he pre- have been disappointed. Naturally frail, of ferred spending his latter days at the head slight frame and delicate constitution, she of all that was most polished, most intel would have sunk under those trials, but lectual in Berlin. It is not that Berlinese that the spirit that animated so tender a society at that epoch had not its faults, its frame, and which bore her up, enabled her intrigues, its hatreds, and its passions, but to live, as it were, no longer for herself, but it was that, under the dominion of XI. and for the group of poets, artists, and titled Madame de Varnhagen, it iiever forgot les 60 convenances. It never tolerated an impro- priety, and this, after all, is the best test of good society. M. de Varnhagen had the advantage, also, of having graduated in the salons of Vienna and of Paris; but so en- tirely was his mind filled up by the necessi- ties and conveniences of a society made up of forms and ceremonies, that he could not afford to admire any thing that did not ex- ist in its powdered and perfumed circle. Thus, speaking of the great Napoleon, he says, His manners were embarrassed, the struggle of a will in a hurry to obtain its objects, at the same time that he despised the means employed,.was to be detecti~d in all his actions. It would, perhaps, have been gratifying to him to possess a less re- pulsive physiognomy; but thea it would have required some little exertion on his part, and he could not condescend to it. I say condescend to it, for in his own nature there was nothing agreeable. There was nothing but a mixture of negligence and haughtiness, that betrayed itself in a kind of uneasiness and agitation. His gloomy and half-closed eyes were habitually fixed on the ground, and only cast sharp and rapid glances around. If he smiled or laughed, only the mouth and lower part of the face took part in it, ihe eyes and forehead re- mained unmoved; and when he did bring them into play, as I had occasion to observe at a later period, his face only assumed a more grimacing aspect. The alliance there of the serious and the comic had something in it that was hideous and frightful. I have never, for my part, been able to understand how some people pretend to have discovered traces of goodness and mildness in that face. His features, of incontestable plastic beauty, were cold and hard as marble, strangers to all sympathy, and to all cordial emotion. What he saidat least to judge by what I have heard over and over againwas almost always insignificant (mesquin) in its nature, as well as in its mode of expres~ion, without wit, without philosophyutterly valueless. In the world of conversationin which he had the weakness to wish to be admiredhe had worse than no success.~~ It is a pity, perhaps, for the repose of the world that Napoleon was not equally unsuc- cessful in other spheres, but that is a point which is not so easy to determine, for Prov- idence must have had an object in sending a THE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. Napoleon into the world, the full heavingdf which may not even yet be fully understood. It is not, however, surprising to find the polished representative of the aristocratic salons of Vienna and Berlin, the practised diplomatist who piqued himself upon the restraint placed upon all his motions and attitudes, and his conversational powers of giving to airy nothings a local habitation and a name, underrating the impetuous agi- tation of the great devastator, with neither time nor inclination for the effeminacies of language or the pedantry of forms. If what Napoleon said was ever mesquin, it must have been in contempt of those by whom he was surrounded. But the polish of an he- reditary aristocracy could not be expected in the representative of Revolution, nor would the manner of a petit maitre have pre- cisely tallied with the idea which we form to ourselves of the man who overran Europe. At the outbreak of the Revolution the Germans were without nationality or patriot- ism, disinherited of all that constitutes honor and vitality. They had given up the defence of the country to the soldiery, and the labor of negotiations to the diplomatists; they were so thoroughly prostrated by cen- turies of despotism that they did not care even to think or to interfere in govern- mental matters, and if the defence was badly managed, or the negotiations turned out dis- astrous, the public philosophically left the shame and the remorse to their rulers. We now kno~v what long days of humiliation and mourning this state of things cost Ger- many; we now know how much it costs to nations that permit their vitality to be pros- trated and their honor trampled under foot; and even the devastations of a Napoleon might have a beneficial result, could they but awaken the Fatherland to a sense of national honor and integrity, and, binding it in one common brotherhood, render all further Napoleonisms impossible. Unfortunately at the time in question, just as in our own days, that element of rancor and discord, which has been so fatal to Germany and so favorable to France, which is so much dwelt upon at the time in question in the Correspondences of Baron do Stein, as well as in the Fragments Historiques of Gentz, the Souvenirss ~f Immermann, as well as in those of M. do Varahagen, the old standing antagonism of THE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. the north and south, the irreconcilable an- tipathy of Protestant and Catholic Germany, was in full operation, and the disastcrs of Austria on the Rhine or on the Danube were, strange to say, looked upon with the same indifference on the Weser, the Elbe, and the Oder, as in our days were the dis- asters on the Po. Constitutionalism in Italy may have a wondrous friend in the antago- nism of parties in Germany, but France knows best how to avail herself of it. The sentiment of nationality and of pat- riotism cannot be extemporized. It was so utterly extinct in Germany at the epoch of the Revolution, that it was at the very time that the existence of Germany was cast into the scale that the passion ran highest for the poetry of Goethe and Schilier, that minds ~vere most occupied with the theories of Kant, Fichte, and Schelling, that the brothers Schlegel were best listened to in their explanations of Shakspeare, Calderon, and Dante, and that people most took re- fuge in the romances of Jean Paul. Just as we have in our bosom patriots who would lull the nation into a supine and ri~nous confidence, so at such a crisis the ~people of one of the petty sovereignties of Germany disavowed the remainder, and de- clared that they would not take part in the defence of the nation, as the interests of Germany did not concern her in the most remote degree! And so we have seen the same thing repeated in the present day; and thus it is that in every succeeding epoch we see all Central Europe sacrificed to purely dynastic interests. M. de Varohagen, aristocrat by birth, ed- ucation, manners, and associations, was still too much of a patriot, and his intelligence was too much expanded, not to see the ruin- ous influences that corrupted the country. His youththat is to say, from 1785, the el)och of his birth, to 1814, the epoch of his marriage with the famous Rahelwas passed in the utmost activity. He was alternately soldier, diplomatist, and author; he was al- ways a kind of adjutantbe had been so to General Tettenborn in the campaign of 1814, of which he afterwards penned a his- tory; he had been so to Prince Hardenberg at the Congress of Vienna, and was just as much to his Excellency Marshal Goethe. lie thus participated in a multitude of stir- hug events, visited the courts of all Europe, 61 and became personally acquainted with a host of celebrities, and in his old age he was a master in the art of inditing those me- moirs, revelations, and correspondences, which have alike an important biographical and historical interest. M. de Varuhagen carried the formularies of the salon into his literature. With him history presents nothing but a succession of individualities, who are studied or portrayed without any regard to generalizations. I have always preferred, Rahel used to say, reading the human heart than books; it is easier and more convenient. And M. de Varuhagen seems to have adopted, to a cer- tain extent, the opinions of his wife. The interest of his Memoirs are entirely of a personal character. His portrait of Metter- nich is almost as good as that of Napoleon. lIe had met the great diplomatist in early life when all was fine weather; he met him again at Baden, near Vienna, after the dis- asters of the great wars, and after he had taken to himself a third wife. As to his exterior, he relates, he appeared to me to be changed, but less aged than I had been told. Time, without bending him, had made him very serious; the grace andelegance of early years had become haughtiness and dig- nity, although now and then a movement of the head would remind one of olden times. What struck me most was the sound of his voice, which, never having had anything re- markable in it, had contracted a drawling, nasal sound, which put all vivacity of coii- versation out of the question. His features always preserved the impression of that sub- lime impassibility so much admired by some and so much criticised by others, and a full sense of his own importance, which he used formerly to disguise a little, now openly manifested itself. his eyes, around which time had worn deep furrows, showed, by an occasional want of expression, the progres- sive failure of the physical faculties. M. de Metternich was, like some other great and little men, very proud of his impassibil- ity. My imperturbable calm, my invin- cible, immovable stability, he used to say himself, have won for me the confidence of the whole world. This impassibility, how- ever much assumed, and, therefore, con- stantly in danger of breaking down, served him well on great occasions. Napoleon seized him by the button-hole on a public THE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. occasion, and apostrophized him in anger: Mais enfin, que veut votre empereur? (What does your master really want?) M. de Metternich, without being in the slight- est degree disconcerted, replied, What does he want? he wishes you to respect his ambassador. Princess Melanie was a Zichy, a family renowned in Vienna for its pride, petulance, originality, and exclusiveness. The old Countess of Ziehy, mother of the princess, was admitted by the Viennese to have been the most excessive type of this ferocious spirit lesprit des Zichy, as the Viennese termed it. Princess Melanie was no less independent, only she loved to dom- ineer with some grace and seductiveness. But she never could condescend to keep her likes and her dislikes to herself. She so far insulted the ambassador of Louis Philippe, Marshal Maison, that he appealed to the prince. What would you have me do? replied the latter. I did not bring her up. It was thus that the old fox used often, by an offhand, bantering reply, screen himself from unpleasant official explana- tions. Viennese society is well known generally ~or its ex9lusiveness; it does not travel much, and, as a natural result, abides by its prejudices. But if it dislikes demonstrative- ness, so also it is especially regardful of the courtesies of life. It disregards forms, and there is nothing more repulsive to it than not to be at ease or to live for however short a time upon the stilts of pretensions. Peo- ple who lay store by such pretensions are very soon left by it in the lurch. Among themselves the Viennese aristocrats are alike familiar and offhand, using all kinds of nicknames, and treating one another with the most unconstrained familiarity. This renders it all the more difficult for a stranger to accommodate himself to a kind of free- masonry to which he has not previously been initiated. But once known and accepted, once your particular cast of nose, twist of head, or style of address has become famil- iar, you get your nickname too, and are ad- mitted for once and forever. This amiable spirit of family coteries is never roughed by conversations on politics, literature, or trav- els: the Viennese are like the English, they keep the intellectual treasures of their minds in reserve, and cannot be troubled with the exertion of bringing such forward at every moment. Hence they have an instinctive abhorrence of what we also designate as a bore, and they look upon the paroxysinul attempts of a Frenchman to be nlways witty ~ as a kind of gymnastic exercise of the mind, which must be as fatiguing and exhausting to the performer as it is to the listener. Ce MoIi~re est de mauvais gout, said one day Marie Antoinette to Louis XVI. Vous vous trompez, madame, the king replied; on peut reprocher ~\ Moli~re ditre quel- quefois de mauvais ton, mais il nest jarnais de mauvais goi~it. Now to be witty in the salons of Vienna is not only considered as bad taste, but also as bad mannersbarb- quinade or pedantry, according as the centre of gravity carried the auditors in preference on the side of Paris or Berlin. M. de Varnhagen, speaking of the salons of Madame de Metternich, describes them as Austrian in the haughtiest sense of the word, replete with indolence, free and easy, the conversation that of a coterie, and, above all things, no politics. One day by accident, however, Count Zichy was complaining that he had not yet received a copy of the Par- oles dun Croyant, which at that epoch h~ad caused a great sensation. Perchance, observed M. do Varnhagen, the work is forbidden. Forbidden? interrupted M. do Metternich; certainly and unquestion- ably so; forbidden in so far as it cannot be publicly announced and sold, but not in any way excluded from that class of readers to whom its perusal can do no harm. The Austrian censorship never forgets the res- poet due to persons. Prince Metternich then referred to the case of the well-known banker Eskebes, who openly received the National, and he added, with a sly smile, I even believe that he finds the Parisian paper too moderate for him; but what mat- ter is it to us? we know that he is a good Austrian. Among other sayings reported of the veteran diplomatist, one was to the effect that he detested the tribuno, or, as we should say, the bar of the House of Commons, but that for motives which had nothing personal in them. As far as he was concerned, he courted argument and inquiry. lie admired the institution of Jesuits, he also declared, as every impartial Protestant ought to do, but he detested Jesuitism as he would the plague. Another favorite sophism was that he was the irreconcilable enemy to liberalism, and 62 THE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. 63 yet he gloried in being liberal in the true ply was a shrug of the shoulders, and the sense of the wordthat is, we suppose, just observation tbat M. de Gentz was a mere as much as he liked. M. do Metternich did publicist, and that he never could under- not go as far as Louis XIV., and say, The stand anything of diplomacy. M. de Gentz state, that is I, but in all his words and ac- was remarkable for his extravagance. It tions he let it be plainly perceived that he is a pity that we must live, Talleyrand is considered himself as the sole living and su- said to have observed, or one might really preme incarnation of Austria. One day, a fall in love with virtue. M. de Gentz, too, certain General de Gerzelles was soliciting might perchance have practised virtue, only him for an appointment, as he did not wish that he had to live; he required hotels, and to be inactive. The prince suggested cards equipages, and he spent no end of money in or dominoes, and that failing, fishing, boat- intrigues and bribery. The ducats of ing, and shooting. The general, losing pa- the WTallachian and Moldavian hospodars, tience, said: And you, prince, what would princely annuities, and the subsidies of you do, if you were net in place? Oh ! France and England, were alike swallowed replied the minister, you admit a case up in this tub of the Danaides. He was ac- there that is. impossible. With a mind tually subsidized by M. Cotta, editor of the formed in the school of IDiderot and Mar- Gazette Universellefour thousand forms montel, Metternich had all the petty preju- per annumfor articles which seldom or dices, the dissimulation, and pride of official ever made their appearance? When people life, weaknesses that men of a more vigor- had no ready money, he would accept val- ens stamp, as Stein and Blileher, did not uable presents. Even snuff-boxes did not fail to reproach him with. When only am- come amiss, especially if set with precious bassador, he complained on one occasion to stones that he could detach to adorn the MI. de Champagny that the emperor no shoulders of some favorite sultaness. longer spoke to him. It is because, the Fanny Elssler imparted a last charm to latter replied, he has long ago perceived NI. de Gentzs latter days. Old, dull, faded, that it was utterly dseless to do so, and that he first saw the graceful child when dressed you have lost, by dint of lying, all the credit as a genius in the Arabiaii Nights Eater- that can be given to an ambassador. tainments. She used to come with the Behind the great mans chair was gener- torch of Eros in her hand to preside in front ally to be seen the intelligent but wily and of a revolving sun, and an equally classical vicious physiognomy of M. de G2ntz, a spe- waterfall, over the nuptials of Harlcquin cies of Figaro, always ready for an intrigue and Columbine! The old man was won by or act of political dissimulation. A note of the child; the veteran diplomatist and hlas~ M. de Gentz was once shown to an old man, of the court conquered by a mere girl. who, by dint of perusing autographs, de- Fanny, on her side, is said to have been dared that he eould read a persons charac- grateful; for, after all, the old man was i\I. ter by their writing. A distinguished per- de Gentz, the counsellor of potentates, and son, was the answer, but with corrupt the right hand of ministers. manners, n pusillanimous heart, bitter and M. do Gentz was at this time upwards of envious. The only relieving point in this sixty years of age. He had become pain- strange character was that, although himself fully sensitive, could not bear loud coaver- aged, he was in his time almost the sole sation or laughter, or to be suddenly visited representative of the new spirit in the coun- or approached, and he disliked even the cils of feudal Austria. Things no longer countenance of a military man. So he go on as they used to do, he would often took advantage of the new passion awakened repeat, and it is madness to fancy that in him to withdraw more and more from the such a struggle against ideas can be indefi- court. The pen, of which the Baron dAnd- nitely prolonged. Humanity has its laws, law says, in his Souvenirs, that it was which you altogether ignore; it marches, something as prodigious as the sword of and you think it is stationary. Take care Napoleon, and will never be met with again, that one of these fine mornings the torrent was laid aside, and the great diplomatist does not carry you away, you and your in- and publicist settled down into a mere Syb- stitutions. The arch-chancellors only re- ante. 64 THE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. The mild, honest, heroic countenance of The sight of all the marvels of Europe gath- Archduke Charles presents a wondrous re- ered together at the Mus~e Napoh~on, lass, lief to these masks of the hack chambers. as he observed, for the glory of art than for It was the morning after Essling, numbered the glory of one man, filled him with melan- by Thiers among the victories of Napoleon, choly. Leroi, the coiffeur of Josephine, he but which does not prevent the Austrians relates, had passed over to Marie Louise, viewing that hecatomb of forty to fifty thou- but venturing one day to remark to the em- sand men as a sanguinary triumph, that M. press, seeing her in a high dress, Ab! de Yarnhagen first saw the Austrian gener- madame, when one has the good fortune to alissimo. The friend of Beethoven was play- possess such a handsome bust, what a pity ing a sacred melody on the piano! As it is it is to hide it, he was incontinently shown customary in Italian operas for the heroine the door, never to be admitted again. to prelude her appearance by an improvisa- The Germans breakfasted at Prince Met- tion on the harp, so M. de Varnhagen had ternichs and dined at Prince Schwarzen- to wait till the melody was concluded before bergs. At the former, a discussion is re- the archduke received him, which he did lated as having taken place between Gall with a grave dignity, and,. mounting on and Steinberg upon the delicate topic of re- horseback, they 1)roceedcd on a military in- ligion. The count had brought the phre- spection. At that epoch Archduke Charles nologist to admit that religion was necessary, was the soul of the Austrians. Short and were it only to keep the populace in con- thin, his whole appearance indicated a ncr- trol. And we, on our side, said the in- vous susceptible temperament. The labors corrigible philosopher, what should we do and fatigues of war had no effect, however, without the salutary terrors that religion in- upon the natural fragility of his form, which, spires to the ruling powers P M. de Yarn- in Napoleon, had disappeared in the em- hagen was soon satiated with the pleasures patement of his person. He was doted of Paris. He declares that he soon experi- upon by the soldiery, for his heroism, cour- enced no desire to penetrate farther into age, intrepidity, good sense, and amiability, this pompous void. Upon most of the were alike uncontested. No man since the faces, he says, met with in public, he could time of Wallenstein enjoyed a similar popu- perceive but one expression, that of lassi- larity with the army. Add to this, his power tude, weariness, disgust, the expression of was absolute and uncontrolled. He had no a constant want to escape from ones own chambers, no ministry, not even an emperor self, perchance from one~ s conscience. The to interfere or thwart him in any thing he only spot wheie he found comfort and re- thought proper to do. pose was at the hoarding-school of Made- NI. de Yarnhagen saw the hero of Essling moiselle Henriette Mendelssohn, where the twenty years afterwards, at a time when, select of the day assembled, after the pupils without noise, trouble, or remorse, he had, had gone to bed, in the gardens, to hear a like most of the archdukes, withdrawn into daily letter from the exiled Madame de a modest, quiet retirement. The old man Staiil. still took pleasure in talking of Wagram. M. de. Yarnhagen took an active part at It was a great, a terrible battle, he said, that sad and fatal fire which consumed the that we lost, but neither I nor my soldiers H6tel de Montesson, on the occasion of the were to blame; every man fought like a festivities given to celebrate the nuptials of hero, and only a few days afterwards they Napoleon and Marie Louise. He describes sustained another attack with indomitable the emperor as arriving with the empress bravery; to do more was beyond human on his arm, with a serious, hard, almost power. It was always expected that so up- ~icked looknot one trace of amiability! right and competent a person, with known Those present, he declares, hated one an- literary tastes, would have left some memo- other, and would rather have met on the ri ls of that great war behind him; but he field of battle than at such humiliating fcstiv- did not do so. It will be for our nephews, itics. Shameful and melancholy hypocrisy! he used to say, if our nephews take any in- A Tyrolese ballet was performed iii front of terestin what we have done. the Chateau (Ic Laxenbourg; a real postil- In 1810, M. de Varnhagen was at Paris. ion brought desp~itches from Francis to his THE SALONS OF VIENNA AND BERLIN. 65 daughter; at midnight dancing commenced, exceeding mediocrity, nnd he had for a min~. Prince Esterhazy giving his hand to the ister.a M. de Berstett. Having no male de- queen of Naples, Eugene Beauharnais, vice- scent, it became a question of partitioning roy of Italy, leading out Princess Pauline his territories. To avert this catastrophe~ Schwarzenberg. After the dance, the em- M. de Berstett had an interview with the peror and empress walked among the crowd, Emperor Alexander, at that time at Aix-la- when a sudden gust of wind set fire to some Chapelle, and, by dint of weeping for the gauze. It was so slight that Count Bentheim- imaginary grievances of his master, sue- put cut the taper with his hat, and Count ceeded in exacting from the czar, who had Dumanoir, tearing down the decorations, never seen a diplomatist weep before, a trampled out the fire with his feet. But, promise that the integrity of the duchy alas! it had extended higher, out of reach, should be preserved, and that, failing a di- and had attained the light trellis-work that rect issue, a morganatic branch should be supported the decorations. Everybody be- legitimized. This trick made Metternich gan to run, some even shouted treachery. and J)e Gentz laugh heartily when they Prince Schwarzenberg ordered the empt~rors heard of it. carriage to a back door, so that he might And yet this czar, who thus disposed of retire with less impediment. Napoleon an- principalities when the coalition had over- grily counterordered it to the front. thrown the usurpations of Napoleon, pre- This part of the story has been always tended to possess liberal ideas. He declared hitherto incorrectly related even in the pages at the Diet of Warsaw that liberal institu- of the Moniteur. Prince Joseph Schwar.zen- tions, which had been confounded with sub- berg was in the mean time rushing though versive and disastrous doctrines, when car- fire and smoke in search of his wife. He ned out with pure and conservative inten- had last seen her dancing in an adjoining tions, were alone calculated to ensure the salon. He rushed in, but found no one. happiness of nations. Unfortunately, the Once more he penetrated into the mansion, foul assassination of Kotzebue by the fanatic now in flames at every point; he found a Sand came to give a deathblow to the hopes form enveloped in fire, with a diadem on her of the liberal party, of which M. de Yarn.. head. The princess also wdre a diadem; he hagea was one of the distinguished uphold bore her out, but it was the Princess de ers, and at the head of which was incontest- Leyen. A Swedish officer, bearing out an- ably the Duke of Saxe Weimar, the friend other lady, declared that the princess was of Goethe and of Schiller. A favorite say- still behind. At the most imminent risk ing of that intellectual prince was, that it of his life, he attempted to penetrate once was by freedom in teaching, and by the an- more, but it was just as the walls gave way, tagonism of opinions, that the truth was ar- and all was buried in one common ruin. The rived at. Princess Louisa, wife ofthe duke, next day General Hulin, Dr. Gall, and M. de was as intellectuni and as strong-minded as Yarnhagen were digging together among the prince, who wished to make his little the ruins, when they discovered a human capital of Weimar the head-quarters of Ger- form, that of a female, but calcined and ir- man liberty as well as of German arts and recognizable. It was, however, soon de- literature. The 15th of October, 1806, Na- tected to be all that remained of Princess poleon returning from the battle of Jena, met Schwarzenberg by a collar of medallions, her at the top of a staircase. Who are you, upon which were engraved the names of her madame? The duchess introduced her- children. One only remained without an self. I pity you, then, observed the em- inscription; it had been left for the child peror, for I shall crush your husband. that she bore in her bosom, and which per- The Princess Louisa was not terrified by this ished with her on that fatal night. brutality; she visited the emperor again, M. de Varnhagen was appointed minister and he, to rid himself of her remonstrances, at Carlsruhe shortly after leaving Paris. said, Believe me, madame, there is a The reigning prince was the Grand-Duke Providence that orders all things, and I am Charles, to whom Napoleon had given as a only its instrument. But he afterwards wife Stephanie de Beauharnais, a niece of said of the princess: There is a woman Josephine. This Charles was a prince of to whom our two hundred guns imparted THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 765 THE SALONS OF VIE~NNA~ AND BERLIN. no fear. And he said to M. de Muller, the Weimarian ambassador at Potsdam, Your princess acted like a man, and won all my esteem. M. de Yarnhagen, like Be Humboldt, be- came more and more radical in his old age. Many have attributed this to the influence of his intellectual wife, the celebrated Ra- hel; but reading over his Nfrmoirs, nine ponderous tomes, of which the least has eight hundred pages, we find the official man, be he emperor, king, general, or diplo- matist, so laid bare, his actions traced to such miserable sources, his conduct repre- sented as guided and influenced by such ig- noble principles, that the impression re- ceived is that it was the mere result of all his many years experience of great men and of public life. In reading such a book, it is like going behind the scenes with the man- ager, who introduces one to a piece of tin, and says it is with that, that we imitate thunder; and to a vracked bell, saying it is with that, that we sound the massacre of St. Bartholomew. It is certain that Rahel, whom the Germans designate as a feminine Ham- let, had a great influence on the formal yet loquacious diplomatist who had the happi- ness to call himself her husband, as she had, indeed, upon all her contemporaries; and it is equally well known that she affected the cynicism of the French Republicans in her salons; but M. de Varnhagen himself attests that his radicalism had another and a more natural source. I have seen the men and the things of my time, he used to say; I have long and silently meditated upon what I have seen, and the result has been an in- tense disgust of the world. Society, again he would say, is lost, ruined in the higher classes, to whom the friction with pol- itics has rubbed off all that educational var- nish and good tone that formerly distin- guished it, and aristocracy thus finds itself every year losing more and more of its priv. ileges, at the very time that democracy is aggrandizing and organizing itself. A radi- calism of such a nature is a mere sign of old age and weariness. It is not given to every one to be a Metternich or a Talleyrand; never to shrink before a responsibility, never to yield a line of action once decided upon, or bend before the storm. It is only weak and wayward temperaments that, after such long monologues with their consciences, come to the conclusion that, the higher classes be- ing corrupt, the people, whom they do not know, have much chance of being better. Radicalism with such an origin is scepti- cism, and nothing more. It despairs of one class, and scarcely ventures to hope better things of another. Men of action go to no such extremes. TIlE MAN OF SENsIBILITY.He is of a very forgiving temper; but the worst is, he forgives himself with full as much ease as he does another, which makes him have too little guard over his actions. He designs no ill and wishes to be virtuous; hut if any virtue interferes with his inclinations, he is overborne by the torrent, and hoes not deliberate a moment which to choose. Confer an obligation on him, and he is overwhelmed with thankfulness and gratitude: and this not at all owing to dissimulation, for he does not express half he feels. But this idea soon gives place to others, and then to anything which is in the least disagreeable to him, and he immediately sets his imagination (which is very strong) to ~vork, to lessen all you have done for him; and his whole mind is possessed by what he thinks your present ill-behavior. He has often pnt me in mind of a story I once heard of a fello~v, who accidentally falling into the Thames, and not knowing how to swim, had like to have been drowned; when a gentleman, who stood by, jumped into the river and saved him. The man fell on his knees, was ready to adore him for thus delivering him, and said he would joyfully sacrifice the life be had iaved, at any time, on his least command. The next day the gentleman met him again, and asked him bow he did after his fright; when the man, in- stead of being any longer thankful for his safety, upbraided him for pulling him by the ear in such a manner that it had pained him ever since. Thus that trifling inconvenience, in twenty-four hours, bad entirely swallowed up the remem- brance that his life was owing to it. Just so doth the gentleman I am speaking of act by all the worldThe Adventures of David Simple (by henry Fieldings Sister). IN one of the Highland graveyards occurs the following epitaph Here lies interred a man o micht, His name was Malcolm Downie; He lost his life ae market nicht By fain off his pownie. 66 THE UELLS OF SHANDON.~ Sabbata pango, Funera plango, Solemnia clango. inscription on an old bell. WITH deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon Bells, Whose sounds so wild would In days of childhood Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder And still grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee, With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Ive heard bells chimin Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate, But all their music Spoke naught like thine; For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Ive heard bells tollin Old Adrians mole in, Their thunders rollin From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds are sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings oer the Tiber Pealing solemnly; Oh, the bells of Shandon They sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Theres a bell in Moscow, While in town and kiosk, 0, In St. Sophia The Turkman gets, ~ An abbey near Cork, celebrated for its chime of bells. 67 And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them, But theres a phantom More dear to me Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Father Prout. DRAWING NEARER. For now is your salvation nearer than when ye believed. NEARER! yes! we feel it not Mid the rushing of the strife. As we mourned our changeful lot, Toiled beneath our shadowed life, By each step our worn feet trod, We were drawing near to God. When the day was all withdrawn, And we walked in tenfold night; When we panted for the dawn Of the ever-blessed Light; In those hours of darkness dim, We were drawing near to him. When, beneath the sudden stroke, All our joys of life ~vent down When our best-beloved broke Earthly bounds, to take their crown, By the upward path they trod, Nearer drew we to our God. In those days of bitter woe, When we saw their smile no more, When our hearts were bleeding slow, Strickenstrickenoh, how sorel XVhile we lay beneath the rod, We were nearer to our God. When upon our lifted eye Gleamed a vision of our home, When we saw the gloi:y high, Flooding all that spotless dome; In that hour of raptured sight, Pressed we nearer our delight. Through the long and vanished years Doubting, struggling, and depressed, Shrouded with their mists of tears, We were passing to our rest; rrempest4ossed and current-driven, Ever drawing nearer heaven. THE BELLS OF SHANDON.DRAWING NEARER. 68 From Blackwoocls Ma~azine. THE RECTOR. CHAPTER L IT is natural to suppose that the arrival of the new rector was a rather exciting event for Carlingford. It is a considerable town, it is true, now-a-days, but then there are no alien activities to disturb the placeno man- ufactures, and not much trade. And there is a very respectable amount of very good society at Carlingford. To begin with, it is a pretty place mild, sheltered, not far from town; and naturally its very reputation for good society increases the amount of that much-prized article. The advantages of the town in this respect have already put five per cent upon the house-rents; but this, of course, only refers to the real town, where you can go through an entire street of high garden-walls, with houses inside full of the~ retired exclusive comforts, the dainty, eco- nomical refinement peculiar to such places; and where the good people consider their own society as a warrant of gentility less splendid, but not less assured, than the favor of majesty itself. Naturally there are no Dissenters in Carlingfordthat is to say, none above the rank of a greengrocer or milkman; and in bosoms devoted to the Church it may be well imagined that the advent of the new rector was an event full of importance, and even of excitement. He was highly spoken of, everybody knew; but nobody knew who had spoken highly of him, nor had been able to find out, even by inference, what were his views. The Church had been low during the last rectors reign ~)rofoundly lowlost in the deepest abysses of Evangelicalism. A determine dinclina- lion to preach to everybody had seized upon that good mans brain; he had half emptied Salem Chapel, there could be no doubt; but, on the other hand, he had more than half filled the Chapel of St. Roque, half a mile out of Carlingford, where the perpetual curate, young, handsome, and fervid, was on the very topmost pinnacle of Anglicanism. St. Roques was not more than a pleasant walk from the best quarter of Carlingford, on the north side of the town, thank Heaven! which one could get at without the dread passage of that new horrid suburb, to which young Mr. Rider, the young doctor, was de- voting himself. But the Evangelical rector was dead, and his reign was over, and no- THE RECTOR. body could predict what the character ofthe new administration was to be. The obscur~ ity in which the new rector had buried his views was the most extraordinary thing about him. He had taken high honors at college, and was highly spoken of; but whether he was high, or low, or broad, mus- cular or sentimental, sermonizing or decora- tive, nobody in the world seemed able to telL Fancy if he were just to be a Mr. Bury over again! Fancy him going to the canal, and having sermons to the bargenien, and attending to all sorts of people except to us, whom it is his duty to attend to! cried one of this much-canvassed clergymans curious parishioners. Indeed, I do believe he must be one of these people. If he were in society at all, somebody would be sure to know. Lucy dear~ Mr. Bury christened you, said another not less curious but more toler- ant inquirer. Then he did you the greatest of all ser- vices, cried the third member of the little group which discussed the new rector under Mr. Wodehouses blossomed apple-trees. He conferred such a benefit upon you that he deserves all reverence at your hand. Wonderful idea! a man confersthis greatest of Christian blessings on multitudes, and does not himself appreciate the boon he con- veys! Well, for that matter, Mr. Wentworth, you know said the elder lady; but she got no farther. Though she was verging upon forty, leisurely, pious, and unmarried, that good Miss Wodehouse was not pol~mi- cal. She had her own opinions, but few people knew much about them. She was seated on a green garden-bench which sur- rounded the great May-tree in that large, warm, well-furnished garden. The high brick walls, all clothed with fruit-trees, shut in an enclosure of which not a morsel, ex- cept this velvet grass, with its nests of dai- sies, was not under the highest and most careful cultivation. It was such a scene as is only to be found in an old country town; the walls jealous of intrusion, yet thrusting tall plumes of lilac and stray branches of apple-blossom, like friendly salutations to the world without; within, the blossoms dropping over the light, bright head of Lucy Wodehouse underneath the apple-trees, and impertinently flecking the IRev. Cecil Went- I~HE RECTOR. wtirths Anglican coat. These two last were yiung people, with that indefinable harmony in their looks which prompts the suggestion of a handsome couple to the bystander. It had not even occurred to them to be in love with each other, so far as anybody knew, yet few were the undiscerning persons who saw them together without instinctively placing the young curate of St. Roques in perman& nce by Lucys side. She was twenty, pretty, blue-eyed, and full of dimples, with a broad Leghorn hat thrown carelessly on her head, untied, with broad strings of blue ribbon falling among her fair curls.a blue which was repeated, according to painter jargon, in ribbons at her throat and waist. She had great gardening-gloves on, and a basket and huge pair of scissors on the grass at her feet, which grass, besides, was strewn with a profusion of all the sweetest spring blossomsthe sweet narcissus, most exquis- ite of flowers, lilies of the valley, white and blue hyacinths, golden ranunculus globes worlds of sober, deep-breathing wallflower. If Lucy had been doing what her kind elder sister called her duty, she would have been at this moment arranging her ~owers in the drawing-room ; but the times were rare when Lucy did her duty according to Miss Wodehouses estimate; so instead of arranging those clusters of narcissus, she clubbed them together in her hands into a fragrant, dazzling sheaf, and discussed the new rectornot unaware, perhaps, in her secret heart, that the sweet morning, the sunshine and flowers, and exhilarating air, were somehow secretly enhanced by the presence of that black Anglican figure under the apple-trees. But I suppose, said Lucy, with a sigh, we must wait till we see him; and if I must be very respectful of Mr. Bury because he christened me, I am heartily glad the new rector has no claim upon my reverence. I have been christened, I have been con- firmed But, Lucy, my dear, the chances are he will n~arry you, said Miss Wodehouse, calmly; indeed, there can be no doubt that it is only natural he should, for he is the rector, you know; and though we go so often to St. Roques, Mr. Wentworth will excuse me saying that he is a very young man. Miss Wodehouse was knitting; she did 69 not see the sudden look of dismay and amazement which the curate of St. floques darted down upon her, nor the violent sym- pathetic blush which blazed over both the young faces. How shocking that elderly quiet people should have such.a faculty for suggestions! You may be sure Lucy Wode- house and young Wentworth, had it not been put into their heads in such an ab- surd fashion, would never, all their virtuous lives, have dreamt of any thing but friend- ship. Deep silence ensued after this simple but startling speech. Miss Wodehouse knitted on, and took no notice; Lucy began to gather up the flowers into the basket, un- able for her life to think of something to say. For his part, Mr. Wentworth gravely picked the apple-blossoms off his coat, and counted them in his hand. That sweet sum- mer snow kept dropping, dropping, falling here and there as the wind carried it, and with a special attraction to Lucy and her blue ribbons; while behind, Miss Wodehouse sat calmly on the green bench, under the May- tree just beginning to bloom, without lifting her eyes from her knitting. Not far off, the bright English house, all beaming with open doors and windows, shone in the sunshine. With the white May peeping out among the green overhead, and the sweet narcissus in a great dazzling sheaf upon the grass, mak- ing all the air fragrant around them, can anybody fancy a sweeter domestic out-of- door scene? or else it seemed so to the per- petual curate of St. Roques. Ah me! and if he was to be perpetual curate, and none of his great friends thought upon him, or had preferment to bestow, how do you suppose he could ever, ever marry Lucy Wodehouse, if they were to wait a hun- dred years? Just then the garden-gatethe green gate in the wallopened to the creaking murmur of Mr. Wodehouses own key. Mr. Wode- house was a man Who creaked universally. His boots were a heavy infliction upon the good-humor of his household; and like every other invariable quality of dress, the pecul- iarity became identified with him in every particular of his life. Every thing belong- ing to him moved with a certain jar, except, indeed, his household, which went on noise- less wheels, thanks to Lucy and love. As he came along the garden-path, the gravel started all round his unmusical foot. MisM ThE RIWTOR. Wodehouse alone turned round to hail her fathers approach, but both the young people looked up at her instinctively, and saw her little start, the falling of her knitting-nee- dles, the little flutter of color which surprise brought to her maidenly, middle-aged cheek. How they bath divined it I cannot tell, but it certainly was no surprise to either of them when a tall, embarrassed figure, following the portly one of Mr. Wodehouse stepped suddenly from the noisy gravel to the quiet grass, and stood gravely awkward behind the father of the house. My dear children, heres the rector.de- lighted to see him! were all delighted to see him! cried Mr. Wodehouse. This is my little girl Lucy, and this is my eldest daughter. Theyre both as good as curates, though I say it, you know, as shouldnt. I suppose youve got something tidy for lunch, Lucy, eh? To be sure you ought to know how can I tell? She might have had only cold mutton, for any thing I knewand that wont do, you know, after college fare. Hollo, Wentworth! I beg your pardon who thought of seeing you here? I thought you had morning service, and all that sort of thing. Delighted to make you known to the rector so soon. Mr. ProctorMr. Wentworth of St. Roques. The rector bowed. He had no time to say any thing, fortunately for him; but a vague sort of color fluttered over his face. It was his first living; and cloistered in All-Souls for fifteen years of his life, how is a man to know all at once how to accost his parishion- ers? especially when these curious unknown specimens of natural life happen to be fe- male creatures, doubtless accustomed to com- pliment and civility. If ever any one was thankful to hear the sound of another mans voice, that person was the new rector of Car- lingford, standing in the bewildering gar- den-scene into which the green door had so suddenly admitted him, all but treading on the dazzling bundle of narcissus, and turn- ing with embarrassed politeness from the perpetual curate, whose salutation was less cordial than it might have been, to those in- definite flutters of blue ribbon from which Mr. Proctors tall figure divided the ungra- cious young man. But come along to lunch. Bless me! dont let us be too ceremonious, cried Mr. Wodehouse. Take Lucy, my dear sir take Lucy. Though she has her garden.~ gloves on, shes manager indoors for all thM~ Molly here is the one we coddle up and tak~ care of. Put down your knitting, child, and dont make an old woman of yourself. To be sure, its your own concernyou shoula knowbest; but thats my opinion. Why, Wentworth, where are you off to? Tisnt a fast, surelyis it, Mary ?nothing of the sort; its ThursdayThursday, do you hear? and the rector newly arrived. Come along. I am much obliged, but I have an ap- pointment, began the curate, with restraint. Why didnt you keep it, then, before we came in, cried Mr. Wodehouse, chatting with a couple of girls like Lucy and Mary? Come along, come alongan appointment with some old woman or other, who wants to screw flannels and things out of youwell, I suppose so! I dont know any thing else you could have to say to them. Come along. Thank you. I shall hope to wait on the rector shortly, said young Wentworth, more and more stiffly; but at present I am sorry it is not in my power. Good-morn- ing, Miss Wodehousegood-morning; I am happy to have had the opportunity. and the voice of the perpetual curate died off into vague murmurs of politeness as he made his way towards the green door. That green door! what a slight, paltry barrierone plank, and no more; but out- side a dusty, dry road, nothing to be seen but other high brick walls, with here and there an apple-tree or a lilac, or the half-de- veloped flower-turrets of a chestnut looking overnothing td be seen but a mean little costermongers cart, with a hapless donkey, and, down in the direction of St. Roques, the long road winding, still drier and dus- tier. Ah me! was it paradise inside? or was it only a merely mortal lawn dropped over with apple-blossoms, blue ribbons, and other vanities? Who could tell? The per- petual curate wended sulky on his way. I fear the old woman would have made neither flannel nor tea and sugar out of him in that inhuman frame of mind. Dreadful young prig that young Went- worth, said Mr. Wodehouse, but comes of a great family, you know, and gets greatly taken notice ofto be sure he & oes, child. I suppose its for his familys sake: I cant see into peoples hearts. It may be higher 70 THE RECTOR. motive8, to be sure, and all that. Hes gone off in a huff about something; never mind, luncheon comes up all the same. Now lets addressourselves to the business of life. For when Mr. Wodehouse took knife and fork in hand a singular result followed. He was silQntat least he talked no longer: the mystery of carving, of eating, of drink- ingall the serious business of the table engrossed the good man. He had noth- ing more to say for the moment; and then a dread, unbroken silence fell upon the lit- tle company. The rector colored, faltered, cleared his throathe had not an idea how to get into conversation with such unknown entities. He looked hard at Lucy, with a bold intention of addressing her; but, hav- ing the bad fortune to meet her eye, shrank back, and withdrew the venture. Thea the good man inclined his profile towards Miss Wodehouse. His eyes wandered wildly round the room in search of a suggestion; but, alas! it was a mere dining-room, very comfortable, ~but not imaginative. In this dreadful dilemma he was infinitely relieved by the sound of somebodys voice. I trust you will like Carlingford, Mr. Proctor, said Miss Wodehouse, mildly. Yesoh, yes; I trust so, answered the confused but grateful man; that is, it will depend very much, of course, on the kind of people I find here. Well, we are a little vain. To tell the truth, indeed, we rather pride ourselves a little on the good society in Carlingford, said the gentle and charitable interlocutor. Ah, yes ladies? said the rector: humthat was not what I was thinking of. But, 0, Mr. Proctor, cried Lucy, with a sudden access of fun, you dont mean to say that you dislike ladies society, I hope? The rector gave an uneasy, half-frightened glance at her. The creature was dangerous even to a Fellow of All-Souls. I may sayl know very little about them, said the bewildered clergyman. As soon as he had said the words he thought they sounded rude; but how could he help it ? the truth of his speech was indisputable. Come here, and well initiate you. come here as often as you can spare us a lit- tle of your time, cried Mr. Wodehouse, who had come to a pause in his operations. You couldnt have a better chance. Theyre head people in Carlingford, though I say it. Theres Mary, shes a learned woman ; take you up in a false quantity, sir, a deal sooner than I should. And Lucy, shes in another line altogether; but theres quantities of people swear by her. Whats the matter, children, eh? I suppose sopeople tell me so. If people tell me so all day long, Im entitled to believe it, I presume? Lucy answered this by a burst of laugh- ter, not loud but cordial, which rung sweet and strange upon the rectors ears. Miss Wodehouse, on the contrary, looked a little ashamed, blushed apretty pink, old-maidenly blush, and mildly remonstrated with papa. The whole scene was astonishing to the stranger. He had been living out of nature so long that he wondered within himself whether it was common to retain the habits and words of childhood to such an age as that which good lVliss Wodehouse put no disguise upon, or if sisters with twenty years of difference between them were usual in or- dinary households. He looked at them with looks which to Miss Wodehouse appeared disapproving, but which in reality meant only surprise and discomfort. TIe was ex- ceedingly glad when lunch was over, and he was at liberty to take his leave. With very different feelings from those ef young Went- worth, the rector crossed the boundary of that green door. When he saw it closed be- hind him he drew a long breath of relief, and looked up and down the dusty road, and through those lines of garden walls, where the loads of blossoms burst over everywhere, with a sensation of having escaped and got at liberty. After a momentary pause and gaze round him in enjoyment of that liberty, the rector gave a start and went on again rapidly. A dismayed, discomfited, helpless sensation came over him. These parishion- ers !these female parishioners! From out of another of those green doors had just emerged a brilliant group of ladies, the rus- tle of whose dress and murmur of whose voices he could hear in the genteel half-ru- ral silence. The rector bolted: he never slackened pace nor drew breath till he was safe in the vacant library of the rectory, among old Mr. Burys book-shelves. It seemed the only safe place in Carlingford to the languishing transplanted Fellow of All. Souls. 71 TIlE RECTOIt. CHAPTER II. A MONTH later, Mr. Proctor had got fairly settled in his new rectory, with a complete modest establishment becoming his means for Carlingford was a tolerable living. And in the newly furnished, sober drawing- room, sat a very old lady, lively, but infirm, who was the rectors mother. Nobody knew that this old woman kept the Fellow of All- Souls still a boy at heart, nor that the re- served and inappropriate man forgot his awkwardness in his mothers presence. He was not only a very affectionate son, but a dutiful good child to her. It had been his pet scheme for years to bring her from her Devonshire cottage, and make her mistress of his house. That had been the chief at- traction, indeed, which drew him to Carling- ford; for had he consulted his own tastes, and kept to his college, who would insure him that at seventy-five his old mother might not glide away out of life without that last gleam of sunshine long intended for her by her grateful son P This scene, accordingly, was almost the only one which reconciled him to the extraor- dinary change in his life. There she sat, the lively old lady; very deaf, as you could al- most divine by that vivid inquiring twinkle in her eyes; feeble, too, for she had a silver- headed cane beside her chair, and even with that assistance seldom moved across the room when she could help it. Feeble in body, but alert in mind, ready to read any thing, to h.~ar any thing, to deliver her opin- ions freely; resting in her big chair in the complete repose of age, gratified with her sons attentions, and overjoyed in his com- pany; interested about every thing, and as ready to enter into all the domestic concerns of the new people as if she had lived all her life among them. The rector sighed and smiled as he listened to his mothers ques- tions, and did his best at the top of his voice, to enlighten her. His mother was, let us say, a hundred years or so younger than the rector. If she had been his bride, and at the blithe commencement of life, she could not have shown more inclination to know all about Carlingford. Mr. Proctor was mid- dle-aged, and pre-occupied by right of his years; but his mother had long ago got over that sta~e of life. She was at that point when some energetic natures, having got to the bottom of the hill, seem to make a fresh start and re-ascend. Five years ago, i4d~ Mrs. Proctor had completed the humar~ terms now she had recommenced her life. But, to tell the very truth, the rector wpida very fain, had that been possible, have eon~- fined her inquiries to books and public af.. fairs. For to make confidential disclosures, either concerning ones self or other people, in a tone of voice perfectly audible in the kitchen, is somewhat trying. He had be- come acquainted with those dread parishion- ers of his during this interval. Already they had worn him to death with dinner-parties dinner-parties very pleasant and friendly, when one got used to them; but to a stran- ger frightful reproductions of each other, with the same dishes, the same dresses, the same stories, in which the rector communi- cated gravely with his next neighbor, and eluded as long as he could those concluding moments in the drawing-room, which were worst of all. It cannot be said that his pa- rishioners made much progress in their knowledge of the rector. What his views were, nobody could divine any more than they could before his arrival. He made no innovations whatever; but he did not pur- sue Mr. Burys Evangelical ways, and never preached a sermon or a word more than was absolutely necessary. When zealous church- men discussed the progress of dissent, the rector scarcely looked interested; and no- body could move him to express an opinion concerning all that lovely upholstery with which Mr. Wentworth had decorated St. Roques. People asked in vaia, what was he P He was neither High or Low, en- lightened nor narrow-minded; he was a Fel- low of All-Souls. But now tell me, my dear, said old Mrs. Proctor, whos Mr. Wodehouse P With despairing calmness, the rector ap- proached his voice to her ear. lIes a churchwarden! cried the unfortupate man, in a shrill whisper. Hes what Pyou forget I dont hear very well. Im a great deal deafer, Morley, my dear, than I was the last time you were in Devonshire. What did you say Mr. Wodehouse was Hes an ass! exclaimed the baited rec- tor. i\Irs. Proctor nodded her head with a great many little satisfied assenting nods. Exactly my own opinion, my dear. What 72 tilke in your manner of expressing your- self Morley, is its conciseness, said the laughing old lady. Just soexactly what I imagined; but being an ass, you know, doesnt account for him coming here so often. What is he besides, my dear? The rector made spasmodic gestures tow- ards the door, to the great amusement of his lively mother; and then produced, with much confusion, and after a long search, his pocket-book, on a leaf of paper in which he wroteloudly, in big characters Hes a churchwardentheyll hear in the kitchen. lies a churchwarden! And what if they do hear in the kitchen? cried the old lady, greatly amused; it isnt a sin. Well, now, let me hear: has he a family, Mor- ley? Again Mr. Proctor showed a little discom- posure. After a troubled look at the door, and pause, as if he meditated a remonstrance, he changed his mind, and answered, Two daughters! shouting sepulchrally into his mothers ear. Oh, so! cried the old lady two daughtersso, sothat explains it all at once. I know now why he comes to the rectory so often. And, I declare, I never thought of it before. Why, youre always there !so, soand hes got two daughters, has he? To be sure; now I understand it all. The rector looked helpless and puzzled. It was difficult to take the initiative and ask whybut the poor man looked so perplexed and ignorant, and so clearly unaware what the solution was, that the old lady burst into shrill, gay laughter as she looked at him. I dont believe you know any thing about it, she said. Are they old or young? are they pretty or ugly? Tell me all about them, Morley. Now Mr. Proctor had not the excuse of having forgotten the appearance of the two Miss Wodehouses: on the contrary, though not an imaginative man, he could have fan- cied he saw them both before himLucy lost in noiseless laughter, and her good el- der sister deprecating and gentle as usual. We will not even undertake to say that a gleam of something blue did not flash across the mind of the good man, who did not know what ribbons were. He was so much be- wildered that Mrs. Proctor repeated her 73 question, and, as she did so, tapped him pretty smartly on the arm to recall his ~van- dering thoughts. Ones one thing, at last shouted the confused man, and tothers another! Au oracular deliverance which surely must have been entirely unintelligible in the kitchen, Where we will not deny that an utterance so incomprehensible awoke a laudable curiosity. My dear, youre lucid! cried the old lady. I hope you dont preach like that. Tothers another !is she so? and I sup- pose thats the one youre wanted to marry eh? For shame, Morley, not to tell your mother! The rector jumped to his feet, thunder- struck. Wanted to marry !the idea was too overwhelming and dreadfulhis mind could not receive it. The air of alarm which immediately diffused itself all over himhis unfeigned horror at the suggestion..capti- vated his mother. She was amused, but she was pleased at the same time. Just making her cbee~y outset on this second lifetime, you cant suppose she would have been glad to hear that her son was going to jilt her, and appoint another queen in her stead. Sit down and tell me about them, said Mrs. Proctor; amy dear, youre wonderfully afraid of the servants hearing. They dont know who we~re speaking of. Aha! and so you didnt know what they meantdidnt you? I dont say you shouldnt marry, my dearquite the reverse. A man ought to marry, one time or another. Only its rather soon to lay their plans. I dont doubt theres a great many unmarried ladies in your church, Morley. There always is in a coun- try place. To this the alarmed rector answered only by a groana groan so expressive that his quick-witted mother heard it with her eyes. They will come to call on me, said Mrs. Proctor, with fire dancing in her bright old eyes. Ill tell you all about them, and you neednt be afraid of the servants. Trust to me, my dearIll find them out. And now, if you wish to take a walk, or go out visiting, dont let me detain you, Morley. I shouldnt wonder but theres something in the papers I would like to seeor I even might close my eyes for a few minutes: the afternoon is always a drowsy time with me. When I was in Devonshire, you know, no one minded what I did. You had better re THE RECTOR. 74 THE RECTOR. fresh yourself with a nice walk, my dear not so sure of his own powers of resistance boy. as he ought to be? She might marry him The rector got up well pleased. The alac- before he knew what she was about; and rity with which he left the room, however, in such a chance the rector could not have did not correspond with the horror-stricken taken his oath at his own private eonfes& and helpless expression of his face, when, sional. that he would have been so deeply after walking very smartly all round the miserable as the circumstances might infer. rectory garden, he paused with his hand on No wonder he was deeply alarmed at the the gate, doubtful whether to retreat into position in which he found himself; nobody his study, or boldly to face that world which could predict how it might end. was plotting against him. The question was When Mr. Proctor saw his mother again a profoundly serious one to Mr. Proctor. at dinner, she was evidently full of some sub- He did not feel by any means sure that he ject which would not bear talking of before was a free agent, or could assert the ordinary the servants. The old lady looked at her right.s of an Englishman, in this most unex- sons troubled, apprehensive face with smiles peeted dilemma. How could he tell how and nods and gay hints, which he was much much or how little was necessary to prove too pre-occupied to understand, and which that a man had committed himself? For only increased his bewilderment. When the any thing he could tell, somebody might be good man was. left alone over his glass of calculating upon him as her lover, and set- wine, he drank it slowly, in funereal silence, tling his future life for him. The rector was with profoundly serious looks; and what not vain he did not think himself an between eagerness to understand what the Adonis; he did not understand any thing old lady meant, and reluctance to show the about the matter, which indeed was beneath extent of his curiosity, had a very heavy the consideration of a Fellow of All-Souls. half-hour of it in that grave, solitary dining- But have not women been incomprehensible room. He roused himself with an effort since ever there was in this world a pea with from this dismal state into which he was fall- sufficient command of words to call them so? ing. He recalled with a sigh the classic And is it not certain that, whether it may board of All-Souls. Woe for the day when be to their advantage or disadvantage, every he was seduced to forsake that dear retire- soul of them is plotting to marry somebody? meat! Really to suffer himself to fall into Mr. Proctor recalled in dim but frightful a condition so melancholy, was far from be- reminiscences stories which had dropped ing right. He must rouse himselfhe must upon his ear at various times of his life, find some other society than parishioners; Never was there a man, however ugly, disa- and with a glimpse of a series of snug little grecable, or penniless, but he could tell of a dinner-parties, undisturbed by the presence narrow escape he had, some time or other. of women, Mr. Proctor rose and hurried The rector recollected and trembled. No after his mother, to hear what new thing she woman was ever so dismayed by the perse- might have to say. cutions of a lover, as was this helpless mid- Nor was he disappointed. The old lady dle-aged gentleman under the conviction was snugly posted, ready for a conference. that Lucy Wodehouse meant to marry him. She made lively gestures to hasten him when The remembrance of the curate of St. Roques he appeared at the door, and could scarcely gave him no comfort: her sweet youth, so delay the utterance of her news till he had totally unlike his sober age, did not strike taken his seat beside her. She had taken him as unfavorable to her pursuit of him. off her spectacles, and laid aside her paper, Who could fathom the motives of a woman? and cleared off her work into her work-bas- His mother was wise, and knew the world, ket. All was ready for the talk in which and understood what such creatures meant. she delighted. No doubt it was entirely the casea dread- My dear, theyve been here, said old ful certaintyand what was he to do? Mrs. Proctor, rubbing her hands both to- At the bottom of all this right and per- gether, and as kind as could beexactly as plexity must it be owned that the rector had I expected. An old woman gets double the a guilty consciousness within himself, that if attention when shes got an unmarried son. Lucy drove the matter to extremities, he was Ive always ~servedthat; though in Dcv- THE RECTOR. onshire,. what with your fellowship and see- iwg you so seldom, nobody took much no- ti~e~ Yes, theyve been here; and I like them a great deal better than I expected, Morley, my dear. The rector, not knowing what else to say, shouted Indeed, mother! into the old ladys ear. Quite so, continued that lively observer nice young womennot at all like their father, which is a great consolation. That elder one is a very sensible person, I am sure. She would make a nice wife for some- body, especially fox a clergyman. She is not in her first youth, but neither are some other people. A very nice creature indeed, I am quite sure. During all this speech the rectors coun- tenance had been falling, falling. If he was helpless before, the utter woe of his expres- sion now was a spectacle to behold. The dan- ger of being married by proxy waa appalling certainly, yet was not entirely without alle- viations; but Miss Wodehouse! who ever thought of Miss Wodehouse? To see the last remains of color fade out of his cheek, and his very lip fall with disappointment, was deeply edifying to his lively old mother. She perceived it all, but made no sign. And the other is a pretty creaturecer- tainly pretty: shouldnt you say she was pretty, Morley? said his heartless mother. Mr. Proctor hesitated, hemmedfelt him- self growing redtried to intimate his sen- timents by a nod of assent; but that would not do; for the old lady had presented her ear to him, and was blind to all his gestures. I dont know much about it, mother, he made answer at last. Mitch about it! its to be hoped not. I never supposed you did; but you dont mean to say you dont think her pretty? said Mrs. Proctor hut, 1 dont doubt in the least, a sad flirt. Her sister is a very supe- rior ~ my dear. The rectors face lengthened at every word a vision of these two Miss Wodehouses rose upon him every moment clearer and more distinct as his mother spoke. Consid- ering how ignorant he was of all such fe- male paraphernalia, it is extraordinary how correct his recollection was of all the usual details of their habitual dress and appear- auce. With a certain dreadful consciousness of the justice of what his mother said, he saw in imagination the mild elder sister in her comely old maidenhood. Nobody could doubt her good qualities, and could it be questioned that for a man of fifty, if he was to do any thing so foolish, a woman not quite forty was a thousand times more eligible than a creature in blue ribbons? Still the unfortunate rector did not seem to see it: his face grew longer and longerhe made no answer whatever to his mothers address; while she, with a spice of natural female malice against the common enemy triumph- ing for the moment over the mothers ad- iniration of her son, sat wickedly enjoying his distress, and aggravating it. his dis- may and perplexity amused this wicked old woman beyond measure. I have no doubt that younger girl takes a pleasure in deluding her admirers, said Mrs. Proctor; shes a wicked little flirt, and likes nothing better than to see her power. I know very well how such people do; but, my dear, continued this false old lady, scarcely able to restrain her laughter, if I were you, I would be very civil to Miss Wodehouse. You may depend upon it, Mor- ley, thats a very superior person. She is not very young, to be sure, hut you are not very young yourself. She would make a nice wifenot too foolish, you know, nor fanciful. Ah! I like Miss Wodehouse, my dear. The rector stumbled up to his feet hastily, and pointed to a table nt a little distance, on which some books were lying. Then he went and brought them to her table. Ive brought you some new books, lie shouted into her ear. It was the only way his clumsy ingenuity could fall upon for bring- ing this most distasteful conversation to an end. The old ladys eyes were dancing with fun and a little mischief, but, notwithstanding, she could not be so false to her nature as to show no interest in the books. She turned them over with lively remarks and ~omment. But for all that, Morley, I would not have you forget Miss Wodehouse, she said, when her early bedtime came. Give it a thought now and then, and consider the whole mat- ter. It is not a thing to be done rashly; but still you know you are settled now, and you ought to be thinking of settling for life. With this parting shaft she left him. The troubled rector, instead of sitting up to his 75 76 ~~HE RECTOR. beloved studies, went early to bed that night, It happened one day, while still in this and was l)ursucd by nightmares through his condition of mind, that the rector was unquiet slumbers. Settling for life! Alas! ing through Grove Street on his ~vay hodi~. there floated before him vain visions of He was walking on the humbler side 6f the that halcyon world he had leftthat sacred street, where there is a row of cottages soil at All-Souls, where there were no pa- with little gardens in front of themcheap rishioners to break the sweet repose. How houses, which are contented to be haughtily different was this discomposing real world! overlooked by the staircase windows and blank walls of their richer neighbors on the CHAPTER ~ other side of the road. The rector thought, MATTERS went on quietly for some time but could not be sure, that he had seen two without any catastrophe occurring to the figures like those of the Miss Wodehouses rector. He had shut himself up from all going into one of these houses, and was society, and declined the invitations of the making a little haste to escape meeting those parishioners for ten long days at least; hut enemies of his peace. But as he went has- finding that the kind people were only kinder tily on, he heard sobs and screams from one than ever when they understood he was in- of the housessounds which a man who hid disposed, poor Mr. Proctor resumed his or- a good heart under a shy exterior could not dinary life, confiding timidly in some extra willingly pass by. He made a troubled pause precautions which his own ingenuity had in- before the door from which these outcries vented. He was shyer than ever of address- proceeded, and while he stood thus irreso- ing the ladies in those parties he was obliged lute whether to pass on or to stop and inquire to attend. He was especially emharrassed the cause, some one came rushing out and and uncomfortable in the presence of the took hold of his arm. Please, sir, shes two Miss Wodehouses, who, unfortunately, dyingoh, please, sir, she thought a deal o were very popular in Carlingford, and whom you. Please, will you come in and speak to he could not help meeting everywhere. Not- her? cried the little servant-girl who had withstanding this embarrassment, it is cnn- pounced upon him so. The rector stared at ous how well he knew how they looked, her in amazement. He had not his prayer- and what they were doing, and all about bookhe was not prepared; he had no idea them. Though he could not for his life have of being called upon in such an emergency. told what these things were called, he knew In the mean time the commotion rather in- Miss Wodehouses dove-colored dress and creased in the house, and he could hear in her French gray; and all those gleams of the distance a voice adjuring some one to blue which set off Lucys fair curls, and go for the clergyman. The rector stood un- floated about her pretty person under van- certain and perplexed, perhaps in a more se- ous pretences, had a distinct though inartic- rious personal difficulty than had ever hap- ulate place in the good mans confused re- pened to him all his life before. For what membrances. But neither Lucy nor Miss did he know about deathbeds? or what had Wodehouse had brought matters to extrem- he to say to any one on that dread verge? ity. He even ventured to go to their house He grew pale with real vexation and dis- occasionally without any harm coming of it, tress. and lingered in that blooming fragrant gar- Have they gone ror a doctor? that would den, where the blossoms had given place to be more to the purpose, he said, uncon- fruit, and ruddy apples hung heavy on the sciously, aloud. branches which had once scattered their Please, sir, its no good, said the little petals, rosy-white, on Cecil Wentworths maid-servant. Please, the doctors been, Anglican coat. Yet Mr. Proctor was not but hes no goodand shes unhappy in her lulled into incaution by this seeming calm, mind, though shes quite resigned to go: Other people besides his mother had inti- and oh, please, if you would say a word to mated to him that there were expectations her, it might do her a deal of good. current of his settling in life. He lived Thus adjured, the rector had no choice. not in false security, but wise trembling, He ivent gloomily into the house and up the never knowing what hour the thunderbolt stair after his little guide. Why did not might fall upon his head. I they send for the miflister of Salem Chapel TElE RECTOR. clQse b~? or for Mr. Wentworth, who was accustom~4 to that sort of thing.? Why did they resq~t to him in such an emergency? He woul4 have made his appearance hefore the highest magnates of the landbefore the queen herselfbefore the bench of bishops or the Privy Councilwith less trepidation than he entered that poor little room. The sufferer lay breathing heavily in the poor apartment. She did not look very ill to Mr. Proctors inexperienced eyes. Her color was bright, and her face full of eager- ness. Near the door stood Miss Wodehouse, looking compassionate but helpless, casting wistful glances at the bed, but standing back in a corner as confused and embarrassed as the rector himself. Lucy was sI~anding by the pillow of the sick woman with a watch- ful readiness visible to the most unskilled eyeready to raise her, to change her po- sition, to attend to her wants almost before they were expressed. The contrast was won- derful. Shs had thrown off her bonnet and shawl, and appeared, not like a stranger but somehow in her natural place, despite the sweet youthful beauty of her looks, and the gay girlish dress with its floating ribbons. These singular adjuncts notwithstanding, no homely nurse in a cotton gown could have looked more alert or serviceable, or more natural to the position, than Lucy did. The poor rector, taking the seat which the little maid placed for him directly in the centre of the room, looked at the nurse and the pa- tient with a gasp of perplexity and embar- rassment. A deathbed, alas! was an un- known region to him. 0 sir, Im obliged to you for coming O sir, Im grateful to you, cried the poor woman in the bed. Ive been ill, off and on, for years, but never took thought to it as I ought. Ive put off and put off waiting for a better timeand now, God help me, its perhaps too late. 0 sir, tell me, when a persons ill and dying, is it too late? Before the rector could even imagine what he could answer, the sick woman took up the broken thread of her own words, and con- tinued, I dont feel to trust as I ought toI dont feel no confidence, she said, in anxious confession. 0 sir, do you think it mat- ters if one feels it ?dont you think things might be right all the same though we were uneasy in our minds? My thinking cant change it one way or another. Ask the good gentleman to speak to me, Miss Lucy, dear hell mind what you say. A look from Lucy quickened the rectors speech, but increased his embarrassments. Itit isnt her doctor she has no confidence in? he said, eagerly. The poor woman gave a little cry. The doctorthe doctor! what can he do to a poor dying creature? Oh, Lord bless you, its none of them things Im thinking of; its my soulmy soul! But my poor good woman, said Mr. Proctor, though it is very good and praise- worthy of you to be anxious about your soul, let us hope that there is no suchno such haste as you seem to suppose. The patient opened her eyes wide, and stared, with the anxious look of disease, in his face. I mean, said the good man, faltering under that gaze, that I see no reason for your making yourself so very anxious. Let us hope it is not so bad as that. You are very ill, but not so illI suppose. Here the rector was interrupted by a groan from the patient, and by a troubled, disap- proving, disappointed look from Lucy Wode- house. This brought him to a sudden stand- still. He gazed for a moment helplessly at the poor woman in the bed. If he had known any thing in the world which would have given her consolation, he was ready to have made any exertion for it; but he knew nothing to sayno medicine for a mind dis- eased was in his repositories. He was deeply distressed to see the disappointment which followed his words, but his distress only made him more silent, more helpless, more inefficient than before. After an interval which was disturbed only by the groans of the patient and the uneasy fidgeting of good Miss Wodehouse in her corner, the rector again broke silence. The sick woman had tt~rned to the wall, and closed her eyes in dismay and ~1isappoint- meatevidently she had ceased to expect any thing from him. If there is any thing I can do, said poor Mr. Proctor. I am afraid I have spoken hastily. I meant to try to calm her mind a little; if I can be of any use? Ah, maybe Im hasty, said the dying woman, turning round again with a sudden effort but, oh, to ~peak to me of having 77 THE RECTOTh. time when Ive one foot in the grave al-. ready! Not so bad as thatnot so bad as that, said the rector soothingly. But I tell you it is as bad as that, she cried, with the brief blaze of anger common to great weakness. Im not a child to be persuaded different from what I know. If youd tell meif youd say a prayerah, Miss Lucy, its coming on again. In a moment Lucy had raised the poor creature in her arms, and in default of the pillows which were not at hand, had risen herself into their place, and supported the gasping woman against her own breast. It was a paroxysm dreadful to behold, in which every laboring breath seemed the last. The rector sat like one struck dumb, looking on at that mortal struggle. Miss Wodehouse approached nervously from behind, and went up to the bedside, faltering forth questions as to what she could do. Lucy only waved her hand, as her own light figure swayed and changed, always seeking the easiest attitude for the sufferer. As the elder sister drew back, the rector and she glanced at each other with wistful mutual looks of sympathy. Both were equally well-disposed, equally helpless and embarrassed. How to be of any use in that dreadful agony of nature was denied to both. They stood looking on, awed and self-reproaching. Such scenes have doubtless happened in sick-rooms be- fore now. When tb fit was over, a hasty step came up the st?ir, and Mr. Wentworth entered the room~ He explained in a whisper that he had not been at home when the messen- ger car~ic, but had followed whenever he heard of the message. Seeing the rector, he hei4tated, and drew back with some sur- prise, and, even (for he was far from perfect) in that chamber, a little flush of offence. The rector rose abruptly, waving his hand, and went to join Miss Wodelouse in her corner. There th~ Iwo elderly spectators looked on silent at rn.inistrations of which both were incapable; one watching with wonderingyet affectionate envy how Lucy laid down the weakened but relieved patient upon her pil- lows; and one beholding with a surprise he could not conceal, how a young man, not half his own age, went softly, with all the confidence yet awe of nature, into those mys- teries which he dared not touch upon. The two young creatures by the deathbed cc-. knowledged that their patient was d3 ing; the woman stood by her watchful and affec- tionatethe man held up before her that cross, not of wood or metal, but of truth and everlasting verity, which is the only hope of man. The spectators looked on, and didiiot interrupt~looked on, awed and wondering unaware of how it was, but watching as if it were a miracle wrought before their eyes. Perhaps all the years of his life had not taught the rector so much as did that half- hour in an unknown poor bed-chamber, where, honest and humble, he stood aside, and, kneeling down, responded to his young brothers prayer. His young brotheryoung enough to have been his sonnot half nor a quarter part so learned as he; but a world further on in that profession which they sharedthe art of winning souls. When those prayers were over, the rector without a word to anybody, stole quietly away. When he got into the street, how- ever, he found himself closely followed by Miss Wodehouse, of whom he was not at this moment afraid. That good creature was crying softly under her veil. She was eager to make up to him, to open out her full heart; and indeed the rector, like her- self, in that wonderful sensation of surprised and unenvying discomfiture, was glad at that moment of sympathy too. 0 Mr. Proctor, isnt it wonderful ? sighed good Miss Wodehouse. The rector did not speak, but he answered by a very emphatic nod of his head. It did not used to be so when you and I were young, said his companion in failure. I sometimes take a little comfort from that; but no doubt, if it had been in me, it would have shown itself somehow. Ah, I fear, I fear, I was not well brought up; but, to he sure, that dear child has not been brought up at all, if one may say so. Her poor mother died when she was born. And oh, Im afraid I never was kind to Lucys mother, Mr. Proctor. You know she was only a year or two older than I was; and to think of that child, that baby! What a world she is, and always was, before me that might have been her mother, Mr. Proctor! said Miss Wode- house, with a little sob. But things were different in our young days, said the rector, repeating her senti- ment, without inquiring whether it were truo 78 THE RECTOR. or not, and finding a certain vague consola- tion in it. Ah, that is true, said Miss Wodehouse . that is true; what a blessing things are so changed; and these blessed young crea- tures, she added softly, with tears falling out of her gentle old eyes these blessed young creatures are near the Fountain- head. With this speech Miss Wodehouse held out her hand to the rector, and they parted with a warm mutual grasp. The rector went straight home..straight to his study, where he shut himself in, and was not to be dis- turbed; that night was one long to be re- membered in the good mans history. For the first time in his life he set himself to in- quire what was his supposed business in this world. His treatises on the Greek verb, and his new edition of Sophocles, were highly creditable to the Fellow of All-Souls; but how about the rector of Carlingford? What was he doing here, among that little world of human creatures who were dying, being born, perishing, suffering, falling into misfortune and anguish, and all manner of human vicissitudes, every day? Young Wentworth knew what to say to that woman in her distress; and so might the rector, had her distress concerned a disputed transla- tion, or a disused idiom. The good man was startled in his composure and calm. To-day he had visibly failed in a duty which even in All-Souls was certainly known to be one of the duties of a Christian priest. Was he a Christian priest, or what was he? He was troubled to the very depths of his soul. To hold an office the duties of which he could not perform, was clearly impossible. The only question, and that a hard one, was, whether he could learn to discharge those duties, or whether he must cease to be rec- tor of Carlingford. He labored over this problem in his solitude, and could find no answer. Things were different when we were young, was the only thought that was any comfort to him, and that was poor con- solation. For one thing, it is hard upon the most magnanimous of men to confess that he has undertaken ~n office for which he has not was included in the duties of his office, he must perform them, or quit his post. But how to perform them? Can one learn to convey consolation to the dying, to teach the igno- rant, to comfort the sorrowful? Are these matters to be acquired by study, like Greek verbs or intricate measures? The rectors heart said No. The rector~s imagination unfolded before him, in all its halcyon bless- edness, that ancient paradise of All-Souls, where no such confounding demands ever disturbed his beatitude. The good man groaned within himself over the mortifica- tion, the labor, the sorrow, which this living was bringing upon him. If I had but let it pass to Morgan, who wanted to marry, he said with self-reproach; and then sud- denly bethought himself of his own most in- nocent filial romance, and the pleasure his mother had taken in her new house and new beginning life. At that touch the tide flowed back again. Could he dismiss her now to another solitary cottage in Devonshire, her old home there being all dispersed and broken up, while the house she had hoped to die in cast her out from its long-hoped-for shelter? The rector was quite overwhelmed by this new aggravation. If by any effort of his own, any sacrifice to himself, he could preserve this bright new home to his mother, would he shrink from that labor of love? Nobody, however, knew any thing about those conflicting thoughts which rent his sober bosom. He preached next Sunday as usual, letting no trace of the distressed, wist- ful anxiety to do his duty which now pos- sessedhim gleam into his sermon. He looked I down upon a crowd of unsympathetic, unin- terested faces, when he delivered that smooth little sermon, which nobody cared much about, and which disturbed nobody. The only eyes which in the smallest degree com- prehended him were those of good Miss Wodehouse, who had been the witness and the participator of his humiliation. Lucy was not there. Doubtless Lucy was at St. Roques, where the sermons of the perpetual curate differed much from those of the rec- tor of Carlingford. Ah me! the rectorship, with all its responsibilities, was a serious business; and what was to come of it yet, found himself capable. Magnanimity was Mr. Proctor could not see. He was not a perhaps too lofty a word to apply to the rec- hasty manhe determined to wait and see tor; but he was honest to the bottom of his what events might make of it; to consider souL As soon as he became aware of what it ripelyto take full counsel with himself. 79 THE UECTOR. Every time he came out of his mothers pres- ence, he came affected and full of anxiety to preserve to her that home which pleased her so much. She was the strong point in favor of Carlingford; and it was no small tribute to the good mans filial affection, that for her chiefly he kept his neck under the yoke of a service to which he knew himself unequal, and, sighing, turned his hack upon his be- loved cloisters. If there had been no other sick-beds immediately in Carlingford, Mrs. Proctor would have won the day. conscience supplied all that was wantin g. If good Miss Wodehouse had been there with her charitable looks, and her diseffi- ciency so like his own, it would have been a consolation to the good man. He would have turned joyfully from Lucy and her blue ribbons to that distressed dove-colored woman, so greatly had recent events cbanged him. But the truth was, he cared nothing for either of them now-a-days. He was de- livered from those whimsical, distressing fears. Something more serious had oNiter- ated those lighter apprehensions. He had CHAPTER IV. no leisure now to think that somebody had planned to marry him; all his thoughts were fixed on matters so much more important that this was entirely forgotten. Mrs. Proctor was seated as usual in the place she loved, with her newspapers, her books, her work-basket, and silver-headed cane at the side of her chair. The old lady, like her son, looked serious. She beckoned him to quicken his steps when she saw him appear at the drawing-room door, and point.. ed to the chair placed beside her, all ready for this solemn conference. He came in with a troubled face, scarcely venturing to look at her, afraid to see the disappointment which he had brought upon his dearest friend. The old lady divined why it was he did not lift his eyes. She took his hand and addressed him with all her characteristic vi- vacity. Morley, what is this you mean, my dear? When did I ever give my son reason to dis- trust me? Do you think I would suffer you to continue in a position painful to yourself for my sake? How dare you think such a thing of me, Morley? Dont say so; you didnt mean it! I can see it in your eyes. The rector shook his head, and dropped into the chair placed ready for him. He might have had a great deal to say for him- self could she have heard him. But as it was, he could not shout all his reasons and her opinion. At Mr. Wodehouses there was apologies into her deaf ear. nobody at home but Lucy, who was very As for the change to me, said the old friendly, and took no notice of that sad en- lady, instinctively seizing upon the heart of counter which had changed his views so en- the difficulty, thats nothingsimply noth- tirely. The rector found, on inquiry, that ing. Ive not had time to get attached to Car- the woman was dead, but not until Mr. lingford. Ive no associations with the place. Wentworth had administered to her fully Of course I shall be very glad to go back to the consolations of the Church. Lucy did all my old friends. Put that out of the ques- not look superior, or say any thing in admi- tion, Morley. ration of Mr. Wentworth, but the rectors But the rector only shook his head once Sucn a blessed exemption, however, was not to be hoped for. When the rector was solemnly sent for from his very study to visit a poor man who was not expected to live many days, he put his prayer-book under his arm, and went off doggedly, feeling that now was the crisis. He went through it in ~as exemplary a manner as could have been desired, but it was dreadful work to the rec- tor. If nobody else suspected him, he sus- pected himself. He had no spontaneous word of encouragement or consolation to offer; he went through it as his duty with a horrible abstractness. That night he went home disgusted beyond all possible power of self-reconciliation. He could not continue this. Good evangelical Mr. Bury, who went before him, and by nature loved preaching, had accustomed the people to much of such visitations. It was murder to the Fellow of All-Souls. That night Mr. Proctor wrote a long let- ter to his dear cheery old mother, disclosing all his heart to her. It was written with a pathos of which the good man was wholly unconscious, and finished by asking her ad- vice and her prayers. He sent it up to her next morning on her breakfast-tray, which he always furnished with his own hands, and went out to occupy himself in paying visits till it should be time to see her, and ascertain 80 THE RECTOR. 81 more. The more she made light of it, the duty, Morley dear, continued his mother, more he perceived all the painful circum- melting a little, and in a coaxing, persua- stances involved. Could his mother go sive tone, of course I know you will do back to Devonshire and tell all her old ladies it, however hard it may be. that her son had made a failure in Carling- Thats just the difficulty, cried the rec- ford P He grieved within himself at the tor, venturing on a longer speech than usual, thought. His brethren at All-Souls might and roused to a point at which he had no understand him; but what could console the fear of the listeners in the kitchen; such brave old women for all the condolence and duties require other training than mine has commiseratiou to which she would be sub- been. I cant !do you hear me, mother P jeet P It goes to my heart, mother, he and I must not hold a false position; thats cried in her ear. impossible. Well, Morley, I am very sorry you find You shant hold a false position, cried it so, said the old lady; very sorry you the old lady; thats the only thing that is cant see your way to all your duties. They impossiblebut, Morley, let us consider, tell me the late rector was very Low Church, dear. You are a clergyman, you know; you and visited aboulj like a Dissenter, so it is ought to understand all thats required of not much wonder you, with your differ- you a great deal better than these people do. ent habits, find yourself a good deal put My dear, your poor father and I trained you out; but, my dear, dont you think its only up to be a clergyman, said Mrs. Proctor, at first P Dont you think after awhile the rather pathetically, and not to be a Fellow people would get into your ways, and you of All-Souls. into theirs P Miss Wodehouse was here this The rector groaned. Had it not been ad- morning, and was telling me a good deal vancement, progress, unhoped-for good for- about the late rector. Its to he expected tune, that made him a member of that you should find the difference; but by and learned corporation P He shook his head. by, to be sure, you might get used to it, and Nothing could change the fact now. After the people would not expect so much. fifteen years experience of that Elysium, he Did she tell you where we met the other could not put on the cassock and surplice day P asked the rector, with a brevity ren- with all his youthful fervor. He had set- dered necessary by Mrs. Proctors infirmity. tled into his life-habits long ago. With the She told meshes a dear confused good quick perception which made up for her de- soul, said the old lady about the differ- ficiency, his mother read his face, and saw ence between Lucy and herself, and how the the cause was hopeless; yet with female young creature was twenty times handier courage and pertinacity made one effort than she, and something about young Mr. more. Wentworth of St. Roques. Really, by all And with an excellent, hard-working cu- I hear, that must be a very presuming young rate, said the old lady a curate whom, man, cried Mrs. Proctor, with a lively air of course, wed do our duty by, Morley, and of offence. His interference among your who could take a great deal of the responsi- parishioners, Morley, is really more than I bility off your hands; for Mr. Vincent though should be inclined to bear. a nice young man, is nOt, I know, the man Once more the good rector shook his head. you would have chosen for such a post; and He had not thought of that aspect of the still more, my dear sonwe were talking of subject. He was, indeed, so free from van- it in jest not long ago, but it is perfect ear- ity or self-importance, that his only feeling nest, and a most important matterwith a in regard to the sudden appearance of the good wife, Morley; a wife who would enter perpetual curate was respect and surprise, into all the parish work, and give you useful He would not be convinced otherwise even hints, and conduct herself as a clergymans now. He can do his duty, mother, he an- wife shouldwith such a wife swered, sadly. Lucy Wodehouse! cried the rector, Stuff and nonsense! cried the old lady. starting to his feet, and forgetting all his Do you mean to tell me a boy like that can proprieties; I tell you the thing is impos- do his duty better than my son could do it, sible. Ill go back to All-Souls. if he put his mind to it P And if it is your He sAt down again, doggedly, having said THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 766 THE RECTOR. it. His mother sat looking at him in silence, with tears in her lively old eyes. She was saying within herself that she had seen his father take just such a turn, and that it was no use arguing with them under such circumstances. She watched him, as women often do watch men, waiting till the crea- ture should come to itself again and might be spoken to. The incomprehensibleness of women is an old theory, but what is that to the curious, wondering observation with which wives, mothers, and sisters watch the other unreasoning animal in those moments when he has snatched the reins out of their hands, and is not to be spoken to! What he will make of it in those unassisted mo- ments afflicts the compassionate female un- derstanding. It is best to let him come to, and feel his own helplessness. Such was Mrs. Proctors conclusion, as, vexed, dis- tressed, and helpless, she leant back in her chair, and wiped a few tears of disappoint- ment and vexation out of her bright old eyes. The rector saw this movement, and it once more excited him to speech. But you shall have a house in Oxford, mother, he cried. you shant go back to Devonshire where I can see you every day, and you can hear all that is going on. Bravo! that will be a thousand times better than Carling- ford. It was now Mrs. Proctors turn to jump up, startled, and put her hand on his mouth and point to the door. The rector did not care for the door; he had disclosed his sen- timents, he had taken his resolution, and now the sooner all was over the better for the emancipated man. Thus concluded the brief incumbency of the Reverend Morley Proctor. When he returned to Oxford everybody was glad to see him, and he left Carlingford with univer- sal good wishes. The living fell to Morgan, lively old mothers memory, and how could any reminiscences of that uncongenial loea~V ity disturb the recovered beatitude of th~ Fellow of All-Souls? Yet all was not so satisfactory ~s it ap- peared. Mr. Proctor paid for his temporary absence. All-Souls was not the Elysium it had been before that brief, disastrous voy- age into the world. The good man felt the stings of failure; he felt the mild jokes of his brethren in those Elysian fields. He could not help conjuring up to himself vis- ions of Morgan with his new wife in that pretty rectory. Life, after all, did not con- sist of books, nor were Greek verbs essen- tial to happiness. The strong emotion into which his own failure had roused himthe wondering silence in which he stood looking at the ministrations of Lucy Wodehouse and the young curatethe tearful, sympathetic woman as helpless as himself, who had stood beside him in that sick-chamber, came back upon his recollection strangely, amidst the repose, not so blessed as heretofore, of All- Souls. The good man had found out that secret of discontent which most men find out a great deal earlier than he. Something better, though it might be sadder, harder, more calamitous, was in this world. Was there ever human creature yet that had not something in him more congenial to the thorns and briers outside to be conquered, than to that mild paradise for which our pri- meval mother disqualified all her children? When he went back to his dear cloisters, good Mr. Proctor felt that sting: a longing for the work he had rejected stirred in him a wistful recollection of the sympathy he had not sought. And if in future years any traveller, if travellers still fall upon adventures, should light upon a remote parsonage in which an elderly, embarrassed rector, with a mild wife in dove-colored dresses, toils painfully after who wanted to be married, and whose turn his duty, more and more giving his heart to was much more to be a working clergyman it, more and more finding difficult expres- than a classical commentator. Old Mrs. sion for the unused faculty, let him be sure Proctor got a pretty house under shelter of that it is the late rector of Carlingford, self- the trees of St. Giles, and half the under- expelled out of the uneasy paradise, setting graduates fell in love with the old lady in forth untimely, yet not too late, into the la- the freshness of her second lifetime. Car- borious world. 1lingford passed away like a dream from the 82 KING JEROME AND illS AMERICAN WIFE. 83 From The Athen~sum. grace, varied in Jeromes case by an occa~ KING JEROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE. sional duel, the folly of which was only to Menwirs and Oorre*pondence of King fe- be equalled by its ferocity. The English rome and Queen Catherine[Memoires et reader will find as much difficulty in under- Correspondanee du .hoi J~r6me et d~ laReine standing the authors account of the political Gatherine. Premiere Partie]. Paris, events of the period as if they were wars Dentu. in Flanders. But, as all the political RECENT French trials have given to the events are made subservient to the hero, and early days of King Jerome the interest of serve only as a background and mise-en-se~ne romance. Jerome was a naughty boy, and for Jerome, to enable him to assume a pose, his naughtiness led him into scrapes which the historical unities are not of much impor- had their comic and their tragic sides. The tance; they bear as much resemblance to law courts of his nephew have, indeed, been actual facts as the cannons smoke and dead very kind to him, and very hard upon the soldiers represent the battle raging behind beautiful young lady whom he betrayed and the Marquis of Granby on a village sign- abandoned; but opinion in Europe is not post. Jerome was sent to join the French yet governed by the Code Napoleon; and fleet about to sail under Admiral Gauteaume. hence appears to have arisen a necessity for Jerome was on board the Indivisible. The some further literary defence of Jeromes fleet sailed about for some time up and down conduct, and especially of his engagement in the Mediterranean, without doing any with Elizabeth Patterson. It would almost thing particular, except allowing some of seem as if M. Alexandre Dumas had been their vessels to be captured. Frenchmen selected for this delicate work. The success are not in the least amphibious and the is not great. All the Chinese puzzles ever authors maritime facts are very hazy. The invented, all the hard riddles offered under French fleet sails, in these pages, hither and penalties by the Sphinx, all the hard tasks thither; and the reader will be as perplexed laid upon victims in fairy tales or out of as Nelson if he struggles to understand what them, were easy matters compared to the they are about. difficulty of transforming King Jerome into Jerome saw his first battle, and was re- a hero. In fact, the task is no less than to warded by being sent home on board the make something out of nothing: ois ii ny~a prize Swiftsure, an English vessel captured rien le roiperd ses droits. and brought home in pomp; and on his ar- Ia the beginning Jerome is presented, in rival he received commendation, and the the Dumas fashion, as a student, at the Col- commission of an aspirant of the first-class. lege of Juillya spoiled, noisy, troublesome Napoleon, however, wrote a significant let- boy, whose escapades are told in the delicate ter to his brother, expressing a hope that he paraphrases to which the French language would give his whole mind to learn his pro- lends itself so blandly that a foreigner fession; that he would go aloft, learn the might imagine the chief end for which it was different parts of a ship, and suffer no one created was to color and soften ugly facts else to do his work. He expresses a hope with its delicately tinted epithets. The art that Jerome, in time, will become aussi of dress is as much shown in the French agile quun bon moUsse. language as in the French fashions. En- Jerome assisted at thefltes given to cele- dowed with an agreeable, elegant, and ad- brate the brief peace, or rather armistice, mirable appearance, full of impetuosity, Je- which occurred as a lull in the great war. rome at fifteen was the spoiled child of the The eclat incomparable which, according First Consul, whose paternal watchfulness to the author, these rejoicings shed upon the was defeated more than once by the uncon- name of Bonaparte, and the sc~nes magi- sidered acts of this ardent and decided na ture. ques which Paris presented to the whole world (for Paris has always understood the The ardent and decided nature exhib- art of getting up spectacles), completely ited itself in the ways by which prodigal turned the head of Jerome; he was the fly sons have distinguished themselves from on the chariot-wheel in all his glory; le time immemorial; an unlimited faculty for trait dominant de son caract~re, le sentiment spending money, getting into debt and dis- profond de sa dignit~ personelle received a KING JEROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE. 84 great accession of force. But before it had rome was glad of any thing that sent him on time to come to its full growth, Napoleon shore. He hated responsibility, but he de- sent him once more to sea. This time it lighted in receiving the official demonstra- was the expedition to St. Domingo. The tion of respect due to him as commander of wretched story has been often told; it re- a vessel of war and brother to the First Con- ceives no fresh illustration in these pages; sul. He was enchanted when the Governor it only becomes more confused in blood, and of Martinique received him with all the gar- smoke, and horror. Jerome was again al- rison turned out under arms. Jerome was a lowed to come home with despatches; and parvenu to the backbone, and his vulgarity the reader will smile at the tone of delicate was engrained. To appear in a state car- deprecation with which the author hints that riage, to receive attention from high person- Jerome got into all the mischief possible dur- ages, to be flattered, to spend unlimited ing the month he remained at Paris. Na- pocket-money, to have nothing to do but to poleon sent him to sea again at the end of a go to fites and public amusementsthose month, but Jerome contrived means to re- were his notions of royal felicity. The au- main at Nantes, and to amuse himself, for thor does not narrate one single trait of two months, and when, at length, he tardily youthful generosity, or manly ambition, or embarked, a convenient storm drove him rational common sense. Jerome had the un- back to port. The difficulty of getting Je- mitigated selfishness of a prince of the days rome afloat was like that of launching the of the right divine of kings to govern Great Eastern. At length he sailed, and ar- wrong;~ but he entirely lacked the royal rived at Martinique; where, utterly incom- grace and princely manner with which kings petent, and caring nothing for his profession, who have left but a sorry name in history he was made captain of the brig Epervier. conciliated, personally, the good-will and He had an attack of yellow fever, which gave propitiated the patience of their subjects. him a final disgust for the hardships of a Jerome cared nothing for the opportunities sailors life, and he expressed a very dis- offered to him of obtaining distinction; the tinet desire to give up his commission and duties of his profession were a weariness to get rid of the whole concern, which the stony- him; he even wished, as we have seen, to give hearted admiral refused to grant. It was, up the command of his vesselbecause it however, evident that Jerome was unfit to entailed duties. The admiral, exasperated at he intrusted with the destinies of a herring- Jeromes stupid discourtesy to the English boat. Under his command the Epervier flag, ordered him to return at once to France. was in the most miserable state; betwixt the War was on the point of breaking out, but sickness and the desertion of the men, it the peace, though strained to extremity, had needed to be entirely refitted. Jerome was not actually been yet broken, and the French recalled to France, but, with his usual self- admiral did not want to get into a quarrel. will, he had now no inclination to go; he Jerome, fertile in expedients for avoiding was amusing himself at Martinique, where what he disliked, wrote back excuses, and he found a childish pleasure in being treated delayed his departure till it became impossi- with the distinction due to the brother of the ble. The admiral, at his wits end, and anx- First Consul. He was the torment of his ious to be quit of him at any rate, yet fear- admiral, Villaret Joyeuse, who only desired ful of his being made prisoner, gave him to get him safely off. At last, after repeated permission to go to America. Jerome asked orders, he sailed; but scarcely had he left nothing better; and to America he went. the shore than he contrived seriously to in- The biographer, previous to naming the spot suit an English man-of-war out of pure in- where Jerome landed, proceeds to give a de- solence and heedlessness. Alarmed, how- scription of the attitude assumed by his ever, at the possible consequences of what hero. He says he had done, Jerome returned to Martinique; Jerome had searely set foot in the Amer- and the admiral, who believed him well on ican territory than he began to give himself his voyage, had the vexation to see him come the privileges, manners, and airs of a prince, back with a folly on his hands which was tempered only by the incognito which he at likely to have serious consequences. first assumed. As to his opinions and his Not in the slightest degree abashed, Je- conduct, he set them resolutely above all KING JEROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE. 85 remonstrances and censure from any quarter himself! Pichon se tint pour dit, and could whatever: Laudace et tot yours de laudace. only put up his prayers that he might be Jerome, it must be owned, had that qual- speedily delivered from the presence of so ity for success in perfection. The point at troublesome a charge, for whose safety he which Jerome landed in the Etats Unis was responsible, and over whom he had no was Norfolk, in Virginia; he was accompa- control. All Baltimore was in a state of ex- nicd by three companions, whom he called citement; all the pomps and vanities that his suite. He repaired to Washington, money and enthusiasm could procure were and announced to the French consul that he lavished on Jerome, and he enjoyed his po- must find the means to convey him and his sition. There were difficulties in the way suite to Francea matter by no means easy, of obtaining a passage for Jerom6 in an seeing that by that time war had been de- American vessel, difficulties which Jerome dared between England and France; Eng- was more inclined to enhance than to obvi- lish vessels were on the watch to do all the ate; he was, for the first time in his life, en- harm they could to French ships, and in- tirely his own master, and he was in no haste trinsically worthless as was Jerome in him- to return to France, to the subjection of his self, still, as brother to the First Consul, he brother, whose reproofs he was conscious of would have been a prisoner worth making. deserving, and quite certain of receiving. The poor French consul, Pichon by name, He gave himself up to all the gayeties of the with a vivid prevision of all the difficulties season, obtaining, from time to time, a little about to encompass him, made an effort to money from Pichon; but as all Baltimore get Jerome off before his presence became only asked for the honor of giving him un- known. He plaintively entreated him to limited credit, it may be conceived guard a strict incognito. Jerome promised; How happily the days of Thalaba went by. but, with his vanity, was quite unable to keep the promise. He went to Baltimore Amongst the belles of Baltimore, a certain whilst the consul endeavored to make his Miss Patterson reigned supreme. She was arrangements, and, at the end of three days, extremely beautiful, as all contemporary tes- everybody in the city knew that the vain- timony declares; she was agreeable, witty, glorious and flashy young Frenchman was clever, and ambitious ; in short, Miss no less than brother to the First Consul of Betsay Patterson, as the biographer calls France. her, was fully aware of her own charms, and Les Etats Unis were enchanted to find determined to draw a good result from them, that such a celebrity had come to visit them, she loved admiration, and she desired to nud hastened to offer the homage that was obtain a position of distinction. Her char- dear to Jeromes heart; they took him at acter was not unlike Jeromes, in her love his own valuation. Jerome was flattered and for all the vanities of life; but she was be- feted to the top of his bent; and he took it yond measure his superior in energy, sense, all as a just tribute to his merits. One in- and spirit. She was very vain, and very cident deserves special mention: the hotel- fond of admiration, of which she received keeper at Washington, whose name was enough to turn a reasonable womans head. Barney or Barnum, saw at a glance all the She desired to shine in a wider horizon. capital that might be made out of Jerome; Jerome was the brother of the hero who was and he took entire possession of him, fol- master of the Tuileries, and who could, when lowed him, flattered him, and showed him he pleased, inhabit Versailles. To go to off everywhere. The coincidence of name Paris, to have apartments in a palace, to set and nature is curious. Jerome lent himself French fashions and enjoy the delights of to his tactics, considering him only as an unlimited milliners bills, was a prospect humble satellite. Barnums reputation was well calculated to dazzle a young girl. Miss not good, and the French consul Pichon felt Betsay was beautiful exceedingly, her it his duty to warn Jerome against his unbe- worst enemies never accused her of being coming intimacy with this man, a counsel otherwise; with all her vanity she was a which Jerome highly resented, haughtily de- woman of the strictest principle; her fa- siring Pichon to mind his own business, as ther was a rich merchant, well known and he, Jerome, was capable of taking care of ~ell respected; all her family belonged to KING JEROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE. that quasi-American aristocracy the upper ten thousand, though it had not then re- ceived that compendious name. In birth, parentage, fortune, and educa- tion she was Jeromes equal,in intellect and character she was his superior; but then she had no brother of genius capable of rais- ing his family out of the middle class into the ranks of a reigning dynasty. Napoleon had already risen so high as to make it a dazzling honor to any not born to royal legitimacy to be connected with him; he might soar still higher, but his balloon had not yet passed out of hail, nor quite out of the reach of those still standing on their natural level ; there was yet one brief moment, when a fortunate and audacious spring might take the aspirant into the ascending car, or, failing, break his neck. Jerome at Baltimore was in the zenith of a vulgar success; all the distinction that Bal- timore could offer was given to him; he was young, lively, tolerably good looking, and well endowed with the quality for which the Puritan divine once innocently prayed as a crowning grace, a good conceit of him- self. If INliss Betsay had any female susceptibility she might be excused if she fell in love with the hero of so much homage from those who made up the whole of her world. Falling in love with a popular hero or a popular clergyman is as much of an epi- demic as hysterics among a parcel of school- girls. Nothing but the spirit of contradic- tion and a great deal of good sense can resist the force of example. Jerome fell violently in love with Miss Betsay, and proposed marriage; she aceepted the offer, which made her the envy of all the women in Baltimore. NIr. Patterson, the father, in consideration of the connection, was willing to overlook Jeromes want of actual fortune, and gave his consent. The Spanish ambassador and the Barnum before mentioned, were Jeromes confederates in the affair; both of them were amiably anxious to promote his views and prevent his thinking of difficulties. Pichon had been in great perplexity and trouble of mind ever since destiny had sent Jerome to take refuge in America. Pichons only aspiration was to keep Jerome quiet and to get him safely away. It was hopeless to try to make Jerome quiet, he was pent on producing himself in the most flagrant splen- dor at every moment, assuming the non- chalant dignity of a prince in disguise, spend- ing money and ordering about as though he had been the last incarnation of My Lord Marquis of Carabas. To get him away in safety, even if he would have consented to go, was a matter of great difficulty; for Eng- lish frigates, quite aware of his presence, were hovering about the coast, on the watch for every French vessel which attempted to leave port. The American Government could not, without violating its neutrality, give a passage to Jerome in one of their own vessels, nor in any case do more than shut their eyes. Jerome, who was a caricature of his brother, possessing all the Bonapartean imperiousness of will, though it was never shown except in matters which touched his own inclination, had declared that nothing should induce him to go back to France in any vessel of less dignity than a man-of-war. Pichon did his best; he got a small armed brig, called Le Clothier, ready for sea. A fortunate moment offered for her to get awayj: Pichon entreated Jerome to embark without delay. But Jerome, who by this time was over head and ears in love, and had matri- monial intentions, declined the invitation to repair on board Le Clothier, but he wrote despatches to his brother, which he sent by the vessel, announcing his own intention to remain in America until he should receive a reply to them ! Pichon was driven to the verge of madness and gray hairs, though the author tells us that he felt a secret pride to see the ease and dignity with which Jerome represented France. Jerome Bonaparte must have been the original from whoni Alexan- dre Dumas has drawn his heroes. On the occasion of a visit Jerome paid to Washington, the President Jefferson invited him to a grand dinner. Jerome, who took all the marks of attention as his due, treated the American President with dignified affa- bility, and charmed the company with his conversation. The next morning, as he was stepping into his carriage to return to Bal- timore, he turned to Picbon, who stood by, and said, with serene negligence, It is my intention to be married on the 7th of Novem- ber next, at Baltimore, to Miss Patterson. I invite you and Madame Pichonto be present on the occasion. Having launched this thunderbolt, he drove away. It required a day and night for poor Pichon to recover his scattered senses. It was now the 28th of Octoberthe consul-general could do noth 86 ing but protest. He wrote three letters one to Jerome, one to Mr. Patterson, and one to the consul in Baltimore, declaring that by the French Code any marriage con- tracttid by a French subject under the age of twenty-five, without the consent of parents and guardians, was null in Franc~e. On the receipt of these letters Jerome was furious, and uttered invectives against Pichon; but Thipa Patterson was dignified: he broke off the match, and sent his daughter away from home. Jerome was apparently brought to reason by Mr. Pattersons representations; he offered an apology to Pichon for the un- parliamentary language he had used towards him in the heat of his displeasure; he pro- fessed to see his error, laid all the blame upon the undue influence which had been brought to hear upon him, and especially accused the false counsels of the Spanish ambassador, Mr. Barnum, and a certain General Smith. Jerome even condescended to beg Pichon not to mention the ajJair when he wrote home. Pichon ought to have mis- trusted this sudden submission; but he was flattered at the success of his eloquence: and he wrote to Talleyrand a self-glorifying de- spatch about his own promptness, decision, and success. Jerome set out on a tour to dissipate his chagrin. Pinchon renewed his efforts to persuade him to leave America; but in vain. Admiral Willaumez sent offi- cial orders to him to depart; but Jerome only repeated his intention to await the an- swer from his brother to his despatches. They could not bring their horse to the wa- ter, much less make him drink. Jerome went on his tour. New York re- ceived him with demonstrations of ardent admiration, and gave him fites, and balls, and eatertainments to his hearts content. For three weeks Pichons heart remained at ease; but on the 25th of December, 1803, he received a brief oflicial announcement that Jerome had been married to Miss Patterson on the previous evening, as fast as the Church and the paternal benediction could unite them! They were man and wife by all that was sacred and indissoluble. Bishop Car- rol, the Roman Catholic Bishop of Balti- more, performed the ceremony. Joined to the announcement of his marriage, was a no- tification that Jerome wanted money, which Pichon was to furnish immediately. 87 All things to God are possible save one That to undo which is already done. The marriage was regular and legal in every particular; and Miss Betsy Patterson was, as far as rites and ceremonies could make her, the lawful wife of Jerome Bonaparte, and qualified to share all the honors of his rising star. Jerome had a shrewd notion of the manner in which the news would be re- ceived at home; and, with characteristic dis- like to every thing unpleasant, he left the task of announcing it to Pichon and Ad- miral Willaumez. The French consul thought it his duty to make the best of an accomplished fact, and made a merit of effacing the memory of his opposition by treating Madame Jerome with every formality of official respect. Without troubling themselves about any evil day that might be in store for them, the newly mar- ried pair proceeded to enter into all the gay- eties of the season at Baltimore. American society felt flattered at the choice of Jerome; and made an apotheosis of both bride and bridegroom. Nothing but the splendors of the last scene of a pantomime could express the glitter and glory that surrounded them, although the smell of brimstone, and the danger from rockets and red-fire, were un- pleasantly apparent through all. What would the First Consul say? Nevertheless, France was a long way off, and they could not hear what was said for a long time. On the 18th of May the news came that Napoleon had been declared emperor. Ma- dame Jerome was possibly a princess! From the moment Jerome heard of his brothers elevation, he began to be ~s restlessly im- patient to get back to France as he had hith- erto been obstinate to remain, He was, however, afraid to face his brother; and he had passed his word to the Pattersons that he would not leave America until his mar- riage had been recognized. Papa Patterson promised that when ~he time arrived for his departure he would show that he was not a father-in-law to be despised, by sending Je- rome and his wife to Europe in a vessel of his own, and in a style befitting his rank; but Jeromes desire to remain in America had waned; he wanted to go and share his brothers grandeur in Paris, and be a real prince of the blood. Napoleons reply to the announcement of KING JEROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE. 88 KING 3EROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE. his brothers marriage had not yet been re- he had been married to her for six months eeived in America. Napoleon had been past. To go back to France at any risk, ~o First Consul when the news reached him be the brother of the emperor, was the he was Emperor when he replied on the 9th idea that now possessed. him. His wife of June, 1804. He entirely declined to rec- was becoming a clog and an encumbrance. ognize the marriage, taking his stand on He had, however, to deal with a father-in- the then recent law of the year xil2th of law who was as determined in his way as the month Pluviose, which, in the language Napoleon. Jerome found that he would not of mortals, signified the 13th of February, be allowed to leave America without taking 1803; prohibiting French subjects, under his wife with him. No French vessel dared the age of twenty-five, to contract rharriage to give her a passage; but Papa Patterson without the consent of parents or guardians. chartered at his own expense a fine vessel The orders to Pichon and all French officials called the Philadelphia, on board of which, were short, sharp, and decisive. Madame Jerome, his wife, and her relative Miss Jerome Bonaparte was recognized as Je- Spear, embarked with the greatest secrecy. romes mistress, and as such was not to be But, as the old ballad sings treated with any marks of respect; and Frencti vessels were forbidden to afford her They scarce had sailed a league, a League, a passage; if she attempted to enter France A league but barely three, When dark, dark grew the foaming sea. with Jerome, orders were given that she should be arrested and conveyed back to In plain prose, they encountered a heavy America. As to Jerome himself, he was or- gale and were shipwrecked, the passengers dered to return home immediately. A pen- escaping, though much of the baggage and sion was offered to Miss Patterson of sixty all Jeromes money were lost. If the case thousand francs a year, on condition that had been reversed, and Jerome had sunk to she never assumed the name of Bonaparte the bottom of the sea instead of his effects, or molested Jerome. it would have been a solution that would not If taking matters with a high hand could have called forth tears. The unhappy Pi- have overcome difficulties, Napoleon would chon, for whose sins Jerome had surely been have borne them down. Except the local sent to America, had only just heard authen- enactment, which only held good in France tic tidings of his departure, when he was and only regarded French subjects,the thrown back into all his troubles by the law of marriage as recognized not only by news of his shipwreck andescape! His the Catholic Church, but by the consent of troubles, however, drew near their end; for Christendom, made the marriage contracted Jerome was now quite as impatient to de- at Baltimore by Jerome and Miss Patterson part as Pichon could be to get rid of him. valid in every respect,as valid as the can- He made another effort to obtain the dignity ons of the Church could make it. It re- of returning in a vessel of war, as became mained to be seen whether the will of the a new-made prince of the blood of the em- emperor or the decree of the Church were peror, but inexorable fate and the strict the stronger. If Jerome could only be firm, watch kept by English vessels made this im- the marriage must hold goodrecognition possible. He did at last what he might have or no recognition. done at first ;with the consent of his father- But Jerome could he true to nothing, ex- in-law, he took a passage in an American cept his own inclination. He was not a merchant vessel, bound for Portugal, and worse man than Napoleon, but he was a embarked with his wife and secretary. The FooL,a fool who could see nothing, feel vessel arrived quite safely at Lisbon. The nothing, care for nothing beyond the grat- French consul refused a passport to Madame ification of the whim of the moment. All I Jerome, and wrote to Paris to announce what that he inherited of the strong, inflexible he had done. Bonapartean will was concentrated in the Jerome had shown some skill in the art gratification of his own vanity and his own of tormenting consuls, and he had never sensuality. He had had his whim pretty submitted to any reasoning or representation wcll out in regard to Miss Pattersonhe which led contrary to his inclinations. No had married her in spite of opposition, but considerations had withheld him from mak KiNG JEROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE. ing Miss Patterson his wife on the 25th of December, 1803, and no considerations of his duty as a husband or the common con- siderations of humanity towards a woman about to become the mother of his child, withheld him from abandoning her, in a strange country, where she had neither friends nor relatives, where her position was more than equivocal, and where, if she were not in want of the necessaries of life, it was no thanks to Jerome, who made no provis- ion for the protection or support of an ex- tremely beautiful woman of seventeen whose physical condition rendered a return to her own country and her fathers house impossi- ble. He left her almost immediately on ar- riving at Lisbon, professedly to throw him- self at his brothers feet and prevail upon him to forgive the marriage. His subse- quent conduct proves that he never had any intention to embarrass himself further with her whom he had married; he showed him- self as self-willed and inconsequent in run- fling away from difficulties as he had been in running into them. Jerome set off in hot haste to present himself before his brother, who was at Turin. For eleven days he was kept waiting for an interview; during this time he wrote a let- ter of abject submission, consenting to be governed in all things by the will of the emperor, and to recognize his own marriage as absolutely null, not even requiring to be dissolved. Napoleon wrote an order to Je- rome, that he himself should announce to his wife that he had of his own free will rec- ognized that his marriage was and had been null from the beginning. In return for this unqualified submission, Jerome was graciously pardoned and re- stored to his brothers favor. Jeromes con- sent once given, all manner of official acts and declarations were set forth to show how entirely null the marriage had always been, and the offspring illegitimate beyond re- demption. France was not all the world; and the im- perial decrees, although they deprived Ma- dame Jerome of all the advantages she had hoped for from her connection with the Bo naparte family, neither reduced her to ob- scurity nor tarnished her name. The pope declared the marriage binding beyond his power to annul it; and the rest of Europe recognized in Madame Jerome the victim of arbitrary power. She and her husband never met again after they parted at Lisbon, less than seven months after their marriage. She went to England where she was received with much kindness and sympathy, and in England her son was born, whom she had baptized as Je- rome Bonaparte. She afterwards returned to America. That her conduct and charac- ter were always above the power of scandal to impugn, was no thanks to Jerome,a weaker woman or a less worldly one would have been entirely crushed by such treat- ment as she had received. Madame Jerome was equal to her situation: she would doubt~ less have made quite as good a princess as any of the temporary royalties Napoleon loved to create, as though they had been the flowers and garlands of his more solid efforts of power; but, apart from this mor- tification, she made all the gain possible out of her position. She accepted the hand- some pension allotted to her by the emperor, and lived in such amicable relations with the family, as to give a great color of prd~abil- ity to her present claim on the estate of Prince Jerome. The loss of such a husband could be nothing but a gain to her. She seems to have been a woman who, like Bussy Rabutin, naimait que le solide. A very proud, sensitive woman would have re- fused to accept the emperors pension; but she judged it best to take it. Poverty was not added to her other vexations. As for Jerome, he was through life a fool and a poltroon. The fine epithets and sentimental phraseology in which. the courtly editor of these Memoirs dresses his conduct does not disguise the very ugly look of his actions, both public and private. On his submission, Napoleon sent him once more to sea, and there he distinguished himself by his entire inability either to obey or command. He was the torment of his admiral, ~s he had been of the Consul Pichon. 89 HOME BALLADS AND POEMS. From The Athenteum. beat quicker for the day when black slavery Home Ballads and Poems. By John Green- shall be no more, and in bringing about th~ leaf Whittier. Boston, U. S., Ticknor present movement which the hopeful look & Fields; London, Low & Co. upon as preparatory to the gathering up of HERE is poetry worth waiting for, a poet the slave forces for a final fight. worth listening to. Mr. Whittier may not The poet is less martial in his latest book. ascend any lofty hill of vision, but he is He has learnt to possess his soul with more clearly a seer according to his range. His patience. The momentum is more subdued, song is simple and sound, sweet and strong. and has a slower swing, quietly intense. We take up his book as Lord Bacon liked Longer brooding has brought forth a more to take up the bit of fresh earth, wet with perfect, though less striking result. Take, morning and fragrant with wine. It has the for example, a few of the noble lines in re- healthy smell of Yankee soil s~ith the wine membrance of Joseph Sturge, a man after of fancy poured over it. We get a gush of our poets own heart the prairie breeze, weird whispers from the dark and eerie belts of pine, wafts of the salt sea wiads wandering inland, superb scents of the starred magnolias and box-tree blos- soming white. We hear the low of cattle, the buzzing of bees, the lusty song of the huskers, brown and ruddy, the drunken laughter of the jolly bob-o-link. Here are green memorials of the New Worlds spring of promise, golden memorials of her abund- ance when the horn of autumn is poured into the overflowing lap of man; we see the white-horns tossing over the farmyard wall, the cock crowing in the sun with his comb glowing a most vital red, the brown gable of the old barn, roses running up to the eaves of the swallow-haunted homestead, the June sun tangling his wings of fire in the network of green leaves, the aronia by the river lighting up the swarming shad, the river full of sunshine, with the bonny blue above and the blithe blink of sea in the dis- tance, and many a sight and sound of vernal life and country cheer. No American poet has more of the home-made and home- brewed than Mr. Whittier. His poetry is not filtered from the German Helicon; it is a spring fresh from New World nature; and we gladly welcome its sprightly run- flings. Our Yankee bard is among poets what Mr. Bright is amongst the peace men. He has the soul of some old Norseman but- toned up under the Quakers coat, and the great bursts of heart will often peril the hold of the buttons, whilst the speaker with all his native energy and a manly mouth is preaching brotherly love and driving it in. With him, too, the Norse soul is found fighting for freedom, and he has done good service in making the heart of the North For him no ministers chant of the immortals Rose from the lips of sin; No mitred priest swang back the heavenly por- tals To let the white soul in. But Age and Sickness framed their tearfal faces In the low hovels door, And prayers ~vent up from all the dark by-places And shelters of the poor. Not his the golden pens or lips persuasion, But a tine sense of right, And truths directness, meeting each occasion Straight as a line of light. The very gentlest of all human natures He joined to courage strong, And love out-reaching unto all Gods creatures With sturdy hate of wrong. Men failed, betrayed him, but his zeal seemed nourished By failure and by fall, Still a large faith in human-kind he cherished, And in Gods love for all. And now he rests his greatness and his sweet- ness No more shall seem at strife; And death has moulded into calm completeness The statue of his life. Where the dews glisten and the song-birds war- ble, His dust to dust is laid, In Natures koeping, with no pomp of marble To shame his modest shade. The forges glow, the hammers all are ringing; Beneath its smoky vail, Hard by, the city of his love is swinging Its clamorous iron flail. But round his grave are quietude and beauty, And the sweet heaven above, The fitting symbols of a life of duty Transfigured into love. In a time of trouble and struggle, of war and rumors of war, these lines take one with their quiet mastery and peaceful music, sinking solly into the soul as if spoken by 90 HOME BALLADS AND POEMS. the very Spirit of Rest. To quote the poets owit words, the whole picture is Beautiful in its holy peace as one Who. stands at evenin~ when the work is done, Glorified in the setting of the sun. Telling the Bees is a ballad as fine as the custom it celebrates is curious. The Pipes at Lucknow is a spirited poem. Many of the stanzas of The Shadow and the Light might have been found worthy of weaving into In Memoriam Ah, me! we doubt the shining skies Seen through our shadows of offence, And drown with our poor childish cries The cradle-hymn of kindly Providence. And still we love the evil cause, And of the just effect complain; We tread upon lifes broken laws, And murmur at our self-inflicted pain; We turn us from the light, and find Oar spectral shapes hefore us thrown, As they who leave the sun behind Walk in the shadows of themselves alone. And scarce by will or strength of ours We set our faces to the day; Weak, wavering, blind, the Eternal Powers Alone cau turn us from ourselves away. Mr. Whittier is most successful perhaps in the present work in setting gravely sweet and kindly comforting thoughts to a com- mon ballad measure, which he has tried again and again until it reaches its perfec- tion in pieces like My Psalm and My Playmate. Here is a specimen of the lat- ter poem 0 playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees oer it lean. The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago. And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea, The moaning ot the sea of chan~e Between myself and thee 1 ~1~ Psalm is only to be felt thoroughly in the eve of life, when the mellowing influ- ences of age and experience have done their work, and the golden haze gathers about the closing of the calm day, touching this world with the beauty of the next. It must be read slowly and thoughtft~lly to be felt deeply All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told! Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track; That wheresoeer my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back; That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good: That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Fathers sight; That care and trial seem at last, Through Memorys sunset air, Like mountain ranges over-past, In purple distance fair: That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm. And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west winds play;. And all the windows of my heart I open to the day. But we shall not be doing justice to these Home Ballads if we do not vary the strain. They are not all devoted to the life that is livad in our day. Here and there we find a bright and vigorous portrait painted on the dark background of the past. Such is that of Samuel Sewall, the man of God with a face that a child would climb to kiss. Sometimes, also, the poet peers into the shadowy land of Indian le- gend, watching, questioning the darkness, till the mist begins to stir and transform itself into spectral life. Then he will tell us a tale of the early time of witchcraft and cruelty. Our concluding extract is from a robust ballad, called sKIPPER IItESON 5 RIDE. Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, 01(1 and young, Strong of muscle and glib, of tongue, Pushed and h)ullcd up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing this shrill refrain Heres FInd Oirson, fur his h6rrd horrt, Torrd an fntherrd an colr(l in a corrt, By- the women o Morbleead 1 91 92 Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Giils in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, flee-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, ~vith ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowingand fish-horns twang, Over and over the M~nads sang, Heres FInd Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torrd an futherrd an corrd in a corrt By the women o Morbleead I Small pity for him !He sailed away From a leaking ship in Chalcur Bay, Sailed a~vay from a sinking wreck, With his own townspeople on her deck! Lay by! lay by! they called to him. Back he answered, Sink or swin! Brag of your catch of fish again! And off he sailed through the fog and the rain. Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Lent a treble to the fish-horns bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head and fist, shook hat and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain; HOME BALLADS AND POEMS. Heres FInd Girson, fur his horrd horrt, Torrd an futherrd an corrd in a corrt By the women o Morbleead! Hear me, Neighbors! at last he cried, What to me is this noisy ride What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck! Hate me and curse me,I only dread The hand of God and the face of the Dead. Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Then the wife of the Skipper lost at sea Said, God has toucht him !why should we I Said an old wife mourning her only son, Cut the rogues tether and let him run! So with soft relentiugs and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead I Mr. Whittier has many admirers in this country, to whom this volume will be wel- come. REMARKABLE DIscovERY IN TIlE ALPs. color, etc. One of these fragments was recog- Theic is news fi-om Switzerland, says an Eng- nized by Julian Devoussoux (a survivor of the lish paper, which painfully recalls the memory 1820 ascent) as being that of Pierre Balmat. of a terrible catastrophe which happened on the 3. Part of a guides knapsack, with sundry Grand Plateau of Mont Blanc on the 20th Au- portions of a lantern attached to it. gust, 1820. On that day a party, consisting of 4. An iron crampon, which the guides at Dr. Hammel and some gentlemen from Geneva, that time sti-apped on their shoes when they stai-ted up the mountain, accompanied by sey- crossed the glaciers, etc., to prevent slipping. eral guides. A descending avalanche swept off 5. Several portions of gui(les dressera- three of the latter, by name, Auguste Tairraz, vats, hats, torn portions of linen, portions of Pierre Balmat an(l Pierre Carrier, all three be- cloth, coats, etc., all easily distinguishable as 1on~,ing to families now inseparably connected belpuging to men of the guide class. with the history of the mountain. From that Two of the guides who accompanied the party day, up to the 15th of last month, not a trace of of 1820 aro still alive, and it is said that Dr. them ~vas ever discovered; on that morning 1-Jammel still survives in England. The most was discovered, on the lower paint of the Glacier interestiHg circumstance in connection vith this des Bossons, a number of human remains and recovery of the remains of these long-a~ o fragments of dress, accoutrements, etc., which mourned men is, that it is in exact fulfilment of have l)een recognized as having belonged to Professor James D. Forbes prediction, based these hapless guides. These relics ai-e stated to on his observations and knowledge of the l~ ~vs consist of which guide the motions of the glaciers. Pro- 1. An arm in the most perfect state of pres- fessor Forbes, it is stated, has repeatedly told ervation, ~vith the hand, fingers, nails, skin, anti tile Chamounix guides that they might look out dried frozen flesh intact, in noways discolored; for traces of their deceased comrad~s in the part of little finger only gone. The length of Lower Bossons in about forty or forty-five years this limb extends to the elbow, after the catastrophe, and that he told Atiguste 2. Parts of two different skulls, with a good Bahnat in 1858 to keep a look-out. From the deal of hair remainin~ with the skin on both ; discovery, therefore, we may deduce a satisfac- one belonging to a fair man, the other to a dark tomy demonstration of the glacier theory now ac- one. The, hair most wonderfully preserved in cepted by men of science. EXPERIMENTS WITH CANNON. From The Press. EXPERIMENTS WITH CANNON. ON Tuesday some interesting experiments were conducted at Shoeburyness, under the superintendence of the Iron Plate Commis- sion, upon two new kinds of targets, built up to resemble a portion of an iron-plated frig- ates broadside. One target was sent in to be experimented upon by Mr. Fairbairn. This was about ten feet long by six feet high, and consisted of four plates five inches thick, the upper and lower being each about ten feet, the two in the centre being only five feet each. The peculiarity of this target was that there was no wooden backing to the ar- mor plating, for the attention of the Com- mission has lately been much directed to endeavoring to ascertain how far it is possi- ble by a slight increase in the thickness of the plates to do away entirely with the weight and expense of the vertical and horizontal mass of timber beyond them. Another pe- culiarity was the effort to do away with the acknowledged source of weakness which arises from holes having to be drilled in the plates for the bolts to fasten them to the ships side. In nearly all cases where plates have been fractured by shot, the crack has commenced from one of the rivet holes. There were none of these in Mr. Fairbairns target. The plates were fastened directly to what in an iron frigate would be its outer skin, which, in the case of the target, was represented by wrought iron three-quarters of an inch thick. From the side of this were rib girders much of the same kind as the iron ribs of a frigate would be. These were half an inch thick by about eleven inches deep and eighteen apart, with stout angle irons fastening them to the outer skin. From in- side this skin the rivets were let into the plate like topped screws, penetrating a little more than half-way through the five-inch ar- mor plate. The iron used in this target was of the very best kind, and the whole of its workmanship was admirable and substan- tial to the last degree, as the tests showed. First, a fiat-headed steel shot, abolAt one pound in weight, was fired against it to test the quality of the iron. This made only a dent of from a quarter to one-third of an inch in depth. Two of Armstrongs forty- pound shell, filled with sand, were next dis- charged point-blank at a distance of one hun- dred yards. They also dented the iron to 93 the depth of some three-quarters of an inch, but otherwise seemed to have but little ef- fect, except upon the rivets of the angle iron inside the sheathing, which were apparently somewhat started. Two fiat-headed forty- pounder steel shot, fired at the same range, produced more effect. Their indentation was quite an inch and a half, if not more, and the rivet-heads holding the armor plates were evidently shaken, though apparently they held as firmly as ever. The hun- dred-pounder Armstrong was next tried at two hundred yards, with a shell filled with sand. This broke one of the angle irons of the inner sheathing, made a deep de,nt, and started some of the smaller rivets, yet on the whole surprisingly little damage was done, and practically the target seemed as strong as ever. A solid hundred-pounder shot was then tried, and this struck with a tre- mendous blow the centre of the mark, the effect of which visibly started the plates and rather curved them outwards at some of their joints. The effect of two shots from a solid sixty-eight-pounder at one hundred yards shook the armor plates still more, starting them from the skin to which they were bolted, and denting them through their entire substance considerably. A two hun- dred pound shot was then fired at two hun- dred yards range. This ponderous missile not only made a very deep dent where it struck, but bulged the whole target in, shak- ing all the plates loose, and breaking some of the screws which held them. Still, how- ever, no plate gave way under these tremen- dous visitations, nor had any of them been detached. The last shot fired was with a hundred-pounder, at eighth hundred yards, and the effect of this was final. By the force of the concussion the upper plate, with one of the centre small ones, was com- pletely detached, and came crashing down, leaving those that still remained in a very shaky and precarious condition. It was, however, considered by all on the ground to have withstood the rude assaults it had re- ceived in a most extraordinary mani~ier. The screws held on to the very last, and a great deal longer than any one expected, while the plates, though, of course, much battered and defaced, were not only not broken, but showed no symptoms of be~oming so. On the whole, therefore, it was considered that the resistance offered by a target built on 94 EXPERIMENTS WITH CANNON. this plan had been most satisfactorily proved, ciple we have here mentioned, and was on and the value of some of it~ improvements the whole an exceedingly fine piece of work established. manship. Mr. Roberts and Mr. Burn, C.E. The next experiments were made upon a (who is associated with Mr. Roberts in his target invented by Mr. Roberts. This was invention), had, however, committed the se.. the very reverse in principle from Mr. Fair- rious fault of having their target made too baiin s, inasmuch as the thickness of the small. It was only six feet by four, and con- iron plates was diminished while the timber sequently, as all the shots were aimed low, backing was increased. Mr. Fairbairns they struck almost on the same spots, which showed how shot-proof frigates might with wanted the surrounding support a larger advantage he made of iron only, while Mr. target would have naturally afforded. So Roberts was designed to prove that wooden far the test of strength was taken at a dis- ships could be as easily rendered shot-proof advantage to the invention. The first shot as if especially built for the purpose. The fired at it with a llb flat-headed steel hall to back of this target was formed of wrought test the iron struck upon the angular face of iron three-eighths of an inch thick. To this one of the armor plates. Yet, in spite of were fastened iron T plates, which on a frig- this, it apparently made as deep a dent as a ate would run along the vessels side fore similar projectile had made in the flat upright and aft. Between these were fitted oak plates of Mr. Fairbairns target. Two 401b beams nine inches square, which being all shells, filled with sand, were then fired from tight caulked, hold the plates firmly in their an Armstrong at one hundred yards, but did position, so as to prevent lateral bend, and no perceptible damage. A flat-headed forty- enable them to resist the maximum pressure pounder which was next fired struck one of due to their strength. Over this again the rib joint pieces we have spoken of be- comes another layer of beams and T plates, tween the angles, and broke it. It, how- placed vertically, fitted in the same way and ever, still remained firm in its place, and a bolted firmly in to the ships side. Over all one hundred-pounder Armstrong shell, at this come the armor plates. Each of these two hundred yards, did no apparent dam- latter are three inches thick and two feet age. Not so, however, with a solid shot at wide, and made in an angular form, some- the same range, which came full upon the thing like a wide-shaped letter V. All the edge of the angle of the centre plate, in- joints are planed so as to insure accuracy of flicting a deep dent, and slightly fracturing fit, and thus when a ships side was covered through the plate itself. The next a solid with these plates, the alternate angular sixty-eight pounder, hit full upon the same projections and recesses would resemble in joint rib which had been struck and broken shape, on a small scale, the ordinary ridge before with a tremendous blow. It split the and furrow roofing used in glass buildings. rib joint at its outer rivet hole, breaking off Where the longitudinal joints occur a recess the end of it entirely. Still, however, the is cut in the plates, into which is fitted an target was quite firm apparently. The next iron rib six inches wide and four and one- sixty-eight pounder fired struck full upon half deep, the outside face of the rib being the extreme lower edge of the mark with also angular. These joint ribs are fastened such force as to shatter the wooden frame through with one and one-half inch bolts, which supported it, and turn the target com- while the V shaped armor plates are secured pletely over on its face. by nine-inch bolts, eighteen inches apart. On Wednesday the experiments were re- Each arnior plate rises from the side of the sumed, and the general result has shown ship to an angle, of about one foot in height that the five-inch iron plates of Mr. Fair- the face of each angle being also a foot in bairns target, fastened to a three-fourth inch depth. On this system Mr. Roberts con- skin, were perfectly able, as far as the plates tends a ship may be built of the same were concerned, to withstand for a very long strength, costing only one-fifth of the money time what was, in fact, a concentrated fire required for a ship constructed wholly of from the heavieat and most powerful ord- iron, and being only one-third of the latters nance in the world. It also showed that the weight. The target experimented on at thinner plates of three inches, rolled into an Shoehuryness was built entirely on the prin- angulated form, and presenting at all points EXPERIMENTS WITH CANNON. an inclined face to the blow of the shot, were equally well able to withstand a missile that under other circumstances would frac- ture a four and one-half inch plate, and this was the object the inventor wished to dem- onstrate. The backing of the target, even after all the pounding it received, was still perfect, though only eighteen inches thick, and had this been the hull of a ship, it would apparently, even if submerged, have re- mained quite watertight. The ribs which formed the backing to the skin inside the plates of Mr. Fairbairns target were, per- haps, a little too weak for the enormous re- sistance they were expected to exert. This, however, is a very minor fault, and one which it was only possible to ascertain from actual practice. It will be very easy to strengthen the next one constructed on this principle. The weak point in Mr. iRoberts target was the rib joint. This, though a piece of the best wrought iron, six inches by four, was never strong enough to resist the blow of a one hundred or even a sixty- eight pounder. But for this fault (which we presume Mr. Roberts will devise some ex- pedient for remedying), and but for the small size of his target, it would doubtless have held out much longer than even it did. The weak point common to both targets, and to every other description of iron armor plate that has ever been devised, is the mode of fastening, either to the target or the ships side.. Every bolt hole in a plate is a source of weakness, as from them all fractures take their rise. The expedients which have been devised to remedy this, by having tapped screws at the back of the plate, are perhaps better for preventing fractures; butthey are certainly not better adapted for what is the ultimate object of all these fastenings; viz., securing the plate to the ships side. This is the real point to which engineers should now direct their attention. On the whole, however, the experiments at Shoeburyness against these iron targets were regarded as about the most satisfactory which have yet taken place there. JOHN KNoxs DEATH-BEDStep into this room where the greatest Scotsman lies dying, and see an example more striking, warning, alarming still. From the iron brasp of kin~s and princes Knox had wrung the rights of Scot- land. Ready to contend even unto death, he had bearded proud nobles and pronder church- men; he had stood under the fire of battle; he had been chained to the galleys oar: he had occupied the pulpit ~vith a carbine levelled at his fearless head; and to plant Gods truth, and that tree of civil and religious liberty which has struck its roots so deep in our soil, and under whose shado~v we are this day sitting, he had fought many a hard battle; but his hardest was fought in the solitude of the night, and amid the quietness of a dying chamber. One morning his friends enter his apartment. They find him faint and pallid, wearing the look of one who had passed a troubled night. So he had; ho had been fighting, not sleeping; wrest- ling, not resting; and it required all Gods grace to bring him off conqueror. Till day- break Jacob wrestled with the Angel of the Covenant; and that long night Knox had passed wrestling with the prince of darkness. Like Bunyans pilgrim, he met Apollyon in the valley, and their swords struck fire in the shadow of death. The lion is said to be boldest in the storm. His roar is never so loud as in the pauses of the thunder; and when the lightning flashes, brightest are the flashes of his cruel eye; and so he who, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may devour, often seizes the hour of natures distress to assault us with his fiercest temptations. Satan tempted Job when he was bowed down with grief. Satan tempted Jesus when lie was faint with hua~er. Satan tempted Peter when he was weary with watch- ing, and heart-broken with sorrow: reserving, perhaps, his grand assault on us for times that offer him a great advantage, it was when Knox was worn out, left alone, his head laid low on a dying pillow, that Satan, like a roaring lion, leaped upon his bed. Into the room the enemy had come; ho stands by his bed; he reminds him that he had been a standard-bearer of the trutha reformera bold confessora distin- guished suffererthe very foremost than of his time and country; he attempts to perk ade him that surely such rare merits deserve the crown. The Christian conqueredbut hard put to it only conquered through him that lovedhim. Dr. Gutlu-ies Gospel in Ezekiel. 95 96 THE SWEET LITTLE MAN.OUR FIRST MARTYR. THE SWEET LITTLE MAN. DEDICATED TO THE STAY-AT-HOME RANGERS. Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles, Each at his post to do all that he can, Down among rehels and contraband chattels, What are you doing, ny sweet little man? All the brave boys under canvas are sleeping, All of them pressing to march with the van, Far from the home where their sweethearts are weeping, What are you waiting for, sweet little man? You with the terrible warlike moustaches, Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan, You with the waist made for sword-belts and sashes, Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet little maul Bring him the buttonless garment of woman! Cover his face lest it freckle and tan; Muster the Apron-string Guards on the Com- mon, That is the corps for the sweet little man! Give him for escort a file of young misses, Each of them armed with a (leadly rattan; They shalr defend him from laughter and hisses, Aimed by low boys at the sweet little man. All the fair maidens about him shall cluster, Pluck the white feathers from bonnet and fan, Make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster That is the crest for the sweet little man! 0, hut the Apron-string Guards are the fellows! Drilling each day since our troubles began, Handle your walking-sticks!, Shoulde- umbrellas ! That is the style for the sweet little man. Have we a nation to save? In the first place Saving ourselves is the sensible plan, Surely, the spot wheye theres shooting s the worst place Where I can stand, says the sweet little man. Catch me confiding my person with strangers! Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran! In the brigade of the Stay-at-home Rangers Marches my corps, says the sweet little man. Such was the stuff of the Malakoff-takers, Such were the soldiers that scaled the Redan; Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty Qua- kers Brave slot the wrath of the sweet little man! Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery maidens! Sauve qui peat! Bridget, and right about! Ann, Fierce as a shark in a school of menhadens, See him advancing, the sweet little man! When the red flails of the battle-field threshers Beat out the continents wheat from its bran, While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers, What will become of our sweet little man? When the brown soldiers come hack from the borders, How will lie look while his features they scan? How will he feel when he gets marching orders, Signed by his lady-love? sweet little man! Fear not for him, though the rebels expect him, Life is too precious to shorten its span; Woman her broomstick shall raise to protect him, Will she not fight for the sweet little man? Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-home Ranger! Blow the great fish-horn and beat the big pan! First in the field that is farthest from danger, Take your white feather plume, sweet little man! Transcript. OUR FIRST MARTYR. BY rH~EBE CARY. Man proposes, God disposes. MEN silenced on his faithful lips Words of resistless truth and power ; Those words, re-echoing now, have made The gathering war-cry of the hour. They thought to darken down in blood The light of freedoms burning rays; The beacon-fires we tend to-day Were lit in that expiring blaze. They took the earthly prop and ~taff Out of an unresisting hand: God came, and led him safely on, By ways they could not understand. They knew not, when from his old eyes They shtit the world for evermore, The ladder by which angels come Rests firmly on the dungeons floor. They deemed no vision bright could cheer His stony couch and prison ward He slept to dream of heaven, and rose To build a Bethel to the Lord! They showed to his unshrinking gaze The sentence men have paled to see; He send Gods writing of rel)rieve, And grant of endless liberty. They tried to conquer and subdue By marshalled power and hitter hate: The simple manhood of a man Was braver than an arm~d state. They hoped at last to make him feel The felons shame, and felons dread And lo! the martyrs crown ofjoy Settled forever on his head! Independent.

THE LIVING AGE. No. 907.19 October, 1861. CONTENTS. PAGI 1. Burtons Anatomy of Melancholy, Blachwoods Magazine, 99 2. An Only Son. Part 8 Dublin University Magazine, 117 3. Life of John Angell James Saturday Review, 132 4. Science and Arts for August chamberss Journal, 136 5. Comets, Saturday Review, 139 6. Letter to a Young Physician, by Dr Jackson, Athena~um, 142 PoETRX;Bunker Hill Day in Virginia, 98. Kentucky, 98. The Sabbath, 98. Latest War News, 116. Cast Down, but not Destroyed, 116. Prayer for the Absent, 116. Workman of God, 116. Thy Will be Done, 144. Gen. Scott and the Veteran, 144. SHORT ARTICLEs.Vindication of Du Chaillu, 115. Birth of Napoleon II., 115. Effect of Music on the Sick, 135. Substitute for Silver, 141. Bottom of the Ocean, 143. A Spring Opened by a Shell, 143. NEW BOOKS. Edwin of Deira. By Alexander Smith. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. CORRE SPONDENCE. If An Old Subscriber in Philadelphia will write to us under his own address, we shall be happy to explain to him. We cannot answer anonymous letters, and must re- member that we are in presence of the enemy. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Lsvnee Aci will be punctually for. warded free e~f 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 an at two dollars a volume. d delivered In all the principal cities, free 01 expense of freight, are for sale Aar 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. 98 BUNKER HILL DAY IN VIRGINIA. Aia America. THOUGH many miles away From home and friends to-day, Were cheerful still; For, brothers side by side We stand, in manly prido Beneath the shadow wide Of Bunker Hill. The memory of that spot, Neer by one man forgot, Protects us here! We feel an influence lent From its proud monument By Freedoms angel sent Our souls to cheer! If oer the darkening sky, The piercing battle-cry Shall sound its call God of our native land, Be with this little band! Columbias guardian, stand By one and all. By all that blesses life While ranked in freedoms strife With right good-will For victory well try, With hope and daring high; Our cheers shall rend the sky, For Bunker Hill. GEORGE H. Dow. KENTUCKY. ET MRS. SOPHIA H. OLIVER. Kentuckyshe was the first State to enter the Union after the adoption of the Constitution; she will be the last to leave it. Words iasc,-ibed on Keatuck3js contributioa to the Waskiisgtott Moms- meat. THE first to join the patriot band, The last bright star to fade and die, Oh, first-born daughter of the land, Wilt thou thy sacred vow deny? By all the lofty memories bright That crown with light thy glorious past, Oh, speak again those words of might The first to come, to leave the last. The land for which our fathers fought The glorious heritage they gave, The just and equal laws they wrought Rise, in your might, that land to save. KENTUCKY.THE SABBATH. No parricidal daughter thou, iNo stain be on thy fealty cast, But, faithful to thy boast and vow, Be first to come, to leave the last. Oh, list not to the siren voice That woos thee to a traitor cause: But answer, I have made my choice; I will support lily countrys laws. Go, spurn disunions foul cabal, All party ties behind thee cast; And still at honors, dutys call, Be first to come, to leave the last. And land of high, unsullied fame Hast thou no grievous wrongs to right? Thy hero, wrapt in Sumters flame, And conquered in unequal fight! Thy banner trampled in the dust Hark! shouts of freemen swell the blast, We will defend our flagwe must Be first to come, to leave the last. Land of my birth! how dear to me Has ever been thy spotless fame; Oh, may I never, never see The brand of traitor on thy name. Go, gird thee in thy armor bright; Be faithful to thy glorious past; And in the battle for the right, Be first to come, to leave the last. Cincinnati Commercial. THE SABBATH. Sydney Smith pronounced the following sonnet one of the most beautiful in the English lan.. guage WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn, Which slowly wakes, while all the fields are still. A soothing calm on every breeze is borne; A graver murmur gurgles from the nIl; And echo ansvers softer from the hill, And softer sings the linnet from the thorn The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail! light serene; hail! sacred Sabbath morn. Thu rooks float silent by in airy droves; The sun a placid yellow lustre shows; The gales, that lately sighed along the groves, Have hushed their downy wings in sweet re- pose. The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move. So smiled the day when the first morn arose. From Blackwoods Magazine. BURTONS ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. WHEN that well-known British traveller, Leo Rusticus, Esq., pays his visit to Oxford with his interesting daughters about corn- niemoration time, and makes the tour of the university under the eyes of criticising un- dergraduates, he usually finds his way at last into Christchurch Cathedral. True, there is very little to be seen there, for it is about the ugliest possible of collegiate churches ; still, it is a cathedral, and there- fore, like other cathedrals, to be done as a duty. And, feeling this, like the British Lion in general, he does it. There, amongst other objects of interest, the attendant verger will point out to him (if he does his duty) in the north aisle, high up against a pillar, a small bust, with a Latin inscription under- neath, and a queer-looking diagram stuck rather awkwardly on one side of it, which the young ladies will probably at the first glance take for a sundial, but which is, in truth, an astrological calculation of a nativ- ity. Burton, sir, says the verger, suc- cinctly pointing up to it author of the Anatomyformerly student of this house. The young ladies conclude him to have been some medical celebrity; but papa with the superior information for which the gentlemen of the family of Rusticus have always been distinguished, volunteers a word of explana- tion Anatomy of 1~rIelanc1toly, you know, my dears. Neither of the dears know much about it; but the verger strikes in. Yes, sir, says that worthy, he was a very mel- ancholy gentleman, and is supposed to have destroyed himself; and thats his horror- scope. Miss Leonina, not at all disposed at present to anatomize melancholy, skips on to the next monument; and papa, after a nod intended to imply that the whole sub- ject is familiar to him, thinks it as ~vell to follow. He knows he has the book upon his library shelves at home, and has an impression that it is considered a clever thing; but he is by no means prepared to undcrgo an extempore examination as to its contents. He has seen the work so often alluded to, and in such high terms of praise, that he has little doubt but that all the edu- cated world are perfectly well acquainted with it, and that his own ignorance on the subject is highly inexcusable. He need not judge himself so hardly. If he were to 99 question in succession all the Fellows of the college where he will dine to-day as to their own personal acquaintance with the Anatomy of Melancholy, he would scarcely find more than one among them who had read the book. He would discover that their knowl- edge of it, like his own, had been gained from passing allusions to it in other writers, or bibliographical notices in booksellers cat- alogues. They will all have heard, no doubt, that it was the only book that could get the great Samuel Johnson out of bed two hours before his wont in the morning; but its pres- ent effect upon the early rising of Oxford would be admitted to be quite inappreciable. The truth is, that Burtons book is what everybody has heard of, and few people have rend. Its popularity was always uncertain, and subject to ebbs and flows. At its first appearance it seems to have been quite what we should now call the book of the season. The author himself, in his Address to the Reader prefixed to the fourth edition, tells us that the first, second, and third editions were suddenly gone, eagerly read, and not so much approved by some, as scornfully re- jected by others. Whether the author prof- ited or not, in a pecuniary way, by this rapid sale, the booksellers, according to Antony-a- Wood (not an authority always tobe trusted), got an estate by it, having disposed of no less than eight editionsfive in Burtons lifetime. It afterwards fell into comparative neglect. Mr. Steevens remarks that it is not noticed by either Addison, Pope, or Swift; nay, it even escaped the notice of that excursive reader, Arbuthnot, who was familiarly acquainted with more books than the prcceding triumvirate ever heard of. It rose again into temporary demand, owing to the laudatory notices of it by Johnson, Warton, and othersthe price of a copy rising in consequence, says Steevens, from one shilling and sixpence to ~ guinea and a half, but soon relapsed into comparative neglect; and although it has always had its enthusiastic readers and admirers, the read- ing public in general has been content to take its merits upon trust. Such is the fate at present of many an authors works more worthy than even old Burton to be ranked amongst our English classics. There they are, in rows along the walls of our libraries, like ladies of a certain age in a ball-room, well known by name and sight, and highly BURTON S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. 13URTON S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. respected, but whom no gentleman has the hardihood to take in hand. It would be an interesting branch of literary statistics, and might lead to some rather startling results, to ascertain what proportion of professed admirers of Shakspeare have any intimate acquaintance with his plays beyond what Mr. Kean has given them, or how many who talk familiarly of the great Lord Bacon ever read a line of his, except in a quotation. Southey once said that if his library (four- teen thousand volumes) were necessarily cut down to nineteen, it should consist of Shaks- peare, Spenser, and Milton; Jeremy Taylor, South, and Thomas Jackson as divines; Lord Clarendon, Isaak Walton, Sir Thos. Brown, Fullers Church History, and Sid- neys Arcadia. There can be very little doubt that a small travelling library so se- lectedsay for a modern English gentleman going out for ten years to Chinawould at least have one important recommendation most of them would be, to all intents and purposes, new books, and would probably last him a long time. We will not make any apology, in these days of msthetic revivalism, when we are all wearing our grandmothers hoops, and going back to worse than our great-grandfathers superstitions, for a re-introduction of our readers to Robert Burton and his Anatomy. A book which fascinated men of such differ- ent minds as Samuel Johnson and Charles Lamb, Lord Byron and Archbishop Herring, does not deserve to lie unread. Possibly the terms in which Byron speaks of it may seem to recommend it especially to the taste of the present day. The book, says he, in my opinion, most useful to a man who wishes to acquire the reputation of being well read with the least trouble, is Burtons Anatomy of Melancholy; the most amusing and in- structive medley of quotations and classical anecdotes I ever perused. But a superficial reader must take care, or his intricacies will bewilder him. If, however, he has patience to go through his volumes, he will be more improved for literary conversation than by the perusal of any twenty other works with which I am acquaintedat least in the Eng- lish language. * We cannot so far endorse this statement of Lord Byron as to recom- mend a reading-up of the Anatomy in ~ Moores Life of Byron (Murray, 1832), vol. i. p. 144. order to enable any ambitious friend to shine as a talker at a modern intellectual dinner-party. We doubt very much whether, even in the poets own day, such an under- taking would have repaid an aspirant to con- versational eminence. Such authorities as Peter Lombard, and Jerome Cardan, and Lipsius, and Paracelsus, or even Lucian (and these are household names compared with some of Burtons out-of-the-way acquaint- ances), if introduced in conversation either in this or the last generation, would be likely to win for a man little reputation ex- cept for pedantry. But if the volumes seem to have been rather overrated as a store- house for talkers, they were no doubt found exceedingly useful for another class, quite as important, and very nearly as large,the writers who wished to acquire the reputa- tion of being well read with the least trouble. Burtons brains have been well picked in this way since his death; and it is a pity that he could not have returned for awhile in his own person to detect and castigate, in his own peculiar style, those who availed them- selves of his prodigious reading, and excur- sive forays into all manner of unknown lit- erary districts, to gain for themselves the credit of original research. Hearne calls the book, in his day, a commonplace for filehers. Anthony Wood says the same; it is so full, says he, of variety of read- ing, that gentlemen who have lost their time, and are put to a push for invention, may fur- nish themselves with matter for scholastical discourse and writing. Several authors have stolen matter from the said book without any acknowledgment. It may seem almost treason to place Milton in the foreground of these; but there can be no doubt but that at least the idea, if not some of the imagery, of LAllegro and Ii Penseroso are taken from the Dialogue between Pleasure and Pain, or The Authors Abstract of Melancholy, which Burton prefixed to his book; though the dazzling wealth of language and fancy With which Milton has clothed the thought has no prototype in his quaint predecessor, whose verses, nevertheless, have considera- ble beauty of their own. We may presume that most of the plunderers to whom Wood and others allude have escaped the notice of posterity because the stolen property has passed into oblivior~ with the rest of their work: the only thief who appears to have 100 been convicted and executed is Sterne. Dr. Ferriar brought him to justice; and if any proof were required of the little acquaint. once which the reading world in Sternes tin~e had with the remarkable work of Bur- ton, it may be found in the fact that amongst all the admirers of !liristram S/tandy not one seems to have recognized the borrowed feathers of wit and fancy which the writer so unblushingly paraded. It seems to a reader of the present day almost incompre- hensible that one who possessed such re- markable original powers as Sterne did, should have ventured to risk his reputation as an author by such bold plagiarisms as those, for instance, which Dr. Ferriar points out in the Fragment on Whiskers. * Nothing can satisfactorily explain it, but an i~npudent confidence that the literary trifiers of the day, who delighted in his clever double entendres, and took out their scented handkerchiefs at his tinsel sentiment, would have only sneered at the officious bookworm who should be so troublesome as to refer them to an old, musty folio for the source of some of their favorites originalities. But it is time to introduce our present readers to Burton himself. Of his life, un- fortunately, little is known beyond the very driest facts. That he was a younger son of an old Leicestershire family, educated at Sutton Coldfield and Nuneaton grammar- schools, entered as a commoner of Brasen- nose at the age of sevehteen, and thence elected a student of Christchurch, are not particulars which help us much towards a picture of the man. It was within the walls of the latter college that he appears to have passed his life, with only occasional visits to the country. There he wrote the Anat- omy, and there he died and was buried. He was presented by his college to the vicarage of St. Thomas in Oxford; together vith which he held, from the gift of private pa- trons, first the rectory of Walesby in un- colnshire, and afterwards that of Seagrave #~ Tristram Shandy, vol. v. ch. i. orig. edit., The Lady Baussiere rode on, etc. We refer our read- ers to Ferriars Illustrations of Sterns for the com- parison of this passage with the original in the Anatomy (part iii. sect. 1, memb. 3): Show some pitty, for Christs sake, etc. Other instances of Sternes obligations to Burton are, Mr. Shandys letter to Uncle Toby, with its obsolete medical practices; his philosophical consolations upon Uncle Tobys death; his notions on government; the story of Abderites raving about 0 Cupid, prince of gods and men, etc. 11.01 in leicestershire, but at neither of these places does he ever appear to have resided, I have lived a silent, sedentary, solitary, private life, mihi et Musis, in the university, as long almost as Xenocrates at Athens, ad senectam fere, to learn wisdom as he did, penned up most part in my study. . . . For thirty years I have continued a scholarleft to a solitary life and my own domestic dis- contents; saving that sometimes (ne quid meutiar), as Diogenes went into the city and Democritus to the haven, to see fashions, I did for my recreation now and then walk abroad, look into the world, and could not choose but make some little obser~ttion. The character which Wood gives of him is somewhat contradictory; as he was by many accounted a severe student, a devourer of authors, a melancholy and humorous person; so by others, who knew him well, a person of great honesty, plain dealing, and charity. I have heard some of the ancients of Christchurch often say that his company was very merry, facete, and juvenile; and no man in his time did surpass him for his ready and dexterous interlarding his common discourses among them with verses from the poets, or sentences from classic authors, which being then all the fashion in the uni- versity, made his company the more accept- able. There is no doubt but that he wa~ what we should now c~sll a very eccentric character; he had probably injured his health by close reading, and had that mor- bid self-consciousness which has often been the bane of scholars. There seems also to have been a certain amount of affectation in his character. He was not content with as~ suming the name of Democritus junior in his book, but appears to have worked him- self up into the notion that he really bore some resemblance to the original Democri- tus. The character which he draws of his prototype ih the Address to the Reader, which serves as the long preface to his Anat.. omy, is applicable in almost every particular to his own tastes and pursuits as described both by himself and others. The philoso-. pher of Abdera was, he says,.. A little wearish old man, ves~y melan- choly by nature, averse from company in his latter days, and much given to solitariness; wholly addicted to his studies to the last, and to a private life; a great divine, ac I.e. ~n the old sense pf the word, whimsical, capricio~. BURTON~S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. ANATOMY OF MELANCflOLY. cording to the divinity of those times, an expert physician, a politician, an excellent mathematician, as Diacosmur and the rest of his works do witness. He was much de- lighted with the studies of husbandry, saith Columella. . .. In a word, he was omn Wa- riam doctus, a general scholar, a great stu- dent; .. . a man of an excellent wit, profound conceit, . . . wholly betaking himself to his studies and a private life, saving that some~ times he would walk down to the haven, and laugh heartily at such variety of ridiculous objects which there he saw. The philosopher of Christchurch resem- bled his model in very many points of this character, and perhaps believed himself to resemble it even more completely. He was an exact mathematician, says Wood a curious calculator of nativities, a general read scholar, a thorough-paced philologist, and one that understood the surveying of lands well. That he was also an able divine, and possessed sufficient medical knowledge to have set him up as a very respectable physician, is evident from the testimony of his remarkable book. As to Democritus love of husbandry, if my testimony were ought worth, I could say as much of myself, writes Burton. I am vere Saturninus; no man ever took more delight in springs, woods, groves, gardens, walks, fish-ponds, rivers, etc. But there is ei~p curious habit recorded of him, which seems to show that he studied for the character, and was quite willing that the world of Oxford should recognize in him the eccentricities as well as the learning of the original Laughing Philosopher: Noth- ing could make him laugh but going to the bridge-foot and hearing the ribaldry of the bargemen, which rarely failed to throw him into a violent fit of laughter. ~ It is im- possible not to see in this an absurd copy of Democritus at the haven of Abdera. Prob- ably the facilities of modern railway traffic, which have interfered so seriously with the profits of the Oxford Navigation Company, have also had a depressing effect upon the jocosity of the bargemen; for Democritus himself would find a difficulty in catching a joke upon Yolly Bridge now. It is a great pity that more anecdotes of Burton have not been recorded, for he must have been a singular character as well as an amusing companion. We can fancy that, if he had been fortunate enough to m~t with ~ Orangers Biog. list. a Boswell, his biogrnphy might have ~ ahnost as amusing as the great doctor~i Here is a quaint sketch of him which Hearne has preserved Ai~g. 2, 1713.The Earl of Southampton went into a shop and inquired of the book~ seller for Burtons Anatomy of Melornckot~j. Mr. Burton sat in a corner of the shop at that time. Says the bookseller, My lord, if you please, I can show you the author. He did so, Mr. Burton, says the earl, your servant. Mr. Southampton, says Mr. Burton, your servant. And away he went. He died at his rooms in Christchurch, Jan. 6, 1639; so near the time which he had him- self foretold some years before from a calcu- lation of his own nativity, that, as we are told by Antony Wood (who never misses an opportunity of saying an ill-natured thing), several of the students did not forbear to whisper among themselves, that rather than there should be a mistake in the calculation, he sent up his soul to heaven through a slip about his neck. He was buried, as we have seen, in the cathedral, with a short Latin epitaph, said to have been composed by him- self, and which isnot free from the tinge of vanity and affectation which marked his char- acter Paucis notus, pauciorihus ignotus, Hic jacet Detnocritus Junior, Cui vitam dedit et mortem Mclpncholja. The only known productions of his pen, besides thnt which has handed him down to fame, were a Latin cennedy ealled Plijioso.. phaster, acted at Christchurch in 1617, of which no copy is known to exist; and some epitaphs in Latin verse, which are by no means equal in neatness and elegance to the elegiac lines, Ad iribum suum, prefixed to the Anatomy. But it is probable that other productions of his pen existed in MS. (and may exist still), since in his will he leaves to the disposal of his executors all such books as are written with my own hands. He made a bequest to the Bodleian Library of a eurions collection of pamphlets and tracts, historical and miscellaneous, very many of which are probably unique. A few glances at hazard into the pages of the Anatomy will be enough to enable ant one to understand the secret of the ~nthusi- asm with which it has been regarded by ~pme * Hearnes Re1i~uics, edit. Bliss, ~rol. i. p. 288. 102 BURTON~ S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. 103 readers, and the neglect which it has expe- Burton could say with the greatest truth. rienced at the hands of others. Every page The matter is theirs most part, and yet is loaded. ~with quotations; and, what with mine ;that which nature does with the all.. the Latin and the italics, has such a learned ment of our bodies, incorporate, digest, as- and technical look, that one can easil3 im- similate, I doconcoquere quod hausidis- agine many a rapibler in an old library shut- pose of what I take. The method only is ting such a book in hopeless dismay. The x~iine own. It is this methodthis lucidus amount of Latin in the text itself is consid- ordowhich is at once the merit and the erable, though sometimes the author has the charm of the book. To make it a detrac- consideration to translate his quotations, arid floua from Burtons claims as an author, remit the original to the footnotes; but there that he collected his materials instead of is quite enough even in the allusions to make manufacturing them, is much like complain- the book unsatisfactory except to a classical ing of a successful architect, that, after all, scholar. Indeed, so full is it of sentences in he did not make his own bricks. the more learned tongue, that Nicholls * But full indeed it is, in every sense, of rich says, It has been doubted whether it was material collected from all sources. One originally written in Latin or English. does not know whether most to admire the Burton seems at least to have had some wealth of the learning or the originality of hesitation in the choice; he almost apolo- many of the applications. Heathen classics, gizes to himself and his readers for using Fathers of the Christian Church, Arabian the vulgar tongue; It was not mine intent physicians, German scholars, Dutch histo- to prostitute my muse in English, or to di- rians, travellers and philosophers of all na- vulge secreta Minerva~, but to have exposed tions and ages, are pressed into the service this more contract in Latin if I could have frequently only a few words from each, got it printed. Any scurrile pamphlet is fitted into the context in a sort of literary welcome to our mercenary stationers in Eng- mosaic, wonderful to examine. Never was lish, but in Latin they will not deal. When criticism less happy than that of Granger, he gets upon the subject of abuses in the that if he had made more use of his in- Church (which he probably considered as vention, and less of his commonplace book, among Minervas secrets), and wishes to his work would perhaps have been more lash out into that classical billingsgate of valuable than it is. No one would have which critics were once so fond, he gives us been more disgusted at so mistaken a com- whole pages of original Latin. f It is not pliment than Democritus himself. He would fair to say of it, as has been said, that it is have us believe, indeed, with that affectation a mere canto of quotations, though it is true from which no author seems quite to es- that such is the title which Burton himself cape, that he wrote his treatise somewhat in bestows upon it ir~ his preface, perhaps with haste some little affectation of humility I have I was enforced, as a bear doth her whelps, laboriously collected this cento out of divers to bring forth this confused lump; I had not writers. He professes also, though only time to lick it into form, as she doth her half in earnest, to use the shield of author- young ones, but even so to publish it as it ity against those who might feel offended at was first written, quidquid in buccam venit; the severity of his satire, It is not I, but in an exteniporean style (as I commonly do they, that say it. Yet, while the author all other exercises), effudi quidquid dictavit out of a confused com thus guarded himself against i1l~natured crit.- genius meus; pany ics by this self.-denying ordinarwe at the out- of notes, and writ with as small deliberation set, he would have been little pleased to have as I do ordinarily speak. heard this term applied to it by any one ex- It is remarkable to find so acute a critic as. cept himself. If it be a cento, it is not to Dr. Ferriar accepting this statement of Bur- that faot~ that it owes either its interest or tons as a true history of his authorship, and its reputation. No work ever more fully ii- believing that he poured his quotations out lustrated thewo~ds of Horace on paper as fast as they came into his head. F Taritani series juneturaque pollet. On the contrary, Burtons arrangement is, * Rut. of Lefcesterskire, vol. iii. part ~. ~, ~ an has been already observed, a peculiar ex- t See part I. sect. 2, memb. 3, subs. 15. cellency in his book, and shows it to have 104 been the careful labor of probably many years. The professed object of the book is to anat- omize the passion of Melancholy; to trace its nature, its causes, and its possible cure. If any one shall ask the reason for his choice of a subject I write of melancholy, by- being busie to avoid melancholy. I can peradventure affirm with Marius in Sallust, that which others hear or read of I felt and practised myself; they get their knowledge from books, I from melancholising. . . . I would help others out of a fellow-feeling; and as that vertuous lady did of old, being a leper herself, bestow all her portion to build an hospital for lepers, I will spend my time and knowledge, which are my greatest fortunes, for the common good of alL Perhaps we have a truer reason, or at least one which had its share in leading him to authorship, in the confession that he was conscious of a considerable store of out-of- the-way reading, which might make an enter- taining book;~ I had a kind of imposthume in my head, which I was very desirous to be unladen of, and could imagine no fitter evac- uation than this. Burtons medical studies must excuse the metaphor, which is certainly rather professional than delicate; but we must not allow its apparent humility to be caught at as a precedent; there are a great many authors the contents of whose brains can never have been such a burden to them as to justify the unlading of them upon the public. He writes under the name of Democritus junior, because the original Democritus cut up and anatomized beasts To find out the seat of this atra bilis or melancholy, whence it proceeds and how it is engendered in mens bodies, to the intent he might better cure it in himself, by his writings and observations teach others how to prevent and avoid it. Which good in- tent of his Hippocrates highly commended, Democritus junior is therefore bold to imi- tate, and because he left it imperfect, and it is now lost, quasi succentariator Democriti, to revive again, prosecute, and finish it in this treatise. He had aiiother reason for his choice of an alias Never so much cause of laughter as now: never so many fools and madmen. Tis not one Democritus will serve turn to laugh in these days; we have now need of a Democri BURTONS ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLy. tue to laugh at Democritus, one jesterto flout another, one fool to flear at an another, a great Stentorian Democritus, as big as that Rhodian Colossus: for now, as Salis~.. buriensis said in his time, totus mundus his- trionem agitthe whole world plays the fool; we have a new theatre, a new scene, a new comedy of errors, a new company~ of personate actors; Volupice Sacrcc (as Cal- cagninus wittily feigns in his Apologues) are ceiebrat~a all the world over, where all the actors were madmen and fools, and every hour changed habits, or took that which came next. He adipits that some might object against him that he, as a beneficed divine, might have more fitly written sermons; but of that class of works he saw no such great need; there being already so many commentaries, treatises, pamphlets, expositions, sermons, that whole teams of oxen cannot draw them. The reader of Burton need only turn to the Cure of Despair in the last division of his treatise, in order to feel assured that if the writer had thought fit to devote his ex- traordinary stores of learning and powers of composition to pulpit oratory, Donne would have had a formidable rival in his less known contemporary. But the pulpit was not his favorite line; and it was probably rather his studentship at Christchurch than his delib- erate choice which led him to take holy or- ders. I am, says he, by my profession a divine, and by mine inclination a physi- cian. Yet he entertained the idea of some future publication more in the way of his calling. If this my discourse be over- medicinal, or savor too much of humanity, I promise thee that I will hereafter make thee amends in some treatise of divinity.One feels curious to knew what sort of sermons he preached to the good people of St. Thomas in Oxford, and whether, on the one hand, he took any pains to adapt his powers to their level, or they, on the other, had any distinct appreciation of their learned vicar. The only thing recorded of him in connection with his parochial duties there, so far as we are aware, is, that he built the south porch of the church A.D. 1621, and always adminis- tered the bread at the Holy Communion in the wafer form. He professes to find the disease of which he treats melancholy madness so uni- versal amongst mankind, that almost no con- dition is free from it. You shall find that BURTON~S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. kingdoms and provinces are melancholy, cities and families, all creature, vegetal, sen- sible, and rational-that all sorts, sects, ages, conditions, are out of tune. Folly, melan- choly, madness, are but one disease; delir- ium is a common name to all. All fools are mad, though some madder than others, And who is not a fool? who is free from melan- choly? who is not touched more or less in habit or disposition?~ In fact, the whole of this portion of his preface is but a sermon upon the text of the Stoic philosopher, that all men were madStoics themselves in- cluded. He sets to work to establish this thesis in the most comprehensive manner. Solomon, he shows, was a fool by his own confession (Prov. 23: 2), and St. Paul him- self admits that he was occasionally no bet- ter. Socrates, after consulting all the phi- losophers in order to find out a wise man, came to the conclusion that all men were fools;~ and other philosophers say the same of him. As to learned men in general, you have only to listen to their deliberately re- corded opinions of each other to be con- vinced that they are the greatest fools in the world. He cunningly anticipates a possible retort of the reader on this point Democ- ritus, that common flouter of folly was ridic- ulous himself. He quotes an old law maxim, to the effect that all women are ordinarily fools; but let no fair reader feel aggrieved, for such are all meA also. Of all estates, and of all ages, youth is mad8tulti adoles- centuli; old age little betterdeliri sene& .~ The only man whom he would allow to have a taste of wisdom is Theophrastus, who re- gretted his own death because he was just then beginning to be wise at one hundred and seven years old; which, as Burton ob- serves, was rather late in the day. But not only individuals kingdoms, provinces, and politick bodies, are liable likewise, sensi- ble and subject to this disease. Those who lived to see the French Reign of Terror might have well discussed such a theory in a more earnest strain than Burtons. Bishop Butler, walking in his garden with his chap- lain in those terrible days, turned round to his companion after an interval of medita- tion, and asked him seriously whether he thought it possible for nations, like men, to have fits of insanity? There were phenom- ena in that Revolution which were sufficient to justify the bishops speculation. Our pres 105 ent author pushes his argument still further. Even animals have this melancholy mad- ness. Put a bird in a cage, he will die for sullenness; or a beast in a pen, and take his young ones or companions from him, and see what effect it will cause. And even what he calls vegetals are liable (so he will have it) to the same diseases. Lead is sat- urnine by nature; and a plant, if removed, will pine away. Of course, our author observes, his is not the popular doctrine. On the contrary, we all think ourselves wise; and this is, in truth and he quotes Solomon, Pliny, and Seneca to the pointthe most indisputable symp- tom of folly. Never was a wiser age than his own, he says, if one could take its own testimony. In former times they had but seven wise men; now, you can scarce find so many fools. Thales sent the golden tripor, which the fishermen found, and which the oracle com- manded to be given to the wisest, to Bias, Bias to Solon, etc. If such a thing were now found, we should all fight for it, as the three goddesses did for the golden applewe are so wise. We have women politicians, chil- dren metaphysicians; every silly fellow can square a circle, make perpetual motions, find the philosophers stone, interpret Apoca- lypsis, make new theoricks, a new system of the world, new logic, new philosophy, etc. We think so well of ourselves, and that is an ample testimony of much folly. After a very long exordiumwhich is, however, one of the best parts of the book~ he proceeds to treat of melancholy as toi. Its nature; 2. Its causes; 3. Its symptoms. He gives a most elaborate synopsis, as a kind of index to the work, in which all the heads of his discourse are indicated in their sec- tions, members, and subsections. Whether this was for his own amusement, or as a kind of solemn joke upon the subtleties of the schoolmens logical divisions and subdivi~ sions, one can scarcely tell; certainly he could not expect many of his readers to en- ter upon the study in the severely philosophi- cal spirit which such an apparatus implies~ to take up melancholy as a science, in modern Oxford language. At any rate, modern students will be rather apt to run on delighted with the rich flow of quaint an- ecdote and quotation, bewildered in a pleas- ant maze (for Burtons digressions are of the longest and boldest), than to pause from BURTON~S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. time to time to take up the several stepa of the discussion, or observe carefully that subsection 7 is a branch of member 3. It is only the critical reader of Burton who will feel himself bound to this mere system- atic, and less luxurious, proceeding. After premising that no man is free from disease of some kinda position which we believe is still held by the facultyhe pro~ ceeds to a preliminary digression as to the anatomy of the body and of the mind. The first we may leave unnoticed: medical technicalities are not lively reading at the best, and the anatomical science of two hun- dred and fifty years ago is not very valuable. He has certainly done his best to give his readers something of the poetry of science, even in dealing with this very technical sub- ject; showing how the brain in the high- est region is, as it were, a privy counsellor and chancellor to the heart, which (in the second region, the chest) as a king keeps his court, and by his arteries communicates life to the whole body; while in the third or lower region the liver resides as a legate a latere; and the lungs is the town-clark or crier, as an orator to a king; annexed to the heart to express his thoughts by voice. The anatomy of the soul is more curious, though it is about the hardest reading in the book, and has no doubt turned back many a lazy reader who has opened Burton in search of amusement. But we will not stop now to examine how there be in all fourteen spe- cies of the understanding. Let us proceed to ascertain what this melancholy, atra bilis, is. There is one species of it in dis- position, which comes and goes upon every small occasion of sorrow, need, sick- ness, etc., with which this treatise will have nothing to do; in this sense, melancholy is the character of mortality. It is melan- choly proper, in habit, morbus clironicus, with which we have to do. Burton accepts what he calls the common definition of it, a kind of dotage without a fever, having for his ordinary companions fear and sadness without any apparent occasion. * Those ~ It has been more than insinuated, by Dibdin and others, that the author of this Anatomy, the prey of so many literary pirates, was himsell, to a certain extent, a copyist. That there were abun- dance of treatises on melancholy, in all languages, before the appearance of his book, is of course true ; and that he made free use of them in the way of reference and quotation, lie declares himself in his ample footnotes. It would require a research who are most liable to it are ersona~it1ser~ of a black, or of a high sax uiae1eompfr~.. ion (which gives rise to differentibrms~ot thediscase, which shows iteelfin morevialerit symptoms in the latter teuriperanront); but indeed, our author goes on to say, u J can- not except any complexion, any age~condi- tien, sex, or age, but fools and stojes, which (according to Synesius) are never troubled with any manner of passion. We do not know how far the philosophers may be pleased with an exemption granted in such company, but it may be some comfort to the fools in these days of universal wisdom. On the other hand, we fear that some of our very saturnine and disagreeable friends, if they study Burton, will shelter themselves under his authority, and set down to their superior genius what is due to their bad di- gestion. Generally, saith llhasis, the finest wits and most generous spirits are, before other, obnoxious to it. It will be a great temptation to those who feel themselves dull, heavy, lazy, uncheerful in counte- nance and not pleasant to behold, to plead that these are the tokens of a superior mind, when they find it here remarked of the Same characters that their memories are for the most part good, they have happy wits and excellent apprehensions. Even the author- ity of Aristotle is quoted to the same effect. There may be an unpleasant amount of truth in the theory. The temper which sees a sad- into forgotten literature alm6st as laborious as Bur- tons qwn, to refute this charge effectually. But the definition of ~nelancholyj ust quoted from his pageS, affordsa convenient opportunity of showing, by an examInation t~f one particular instance, how far the,autborwa~ )ikely to take any thing at sec- ond-hand. One of the books to whi~h lie is thought to have been indebted 1 s A Treatise of ftelanckotie, by rimothv Bright, M,D~, first printed in 1586. [fhe work: is very scarce, and the ~ntish Museum has only an imperfect copy~~ There ls no question but that Burton made use bt the book, for he quotes from it, or refers to it, more than once. And there are several passages in the old physicians work from which at first sight it might appear that the later writer had borrowed. For instance, Brights delinition of melancholy is a doting of the reason through vaine feare, procured by fault of the mel- aneh,iin humour. Now, upon comparing this with. flurtons,as given above, it will bQ seen that the terms are the same. But whenwe come to ex- amine the process by which the later~ author ar- rives at his definition, we see that Bright got his term dotage from Aretwus ;. of the reason. from Montaltus, Albertus, Bottonus, etc. ; fear, as a necessary ingredient, from Hem~ul~ tie Sat- onia, etc.; and black choler,~~ or the inelan- cholic humor, as the cause, from Paul oftEgina. Both had probably recourse to the same authori- ties, and hence the resemblance. 106 BURTOT~S ANATOMY~ OF MELANCHOLY. ness and a weariness in all things is the scourge of a higher nature than the buoyant animslinrn which finds delight in every hour of: taistenee. There may be a moral lesson in discontent. Ennui, says a preacher uf no ordinary powers, is one of the signatures ofmans immortality. It is a thing~ says another writer, t which fools never know~ and clever men only dispel by active exer~ tion. Omnia vanitas has more than one interpretation. As to the causes of melancholy, the an. thor runs into some veryfantastic digressions. How far the power of spirits and devils doth extend, and whether they can cause this or any other disease, is a serious question, and worthy to be considered. Testimonies from various writers, of whoni few readers will have heard, are produced in support of both sides of the question; but the authors sym- pathies are plainly with the demonologists. Some strange speculations on the subject he cannot indeed admit, as, for instance, that these devils are corporeal, as David Crusius and others would have it; Bodine even being so particular as to note that in their proper shapes they are round. Leo ~uavius, a Frenchman, will have the ayre to be as full of them as snow falling in the skies; and Paracelsus stifflyniaiutains that the air is not so full of flies in summer as it is at all times of invisible devils a very un- comfortable doctrine. Not that they are in- visible at all times and to all people; that holy man Ketellus, in Nubrigensis, had an especial grace to see devils, and to talk with them. Facius Cardan, father of the great physician, an. 1491, 13th August (the son, who records it, is v~ry properly exact as to the date), conjured up seven devils in Greek apparel, about forty years of age, some ruddy of complexion, and some pale; nay, we are told a few pages further on that he had one an aerial devil hound to him for twenty and eight years. Was it to learn physic that he sdrved this apprentice.~ ship? Burton is careful not to commit him. self to the truth either of these philosophers speculations or of their peteonal experiences; hut he declares his own belief that whirl- winds, and tempestuous storms, which our meteoroIogi,4~ generally refer to natural ~ F. W. Robertso~. t Sir Iluiwer ~qttcn (in a letter to Lady Bless- ington). causes, are far more often caused by those aerial devils in their several quarters .-.-. tripudium agentes rejoicing in the death of a sinner. How far they are infiu.. ential in producing melancholy he leaves un- decided; but he thinks that this humor has been rightly termed by Serapion balneum diabsdi, the devils bath, as inviting him to come into it. Besides evil spirits and magicians, their servants, he holds that the stars may be a disposing cause. The conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter in Libra, or Saturn and the moon in Scorpio, is significant of future madness or melancholy. There can be no question as to Burtons own belief in judicial astrol- ogy. He apologizes for it gracefally Nam et doctis liisce erroribus versatus sum and professes that he does not carry his belief to an extreme. The stars do incline, but not compel.agunt non cogunt; but he will not waste time in arguing with those who will attribute no vertue at all to the heav- ens, or to sun or moon, more than to their signs at an innkeepers post; to his view, the heaven is a great book whose letters are the stars, wherein are written many strange things for such as can read. Passing from these more fantastical speeu. lations, we come to certain causes of Melan- choly more commonly recognized. Worse than all devils or witches, or adverse con- junctions of the planets, are the malignant Genii of Diet and Air. Six non-natural * things there are, so much spoken of amongst physicians, in which lie the causes of all diseases, this of black choler in- eluded; and these are Diet, Air, Secretions, Exercise, Sleep, and the Passions. Of these, Diet stands first in the opinion of all physi- cians. It is the mother of diseases, let the father be what he will, says Fernel, the great French physician. Burton supplies a very full collection of precepts as to what particular articles of food are to be chosen or avoided; but as he is impartial in his quotations from all the celebrated authorities in ancient medicine, and as doctors~ prover- bially disagree, the result to the anxious in- quirer is not altogether satisfactory. Go ~ The term aoa-aatural was fashionable in the medical science of that day. It was applied to such cases of diseases as were not congenital. A namesake of the author of the Aaatom~, John Bur- ton, M.D., of York, wrote a Treatise on the Non- aatusral., in 1788. 107 108 BURTON~ S ANATOMY OF 1~ELANCHOLY. mesius doth immoderately extol sea-fish, in the conversation of a living pl~ilesopl~er, which others as much vilifie Messarius but at which your self-conceit tak~s ~ commends salmon, which Bruerinus contra- fence in one whose only pei~sonalky i~s~ 1iiUp~ dicts ; Paulus Jovius commends lam- page. Beer, on the other hand, our ~uthor preys, and saith none speak against them strongly commends, though in oppositio~a t~ but inepti and scrupulosisome scrupulous authorities: Tis a most whole~ne and a persons. Carp is a fish of which, says our pleasant drink, and much the better for the author, I know not what to determine; hop, that rarefies it, and bath an especial it bath a taste of mud, as Franciscus Bon- vertue against melancholy. It may be very suetus poetically defines in his Liber de fairly surmised that Christchurch brewed Aquatilibus (and as we can prosaically con- good ale in those days, and that Democritus ~lrm from personal experience); nevertheless, junior patronized the tap. lie h~id sense Freitagius extols it for an excellent whole- enough, no doubt, to recognize the truth of some meat, and so do most of our coun- one golden rule in the matter of dietaries, try gentlemen. The present Leo Rusticus, which he quotes as being as ancient as Hip- Esq., prefers Scotch salmon, we are bound pocratesthat what a man relishes most to say in justice to his taste. Venison is commonly agrees with him. still a pleasant meat, in great esteem with Unwholesome air, excessor defect of sleep us at our solemn feasts; and we conscien- and exercise, and other neglects of the body, tiously dissent from the dictum, though it are set down as proximate causes of melan- were fortified by the opinions of a thousand choly. So also, disordered passions, which physicians, Greek, Latin, French, or Eng- are dwelt on at considerable length in Aris- lish, that it is a melancholy meat, and be- totelian fashion. On the great question of gets bad blood. No doubt, as Burton the connection between matter and spirit says, it ought to be well prepared by cook- how the body, being material, worketh ery; and it could only have been the atro- upon the immaterial soul he is content to eious culinary arrangements in the kitchen refer us to Cornelius Agrippa and Lemnius at Christchurch in his days that could have in their treatises on occult philosophy. We induced the assertion that it is generally cannot boast of an acquaintance with these ba~d, and seldom to be used. On another learned writers, but can guess that they point we are quite willing to agree with leave the humiliating fact pretty much as him; we recommend no dyspeptic student they found it. It is a most anomalous and to eat horse (not if he knows it). Even inexplicable state of things, that merely be- young foals we should be shy of recoin- cause a mans internal cooking apparatus is mending as an article of diet, although a little out of order, he should go nigh commonly eaten in Spain, and to furnish to hating ~ll his neighbors, and making the navies often used. Some revelations as all his neighbors l~ate him; that a good di- to certain tins of preserved meats supplied gestion should be tho root of nine-tenths of to her Britannic Majestys ships lead us to the moral virtues: but so it is. And when think that these delicacies are still in vogue will society listen to the plea which our hon- with navy contractors. Wine is set down est anatomist puts forth on behalf of those by the authorities as a great cause of head- unfortunate mortals, who find their moral melancholy. Guianerius (Tract. 1.5, c. 2) alid intellectual being so tied~ and capti- tells a story of two Dutchmen to whom he vated by their inferior senses? This gave entertainment in his house, that in one melancholy, says he, deserves to be pitied months space were both melancholy by of all men, and to be respected with a ten- drinking of wine; one did nought but sing, der compassion. Pity, indeed! we wish the other sigh. A melancholy Dutchman the unfortunate dyspeptic may get it. No keeping up a perpetual chant must have been if a man wants pity let him break his leg, a guest that no one but an experimental and get laid up comfortably for six weeks. physician would have entertained long. One Then he shall enjoy all the luxury of con- great delight in reading old Burton is that centrating upon himself the interest and you never feel certain when Democritus in sympathies of a whole householdnay, a telling his gravest stories, is not laughing at whole neighborhood. Bright eyes shall you in his sleeve ;not an agreeable feature watch him, eager to anticipate his everywish, fair hands shall minister to his necessities, a~nd ikiry forms hover about, slaves to his bidding: But let him get up in the morn- ing~ ~niiid in wind and limb to all appear- ance, with nothing particular to complain of, only feeling as if he had got the whole world upon his s~houlders, like Atlas, and was on the point of breaking down under itheavy as if with the shadow of some unknown ca- lamitywith all the little troubles of life magnified in his mental focus, like those hideous water-monsters in the hydro-oxygen microscope agelastor, mo?stus, cogitabun- duslooking as if he had newly come forth of Trophonius den (do we not know the symptoms as well as old Burton ?)and see how much pity or respect such an unhappy sufferer is likely to meet with from this pres- ent hard-hearted generation. Democritus had surely experienced the tender sympa- thies of some of his Christchurch friends when he wrote as follows It is an ordinary-thing for such as are sound, to laugh at this dejected pusillanim- ity, and those other symptoms e4~ melan- choly, to make themselves merry with them, aAd to wonder at such, as toyes and trifles which may be resisted and withstood if they will themselves; but let him that so won- ders, consider with himself, that if a man should tell him on a sudden that some of his especial friends were dead, could he choose but grieve? or set him upon a steep rock, where he should be in danger to be precipi- tated, could he be secure? Yea, but you in- fer that such men have a just cause to grieve, a true object of fear: so have mel- ancholy men an inward cause, a perpetual fume and darkness, causing grief, fear, sus- picion, which they carry with theman ob- sect which cannot be removed, but sticks as close, and is as inseparable, as a shadow to a body; and who can expel or overrun his shadow? Remove heat of the liver, a cold stomach, weak spleentake away the cause, and then bid them not grieve nor fear, or be heavy, dull, lumpish: otherwise counsel can do little good: ~u may as well bid him that is sick of an ague not be dry, or him that is wounded not to feel pain. So much for the nature and the causes of melancholy; the second part of our treatise concerns its cure. A hard matter, the au- thor tells us, but not impossible. lie no- tices some proposed remedies only to reject them. He advisesand we trust our pres- ent readers will agree with himnot to have 109 recourse to what, by a rather curious antici- pation, he calls magnetical curess or in more plain language, diabolical means that is, spells, charms, incantations, and the like. Sorcerers, he says, are common enough in every village.. and they have commonly St. Catherines wheel printed in the roof of their mouth, or in some other part about them a trade-mark which it may be useful thus to note for the protec- tion of the ingenuous public who attend modern .sdances, and by which we recom- mend them to make a point of testing the genuine articletaking care not to get their fingers bitten. Paracelsus will have it that no one shall take it in hand to deal with melancholy, who is not at once a magi- cian, a chymist, a philosopher, and an as- trologer. Burton is cautious as to giving any decided opinion of his own as to the possibility of such means of cure, but he holds them to be plainly unlawful. He ad- mits, nevertheless, that there is a supernat- ural 17s medicatrix, to which we may law- fully apply, and of which all vertue of stones, herbs, plants, seeds, etc., are but intermediate ministers ; and he weaves very gracefully together, in his own peculiar style, the acknowledgment of the heathen poet A Jove principium the moral contained in the fable of Hercules and the wagoner, apd the golden precept which was so fully recognized by the good physicians of oldGalen5 Crato, Ltelius, and their fol- lowers Sine oratione et invocatione DLI nikilfacias. The sovereign cures for melancholy are to be sought in accordance with what we have seen of its nature and its causes. Greater than all wizards, astrologers or physicians are the three Salernitan~ doctorsDr. Mer- ryman, Dr. Diet, and Dr. Quiet Si tibi deficiant medici, metlici tibi fiant Hmc tria, mens lmta, requies, moderata dieta * This was one of the celebrated maxims of the School of Salerno, which, under the Lombard princes, rose to the highest re- nown throughout Europe. It was there that the Arabian chemists and physicians taught the secrets of the East. Paris for ~ See Regimes Sasitatis Salerni; or the School of ,Salerne, etc. 4to. London: 1649. This edition has a very indifferent translation of the Latin max- ims into English verse. Burton appears to have quoted from a Latin prose version. BURTON~S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. 110 sciences, Bonn for law, Orleans for suecess~. ful writers, Salerno for medicine,-.-.is the distribution of Thomas Aquinas. The max- ims of this school were condensed irito a con- venient set of aphorisms in rhymed Latin verse of the twelfth century, and were trans~ lated into various languages. On the pre~ cept quoted above, Burton rests as the foundation of all sound treatment of this terrible disease. Make a melancholy man fat, saith Rhasis, and thou hast finished the cure. Let him that is vexed with this Nemesis of the body, look well to his diet above all things. And in this, says Bur- ton very sensibly, I conclude our own ex- perience is the best physicianlet every man observe and be a law unto himself. He reminds us of the Emperor Tiberius remark, which we have since freely trans- lated into a proverb, that a man after thirty is either a fool or a physician. He approves of the Roman custom of taking the chief meal at the close of the day; a point of medical discipline in which our physicians of the last generation made a perverse step backwards, tormenting the unhappy dyspep- tic with raw mutton-chops at one oclock. On the other hand, Burton and his learned authorities forbid a variety of dishes, which modern experience more reasonably con- cludes, under limitations, to be conducive to easy digestion; much more so than the cut- and-come-again at what our ancestors used to call wholesome roast and boiled. In nothing did the national obstinacy and prej- udice of Englishmen maintain its ground longer against reason and conviction, than in the deeply seated belief in the virtues of the national cookery. No doubt our hered- itary jealousy of France had much to do with it. Water, says Burton, should be good. Rain-water is purest ; next in merit is that which riseth in the east and run- neth eastwa