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Title: International Weekly Miscellany — Volume 1, No. 3, July 15, 1850
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "International Weekly Miscellany — Volume 1, No. 3, July 15, 1850" ***

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INTERNATIONAL WEEKLY MISCELLANY

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vol. I. NEW YORK, JULY 15, 1850. No. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *



GEORGE SAND, IN THE MEMOIRS OF CHATEAUBRIAND.

George Sand is about to publish a book called "Memoirs of my Life,"
which is looked for with great expectations by both the admirers of
her genius and the lovers of scandalous gossip. It is certain that if
she makes a clean breast of her adventures and experiences, the world
will have reason both for admiration and disgust over the confessions:
admiration for the generosity of her character--for she never did
a mean thing, and probably never had a mean thought--disgust at the
recklessness with which she has cast off the delicacy and modesty of
woman, and undermined the morality on which the holiest institutions
of society depend. The interest with which the French public look
forward to the book may be understood from the enormous price she
has received for it between $30,000 and $40,000. The _Credit_, a most
respectable daily journal of Paris, has purchased of the publisher,
for $12,000, the right of issuing the first six volumes in its
_feuilleton_, in advance of the regular publication, and will soon
commence them.

Chateaubriand, in one of the latest chapters of his Posthumous
Memoirs, speaks at some length of George Sand. The verdict of the most
illustrious French literary man of the age which has just closed,
upon this most remarkable writer of the age now passing, is every
way interesting, and we translate it for the _International_ from the
columns of _La Presse_, as follows:

Madame Sand possesses talents of the first order. Her descriptions are
true as those of Rousseau in his Reveries, and those of Bernardin
St. Pierre in his Studies. Her free style is stained by none of the
current faults of the day. Lelia, a book painful to read, and offering
only here and there one of the delicious scenes which may be found in
Indiana and Valentine, is nevertheless a master-work of its kind. Of
the nature of a debauch, it is yet without passion, though it produces
the disturbance of passion. The soul is wanting, but still it weighs
upon the heart. Depravity of maxims, insult to rectitude of life,
could not go farther; but over the abyss descends the talent of the
author. In the valley of Gomorrah the dew falls nightly upon the Dead
Sea.

The works of Madame Sand, those romances, the poetry of matter, are
born of the epoch. Notwithstanding her superiority, it is to be feared
that the author has narrowed the circle of her readers by the very
character of her writings. George Sand will never be a favorite with
persons of all ages. Of two men equal in genius, one of whom preaches
order and the other disorder, the first will attract the greater
number of hearers. The human race never give unanimous applause to
what wounds morality, on which repose the feeble and the just. We do
not willingly associate with all the recollections of our life those
books which caused us the first blush, and whose pages were not
those we learned by heart as we left the cradle: books which we have
read only in secret, which have never been our avowed and cherished
companions, and which were never mingled with either the candor of our
sentiments or the integrity of our innocence. Providence has confined
to very straight limits all success which has not its source in
goodness, and has given universal glory as an encouragement for
virtue.

I am aware that I reason here like a man whose narrow view does not
embrace the vast _humanitary_ horizon, like a retrograde attached to
a ridiculous system of morality, a morality already passing to decay,
and at the best good only for minds without intelligence, in the
infancy of society. There is close at hand the birth of a new gospel,
far above the common-places of this conventional wisdom, which hinders
the progress of the human race, and the restoration to dignity and
honor of this poor body, so calumniated by the soul. When women all
resort to the street--when to perform the marriage ceremony it will
be enough to open the window and call on God as witness, priest,
and wedding-guest--then all prudery will be destroyed; there will be
espousals everywhere, and we shall rise the same as the birds to the
grandeur of nature. My criticism on books of the sort of George Sand's
has then no value except in the vulgar order of things past, and
therefore I trust she will not be offended by it. The admiration I
profess for her ought to make her excuse these remarks, which have
their origin in the infelicity of my age. Once I should have been more
carried away by the Muses. Those daughters of heaven were in times
past my lovely mistresses, now they are only my ancient friends. At
evening they kept me company by the fireside, but they soon depart;
for I go to bed early, and then they hasten to take their places
around the hearth-stone of Madame Sand.

Without doubt Madame Sand will in this path prove her intellectual
omnipotence, but yet she will please less, because she will be less
original. She will fancy she augments her power by venturing into the
depths of these reveries, beneath which we deplorable common mortals
are buried, and she will be mistaken. In fact she is much superior
to this extravagance, this vagueness, this presumptuous balderdash.
At the same time that a person endowed with a rare but too flexible
faculty, should be guarded against follies of the higher order, he
ought also to be warned that fantastic compositions, subjective or
intimate, painting (so runs the jargon) are restricted; that their
course is in youth; that its springs are drying up every instant, and
that after a number of productions the writer finishes with nothing
but weak repetitions.

Is it very likely that Madame Sand will always find the same charm
in what she now composes? Will not the merit and the enthusiasm of
twenty lose their value in her mind as the works of my first days are
depreciated in mine? There is nothing changeless except the labors of
the antique muse, and they are sustained by a nobility of manners, a
beauty of language, and a majesty of sentiments, which belong to the
entire human species. The fourth book of the Eneid remains forever
exposed to the admiration of men because it is suspended in heaven.
The ships bearing the founder of the Roman Empire,--Dido, the
foundress of Carthage, stabbing herself after having announced
Hannibal:

  Exoriare aliquis nostius exossibus ulta.--

Love causing the rivality of Rome and Carthage to leap from the flame
of his torch, lighting with his own hand the funeral pile, whose
blaze the fugitive Eneas perceives upon the waves,--is altogether
another thing than the promenade of a dreamer in the woods, or the
disappearance of a libertine who drowns himself in the sea. Madame
Sand will, I trust, yet associate her talents with subjects as durable
as her genius.

Madame Sand can only be converted by the preaching of that missionary
with bald forehead and hoary beard, called Time. A voice less
austere meanwhile enchains the captive ear of the poet. In fact, I
am persuaded that the talent of Madame Sand has some of its roots in
corruption; in becoming modest she would become commonplace. It would
have been otherwise had she always remained in that sanctuary not
frequented by men; her power of love, restrained and concealed beneath
the virginal fillet, would have drawn from her heart those decent
melodies which belong at once to the woman and the angel. However that
may be, audacity of ideas and voluptuousness of manners form a spot
not before cleared up by a daughter of Adam, and which, submitted to
a woman's culture, has yielded a harvest of unknown flowers. Let us
permit Madame Sand to produce these perilous marvels till the approach
of winter; she will sing no more _when the North wind has come_.
Meanwhile, less improvident than the grasshopper, let her make
provision of glory for the time when there will be a famine of
pleasure. The mother of Musarion was wont to repeat to her child:
"Thou wilt not always be sixteen; will Choereas always remember his
oath, his tears and his caresses?"

For the rest, women have often been seduced, and as it were carried
off, by their own youth, but toward the days of autumn, restored
to the maternal hearth, they have added to their harps the grave
or plaintive chord on which either religion or unhappiness finds
expression. Old age is a traveler in the night time; the earth is
hidden from sight and he can see nothing but the heavens shining above
his head.

I have not seen Madame Sand dressed in men's clothes or wearing the
blouse and the iron-shod staff of the mountaineer. I have not seen her
drinking from the cup of bacchanals and smoking indolently reclining
on a sofa like a sultana,--natural or affected eccentricities which
for me could add nothing to her charms or her genius.

Is she more inspired when she causes a cloud of vapor to rise from
her mouth about her hair? Did Lelia escape from the head of her mother
through a burning mist, as Sin, according to Milton, proceeded from
the head of the glorious and guilty archangel amid a whirlpool of
smoke? I know not what passes in the sacred courts; but here below
Neamede, Phila, Lais, Gnathene, the witty Phryne, the despair of the
pencil of Apelles, and the chisel of Praxiteles, Leëna, beloved of
Harmodias, the two sisters named Aphyes, because they were small and
had large eyes, Dorica, the fillet of whose locks and embalmed robe
were consecrated in the temple of Venus,--all these enchantresses knew
only the perfumes of Arabia. It is true that Madame Sand has on her
side the authority of the Odalisques and the young Mexicans who dance
with cigars between their lips.

What effect has Madame Sand had upon me, after the few gifted women,
and many charming women whom I have known--after those daughters of
the earth, who like Madame Sand said with Sappho: "Come, Mother of
Love, to our delicious banquets, fill our cups with the nectar of
roses?" As I have placed myself now in fiction and now in reality, the
author of Valentine has made on me two very different impressions.

As for fiction, I do not speak of it, for I ought no longer to
understand its language; as for reality, a man of grave age,
cherishing the notions of propriety, attaching as a Christian the
highest value to the timid virtue of woman. I know not how to express
my unhappiness at such a mass of rich endowments bestowed on the
prodigal and faithless hours which are spent and vanish.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARIA BROOKS AND SOUTHEY.

It is well known that our countrywoman MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE was on
terms of familiar intimacy with the poet-laureate, whose admiration
of her genius is illustrated in several allusions to her in his works,
and particularly in that passage of "The Doctor" in which she is
described as "the most impassioned and imaginative of all poetesses."
Southey superintended the publication of "Zophiel," in London, and
afterward was a frequent correspondent of Mrs. Brooks, during her
residence in New York and in Cuba. Among the souvenirs of Mrs.
Brooke's grateful recollection of his kindness, are two or three short
poems commemorating her visits to Keswick, and the following song, put
into a lyrical form by her, from the blank verse of "Madoc."

PRINCE HOEL'S LAY OF LOVE.

  I've harnessed thee, my faithful steed--
  Now, by the ocean, prove thy speed,
  While, as we pass, th' advancing spray
  Shall kiss thy side of glossy gray;--
  Oh! fairer than the ocean foam
  Is that cold maid for whom we roam!
    Her cheek is like the apple flower
  Or summer heavens, at evening hour,
  While, in her tender bashfulness,
  She starts and files my love's excess,
  Tho' dim my brow, beneath its mail,
  As ocean when the sun is pale.
    On, on! until my longing sight,
  Can fix upon that dwelling white,
  Beside a verdant bank that braves
  The ocean's ever-sounding waves;--
  There, all alone, she loves to sing,
  Watching the silver sea-mew's wing.
    In crowded halls, my spirit flies
  To wait upon her; and wasting sighs
  Consume my nights; where'er I turn
  For her I pant, for her I burn,
  Who, like some timid, graceful bird,
  Shrinks from my glance and fears my word.
    I faint; my glow of youth is gone;
  Sleepless at night and sick at morn,
  My strength departs; I droop, I fade,
  Yet think upon that lonely maid,
  And pity her, the while I pine
  That she should spurn a love like mine
    _This_, Madoc took the harp to play;
  Cold in the earth Prince Hoel lay;
  And Llaian listened, fain to speak
  But wept as if her heart would break.

In this connection, writing of Southey, soon after intelligence was
received in this country of the decay of his intelligence, from her
coffee estate in Cuba, Mrs. Brooks says:

    When a child of ten years old I could admire the poem "Madoc,"
    such is the simplicity of its sentiments and the beauty of
    its delineations. Looking it over, here, (amidst the woods and
    canes of that island where repose the bones of Columbus,) the
    song of Prince Hoel attached itself to my thoughts, and has
    been (involuntarily) put into rhyme. This song may be found in
    the first part of the poem mentioned. The lyric metre in which
    it now appears must rather injure than improve the _belle
    nature_ of the original. Still I wish it to be published, as
    coming from my hand; because it gives me an opportunity of
    expressing, in some degree, my unqualified admiration of its
    composer. Well may he be called THE POET AND HISTORIAN OF THE
    NEW WORLD. To justify this appellation, one has only to look
    at Madoc and the History of Brazil. I have heard, from a
    friend, of a rumor that Southey is ill; and, as it is feared,
    irrecoverably.

This intelligence is unexpected as it is melancholy; for who had
better reason to look forward to a protracted existence upon earth,
than he who has written more than any other man except Voltaire--than
Robert Southey, perfectly proportioned in person, just in mind,
regular in his way of living, and benevolent in all his doings?

During that Spring which hallowed the last revolution in France, (that
of July, 1830,) I saw this bard of the lakes surrounded by his most
amiable and certainly beautiful family; one only individual of which,
his "Dark-eyed Birtha, timid as a dove," was then absent. I must
ever believe that a common reputation for beauty depends more on
circumstances than on any particular faultlessness in the person said
generally to be handsome.

Byron, in some one of the letters or conversations, written either
by or for him, says, or is said to say: "I saw Southey (naming the
time) at Lord Holland's, and would give Newstead for his head and
shoulders." This quotation is from memory, but, I trust, right in
sentiment, though it may not be perfectly so in words; but I have
seen little else concerning the physique either of him "Who framed of
Thalaba that wild and wondrous song," or of those to whom his blood is
transmitted. Still, at the time I have mentioned, it was impossible to
look unmoved upon so much perfection of color, sound and expression as
arrested my eyes at Keswick; in the tasteful and hospitable dwelling
of him who brought to earth that "Glendoveer," "one of the fairest
race of Heaven," (the heaven of India,) who averted the designs of
Arvalan, in that glowing and magnificent poem "The Curse of Kehama."

The Herodotus of Brazil, himself, had seen, when I first saw him,
fifty-seven winters; but his once dark locks, though sprinkled with
snow, were still curling as if childhood had not passed; and looked
wild and thick as those of his own Thalaba. A "chevelure" like this,
with black eyes, aquiline features, and figure tall and slender,
without attenuation, assisted in presenting such an image as is seldom
viewed in reality; while the effect of the whole was enhanced by easy,
unpretending and affectionate manners.

The eldest daughter of this Minstrel of the Mountains was called
_Edith May_, (the name of May having been given because she was born
in the month of blossoms.) This lady (now Mrs. Warter,) was the bard
himself with a different sex and complexion. "Her features his, but
softened." Her gentle, graceful deportment was in perfect harmony with
flaxen hair tinted with gold; and the outline of her father's face
was embellished by the blue eyes and other delicate colors of her too
sensitive mother, (named, also, Edith,) who had been chosen for love
alone. The second daughter, Birtha, as I have said, was absent. The
third, Catherine, "between the woman and the child," had hazel eyes
and fine features, altogether with a delicate shape and complexion.
Cuthbert, the only son, was a boy of eleven or twelve, with an open,
expressive countenance.

I could not help remarking that in the names of each individual of
this pleasing group was heard that sound produced by the letter T
followed by its companion H, which is so difficult to the organs of
foreigners, but which, when tenderly pronounced, brings to mind
the down of a swan or the wing of a dove. Edith, Birtha, Catherine,
Cuthbert, Southey. If affection and innocence can insure felicity on
earth, the course of their lives must be smooth as waters where the
swan reposes; for certainly all their movements seemed innocent as
those of the dove.

The month of March was nearly half gone, when I reached Keswick,
by the road from Edinburgh; having passed, in my way, an old stone
building, pointed out to me as "Branksome Tower," known by the "Lay of
the Last Minstrel," who has sung the achievements of Scottish knights
and ladies. This village, at the foot of Skiddaw, though much visited
in the summer, has still all the wildness of nature. Daffodils were
in blossom when I walked there; and primroses, daisies and violets
opened, among the trees, upon every bank and grass plat, while the
mountains, clustering about Derwent Water, assumed such tints and
shades of purple and blue as are peculiar to a northern climate.

  "Oh, man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear!"

All these pleasing images seemed to flit before me while putting into
rhyme the "Song of Prince Hoel,"--but before I could write it down,
tidings reached me of the illness, (perhaps incurable,) of him who
drew it from the oblivion of its native Welsh.

Death already has robbed me of so much, that I have become, as it
were, inured to grief, and accustomed, even in my least unhappy
moments to reflect on the incertitude of all earthly hopes and wishes.
I can now hear of losses with melancholy rather than with horror.

So much of the soul of Robert Southey has been dispersed about the
world that a translation to some other state of being, (now, before
time has given him any burthen to carry,) would be, perhaps, no
misfortune, except to those left to sorrow. Yet to know that so
benevolent a being is still existing, feeling, joying, and suffering,
on the sphere of our own mortality, awakens a feeling so nearly allied
to pleasure that all who can appreciate excellence must entreat of
Heaven the continuance upon earth of a contemporary of whom it may be
said:

  "VIRTUE AND HE ARE ONE!"

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS LESLIE'S LIFE OF JOHN FITCH.

It has been announced for years that Miss Leslie--the very clever but
not altogether amiable magazinist--was engaged upon a memoir of JOHN
FITCH, to whom, it has always seemed to us, was due much more than
to Fulton, the credit of inventing the steamboat. While Fitch was in
London, Miss Leslie's father was one of his warmest friends, and
the papers of her family enable her to give many particulars of his
history unknown to other biographers. When several years ago. R.W.
Griswold published his Sketches of the Life and Labors of John Fitch,
the late Noah Webster sent him the following interesting letter upon
the subject:

    DEAR SIR:--In your sketch of John Fitch you justly remarked
    that his biography is still a desideratum. The facts related
    of him by Mr. St. John to Mr. Stone, and published in the _New
    York Commercial Advertiser_, are new to me; and never before
    had I heard of Mr. Fitch at _Sharon_, in Connecticut; but
    I know Mr. St. John very well, and cannot discredit his
    testimony any more than I can Mr. Stone's memory. The
    substance of the account given of Mr. Fitch by the
    indefatigable J.W. Barber, in his Connecticut Historical
    Collections, is as follows: John Fitch was born in East
    Windsor, in Connecticut, and apprenticed to Mr. Cheney, a
    watch and clock-maker, of East Hartford, now Manchester, a
    new town separated from East Hartford. He married, but did not
    live happily with his wife, and he left her and went to New
    Brunswick, in New Jersey, where he set up the business of
    clock-making, engraving, and repairing muskets, before the
    revolution. When New Jersey was invaded by the British troops,
    Mr. Fitch removed into the interior of Pennsylvania, where he
    employed his time in repairing arms for the army.

    Mr. Fitch conceived the project of steam navigation in 1785,
    as appears by his advertisement. He built his boat in 1787.
    In my Diary I have myself noted that I visited the boat, lying
    at the wharf in the Delaware, on the ninth day of February,
    1787. The Governor and Council were so much gratified with
    the success of the boat that they presented Mr. Fitch with a
    superb flag. About that time, the company, aiding Mr. Fitch,
    sent him to France, at the request of Mr. Vail, our consul at
    L'Orient, who was one of the company. But this was when France
    began to be agitated by the revolution, and nothing in favor
    of Mr. Fitch was accomplished; he therefore returned. Mr. Vail
    afterward _presented to Mr. Fulton for examination the papers
    of Mr. Fitch_, containing his scheme of steam navigation.
    After Mr. Fitch returned to this country, he addressed a
    letter to Mr. Rittenhouse, in which he predicted that in time
    the _Atlantic would be crossed by steam power_; he complained
    of his poverty, and urged Mr. Rittenhouse to buy his land in
    Kentucky, for raising funds to complete his scheme. But he
    obtained no efficient aid. Disappointed in his efforts to
    obtain funds, he resorted to indulgence in drink; he retired
    to Pittsburgh, and finally ended his life by plunging into
    the Alleghany. His books and papers he bequeathed to the
    Philadelphia Library, with the injunction that they were to
    remain closed for thirty years. At the end of that period,
    the papers were opened, and found to contain a minute account
    of his perplexities and disappointments. Thus chiefly the
    narration of Mr. Barber, who refers for authority to the
    American edition of the Edinburgh Encyclopedia. It may be
    worth while for some gentleman to attempt to find these
    papers. N. WEBSTER.

    Rev. RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.

The papers to which Dr. Webster alludes in the above letter, have
been examined by Miss Leslie, and the curious details they contain
of Fitch's early life, his courtship, unfortunate marriage, captivity
among the Indians, experiments, &c. will be embraced in her work,
which will undoubtedly be one of the most interesting biographies of
this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

The director of the Museum of Paris has opened a very interesting
gallery of American antiquities, from Yucatan, Mexico, Peru, Bolivia,
and other countries of the New World.

       *       *       *       *       *

ILLUMINATED BOOKS.

Mr. Owen Jones, an English architect, and the author of a very
beautiful work on the Alhambra, has been enabled, by the curious
process of chromo-lithography, originally discovered by the Bavarian,
Alois Sennefelder, to popularize and multiply almost indefinitely
the delicate and highly-finished illuminations executed by the pious
monkish artists of the middle ages.

According to Felton, the manuscript illuminators "borrowed their title
from the illumination which a bright genius giveth to his work," and
they form the connecting link in the chain which unites the ancient
with the modern schools of painting. Their works, considered as a
subordinate branch of pictorial art, though frequently grotesque and
barbarous, are singularly characteristic of the epoch in which they
lived, whether we retrace the art to its Byzantine origin in the
earliest ages of Christianity, or follow it to its most complete
and harmonious development in the two centuries which preceded the
discovery of the printing press.

The primitive Christians were possessed with an unconquerable
repugnance to the introduction of images, and the first notice we have
of the use of pictures is in the censure of the Council of Illiberis,
300 years after the Christian era. Of these one of the earliest and
most curious specimens is the consecrated banner which animated the
victorious soldiers of Constantine. The Labarum was a long pike,
topped with a crown of gold, inclosing a monogram expressive of
the cross and the two initial letters of the name of Christ, and
intersected by a transverse beam, from which hung a silken vail
curiously inwrought with the images of the reigning monarch and his
children. A medal of the Emperor Constantius is said to be still
extant in which the mysterious symbol is accompanied with the
memorable words, "By this sign shalt thou conquer." The austere
simplicity of the Primitive Christians yielded at length to this
innovation of sacred splendor. Before the end of the sixth century the
use and even the worship of images, or pictorial representations of
sacred persons and subjects, was firmly established in the capital,
and those "made without hands" were propagated in the camps and cities
of the Eastern empire by monkish artists, whose flat delineations were
in the last degeneracy of taste.

In the eighth century, Leo the Isaurian ascended the throne of the
East, and for a time the public or private worship of images was
proscribed, but the edict was vigorously and successfully resisted by
the Latins of the Western church. Charlemagne, whose literary tastes
are attested by his encouragement of the learned, by the foundation of
schools, and by his patronage of the arts of music and painting, gave
a great impulse to the practice of illumination: and the Benedictines,
whose influence extended throughout Europe, assigned an eminent
rank among monastic virtues to the guardianship and reproduction of
valuable manuscripts. In each Benedictine monastery a chamber was set
apart for this sacred purpose, and Charlemagne assigned to Alcuin,
a member of their order, the important office of preparing a perfect
copy of the Scriptures.

The process of laving on and burnishing gold and silver appears
to have been familiar to oriental nations from a period of remote
antiquity, and the Greeks are supposed to have acquired from them the
art of thus ornamenting manuscripts, which they in turn communicated
to the Latins. Their most precious manuscripts were written in gold
or silver letters, on the finest semi-transparent vellum, stained of a
beautiful violet color (the imperial purple), and these were executed
only for crowned heads. One of the most ancient existing specimens of
this mode of caligraphy in the fourth century, the _Codex Argenteus_
of Ulphilas, the inventor of the Visigothic alphabet, was discovered
in the library of Wolfenbüttel, and is now at Upsal, Sweden. This
fine MS. is written in letters of gold and silver on a purple ground;
and the fragments of a Greek MS. of the Eusebian Canons of the sixth
century, preserved in the British Museum, is perhaps a unique example
of a MS. in which both sides of the leaves are illuminated upon a
golden ground. Mr. Owen Jones' illustrations commence with a page
from the celebrated Durham book, or _Gospels of St. Cuthbert_, in
the Hiberno-Saxon style of the seventh century, which was borrowed
originally from the Romans, and afterward diffused throughout Europe
by the itinerant-Saxon Benedictines. This style is formed by an
ingenious disposition of interweaving threads or ribbons of different
colors, varied by the introduction of extremely attenuated lizard-like
reptiles, birds, and other animals. The initial letters are of
gigantic size, and of extreme intricacy, and are generally surrounded
with rows of minute red dots.

The Coronation Oath Book of the Anglo-Saxon kings is a curious
specimen of the rude state of art in the ninth century. The Lombard
and the Carlovingian styles, of which latter the Psalter of Charles
the Bold, is a fine specimen, prevailed on the continent during the
eighth and ninth centuries. Toward the end of the tenth century,
the Anglo-Saxon school, under the patronage of Bishop Ethelwold,
at Winchester, assumed a new and distinct character, which was not
surpassed by any works executed at the same period. This style, with
its bars of gold, forming complete frames to the text, when enriched
with interweaving foliage of the acanthus and the ivy, became the
basis of the latter and more florid school of illumination, which
attained its highest perfection in the twelfth century, and of which
the Arnstein Bible is an example. This Bible belonged to the Monks
of St. Mary and St. Nicholas, of Arnstein, and the value which was
attached to it may be inferred from the following quaint and mild
anathema at the end of the first volume:--

    "The book of St. Mary and St. Nicholas, in Arnstein, the
    which, if any one shall purloin it, may he die the death--may
    he be cooked upon the gridiron--may the falling sickness and
    fevers attack him--and may he be broken upon the wheel and
    hung!"

In the thirteenth century Paris became celebrated for its
illuminators, and the productions of Franco-Bolognese, whose skill in
illuminating manuscripts was then paramount, is mentioned by Dante.
Mr. Humphreys thus graphically describes the style of the fourteenth
century:--

    "It was a great artistic era--the architecture, the painting,
    the goldsmith's work, the elaborate productions in enamel, and
    the illuminator's art, were in beautiful harmony, being each
    founded upon similar principles of design and composition;
    even the art of writing lending itself to complete the chord
    of artistic harmony, by adopting that, crisp and angular
    feeling which the then general use of the pointed arch
    introduced into all works of artistic combination."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PHANTOM WORLD.[1]

MR. CHRISTMAS, in his "Twin Giants," attacked the stronghold of
popular superstition by exhibiting the foundations and growth of error
in the early and ignorant ages, and of the progressive dissipation of
these delusions as the light of history and science spread over the
world. The present work is a translation from Calmet. It deals with
spectres, vampyres, and all that tribe of visionary monsters. We have
here the learning and opinion of the enlightened portion of the world
a century ago. M. Calmet traversed all history for his facts, and
gives us a mass of monkish inventions, which prove to what an extent
the Romish church fostered superstition for its own purposes. We have
dead men called from their graves to show the danger of neglecting
to pay tithes, and to rivet on the rich the necessity of building
churches, and paying liberally for masses. At p. 286 of vol. 1 we
have a proof that the "knockings" which have made so much noise in
the United States, are no novelty:--

    "Humbert Birk, a burgess of note in the town of Oppenheim,
    had a country-house, called Berenbach. He died in the month
    of November, 1620, a few days before the feast of St. Martin.
    On the Saturday which followed his funeral they began to
    hear certain noises in the house where he had lived with his
    first wife; for at the time of his death he had married
    again. The master of this house, suspecting that it was his
    brother-in-law who haunted it, said to him: 'If you are
    Humbert, my brother-in-law, strike three times against the
    wall.' At the same time they heard three strokes only, for
    ordinarily he struck several times. Sometimes, also, he
    was heard at the fountain where they went for water, and he
    frightened all the neighborhood. He did not utter articulate
    sounds; but he would knock repeatedly, make a noise, or
    a groan or a shrill whistle, or sounds as of a person in
    lamentation."

This went on, at intervals, for a year, when the ghost found a voice,
and told them to tell the cure to come there; and when he came he said
he wanted three masses said for him, and alms given to the poor. The
author has the following sensible observations on the modes in which
ghost stories originate:--

    "We call to our assistance the artifices of the charlatans,
    who do so many things which pass for supernatural in the eyes
    of the ignorant. Philosophers, by means of certain glasses,
    and what are called magic lanterns; by optical secrets,
    sympathetic powders: by their phosphorus, and, lately, by
    means of the electric machine, show us an infinite number of
    things which the simpletons take for magic, because they know
    not how they are produced. Eyes that are diseased do not see
    things as others see them, or else behold them differently.
    A drunken man will see objects double; to one who has the
    jaundice they will appear yellow: in the obscurity people
    fancy they see a spectre, where there is but the trunk of a
    tree.

    "A mountebank will appear to eat a sword; mother will vomit
    coals, or pebbles. One will drink wine, and send it out again
    at his forehead; another will cut off his companion's head,
    and put it on again. You will think you see a chicken dragging
    a beam. The mountebank will swallow fire, and vomit it forth;
    he will draw blood from fruit; he will send from his mouth
    strings of iron nails; he will put a sword on his stomach, and
    press it strongly, and instead of running into him, it will
    bend back to the hilt. Another will run a sword through his
    body without wounding himself. You will sometimes see a child
    without a head, then a head without a child and all of them
    alive. That appears very wonderful; nevertheless, if it were
    known how all these things are done, people would only laugh,
    and be surprised that they could wonder at and admire such
    things."

If we are so easily deceived in these matters, is it strange that in
peculiar states of mind or body, we are so completely imposed on in
others? At p. 353 we have the story on which Goethe has founded a
singular exploit of Mephistopheles in the cellar of Auerbach.

    "John Faust Cudlington, a German, was requested, in a company
    of gay people, to perform in their presence some tricks of
    his trade. He promised to show them a vine loaded with grapes,
    ripe and ready to gather. They thought, as it was the month
    of December, he could not execute his promise. He strongly
    recommended them not to stir from their places, and not to
    lift up their hands to cut the grapes, unless by his express
    order. The vine appeared directly, covered with leaves and
    loaded with grapes, to the astonishment of all present. Every
    one took up his knife, awaiting the order of Cudlington to
    cut some grapes; but after having kept them some time in that
    expectation, he suddenly caused the vine and the grapes to
    disappear. Then every one found himself armed with his knife,
    and holding his neighbor's nose with one hand; so that if
    they had cut off a bunch without the order of Cudlington, they
    would have cut off one another's noses."

The book is curious and interesting and calculated to do away with
much of the superstition which now appears to be gaining ground in
almost every part of Christendom.

[Footnote 1: THE PHANTOM WORLD: a Philosophy of Spirits, Apparitions,
&c. By AUGUSTINE CALMET. Edited by Rev. Henry Christmas.]

       *       *       *       *       *



AUTHORS AND BOOKS.

George Sand, as elsewhere noted, has written her "Confessions," in the
style of Rousseau, and a Paris bookseller has contracted to give her
a fortune for them. The three greatest--intellectually greatest--women
of modern times have lived in France and it is remarkable that they
have been three of the most shamelessly profligate in all history. The
worst of these, probably--Madame de Staël--left us no records of her
long-continued, disgusting, and almost incredible licentiousness, so
remarkable that Chateaubriand deemed her the most abandoned person in
France at a period when modesty was publicly derided in the Assembly
as a mere "system of refined voluptuousness." Few who have lately
resided in Paris are ignorant of the gross sensualism of the
astonishing Rachel, whose genius, though displayed in no permanent
forms, is not less than that of the Shakspeare of her sex, the
forever-to-be-famous Madame Dudevant, whose immoralities of conduct
have perhaps been overdrawn, while those of De Staël and Rachel have
rarely been spoken of save where they challenged direct observation.
We perceive that Rachel is to be in New York next autumn, with a
company of French actors.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. G.P.R. James arrived in New York on the Fourth, and "landed amid
discharges of artillery, the huzzas of assembled thousands, and such
an imposing military display as is rarely seen in this country except
on occasions of great moment and universal interest." He is certainly
entitled to all the ceremonious honors he will receive during his
summer in America, for no man living, probably, has contributed
more to the quiet and rational pleasure of the people here than this
prolific but always intelligent and gentlemanly author. We have it
from the best authority that Mr. James does not intend in any way
whatever to meddle with the copyright question, and that he will
not write a book about us on his return to England. He visits the
United States for a season's agreeable relaxation, with his family,
comprising his wife and daughter and three sons. The London _Morning
Chronicle_, in a review of one of his recent compositions, has
the following piece of criticism, in contemplation of the present
interruption of Mr. James's labors:--

    "A season without two or three novels from Mr. James would
    be a marked year in the world of letters. There is not a
    power-loom in all Manchester which works with more untiring,
    unswerving regularity. Does Mr. James ever stop to think,
    to eat, to drink, to sleep? Is he ever sick? Has he ever a
    headache? Is he ever out of sorts, even as other men are, when
    they turn away from the inkstand as from a bottle of physic?
    We do not believe it. We sometimes doubt whether Mr. James be
    a man at all. Is he mortal? Has he flesh and blood, or is he
    some indefinite unheard-of machine, some anomaly of nature,
    some freak of creation, whose mission is to make novels--and
    who accordingly spins, spins away, and never leaves off for
    a moment--never! We know how M. Dumas manages to rear his
    wonderful literary offspring. With all Mr. James's fertility,
    however, the Frenchman has a thousand times Mr. James's
    invention. The romances of the latter are simply a series
    of ever-changing, yet never novel variations upon the one
    original theme furnished by Sir Walter Scott. Dumas, with his
    eighty volumes a year, yet manages to be ever fresh, ever
    new. Nobody knows, till he reads it, what a novel of the
    Frenchman's will be. Everybody, even before he cuts open
    page one, can tell you the certain features, the stereotyped
    characters, which flourish in eternal youth in the
    never-ending productions of James. It is only calling them
    by other names, and dressing them in different
    costumes--altering, in the description of a castle, the dais
    from the one end of the great hall to the other, or some such
    important revolution--and _presto_, Mr. James can whip the
    personages and the places who flourished in one country and
    in one century right slap into another generation and another
    land. The thing is done in a moment, and you have a new novel
    before you--just as new, at all events, as is any in his list
    of a hundred."

       *       *       *       *       *

Botta's "Nineveh" has at last reached completion at Paris. It consists
of five folio volumes of the largest size; only 400 copies have been
printed; 300 of them are to be distributed by the Government, and 100
for booksellers, to be sold. The price is 1800 francs a copy, or about
$600, the total expense of the edition being 296,000 fr. or not far
from $55,000. The publication of the work on so expensive a scale,
unaccompanied by an edition cheap enough for ordinary readers, is a
great blunder; at least the reputation of the author suffers from
it. The book does not reach those for whom it is written, while of
Layard's work at least 10,000 copies have been sold, exclusive of the
sale in America.

       *       *       *       *       *

Arago announces that he will at last begin the printing of his long
prepared but not yet published works. His health is deeply shattered.
When the Provincial Government ceased to exist he was so weak that he
could scarcely walk, but since then repose has considerably recruited
his strength, but he does well to undertake the long postponed
publication of his studies. The first issued will be on Measuring
the Intensity of Light, which he is now reading to the Academy;
subsequently he will bring out the Astronomy, so long waited for.
It is true that some years since a book was printed with this title,
composed from notes of some of his lectures; this work has passed
through many editions and has been translated into other languages,
though he has often protested against it as an entirely erroneous and
perverted presentation of his ideas.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. H.W. Bellows has resigned the editorship of _The Christian
Enquirer_, which he has conducted with distinguished ability, we
believe from its commencement.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Cooper, a daughter of the great novellist, has been announced in
London as the author of "Rural Hours," a volume to be published in two
or three weeks by Bentley, and by our Aldus, Mr. Putnam. We have read
and in this number of the _International_ give some extracts from
the advance sheets of "Rural Hours," and we think the work will be
regarded as one of the most pleasing and elegant contributions which
woman has in a long time made to English literature. It is in the form
of a year's diary in the country, and it illustrates on almost every
page a large and wise cultivation, and the finest capacities for the
observation of nature. We shall hereafter enter more fully into the
discussion of its merits, but meanwhile advise the reader to obtain
the book as soon as possible, in confidence that it will prove one of
the most delightful souvenirs of the summer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prof. Agassiz of Harvard College appears in the last number of
the _Christian Examiner_--an able periodical, which no degree or
affectation of "liberality" should have tempted to the admission of
such a paper--in an elaborate argument against the Unity of the Human
Race. It is ridiculous to attempt a disguise of this matter: the
proposition of Prof. Agassiz is an attack upon the Christian religion,
and he is guilty of scandalous dishonesty in endeavoring to evade
its being so considered. He has undoubtedly a right to pursue any
investigation to which he may be led by a love of science, and,
guarding himself about with humility and candor, he has a right to
accept the results which may be offered in the premises by a careful
induction. But the right to assail the commonly received opinions of
mankind, especially the right to assail a people's religion, has other
and very rigid conditions, which will not, we are persuaded, justify
this new outbreak of the restless spirit of Infidelity. Certainly, it
would have become Prof. Agassiz, before venturing upon the course he
has adopted, to dissociate himself from a University to which so many
of the youth of the country have been sent without any thought on the
part of their parents that they were to be exposed there to influences
which they would dread above all others. There is no right to offer,
except to _men_, capable of its thorough apprehension, any new or
questionable or unsettled doctrine. Prof. Agassiz should have been in
a condition to receive in his own person the consequences of a failure
to establish his theory. We have no fears as to the result of the
controversy upon which he has entered. No man worthy to be called a
Christian scholar, deprecates the subjection of the Bible to any tests
that are possible. It has withstood in the last two centuries quite
too much of sham science to be in any way affected by the logic of
Prof. Agassiz. Still, the appearance of such a paper in the _Christian
Examiner_--the chief organ of American Unitarianism--is significant of
a state of feeling and opinion to be regretted, and it should summon
to the conflict the men whose predecessors made every similar wave
of Infidelity bring support and strength to the bases of the rock of
Christianity.

       *       *       *       *       *

Letters from Dr. Layard have been received in London, to the 10th of
April, dated from Arban, on the River Khabour. The last account from
this quarter mentioned his purpose of penetrating into the desert,
which he has explored for three weeks, meeting with numerous traces
of ancient population, though not so many antiquities as he expected.
His present site, however, is richer in archæological remains, and is
important, as they are undoubtedly Assyrian, and prove the extent of
that empire. Two winged bulls and other fragments are described as
very remarkable, the meadows as rich in herbage, and the banks of the
Khabour as literally gemmed with flowers; and Mr. Layard was desirous
to examine this river to its mouth; but the Arabs were hostile to the
plan, though it was trusted that arrangements would be made with the
parties, wherever they interposed between Mr. Layard and his wishes.
In his letter, he says he thinks Major Rawlinson wrong in some of his
topography, and that the chronological deductions cannot as yet be
considered settled.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Rogers, the poet, was lately knocked down by a cab, as he was
returning from a dinner party, and so seriously injured as very much
to alarm his friends. He was not restored sufficiently to see visitors
at the last dates. Rogers, Montgomery, Moore, Hunt, Wilson, Savage
Landor, and De Quincey, are "listening to the praises of posterity."
Not any of them can last much longer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Harro Harring, the Swedish republican novelist, had scarcely reached
his own country after several years exile in America, before he was
again imprisoned for some quixotic attack upon institutions which he
has neither the ability nor the character, even if let alone by the
government, to change.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. W.E. Foster has published in London a new edition of Clarkson's
Life of Penn, in the preface to which he has entered very fully into
the points raised by Macaulay in his History in regard to the Quakers,
vindicating them, and very ably sustaining the fame of their hero.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rev. Dr. Judson, the missionary, is again reported in very feeble
health, and in a decline. He is nearly sixty years of age.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Poems of Frances A. and Metta V. Fuller, of Ohio, are in press,
and to be published in a beautiful volume in the autumn.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Prescott, the historian, is passing the summer in England.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERATURE IN PARIS.--A correspondent of the London _Literary
Gazette_, under date of June 12, says:

    "I notice reprints, by Didot, of several of the standard works
    of Chateaubriand; a condensation, by General O'Connor, of his
    "Monopoly;" a Treatise, by the Bishop of Langres, on the grave
    question of Church and State; a very interesting and curious
    work on the forests of Gaul, ancient France, England, Italy,
    &c.; a volume of the Unpublished Letters of Mary Adelaide
    of Savoy, Duchess of Bourgogne--which throws great light on
    many of the principal historical events and personages of
    her time; a charming series of Sketches from Constantinople,
    entitled "Nuits du Ramazan," by Gerard de Nerval, a popular
    _feuilletoniste_; a big volume of the works of St. Just, the
    terrible Conventionist; a continuation of the Illustrated
    Edition of Defauconpret's Translation of the complete works
    of Walter Scott; an admirable fac-simile collection of
    Contemporary Portraits of Eminent Individuals of the Sixteenth
    Century; a reprint of Boileau's Satires; an Alphabetical
    and Analytical Table of all the Authors, Sacred and Profane,
    discovered or published in the forty-three volumes of the
    celebrated Cardinal Mai; a 'Month in Africa,' by Pierre
    Napoleon Buonaparte, &c. There have also been more than the
    usual average of works in the Greek, Latin, Hebrew. Italian
    and Portuguese."

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. GUTZLAFF, the famous missionary, is now in Germany, and he had
recently an interview with the Presidents of the Corporation of
Merchants of Stettin, to give them some information as to the sort of
goods best adapted for exportation to China. He held out very little
encouragement of a profitable trade with that country at present, as
he said he could not name a single article of German manufacture he
thought likely to secure any great demand. He commended the English
government for establishing a "Chinese Exhibition," in order to
instruct the merchants of the real nature and quality of Chinese
productions. (He must have meant the exhibition of the late Mr. Dunn,
of Philadelphia, so long open in London, and erroneously supposed
that it was a government institution.) He also described the Chinese
language itself, on account of its extreme difficulty, as the chief
obstacle in the way of the civilization of the people. He did not
believe the most learned Chinese perfectly knew his alphabet, as
after twenty years' study he could not say he was master of it, a
fact highly discouraging to the German _savans_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new Historical Society was formed at Hartford, Conn., a few weeks
ago, under the title of the Historical Society of the Protestant
Episcopal Church of the United States. A constitution was formed, and
Bishop Brownwell elected President. The objects are to collect and
preserve such materials, as may serve to illustrate the history of
the Episcopal church, and the collection and preservation of all
memorials, printed, manuscript, or traditional, which throw light on
the progress of the American branch of that church, in any period, and
of all materials relating to the social and religious history of the
times during which that church has existed.

       *       *       *       *       *



THE FINE ARTS.

       *       *       *       *       *

ELLIOTT is the subject of an editorial chapter in the _Knickerbocker_,
in which justice and no more than justice, is done to him. In the
regular succession he follows Copley, Stuart, Jarvis, Newton, and
Inman, as the first portrait-painter of his time in the United States.
Elliott has recently finished a very effective head of Dr. John W.
Francis, to be placed in the permanent gallery of the Art Union, of
which Dr. Francis was the first President. He is now engaged upon
a portrait of Washington Irving, which will be engraved in the most
elaborate style by Cheney.

       *       *       *       *       *

MINOR K. KELLOGG has nearly completed, for Mr. Higgs, the banker,
of Washington, an exquisite picture which he calls _The Greek
Girl_,--similar, but we think in all respects superior, to his
beautiful _Circassian Girl_, engravings of which by a Parisian artist
have some time formed one of the attractions of the print shops. Mr.
Kellogg is also painting a full-length of General Scott, for the city.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PORTRAIT OF CAPTAIN SUTTER, of California, has just been engraved
in the finest style of Sartain, from a painting by S.S. Osgood, made
while that excellent artist was in the Gold Region. It is a remarkably
strong and pleasing head, and it will rank among Mr. Osgood's best
productions.

       *       *       *       *       *

BALL HUGHES, the sculptor, is preparing a monument to be placed over
the remains of Josiah Sturgis, at Mount Auburn.

       *       *       *       *       *



ORIGINAL POETRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHILD OF FAME.

BY MRS. M.E. HEWITT.

    "Je vivrai eternellement."--_La vie de Sappho. Traduction de
    Madame Dacier._

  Nay--call me not thy rose--thine own sweet flower,
    For oh, my soul to thy wild words is mute!
  Leave me my gift of song--my glorious dower--
    My hand unchanged, and free to sweep the lute.

  Thus, when within the tomb thy memory slumbers,
    Mine, mine will tie of those immortal names
  Sung by the poet in undying numbers:
    Call me not thine--I am the world's and fame's!

  Were it not blissful, when from earth we sever,
    To know that we shall leave, with bard and sage,
  A name enrolled on fame's bright page forever--
    A wonder, and a theme to after age!

  Talk not of love! I know how, wasted, broken,
    The trusting heart learns its sad lesson o'er--
  Counting the roses Passion's lips have spoken,
    Amid the thorns that pierce it to the core.

  Oh, heart of mine! that when life's summer hour
    For thee with love's bright blossoms hung the bough,
  Too quickly found an asp beneath the flower--
    And is naught left thee but ambition now?

  Alas! alas! this brow its pride forsaking,
    Would give the glory of its laurel crown
  For one fond breast whereas to still its aching--
    For one true heart that I might call mine own!

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM THE NATIONAL ERA.]

ELDORADO: ADVENTURES IN THE PATH OF EMPIRE.[2]

BY J.G. WHITTIER.

With something of the grateful feeling which prompted the memorable
exclamation of Sancho Panza, "Blessings on the man who first invented
sleep!" we have laid down these pleasant volumes. Blessings on the man
who invented books of travel for the benefit of home idlers! the Marco
Polos, the Sir John Mandevilles, and the Ibn Batutas of old time, and
their modern disciples and imitators! Nothing in the shape of travel
and gossip, by the way, comes amiss to us, from Cook's voyages round
the earth to Count De Maistre's journey round his chamber. When the
cark and care of daily life and homely duties, and the weary routine
of sight and sound, oppress us, what a comfort and refreshing is it to
open the charmed pages of the traveler! Our narrow, monotonous horizon
breaks away all about us; five minutes suffice to take us quite out of
the commonplace and familiar regions of our experience: we are in the
Court of the Great Khan, we are pitching tents under the shadows of
the ruined temples of Tadmor, we are sitting on a fallen block of the
Pyramids, or a fragment of the broken nose of the Sphynx, dickering
with Arab Shieks, opposing Yankee shrewdness to Ishmaelitish greed
and cunning: we are shooting crocodiles on the white Nile, unearthing
the winged lions of Ezekiel's vision on the Tigris--watching the
night-dance of the Devil-worshipers on their mountains, negotiating
with the shrewd penny-turning patriarch of Armenia for a sample from
his holy-oil manufactory at Erivan, drinking coffee at Damascus, and
sherbet at Constantinople, lunching in the vale of Chaumorng, taking
part in a holy _fête_ at Rome, and a merry Christmas at Berlin. We
look into the happiness of traveling through the eyes of others, and,
for the miseries of it, we enjoy _them_ exceedingly. Very cool and
comfortable are we while reading the poor author's account of his
mishaps, hair-breadth escapes, hunger, cold, and nakedness. We take
a deal of satisfaction in his moscheto persecutions and night-long
battles with sanguinary fleas. The discomforts and grievances of his
palate under the ordeal of foreign cooking were a real relish for us.
On a hot morning in the tropics, we see him pulling on his stocking
with a scorpion in it, and dancing in involuntary joy under the
effects of the sting. Let him dance; it is all for our amusement. Let
him meet with what he will--robbers, cannibals, jungle-tigers, and
rattlesnakes, the more the better--since we know that he will get
off alive, and come to regard them so many god-sends in the way of
book-making.

The volumes now before us are not only seasonable as respects the
world-wide curiosity in regard to California--the new-risen empire on
the Pacific--abounding, as they do, in valuable facts and statistics,
but they have in a high degree that charm of personal adventure and
experience to which we have referred. Bayard Taylor is a born tourist.
He has eyes to see, skill to make the most of whatever opens before
him under the ever-shifting horizon of the traveler. He takes us along
with him, and lets us into the secret of his own hearty enjoyment.
Much of what he describes has already become familiar to us from the
notes of a thousand gold-seekers, who have sent home such records as
they could of their experiences in a strange land. Yet even the well
known particulars of the overland route across the Isthmus become
novel and full of interest in the narrative of our young tourist.
The tropical scenery by day and night on the river, the fandango at
Gorgona, and the ride to Panama through the dense dark forest, with
death, in the shape of a cholera-stricken emigrant, following at their
heels, are in the raciest spirit of story-telling. The steamer from
Panama touched at the ancient city of Acapulco, and took in a company
of gamblers, who immediately set up their business on deck. At San
Deigo, the first overland emigrants by the route of the Gila river,
who had reached that place a few days before, came on board, lank and
brown as the ribbed sea-sand, their clothes in tatters, their boots
replaced with moccasins, small deerskin wallets containing all that
was left of the abundant stores with which they started--their
hair and beards matted and unshorn, with faces from which the rigid
expression of suffering was scarcely relaxed. The tales of their
adventures and sufferings the author speaks of as more marvelous than
anything he had ever heard or read since his boyish acquaintance with
Robinson Crusoe and Ledyard. Some had come by the way of Santa Fe,
along the savage Gila hills--some had crossed the Great Desert, and
taken the road from El Paso to Sonora--some had passed through Mexico,
and, after beating about for months in the Pacific, had run into San
Deigo and abandoned their vessel--some had landed weary with a seven
months' voyage round Cape Horn--while others had wandered on foot
from Cape St. Lucas to San Deigo, over frightful deserts and rugged
mountains, a distance of nearly fifteen hundred miles, as they were
obliged to travel.

The Gila emigrants spoke with horror of the Great Desert west of the
Colorado--a land of drought and desolation--vast salt plains and hills
of drifting sand; the trails which they followed sown white with bones
of man and beast. Unburied corpses of emigrants and carcasses of mules
who had preceded them, making the hot air foul and loathsome. Wo to
the weak and faltering in such a journey! They were left alone to die
on the burning sands.

On the Sonora route, one of the party fell sick, and rode on behind
his companions, unable to keep pace with them for several days, yet
always arriving in camp a few hours later. At last he was missing.
Four days after, a negro, alone and on foot, came into camp and told
them that many miles back a man lying by the road had begged a little
water of him, and urged him to hurry on and bring assistance. The next
morning a company of Mexicans came up, and brought word that the man
was dying. But his old companions hesitated to go to his relief. The
negro thereupon retraced his steps over the desert, and reached the
sufferer just as he expired. He lifted him in his arms; the poor
fellow strove to speak to his benefactor, and died in the effort.
His mule, tied to a cactus, was already dead of hunger at his side.
A picture commemorating such a scene, and the heroic humanity of
the negro, would better adorn a panel of the Capitol, than any
battle-piece which was ever painted.

There is a graphic account of the author's first impressions of San
Francisco. "A furious wind was blowing down through a gap in the
hills, filling the streets with dust. On every side stood buildings
of all kinds, began or half-finished, with canvas sheds open in front
and covered with all kinds of signs, in all languages. Great piles of
merchandise were in the open air, for lack of storehouses. The streets
were full of people of as diverse and bizarre a character as their
dwellings: Yankees of every possible variety, native Californians
in serapes and sombreros, Chilians, Sonorians, Kanakas from Hawaii,
Chinese with long tails, Malays armed with everlasting creeses, and
others, in their bearded and embrowned visages, it was impossible to
recognize any especial nationality." "San Francisco by day and night"
is the title of one of the best chapters in the book.

Our author made a foot journey to Monterey during the sitting of the
Convention which formed the State Constitution. He gives a pleasing
account of the refined and polite society of this ancient Californian
town; and makes particular mention of Dona Augusta Ximeno, a sister
of one of the Californian delegates to the Convention, Don Pablo de
la Guerra, as a woman whose nobility of character, native vigor and
activity of intellect, and instinctive refinement and winning grace
of manner, would have given her a complete supremacy in society, had
her lot been cast in Europe or the United States. Her house was the
favorite resort of the leading members of the Convention, American
and Californian. She was thoroughly versed in Spanish literature, and
her remarks on the various authors were just and elegant. She was,
besides, a fine rider, and could throw the lariat with skill, and
possesses all those bold and daring qualities which are so fascinating
when softened and made graceful by true feminine delicacy.

He describes the native Californians as physically and morally
superior to the Mexicans of other States. They are, as a class,
finely built, with fresh, clear complexions. The educated class very
generally are and appear well satisfied with the change of affairs,
but the majority still look with jealousy on the new comers, and are
not pleased with the new customs and new laws. The Californians in the
Convention seemed every way worthy of their position. General Vallejo
is a man of middle years, tall, and of commanding presence--with the
grave and dignified expression of the old Castilian race. With him
were Cavarrubias, the old Secretary of the Government, Pico, Carvillo,
Pedrorena, La Guerra, and a half-blood Indian member, Dominguez,
who, together with many of the most respectable and wealthy citizens
of California, is now excluded from voting by a clause of the
Constitution, which denies that privilege to Indians and negroes. This
unjust exception--a blot on an otherwise admirable Constitution--was
adopted after a warm debate, and against fierce opposition. The
attempt to prohibit free people of color from inhabiting the State
failed by a large majority. _The clause prohibiting slavery passed by
the vote of every member._

The account of the close of the Convention is sufficiently amusing.
The members met and adjourned, after a brief session, and their hall
was immediately cleared of forum, seats, and tables, and decorated
with pine boughs and oak garlands. At eight in the evening, it
was thrown open for a ball. Sixty or seventy ladies, and as many
gentlemen, were present. Dark-eyed daughters of Monterey and Los
Angelos and Santa Barbara, with Indian and Spanish complexions,
contrasted with the fairer bloom of belles from the Atlantic side of
the Nevada. There was as great a variety of costume as of complexion.
Several American officers were there in their uniform. In one group
might be seen Captain Sutter's soldierly moustache and clear blue eye;
in another, the erect figure and quiet, dignified bearing of Vallejo.
Don Pablo de la Guerra, with his handsome aristocratic features, was
the floor manager, and gallantly discharged his office. Conspicuous
among the native members, were Don Miguel Pedrorena and Jacinto
Rodriguez, both polished and popular gentlemen. Dominguez. the Indian,
took no part in the dance, but evidently enjoyed the scene as much
as any one present. The most interesting figure was that of the Padre
Ramirez, who, in his clerical cassock, looked until a late hour. "If
the strongest advocate of priestly decorum had been present," says our
author, "he could not have found it in his heart to grudge the good
old padre the pleasure which beamed in his honest countenance."

The next day the Convention met for the last time. The parchment
sheet, with the engrossed Constitution, was laid upon the table, and
the members commenced affixing their names. Then the American colors
were run up the flagstaff in front of the Hall, and the guns of the
fort responded to the signal. The great work was done. California, so
far as it depended on herself, was a State of the great Confederacy.
All were excited. Captain Sutter leaped up from his seat, and swung
his arm over his head. "Gentlemen!" he cried, "this is the happiest
hour of my life. It makes me glad to hear the cannon. This is a great
day for California!" Recollecting himself, he sat down, the tears
streaming from his eyes. His brother members cheered. As the signing
went on, gun followed gun from the fort. At last the _thirty-first_
was echoed back from the hills. "That's for California!" shouted a
member, and three times three cheers were given by the members. An
English vessel caught the enthusiasm, and sent to the breeze the
American flag from her mast-head. The day was beautiful; all faces
looked bright and happy under the glorious sunset, "Were I a believer
in omens," writes our tourist on the spot, "I would augur from the
tranquil beauty of the evening--from the clear sky and sunset hues of
the bay--more than all, from the joyous expression of every face--a
glorious and happy career for the 'STATE OF CALIFORNIA!'"

Our author visited several of the most important "diggings," and his
account of their location, productiveness, &c., does not materially
differ from the descriptions which have become familiar to all our
readers. It is evident from his statements, that with good health
and perseverance, any reasonable expectation of wealth on the part of
the miners may be realized, in a few months or years, according to
the richness of the "diggings," or the ease with which they may be
worked. What, however, has interested us more than the gold-product
of California, is the confirmation which our traveler gives to the
statements of Fremont and King, relative to the richness of its soil,
and its great agricultural capacities. The valleys of the Sacramento
and San Joaquim alone are capable of supporting a population of
two millions, if carefully cultivated. The deep, black, porous soil
produces the important cereal grains, although on the seaboard the air
is too cool for the ripening of Indian corn. Enormous crops of wheat
may be obtained by irrigation, such as was successfully practiced
by the great Jesuit missions; and, without it, from forty to fifty
bushels to the bushel of seed have been raised. Oats of the kind grown
on the Atlantic grow luxuriantly and wild, self-sown on all the hills
of the coast, furnishing abundant supplies for horses. Irish potatoes
grow to a great size, and all edible roots cultivated in the States
are produced in perfection, without irrigation.

The climate of San Francisco is unquestionably disagreeable; the
cold, fierce winds which sweep over the bay, and they alternating with
extreme heats, are prejudicial to health and comfort. Inland, however,
in the beautiful valleys of San Jose and Los Angelos, the climate is
all that can be desired. The heat during the summer months is indeed
great, but its dryness renders it more endurable than the damp
sultriness of an Atlantic August. At Los Angelos, latitude 34° 7',
long. W. 118°, and forty miles from the ocean, the mean monthly
temperature of ten months was as follows: June 73 deg., July 74,
August 75, September 75, October 69, November 59, December 60.

Our author describes with a poet's enthusiasm the atmospheric effects
of the Californian sunsets. Fresh from his travels in Italy, and with
the dust of that Pincian hill still on his sandals from whence Claude
sketched his sunsets, he declares that his memory of that classic
atmosphere seems cold and pale, when he thinks of the splendor of
evening on the bay and mountains of San Francisco.

The chapter on "Society in California" may prove of much practical
utility, and should be read by all who are smitten with the
gold fever. California is no place for the sick, the weak, the
self-indulgent, the indolent, the desponding. There must be a
willingness to work at anything and everything, and stout muscles to
execute the will. Our author estimates that nearly one-third of the
emigrants are unfitted for their vocation, "miserable, melancholy
men, ready to yield up their last breath at any moment, who left home
prematurely, and now humbly acknowledge their error." His own happy
constitution and buoyant health led him to look on the best side of
things, and to take the sunniest possible view of the condition of the
new country he was exploring, but occasionally he reveals incidentally
the reverse of the picture. Here is a sketch of a sick miner at
Sacramento City, which is enough to make even California "gold become
dim, and the fine gold changed."

    "He was sitting alone on a stone beside the water, with his
    bare feet purple with cold on the cold, wet sand. He was
    wrapped from head to foot in a coarse blanket, which shook
    with the violence of his chill, as if his limbs were about to
    drop in pieces. He seemed unconscious of all that was passing;
    his long, matted hair hung over his wasted face; his eyes
    glared steadily forward with an expression so utterly hopeless
    and wild, that I shuddered at seeing it. This was but one of a
    number of cases, equally sad and distressing."

The hardy and healthy portion of the emigrants, under the stimulating
excitements of the novel circumstances of their situation, seemed to
revel in the exuberance of animal spirits. Each seemed to have adopted
the rule of the wise man: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, that do
with all thy might." They speculated, dug, or gambled, with an almost
reckless energy. All old forms of courtesy had given place to hearty,
blunt good fellowship in their social intercourse. They reminded our
traveler of the Jarls and Norse sea-kings, and in the noisy and almost
fierce revelry of these bearded gold-hunters around their mountain
tires, he seemed to see the brave and jovial Berseckers of the middle
ages.

We cannot forbear quoting a paragraph in relation to the great
question of our time, "The Organization of Labor."

    "In California, no model phalanxes or national workshops
    have been necessary. Labor has organized itself, in the best
    possible way. The dream of attractive industry is realized;
    all are laborers, and equally respectable; the idler and the
    gentleman of leisure, to use a phrase of the country, 'can't
    shine in these diggings.' Rich merchandise lies in the open
    street; and untold wealth in gold dust is protected only
    by ragged canvas walls, but thefts and robbery are seldom
    heard of. The rich returns of honest labor render harmless
    temptations which would prove an overmatch for the average
    virtue of New England. The cut-purse and pickpocket in
    California find their occupation useless, and become
    chevaliers of industry, in a better sense than the term has
    ever before admitted of. It will appear natural," says our
    author, "that California should be the most democratic country
    in the world. The practical equality of all the members of
    the community, whatever might be the wealth, intelligence,
    or profession of each, was never before so thoroughly
    demonstrated. Dress was no gauge of respectability and no
    honest occupation, however menial in its character, affected
    a man's standing. Lawyers, physicians, and ex-professors,
    dug cellars, drove ox-teams, sawed wood, and carried baggage,
    while men who had been army privates, sailors, cooks, or day
    laborers, were at the head of profitable establishments, and
    not unfrequently assisted in some of the minor details of
    government. A man who would consider his fellow beneath
    him, on account of his appearance or occupation, would have
    had some difficulty in living peaceably in California. The
    security of the country is owing in no small degree to this
    plain, practical development of what the French reverence as
    an abstraction, under the name of _Fraternité_. To sum up
    all in three words, _Labor is respectable_. May it never
    be otherwise while a grain of gold is left to glitter in
    Californian soil!"

Our author returned by way of Mazatlan and the city of Mexico, meeting
with a pleasant variety of adventures, robbery included, on his
route. In taking leave of his volumes, we cannot forbear venturing
a suggestion to the author, that he may find a field of travel, less
known, and quite as interesting at the present time, in the vast
Territory of New Mexico--the valley of the Del Norte, with its old
Castilian and Aztec monuments and associations; the Great Salt Lake,
and the unexplored regions of the great valley of the Colorado,
between the mountain ranges of the Sierra Madre and the Sierra Nevada.
We know of no one better fitted for such an enterprise, or for whom,
judging from the spirit of his California narrative, it would present
more attractions.

[Footnote 2: Eldorado: Adventures in the Path of Empire. By Bayard
Taylor. New York. Putnam. 1850. Two volumes.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MEYERBEER AND WEBER.--The Berlin papers are reviving the rumor that
Meyerbeer is to complete an opera which Weber left unfinished. This
time his share is defined to be, a new third act, three numbers in the
second, one number in the first, and an overture.

       *       *       *       *       *



FROM UNPUBLISHED BOOKS

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM MISS FENIMORE COOPER'S "RURAL HOURS," _IN PRESS BY PUTNAM_

A CHASE

Within twenty years from the foundation of the village, the deer had
already become rare, and in a brief period later they had fled from
the country. One of the last of these beautiful creatures seen in the
waters of our lake occasioned a chase of much interest, though under
very different circumstances from those of a regular hunt. A pretty
little fawn had been brought in very young from the woods, and nursed
and petted by a lady in the village until it had become as tame as
possible. It was graceful, as these little creatures always are, and
so gentle and playful that it became a great favorite, following the
different members of the family about, caressed by the neighbors, and
welcome everywhere. One morning, after gamboling about as usual until
weary, it threw itself down in the sunshine, at the feet of one of its
friends, upon the steps of a store. There came along a countryman, who
for several years had been a hunter by pursuit, and who kept several
dogs: one of his hounds came to the village with him on this occasion.
The dog, as it approached the spot where the fawn lay, suddenly
stopped; the little animal saw him, and started to its feet. It had
lived more than half its life among the village, and had apparently
lost all fear of them; but it seemed now to know instinctly that
an enemy was at hand. In an instant a change came over it, and the
gentleman who related the incident, and who was standing by at the
moment, observed that he had never in his life seen a finer sight
than the sudden arousing of instinct in that beautiful creature. In a
second its whole character and appearance seemed changed, all its past
habits were forgotten, every wild impulse was awake; its head erect,
its nostrils dilated, its eye flashing. In another instant, before the
spectators had thought of the danger, before its friends could secure
it, the fawn was leaping wildly through the street, and the hound in
full pursuit. The bystanders were eager to save it; several persons
instantly followed its track, the friends who had long fed and fondled
it, calling the name it had hitherto known, but in vain. The hunter
endeavored to whistle back his dog, but with no better success. In
half a minute the fawn had turned the first corner, dashed onward
toward the lake, and thrown itself into the water. But, if for a
moment the startled creature believed itself safe in the cool bosom
of the lake, it was soon undeceived; the hound followed in hot and
eager chase, while a dozen of the village dogs joined blindly in
the pursuit. Quite a crowd collected on the bank, men, women, and
children, anxious for the fate of the little animal known to them all:
some threw themselves into boats, hoping to intercept the hound before
he reached his prey; but the plashing of the oars, the eager voices
of the men and boys, and the barking of the dogs, must have filled
the beating heart of the poor fawn with terror and anguish, as though
every creature on the spot where it had once been caressed and fondled
had suddenly turned into a deadly foe. It was soon seen that the
little animal was directing its course across a bay toward the nearest
borders of the forest, and immediately the owner of the hound crossed
the bridge, running at full speed in the same direction, hoping to
stop his dog as he landed. On the fawn swam, as it never swam before,
its delicate head scarcely seen above the water, but leaving a
disturbed track, which betrayed its course alike to anxious friends
and fierce enemies. As it approached the land, the exciting interest
became intense. The hunter was already on the same line of shore,
calling loudly and angrily to his dog, but the animal seemed to have
quite forgotten his master's voice in the pitiless pursuit. The fawn
touched the land--in one leap it had crossed the narrow line of beach,
and in another instant it would reach the cover of the woods. The
hound followed, true to the scent, aiming at the same spot on the
shore; his master, anxious to meet him, had run at full speed, and was
now coming up at the most critical moment; would the dog hearken to
his voice, or could the hunter reach him in time to seize and control
him? A shout from the village bank proclaimed that the fawn had passed
out of sight into the forest; at the same instant, the hound, as he
touched the land, felt the hunter's strong arm clutching his neck.
The worst was believed to be over; the fawn was leaping up the
mountain-side, and its enemy under restraint. The other dogs, seeing
their leader cowed, were easily managed. A number of persons, men and
boys, dispersed themselves through the woods in search of the little
creature, but without success; they all returned to the village,
reporting that the animal had not been seen by them. Some persons
thought that after its fright had passed over it would return of
its own accord. It had worn a pretty collar, with its owner's name
engraved upon it, so that it could easily be known from any other fawn
that might be straying about the woods. Before many hours had passed a
hunter presented himself to the lady whose pet the little creature had
been, and showing a collar with her name on it said that he had been
out in the woods, and saw a fawn in the distance: the little animal
instead of bounding away as he expected, moved toward him; he took
aim, fired, and shot it to the heart. When he found the collar about
its neck he was very sorry he had killed it. And so the poor little
thing died; one would have thought that terrible chase would have
made it afraid of man: but no, it forgot the evil and remembered the
kindness only, and came to meet as a friend the hunter who shot it. It
was long mourned by its best friend.

       *       *       *       *       *



MISCELLANIES.

CIRCUMNAVIGATING A POPE.--Cardinal Maury did not allow you to advance
far. He was fond of telling anecdotes, but he loved to select his
subject and to choose his terms. Memory well managed can furnish a
tolerable share of the wit and spirit of conversation, and he was, in
this respect, the most capital manoeuvrer I ever met with. As he had
been absent from Paris for fourteen years he had a great deal to tell.
Every one, therefore, listened to his stories with pleasure--himself
among the first. Even at the dinner-table he permitted himself the
indulgence of a vast quantity of Spanish snuff, which he generally
shared with his neighbors, distributing a large portion on their
plates, which rather spoiled the pleasure of those who had the good
fortune to be seated next to him, as it once happened to me at Madame
du Roure's. While singing the praises of his beautiful villa at
Monte-Fiascone, he frequently drew from his pocket an enormous
snuff-box, the contents of which were most liberally showered down
upon the company placed near him, and, between two pinches, he
informed us that he had formerly the pretension of taking the very
best snuff in France. He prepared it with his own hands, and spared
no pains in the important proceeding. When he emigrated to Rome he
carried with him two jars of the precious mixture. The future destiny
of the Abbe Maury was dependent on the pope, and he was a great
snuff-taker! "I presented myself several times (I quote his own
expressions) before his holiness, and took great care never to omit
displaying my snuff-box, which I opened and shut several times during
the interview, making as loud a noise as possible. This was all I
dared do,--respect forbade me making any advances toward his holiness
by offering directly a taste of the mixture of which I was so justly
proud. At length my perseverance met with its reward. One day I
managed skillfully to push the snuff-box beneath his hand, and, in the
heat of argument, he opened it mechanically, and took a pinch of snuff
therefrom. It was an awful moment, as you may imagine. I observed him
with the greatest attention, and immediately remarked the expression
of satisfaction and surprise which overspread his features as he
stretched forth his fingers to take another pinch. "_Donde vi viene
questo maraviglioso tobacco?_" I told him that I alone possessed the
mixture, and that I had only two jars left, or rather that I had no
more, as, of course, they now belonged to his holiness. I am inclined
to believe that this present was agreeable to him, as it was useful to
me." After the story the cardinal boasted to us of the extraordinary
frankness of his character. He had shown more of this than he had
intended in the tale he had been telling.

--Souvenirs de France et d'Italie dans les Années 1830, 1831 et 1832.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Deutsche Reform_ publishes as a curiosity a selection, though an
imperfect one, from the catalogue of the flying leaves and small cheap
journals, political and satirical, that sprung into existence after
the revolution, mostly in Berlin and Vienna; not more than three or
four of them now exist. The insect world was a favorite source of
names for the satirist, the sting of whose production was frequently
only in the title: every week produced the _Hornet_, the _Wasp_, the
_Gadfly_, and their plurals, the _Wasps_ and the _Gadflies_; there
was also an _Imperial Gadfly_, and one _Wasp's Nest_. The necessity
of enlightenment exhausted the means of doing it through the _Torch_,
the _Taper_, the _Jet of Gas_, the _Lamp_, the _Everburning Lamp_ (the
last flickers still at uncertain intervals, the extinguisher of the
Berlin police coming down on it whenever it appears), the _Lantern_
and the _White Lamp_, the _Snuffers_ followed the list of lights, and
the whole category concluded in an _Egyptian Darkness_, to which most
of them have descended. The other titles are not so well classified:
there was a _Democratic Reasoner_, a _Shrieker_ (or _Shouter_), and
the _Berlin Widemouth_, the _Barricade Journal_, the _Street Journal_,
the _Cat's Music_, the _Red Cap_, the _Sansculottes_ (_Ohne-Hosen_),
the _Tower of Fools_, are miscellaneous: there was a variety of
devils--the _Travelling Devil_, the _Devil Untied_, the _Church
Devil_, the _Revolutionary Devil_. Some of the titles were cant words,
quite untranslatable, as _Kladderadatsch_ (the Berlin _Punch_, still
existing), the _Klitsch-Klatsch_, and the _Pumpernickel_ (a kind of
black bread); the three last were--_The Prussians Have Come_, the
_General Wash_, and the _Political Ass_. In the provincial towns
all the flying leaves were something for the people--_Volks-boten,
Volks-freunde, Volks-zeitung_--in a list that would be too long to
repeat.

       *       *       *       *       *

TRUE PROGRESS.--The civilization of antiquity was the advancement
of the few and the slavery of the many--in Greece 30,000 freemen and
300,000 slaves--and it passed away. True civilization must be measured
by the progress, not of a class or nation, but of all men. God admits
none to advance alone. Individuals in advance become martyrs--nations
in advance the prey of the barbarian. Only as one family of man can
we progress. But man must exist as an animal before he can exist as a
man: his physical requirements must be satisfied before those of mind;
and hitherto it has taken the whole time and energies of the many to
provide for their physical wants. Such wants have spread mankind over
the whole globe--the brute and the savage have disappeared before the
superior race--the black blood of the torrid zone has been mixed with
the white of the temperate, and a superior race, capable of living
and laboring under a zenith sun, has been formed, and we seem to be
preparing for a united movement onward. The elements have been pressed
into our service, the powers of steam and electricity would appear
boundless, and science has given man an almost unlimited control over
nature. The trammels which despotisms have hitherto imposed on body
and mind have been thrown off, and constitutional liberty has rapidly
and widely spread. The steamship and railway, and mutual interests in
trade and commerce, have united nation to nation, and the press has
given one mind and simultaneous thoughts to the whole community. Power
there is in plenty for the emancipation of the whole race; since the
steam engine and machinery may be to the working-classes what they
have hitherto been to those classes above them. All that is wanted
is to know how to use these forces for the general good. The powers
of production are inexhaustible; we have but to _organize them_, and
justly to distribute the produce.--_Charles Bray_.

       *       *       *       *       *

COFFEE AND THE SAVANS.--In a letter from Paris it is said: "Some of
our eminent scientific men are again squabbling on the vexed question
as to whether coffee does or does not afford nourishment. One of them
has laid down what seems a paradox, viz., that coffee contains fewer
nutritive properties than the ordinary food of man, and yet that the
man who makes it his principal food is stronger than one who feeds
on meat and wine. In support of this paradox, our _savant_ calls the
example of the miners of the coal-pits of Charleroi, who never eat
meat except a very small quantity on Sundays, and whose daily meals
consist exclusively of bread and butter and coffee. These men, he
says, are strong, muscular, and able to do, and actually perform, more
hard work than the miners of the coal-pits of Onzin, in France, who
feed largely on the more nutritive articles, meat and vegetables, and
drink wine or beer. Another _savant_, taking nearly the same views,
insists that the Arabs are able to live moderately, and to make long
abstinences, as they do, entirely on account of their extensive use
of coffee. But this last assertion is demolished, by the declaration
of M. d'Abbadie, who has just returned from Abyssinia, that certain
tribes of Arabs and Abyssinians who do _not_ use coffee can
support greater fatigue than those who do. In presence of such very
contradictory facts, who shall say which of the learned doctors is in
the right?"

       *       *       *       *       *

A CURIOUS TRIO.--Mr. Dallas, when Secretary of the Treasury, says
Mr. Paulding, told me the following story, which he had from Mr.
Breck:--When the Duc de Liancourt was in Philadelphia, sometime after
the execution of Louis the Sixteenth, Mr. Breck called to see him
at his lodgings, in Strawberry-alley. Knocking at the door of a mean
looking house, a little ragged girl came out, who, on being asked for
the Duke, pointed to a door, which Mr. B. entered. At a little deal
table he found Cobbett, teaching the Duke and Monsieur Talleyrand
English!

       *       *       *       *       *

BAD COOKERY A CAUSE OF DRUNKENKESS.--To what are we to ascribe the
prevalence of this detestable vice amongst us! Many causes might be
plausibly assigned for it, and one of them is our execrable cookery.
The demon of drunkenness inhabits the stomach. From that "vasty deep"
it calls for its appropriate offerings. But the demon may be appeased
by other agents than alcohol. A well-cooked, warmed, nutritious meal
allays the craving quite as effectually as a dram; but cold, crude,
indigestible viands, not only do not afford the required _solatium_ to
the rebellious organ, but they aggravate the evil, and add intensity
to the morbid avidity for stimulants. It is remarked that certain
classes are particularly obnoxious to drunkenness, such as sailors,
carriers, coachmen, and other wandering tribes whose ventral
insurrections are not periodically quelled by regular and comfortable
meals. Country doctors, for the same reason, not unfrequently manifest
a stronger predilection for their employers' bottles than their
patients do for theirs. In the absence of innocuous and benign
appliances, the deleterious are had recourse to exorcise the fiend
that is raging within them. These views are explicable by the laws
of physiology, but this is not the place for such disquisitions. One
reason why the temperance movement has been arrested in this country
is, that while one sensual gratification was withdrawn, another was
not provided. The intellectual excitements which were offered as a
substitute have not been found to answer the desired purpose. Our
temperance coffee-houses are singularly deficient in gastronomical
attractions; and the copious decoctions of coffee and chicory which
are there served up, with that nauseous accompaniment, buttered toast,
are more calculated to create a craving for stimulants than allay
it. The lower classes of Scotland are as deficient in knowledge of
cookery as the natives of the Sandwich Islands; and if our apostles of
temperance would employ a few clever cooks to go through the country
and teach the wives and daughters of the workingmen to dress meat
and vegetables, and make soups, and cheap and palatable farinaceous
messes, they would do more in one year to advance their cause, than
in twenty by means of long winded moral orations, graced with all
the flowers of oratory.--_Wilson on the Social Condition of France as
compared with that of England_.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MONKEY AND THE WATCH.--A distinguished lord, going from home, left
his watch hanging beside his bed. A tame monkey, who was in the habit
of imitating the actions of his master, took the watch, and with the
aid of a band, fastened it to his side. A moment afterward he drew
it forth and wound it. Then he looked at it, and said, "This goes too
fast." He opened it, put back the hand, and again adjusted it to his
side. A few moments passed, and he took it in his hand once more.
"Oh!" said the imitator, "now it goes too slow. What a trouble it is!
How can it be remedied?" He winds it again with the regulator; then
closes it, and applies it gracefully to the ear. "This movement is
wrong, still;" and he wound it with the key in another way. Then
bent to listen to it. "It does not go well, yet." He opened the case;
looked and examined every part; touched this wheel, stopped that,
moved another; in short, injured it so much by altering and shaking
it in his hand, that it at length ceased all motion. Guard us, O
propitious Heaven! from quacks that perform amongst men, as did the
monkey with the unfortunate watch.--_From the Italian_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SYRIAN CHRISTIAN AND PHILOSOPHER.--When supper was brought in Amu
Lyas, or Uncle Lyas, as Iskender always respectfully called him,
said a grace of twenty minutes before he sat down, and one of equal
duration after he got up. He was perpetually counting his beads and
uttering devout sayings--which partly accounted for his influence with
the priests. He and I agreed very well at the beginning, although in
our very first conversation he forced on a religious discussion, and
plainly told me to what place all heretics were irrevocably doomed.
On this and other occasions he strictly maintained that the earth is
stationary, that it is surrounded by the sea, that the moon rises and
sets, and that the stars are no bigger than they seem; and turned pale
with indignation at any contrary statements, which he asserted to be
direct attacks on the foundation of the Christian religion. Further
experience taught me that he was a very fair representative of
public opinion among a large class of Syrian Christians. He was an
ardent desirer of French domination, and entertained the most stupid
prejudices against the English. I generally found that the Levantines
preferred the French, whilst we are great favorites with the
Arabs.--_Two Years in a Levantine Family_.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BRITISH HIERARCHY.--The Eternal Anarch, with his old waggling
addle-head full of mere windy rumor, and his old insatiable paunch
full of mere hunger and indigestion tragically blended, and the
hissing discord of all the Four Elements persuasively pleading to
him;--he, set to choose, would be very apt to vote for such a set of
demigods to you.--_Carlyle's Latter-Day Pamphlets_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM BOHEMIAN POEMS, TRANSLATED BY A.H. WRAITSALL, M.A., JUST
PUBLISHED IN LONDON.]

  Whither, oh, whither, now all things are over?
    We to our journey and he to his home;
  Eyes cannot pierce through the vail that must cover
    Him whom we laid in the still silent tomb.
  He hath but ended his journey before us,
    We for a season are sojourning still
  On the same earth with the same heaven o'er us,--
    Turn we, oh, turn we, our tasks to fulfill!
  Whither, oh, whither, now all things are ended?
    We to our labor and he to his rest;
  Let not the heart by its woe be offended,
    Man seeks the pleasant, but God gives the best.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

THE YOUNG ADVOCATE.

Antoine de Chaulieu was the son of a poor gentleman of Normandy,
with a long genealogy, a short rent-roll, and a large family. Jacques
Rollet was the son of a brewer, who did not know who his grandfather
was; but he had a long purse and only two children. As these youths
flourished in the early days of liberty, equality, and fraternity,
and were near neighbors, they naturally hated each other. Their enmity
commenced at school, where the delicate and refined De Chaulieu being
the only gentilhomme amongst the scholars, was the favorite of the
master (who was a bit of an aristocrat in his heart), although he was
about the worst dressed boy in the establishment, and never had a sou
to spend; whilst Jacques Rollet, sturdy and rough, with smart clothes
and plenty of money, got flogged six days in the week, ostensibly
for being stupid and not learning his lessons--which, indeed, he did
not, but, in reality, for constantly quarreling with and insulting De
Chaulieu, who had not strength to cope with him. When they left the
academy, the feud continued in all its vigor, and was fostered by a
thousand little circumstances arising out of the state of the times,
till a separation ensued in consequence of an aunt of Antoine de
Chaulieu's undertaking the expense of sending him to Paris to study
the law, and of maintaining him there during the necessary period.

With the progress of events came some degree of reaction in favor
of birth and nobility, and then Antoine, who had passed for the bar,
began to hold up his head and endeavored to push his fortunes; but
fate seemed against him. He felt certain that if he possessed any gift
in the world it was that of eloquence, but he could get no cause to
plead; and his aunt dying inopportunely, first his resources failed,
and then his health. He had no sooner returned to his home, than,
to complicate his difficulties completely, he fell in love with
Mademoiselle Natalie de Bellefonds, who had just returned from Paris,
where she had been completing her education. To expatiate on the
perfections of Mademoiselle Natalie, would be a waste of ink and
paper: it is sufficient to say that she really was a very charming
girl, with a fortune which, though not large, would have been a most
desirable acquisition to de Chaulieu, who had nothing. Neither was
the fair Natalie indisposed to listen to his addresses, but her father
could not be expected to countenance the suit of a gentleman, however
well-born, who had not a ten-sous piece in the world, and whose
prospects were a blank.

Whilst the ambitious and love-sick young barrister was thus pining in
unwelcome obscurity, his old acquaintance, Jacques Rollet, had been
acquiring an undesirable notoriety. There was nothing really bad
in Jacques' disposition, but having been bred up a democrat, with
a hatred of the nobility, he could not easily accommodate his rough
humor to treat them with civility when it was no longer safe to insult
them. The liberties he allowed himself whenever circumstances brought
him into contact with the higher classes of society, had led him into
many scrapes, out of which his father's money had one way or another
released him; but that source of safety had now failed. Old Rollet
having been too busy with the affairs of the nation to attend to his
business, had died insolvent, leaving his son with nothing but his
own wits to help him out of future difficulties, and it was not long
before their exercise was called for. Claudine Rollet, his sister, who
was a very pretty girl, had attracted the attention of Mademoiselle de
Bellefonds' brother, Alphonso; and as he paid her more attention than
from such a quarter was agreeable to Jacques, the young men had had
more than one quarrel on the subject, on which occasions they had
each, characteristically, given vent to their enmity, the one in
contemptuous monosyllables, and the other in a volley of insulting
words. But Claudine had another lover more nearly of her own condition
of life; this was Claperon, the deputy governor of Rouen jail, with
whom she had made acquaintance during one or two compulsory visits
paid by her brother to that functionary; but Claudine, who was a bit
of a coquette, though she did not altogether reject his suit, gave him
little encouragement, so that betwixt hopes, and fears, and doubts,
and jealousies, pour Claperon led a very uneasy kind of life.

Affairs had been for some time in this position, when, one fine
morning, Alphonse de Bellefonds was not to be found in his chamber
when his servant went to call him; neither had his bed been slept in.
He had been observed to go out rather late on the preceding evening,
but whether or not he had returned, nobody could tell. He had not
appeared at supper, but that was too ordinary an event to awaken
suspicion; and little alarm was excited till several hours had
elapsed, when inquiries were instituted and a search commenced, which
terminated in the discovery of his body, a good deal mangled, lying
at the bottom of a pond which had belonged to the old brewery. Before
any investigations had been made, every person had jumped to the
conclusion that the young man had been murdered, and that Jacques
Rollet was the assassin. There was a strong presumption in favor of
that opinion, which further perquisitions tended to confirm. Only the
day before, Jacques had been heard to threaten Mons. de Bellefonds
with speedy vengeance. On the fatal evening, Alphonse and Claudine had
been seen together in the neighborhood of the now dismantled brewery;
and as Jacques, betwixt poverty and democracy, was in bad odor with
the prudent and respectable part of society, it was not easy for him
to bring witnesses to character, or prove an unexceptionable alibi. As
for the Bellefonds and De Chaulieus, and the aristocracy in general,
they entertained no doubt of his guilt; and finally, the magistrates
coming to the same opinion, Jacques Rollet was committed for trial,
and as a testimony of good will, Antoine de Chaulieu was selected by
the injured family to conduct the prosecution.

Here, at last, was the opportunity he had sighed for! So interesting
a case, too, furnishing such ample occasion for passion, pathos,
indignation! And how eminently fortunate that the speech which he set
himself with ardor to prepare, would be delivered in the presence
of the father and brother of his mistress, and perhaps of the lady
herself! The evidence against Jacques, it is true, was altogether
presumptive; there was no proof whatever that he had committed the
crime; and for his own part he stoutly denied it. But Antoine de
Chaulieu entertained no doubt of his guilt, and his speech was
certainly well calculated to carry that conviction into the bosom of
others. It was of the highest importance to his own reputation that he
should procure a verdict, and he confidently assured the afflicted and
enraged family of the victim that their vengeance should be satisfied.
Under these circumstances could anything be more unwelcome than a
piece of intelligence that was privately conveyed to him late on the
evening before the trial was to come on, which tended strongly to
exculpate the prisoner, without indicating any other person as the
criminal. Here was an opportunity lost. The first step of the ladder
on which he was to rise to fame, fortune, and a wife, was slipping
from under his feet!

Of course, so interesting a trial was anticipated with great eagerness
by the public, and the court was crowded with all the beauty and
fashion of Rouen. Though Jacques Rollet persisted in asserting his
innocence, founding his defense chiefly on circumstances which were
strongly corroborated by the information that had reached De Chaulieu
the preceding evening,--he was convicted.

In spite of the very strong doubts he privately entertained respecting
the justice of the verdict, even De Chaulieu himself, in the first
flush of success, amidst a crowd of congratulating friends, and the
approving smiles of his mistress, felt gratified and happy; his speech
had, for the time being, not only convinced others, but himself;
warmed with his own eloquence, he believed what he said. But when
the glow was over, and he found himself alone, he did not feel so
comfortable. A latent doubt of Rollet's guilt now burnt strongly in
his mind, and he felt that the blood of the innocent would be on his
head. It is true there was yet time to save the life of the prisoner,
but to admit Jacques innocent, was to take the glory out of his own
speech, and turn the sting of his argument against himself. Besides,
if he produced the witness who had secretly given him the information,
he should be self-condemned, for he could not conceal that he had been
aware of the circumstance before the trial.

Matters having gone so far, therefore, it was necessary that Jacques
Rollet should die; so the affair took its course; and early one
morning the guillotine was erected in the court-yard of the jail,
three criminals ascended the scaffold, and three heads fell into the
basket, which were presently afterward, with the trunks that had been
attached to them, buried in a corner of the cemetery.

Antoine de Chaulieu was now fairly started in his career, and his
success was as rapid as the first step toward it had been tardy. He
took a pretty apartment in the Hôtel Marboeuf, Rue Grange-Batelière,
and in a short time was looked upon as one of the most rising young
advocates in Paris. His success in one line brought him success in
another; he was soon a favorite in society, and an object of interest
to speculating mothers; but his affections still adhered to his old
love Natalie de Bellefonds, whose family now gave their assent to the
match--at least, prospectively--a circumstance which furnished such
an additional incentive to his exertions, that in about two years
from the date of his first brilliant speech, he was in a sufficiently
flourishing condition to offer the young lady a suitable home. In
anticipation of the happy event, he engaged and furnished a suite
of apartments in the Rue du Helder; and as it was necessary that the
bride should come to Paris to provide her trousseau, it was agreed
that the wedding should take place there, instead of at Bellefonds,
as had been first projected; an arrangement the more desirable, that
a press of business rendered Mons. de Chaulieu's absence from Paris
inconvenient.

Brides and bridegrooms in France, except of the very high classes,
are not much in the habit of making those honeymoon excursions so
universal in this country. A day spent in visiting Versailles or St.
Cloud, or even the public places of the city, is generally all that
precedes the settling down into the habits of daily life. In the
present instance St. Denis was selected, from the circumstance of
Natalie's having a younger sister at school there; and also because
she had a particular desire to see the Abbey.

The wedding was to take place on a Thursday; and on the Wednesday
evening, having spent some hours most agreeably with Natalie,
Antoine de Chaulieu returned to spend his last night in his bachelor
apartments. His wardrobe and other small possessions, had already been
packed up and sent to his future home; and there was nothing left
in his room now, but his new wedding suit, which he inspected with
considerable satisfaction before he undressed and lay down to sleep.
Sleep, however, was somewhat slow to visit him; and the clock had
struck one, before he closed his eyes. When he opened them again,
it was broad daylight; and his first thought was, had he overslept
himself! He sat up in bed to look at the clock which was exactly
opposite, and as he did so, in the large mirror over the fireplace,
he perceived a figure standing behind him. As the dilated eyes met his
own, he saw it was the face of Jacques Rollet. Overcome with horror he
sunk back on his pillow, and it was some minutes before he ventured
to look again in that direction; when he did so, the figure had
disappeared.

The sudden revulsion of feeling such a vision was calculated to
occasion in a man elate with joy, may be conceived! For some time
after the death of his former foe, he had been visited by not
unfrequent twinges of conscience; but of late, borne along by success,
and the hurry of Parisian life, these unpleasant remembrances had
grown rarer, till at length they had faded away altogether. Nothing
had been further from his thoughts than Jacques Rollet, when he closed
his eyes on the preceding night, nor when he opened them to that sun
which was to shine on what he expected to be the happiest day of his
life! Where were the high-strung nerves now! The elastic frame! The
bounding heart!

Heavily and slowly he arose from his bed, for it was time to do so;
and with a trembling hand and quivering knees, he went through
the processes of the toilet, gashing his cheek with the razor, and
spilling the water over his well polished boots. When he was dressed,
scarcely venturing to cast a glance in the mirror as he passed it,
he quitted the room and descended the stairs, taking the key of the
door with him for the purpose of leaving it with the porter; the man,
however, being absent, he laid it on the table in his lodge, and with
a relaxed and languid step proceeded on his way to the church, where
presently arrived the fair Natalie and her friends. How difficult it
was now to look happy, with that pallid face and extinguished eye!

"How pale you are! Has anything happened? You are surely ill?" were
the exclamations that met him on all sides. He tried to carry it off
as well as he could, but felt that the movements he would have wished
to appear alert were only convulsive; and that the smiles with which
he attempted to relax his features, were but distorted grimaces.
However, the church was not the place for further inquiries; and while
Natalie gently pressed his hand in token of sympathy, they advanced
to the altar, and the ceremony was performed; after which they stepped
into the carriages waiting at the door, and drove to the apartments of
Madme. de Bellefonds, where an elegant _déjeuner_ was prepared.

"What ails you, my dear husband?" inquired Natalie, as soon as they
were alone.

"Nothing, love," he replied; "nothing. I assure you, but a restless
night and a little overwork, in order that I might have to-day free to
enjoy my happiness!"

"Are you quite sure? Is there nothing else?"

"Nothing, indeed; and pray don't take notice of it, it only makes me
worse!"

Natalie was not deceived, but she saw that what he said was true;
notice made him worse; so she contented herself with observing him
quietly, and saying nothing; but, as he _felt_ she was observing him,
she might almost better have spoken; words are often less embarrassing
things than too curious eyes.

When they reached Madame de Bellefonds' he had the same sort of
questioning and scrutiny to undergo, till he grew quite impatient
under it, and betrayed a degree of temper altogether unusual to him.
Then everybody looked astonished; some whispered their remarks, and
others expressed them by their wondering eyes, till his brow knit, and
his pallid cheeks became flushed with anger. Neither could he divert
attention by eating; his parched mouth would not allow him to swallow
anything but liquids, of which, however, he indulged in copious
libations; and it was an exceeding relief to him when the carriage,
which was to convey them to St. Denis, being announced, furnished
an excuse for hastily leaving the table. Looking at his watch, he
declared it was late; and Natalie, who saw how eager he was to be
gone, threw her shawl over her shoulders, and bidding her friends
_good morning_, they hurried away.

It was a fine sunny day in June; and, as they drove along the crowded
boulevards, and through the Porte St. Denis, the young bride and
bridegroom, to avoid each other's eyes, affected to be gazing out of
the windows; but when they reached that part of the road where there
was nothing but trees on each side, they felt it necessary to draw
in their heads, and make an attempt at conversation. De Chaulieu
put his arm round his wife's waist, and tried to rouse himself from
his depression; but it had by this time so reacted upon her, that
she could not respond to his efforts, and thus the conversation
languished, till both felt glad when they reached their destination,
which would, at all events, furnish them something to talk about.

Having quitted the carriage, and ordered a dinner at the Hôtel
de l'Abbaye, the young couple proceeded to visit Mademoiselle
Hortense de Bellefonds, who was overjoyed to see her sister and new
brother-in-law, and doubly so when she found that they had obtained
permission to take her out to spend the afternoon with them. As there
is little to be seen at St. Denis but the Abbey, on quitting that part
of it devoted to education, they proceeded to visit the church, with
its various objects of interest; and as De Chaulieu's thoughts were
now forced into another direction, his cheerfulness began insensibly
to return. Natalie looked so beautiful, too, and the affection betwixt
the two young sisters was so pleasant to behold! And they spent a
couple of hours wandering about with Hortense, who was almost as well
informed as the Suisse, till the brazen doors were open which admitted
them to the royal vault. Satisfied, at length, with what they had
seen, they began to think of returning to the inn, the more especially
as De Chaulieu, who had not eaten a morsel of food since the previous
evening, owned to being hungry; so they directed their steps to the
door, lingering here and there as they went, to inspect a monument or
a painting, when, happening to turn his head aside to see if his wife,
who had stopt to take a last look at the tomb of King Dagobert, was
following, he beheld with horror the face of Jacques Rollet appearing
from behind a column! At the same instant, his wife joined him, and
took his arm, inquiring if he was not very much delighted with what
he had seen. He attempted to say yes, but the word would not be
forced out; and staggering out of the door, he alleged that a sudden
faintness had overcome him.

They conducted him to the Hôtel, but Natalie now became seriously
alarmed; and well she might. His complexion looked ghastly, his limbs
shook, and his features bore an expression of indescribable horror and
anguish. What could be the meaning of so extraordinary a change in the
gay, witty, prosperous De Chaulieu, who, till that morning, seemed not
to have a care in the world? For, plead illness as he might, she felt
certain, from the expression of his features, that his sufferings were
not of the body but of the mind; and, unable to imagine any reason for
such extraordinary manifestations, of which she had never before seen
a symptom, but a sudden aversion to herself, and regret for the step
he had taken, her pride took the alarm, and, concealing the distress
she really felt, she began to assume a haughty and reserved manner
toward him, which he naturally interpreted into an evidence of anger
and contempt. The dinner was placed upon the table, but Du Chaulieu's
appetite of which he had lately boasted, was quite gone, nor was his
wife better able to eat. The young sister alone did justice to the
repast; but although the bridegroom could not eat, he could swallow
champagne in such copious draughts, that ere long the terror and
remorse that the apparition of Jacques Rollet had awakened in his
breast were drowned in intoxication. Amazed and indignant, poor
Natalie sat silently observing this elect of her heart, till overcome
with disappointment and grief, she quitted the room with her sister,
and retired to another apartment, where she gave free vent to her
feelings in tears.

After passing a couple of hours in confidences and lamentations, they
recollected that the hours of liberty granted, as an especial favor,
to Mademoiselle Hortense, had expired; but ashamed to exhibit her
husband in his present condition to the eyes of strangers, Natalie
prepared to re-conduct her to the _Maison Royale_ herself. Looking
into the dining-room as they passed, they saw De Chaulieu lying on a
sofa fast asleep, in which state he continued when his wife returned.
At length, however, the driver of their carriage begged to know if
Monsieur and Madame were ready to return to Paris, and it became
necessary to arouse him. The transitory effects of the champagne had
now sub sided; but when De Chaulieu recollected what had happened,
nothing could exceed his shame and mortification. So engrossing indeed
were these sensations that they quite overpowered his previous ones,
and, in his present vexation, he, for the moment, forgot his fears.
He knelt at his wife's feet, begged her pardon a thousand times, swore
that he adored her, and declared that the illness and the effect of
the wine had been purely the consequences of fasting and over-work.
It was not the easiest thing in the world to reassure a woman whose
pride, affection, and taste, had been so severely wounded; but Natalie
tried to believe, or to appear to do so, and a sort of reconciliation
ensued, not quite sincere on the part of the wife, and very humbling
on the part of the husband. Under these circumstances it was
impossible that he should recover his spirits or facility of manner;
his gayety was forced, his tenderness constrained; his heart was
heavy within him; and ever and anon the source whence all this
disappointment and woe had sprung would recur to his perplexed,
tortured mind.

Thus mutually pained and distrustful, they returned to Paris, which
they reached about nine o'clock. In spite of her depression, Natalie,
who had not seen her new apartments, felt some curiosity about them,
whilst De Chaulieu anticipated a triumph in exhibiting the elegant
home he had prepared for her. With some alacrity, therefore, they
stepped out of the carriage, the gates of the Hôtel were thrown open,
the concierge rang the bell which announced to the servants that their
master and mistress had arrived, and whilst these domestics appeared
above, holding lights over the balusters, Natalie, followed by her
husband, ascended the stairs. But when they reached the landing-place
of the first flight, they saw the figure of a man standing in a corner
as if to make way for them; the flash from above fell upon his face,
and again Antoine de Chaulieu recognized the features of Jacques
Rollet!

From the circumstance of his wife's preceding him, the figure was
not observed by De Chaulieu till he was lifting his foot to place it
on the top stair; the sudden shock caused him to miss the step, and,
without uttering a sound, he fell back, and never stopped till he
reached the stories at the bottom. The screams of Natalie brought the
concierge from below and the maids from above, and an attempt was
made to raise the unfortunate man from the ground; but with cries of
anguish he besought them to desist.

"Let me," he said, "die here! What a fearful vengeance is thine! Oh,
Natalie, Natalie!" he exclaimed to his wife, who was kneeling beside
him, "to win fame, and fortune, and yourself, I committed a dreadful
crime! With lying words I argued away the life of a fellow-creature,
whom, whilst I uttered them, I half believed to be innocent: and
now, when I have attained all I desired, and reached the summit of
my hopes, the Almighty has sent him back upon the earth to blast me
with the sight. Three times this day--three times this day! Again!
again!"--and as he spoke, his wild and dilated eyes fixed themselves
on one of the individuals that surrounded him.

"He is delirious," said they.

"No," said the stranger! "What he says is true enough,--at least
in part;" and bending over the expiring man, he added, "May Heaven
forgive you, Antoine de Chaulieu! I was not executed; one who well
knew my innocence saved my life. I may name him, for he is beyond
the reach of the law now,--it was Claperon, the jailer, who loved
Claudine, and had himself killed Alphonse de Bellefonds from jealousy.
An unfortunate wretch had been several years in the jail for a murder
committed during the frenzy of a fit of insanity. Long confinement
had reduced him to idiocy. To save my life Claperon substituted the
senseless being for me, on the scaffold, and he was executed in my
stead. He has quitted the country, and I have been a vagabond on the
face of the earth ever since that time. At length I obtained, through
the assistance of my sister, the situation of concierge in the Hôtel
Marboeuf, in the Rue Grange Batelière. I entered on my new place
yesterday evening, and was desired to awaken the gentleman on the
third floor at seven o'clock. When I entered the room to do so,
you were asleep, but before I had time to speak you awoke, and I
recognized your features in the glass. Knowing that I could not
vindicate my innocence if you chose to seize me, I fled, and seeing
an omnibus starting for St. Denis, I got on it with a vague idea of
getting on to Calais, and crossing the Channel to England. But having
only a franc or two in my pocket, or indeed in the world, I did not
know how to procure the means of going forward; and whilst I was
lounging about the place, forming first one plan and then another,
I saw you in the church, and concluding you wore in pursuit of me, I
thought the best way of eluding your vigilance was to make my way back
to Paris as fast as I could; so I set off instantly, and walked all
the way; but having no money to pay my night's lodging, I came here
to borrow a couple of livres of my sister Claudine, who lives in the
fifth story."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the dying man; "that sin is off my soul!
Natalie, dear wife, farewell! Forgive! forgive all!"

These were the last words he uttered; the priest, who had been
summoned in haste, held up the cross before his failing sight; a few
strong convulsions shook the poor bruised and mangled frame; and then
all was still.

And thus ended the Young Advocate's Wedding Day.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM DICKENS'S HOUSEHOLD WORDS FOR JUNE 29.]

THE POWER OF MERCY.

Quiet enough, in general, is the quaint old town of Lamborough. Why
all this bustle to-day? Along the hedge-bound roads which lead to it,
carts, chaises, vehicles of every description are jogging along filled
with countrymen; and here and there the scarlet cloak or straw bonnet
of some female occupying a chair, placed somewhat unsteadily behind
them, contrasts gaily with the dark coats, or gray smock-frocks of the
front row; from every cottage of the suburb, some individuals join the
stream, which rolls on increasing through the streets till it reaches
the castle. The ancient moat teems with idlers, and the hill opposite,
usually the quiet domain of a score or two of peaceful sheep, partakes
of the surrounding agitation.

The voice of the multitude which surrounds the court-house, sounds
like the murmur of the sea, till suddenly it is raised to a sort
of shout. John West, the terror of the surrounding country, the
sheep-stealer and burglar, had been found guilty.

"What is the sentence?" is asked by a hundred voices.

The answer is "Transportation for Life."

But there was one standing aloof on the hill, whose inquiring eye
wandered over the crowd with indescribable anguish, whose pallid cheek
grew more and more ghastly at every denunciation of the culprit, and
who, when at last the sentence was pronounced, fell insensible upon
the green-sward. It was the burglar's son.

When the boy recovered from his swoon, it was late in the afternoon;
he was alone; the faint tinkling of the sheep-bell had again replaced
the sound of the human chorus of expectation, and dread, and jesting;
all was peaceful, he could not understand why he lay there, feeling
so weak and sick. He raised himself tremulously and looked around, the
turf was cut and spoilt by the trampling of many feet. All his life
of the last few months floated before his memory, his residence in
his father's hovel with ruffianly comrades, the desperate schemes he
heard as he pretended to sleep on his lowly bed, their expeditions at
night, masked and armed, their hasty returns, the news of his father's
capture, his own removal to the house of some female in the town, the
court, the trial, the condemnation.

The father had been a harsh and brutal parent, but he had not
positively ill-used his boy. Of the Great and Merciful Father of the
fatherless the child knew nothing. He deemed himself alone in the
world. Yet grief was not his pervading feeling, nor the shame, of
being known as the son of a transport. It was revenge which burned
within him. He thought of the crowd which had come to feast upon
his father's agony; he longed to tear them to pieces, and he plucked
savagely a handful of the grass on which he leant. Oh, that he were
a man! that he could punish them all--all,--the spectators first
the constables, the judge, the jury, the witnesses,--one of them
especially, a clergyman named Leyton, who had given his evidence more
positively, more clearly, than all the others. Oh, that he could do
that man some injury,--but for him his father would not have been
identified and convicted.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him,--his eyes sparkled with fierce
delight. "I know where he lives," he said to himself; "he has the farm
and parsonage of Millwood. I will go there at once,--it is almost
dark already. I will do as I have heard father say he once did to the
Squire. I will set his barns and his house on fire. Yes, yes, he shall
burn for it,--he shall get no more fathers transported."

To procure a box of matches was an easy task, and that was all the
preparation the boy made.

The autumn was far advanced. A cold wind was beginning to moan amongst
the almost leafless trees, and George West's teeth chattered, and
his ill-clad limbs grew numb as he walked along the fields leading to
Millwood. "Lucky it's a dark night; this fine wind will fan the flame
nicely," he repeated to himself.

The clock was striking nine, but all was quiet as midnight; not a soul
stirring, not a light in the parsonage windows that he could see. He
dared not open the gate, lest the click of the latch should betray
him, so he softly climbed over; but scarcely had he dropped on the
other side of the wall before the loud barking of a dog startled
him. He cowered down behind the hay-rick, scarcely daring to breathe,
expecting each instant that the dog would spring upon him. It was
some time before the boy dared to stir, and as his courage cooled,
his thirst for revenge somewhat subsided also, till he almost
determined to return to Lamborough; but he was too tired, too cold,
too hungry,--besides, the woman would beat him for staying out so
late. What could he do? where should he go? and as the sense of his
lonely and forlorn position returned, so did also the affectionate
remembrance of his father, his hatred of his accusers, his desire to
satisfy his vengeance; and, once more, courageous through anger, he
rose, took the box from his pocket, and boldly drew one of them across
the sand-paper. It flamed; he stuck it hastily in the stack against
which he rested,--it only flickered a little, and went out. In great
trepidation, young West once more grasped the whole of the remaining
matches in his hand and ignited them, but at the same instant the dog
barked. He hears the gate open, a step is close to him, the matches
are extinguished, the lad makes a desperate effort to escape,--but a
strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and a deep calm voice inquired,
"What can have urged you to such a crime?" Then calling loudly, the
gentleman, without relinquishing his hold, soon obtained the help of
some farming men, who commenced a search with their lanterns all about
the farm. Of course they found no accomplices, nothing at all but the
handful of half-consumed matches the lad had dropped, and he all that
time stood trembling, and occasionally struggling, beneath the firm,
but not rough grasp of the master who held him.

At last the men were told to return to the house, and thither,
by a different path, was George led till they entered a small,
poorly-furnished room. The walls were covered with books, as the
bright flame of the fire revealed to the anxious gaze of the
little culprit. The clergyman lit a lamp, and surveyed his prisoner
attentively. The lad's eyes were fixed on the ground, whilst Mr.
Leyton's wandered from his pale, pinched features to his scanty,
ragged attire, through the tatters of which he could discern the
thin limbs quivering from cold or fear; and when at last impelled by
curiosity at the long silence, George looked up, there was something
so sadly compassionate in the stranger's gentle look, that the boy
could scarcely believe that he was really the man whose evidence had
mainly contributed to transport his father. At the trial he had been
unable to see his face, and nothing so kind had over gazed upon him.
His proud bad feelings were already melting.

"You look half-starved," said Mr. Leyton, "draw nearer to the fire,
you can sit down on that stool whilst I question you; and mind you
answer me the truth. I am not a magistrate, but of course can easily
hand you over to justice if you will not allow me to benefit you in my
own way."

George still stood twisting his ragged cap in his trembling fingers,
and with so much emotion depicted on his face, that the good clergyman
resumed, in still more soothing accents: "I have no wish to do you
anything but good, my poor boy; look up at me, and see if you cannot
trust me; you need not be thus frightened. I only desire to hear the
tale of misery your appearance indicates, to relieve it if I can."

Here the young culprit's heart smote him. Was this the man whose house
he had tried to burn? On whom he had wished to bring ruin and perhaps
death? Was it a snare spread for him to lead to confession? But when
he looked on that grave compassionate countenance, he felt that it was
_not_.

"Come, my lad, tell me all."

George had for years heard little but oaths, and curses, and ribald
jests, or the thief's jargon of his father's associates, and had been
constantly cuffed and punished; but the better part of his nature was
not extinguished; and at those words from the mouth of his _enemy_,
he dropped on his knees, and clasping his hands, tried to speak: but
could only sob. He had not wept before during that day of anguish; and
now his tears gushed forth so freely, his grief was so passionate as
he half knelt, half rested on the floor, that the good questioner saw
that sorrow must have its course ere calm could be restored.

The young penitent still wept, when a knock was heard at the door,
and a lady entered. It was the clergyman's wife; he kissed her as she
asked how he had succeeded with the wicked man in the jail.

"He told me," replied Mr. Leyton, "that he had a son whose fate
tormented him more than his punishment. Indeed his mind was so
distracted respecting the youth, that he was scarcely able to
understand my exhortations. He entreated me with agonizing energy to
save his son from such a life as he had led, and gave me the address
of a woman in whose house he lodged. I was, however, unable to find
the boy in spite of many earnest inquiries."

"Did you hear his name?" asked the wife.

"George West," was the reply.

At the mention of his name, the boy ceased to sob. Breathlessly he
heard the account of his father's last request, of the benevolent
clergyman's wish to fulfill it. He started up, ran toward the door,
and endeavored to open it; Mr. Leyton calmly restrained him. "You must
not escape," he said.

"I cannot stop here. I cannot bear to look at you. Let me go!" The lad
said this wildly, and shook himself away.

"Why, I intend you nothing but kindness."

A new flood of tears gushed forth; and George West said between his
sobs,

"Whilst you were searching for me to help me, I was trying to burn you
in your house. I cannot bear it." He sunk on his knees, and covered
his face with both hands.

There was a long silence, for Mr. and Mrs. Leyton were as much moved
as the boy, who was bowed down with shame and penitence, to which
hitherto he had been a stranger.

At last the clergyman asked, "What could have induced you to commit
such a crime?"

Rising suddenly in the excitement of remorse, gratitude, and many
feelings new to him, he hesitated for a moment, and then told his
story; he related his trials, his sins, his sorrows, his supposed
wrongs, his burning anger at the terrible fate of his only parent, and
his rage at the exultation of the crowd: his desolation on recovering
from his swoon, his thirst for vengeance, the attempt to satisfy it.
He spoke with untaught, child-like simplicity, without attempting to
suppress the emotions which successively overcame him.

When he ceased, the lady hastened to the crouching boy, and soothed
him with gentle words. The very tones of her voice were new to
him. They pierced his heart more acutely than the fiercest of the
upbraidings and denunciations of his old companions. He looked on
his merciful benefactors with bewildered tenderness. He kissed Mrs.
Leyton's hand then gently laid on his shoulder. He gazed about like
one in a dream who dreaded to wake. He became faint and staggered. He
was laid gently on a sofa, and Mr. and Mrs. Leyton left him.

Food was shortly administered to him, and after a time, when his
senses had become sufficiently collected, Mr. Leyton returned to the
study, and explained holy and beautiful things, which were new to
the neglected boy: of the great yet loving Father; of Him who loved
the poor, forlorn wretch, equally with the richest, and noblest, and
happiest; of the force and efficacy of the sweet beatitude, "Blessed
are the Merciful, for they shall obtain Mercy."

I heard this story from Mr. Leyton, during a visit to him in May.
George West was then head-plowman to a neighboring farmer, one of the
cleanest, best behaved, and moat respected laborers in the parish.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM FRASER'S MAGAZINE.

THE GREAT MARSHAL SUWARROW.

The Russian is eminently fitted for a soldier's life; his education
is almost as martial as if he had been brought up in a camp; for his
relatives and neighbors hold their lands by military tenure, and love
to talk together of the days when they served in the wars. All, from
the highest order to the lowest, look to the fulfillment of their
ancient prophecy, that "_All the world is to be conquered by the arms
of Russia_." Should some man of resplendent genius, like Suwarrow,
chance to command, there is no calculating on the position to which
the Russian army might attain. Suwarrow was not alone fitted to lead
an army, but was exactly the general to form one: his frankness and
generosity, and the manner in which his habits identified him with
his soldiers, endeared him to the army; while his religious feelings
and exercises, and the habit of participating in some of their
superstitions, sanctified him in the eyes of the men, and gave him
unbounded influence. Some of the anecdotes with which we have met
exhibit feelings for which we were but little inclined to give the
devoted warrior credit, for most certainly we should never have sought
in rude camps, and among wild Cossacks, for gentle affections and
tender emotions; and yet even there they may be found; and we see
that he whose whole existence was nearly an uninterrupted series
of military exploits, was by no means devoid of those congenial
sympathies which make up the charm of domestic life.... This is
the more worthy of observation, as he has been regarded by many
as something not far removed from an ogre--an impression which the
barbarous warfare carried on between the Turks and Cossacks, in which
he took such a prominent part, seemed to justify; coupled as it has
been, too, with the story of his having packed up in a sack the heads
of the Janissaries who had fallen by his hand, for the purpose of
laying them at the feet of his general. The spirit of the times,
and of those with whom his lot was cast, must be looked to as some
palliation for the savage conflicts in which he was engaged. That they
had not hardened his heart against all tender emotions is surprising.

Pierre Alexis Wasiltowitch, Count Suwarrow, was born in 1730, in
Moscow, according to his biographer, of a Swedish family. He began his
military career when but twelve years of age, having been placed in
the School of Young Cadets in St. Petersburgh by his father. He was a
mere boy when he entered the Russian service as a private soldier. For
some years he was not advanced beyond the rank of a subaltern. From
the earliest age the decision and originality of his character were
developed, and he was not long in perceiving his own superiority to
those by whom he was commanded. This conviction rendered the control
to which he was forced to submit extremely distasteful, and made him
determine to raise himself from a subordinate situation. To determine
was to achieve, in one possessed of his powers of mind and matchless
energy. The singularity of his bearing was very remarkable, and as
he lost no opportunity of rendering it conspicuous, it soon attracted
observation, which was all that was necessary for the discovery of the
extraordinary intellectual powers which he possessed. Thus recommended
by his superior abilities, his advancement was rapid. Before he was
twenty-nine he was a lieutenant-colonel. His reliance on his own
unaided powers was so entire, that he could ill brook the thought of
considering himself bound by obedience to any one. When speaking at a
later period on the subject, he said, "When my sovereign does me the
honor to give me the command of her armies, she supposes me capable
of guiding them to victory; and how can she pretend to know better
than an old soldier like myself, who am on the spot, the road which
leads to it? So, whenever her orders are in opposition to her true
interests, I take it for granted that they are suggested by the enmity
of her courtiers, and I act in conformity to what appears to me most
conducive to her glory." On some occasions he acted in accordance
with this declaration, and on a very remarkable one showed that he
was justified in the dependence which he had on his own judgment; but
whether his acting on it was defensible, must be left to the martinets
to determine. In the year 1771, during the campaign, when he held the
rank of major-general, he found that the Grand Marshal of Lithuania
was assembling the Poles at Halowitz, of which he directly apprised
the commander-in-chief, Marshal Boutourlin, and demanded leave to
attack them. Boutourlin, who was a cautious man, thought such a risk
should not be attempted, as Suwarrow had but a few hundred men under
him, and therefore decidedly forbade any attack. At the same time,
an account reached Suwarrow that the Regiment of Petersburgh had just
been beaten by the Poles, whose numbers amounted to five thousand men,
and were increasing every day. Fired by the intelligence, he at once
determined on action, and advanced at the head of a thousand men to
the attack. Every danger but excited him to additional exertion. In
four days he marched fifty leagues, surprised the Poles at dead of
night, and beat and dispersed them. He took the town of Halowitz
and twelve pieces of cannon. His victory was complete, but he had
disobeyed orders; and according to all rules of military discipline
he deserved punishment. It was thus he announced his success to the
commander of the army:

    "As a soldier I have disobeyed--I ought to be punished--I have
    sent you my sword; but as a Russian I have done my duty in
    destroying the Confederate forces, which we could not have
    resisted had they been left time to unite."

Boutourlin was in the utmost astonishment, and quite at a loss what
steps he should take. He laid Suwarrow's extraordinary dispatch before
the Empress, and requested her orders as to the manner in which he
should act. Catharine lost no time in addressing Suwarrow:

    "Your commander, Marshal Boutourlin, ought to put you under
    arrest, to punish military insubordination. As your sovereign,
    I reserve to myself the pleasure of rewarding a faithful
    subject, who by a splendid action has well served his
    country."

The Order of St. Alexander accompanied this gracious letter. Never was
commander more loved by his soldiers than Suwarrow. Like Napoleon,
he shared their hardships and privations as well as their dangers. He
would often pass the cold winter nights in their bivouac and partake
of their humble fare. In every difficulty he kept up their spirits by
his alacrity and cheerfulness. However tinctured with superstition, he
had deep devotional feelings; and it is stated that he never went to
battle without offering up a prayer, and that it was his first and
last occupation every day. Often when provisions were failing he would
order a fast to be observed by the troops, as a token of humiliation
for their sins: and he always set the example of the prescribed
abstinence himself. The noble self-denial which made him scorn any
care for himself which was beyond the reach of the common soldiers, so
thoroughly identified him with them, that all their tender sympathies
were with him, as much as their respect and veneration. He was never
seen on the long and heavy marches of his infantry but on foot by
their side; and in every advance of his cavalry he was at their head
on horseback. He worked indefatigably with them in the trenches, and
in all their military operations. When the war broke out afresh with
the Turks in the year 1785, he was surprised in the town of Kenburn by
an advance of a great body of Osmanli horse; his troops were scattered
through the adjacent country, and could not be brought together
without great difficulty--a successful attack had been made upon
one his generals. When the news was brought to him he betrayed no
agitation, but instantly repaired to the church, where he directed
that a _Te Deum_ should be chanted as for a victory. This he might
have done to show his firm trust in the prophesied success of the
Russian arms, even under discouragement. He joined in the chant with
animated fervor. As soon as the service was over he placed himself a
the head of a small body of troops which were in waiting, and hastened
to meet the enemy, who were coming on in considerable force. By a
most desperate onset he drove them back, but in the engagement he was
wounded; and his soldiers, no longer animated by his presence, became
disheartened, and fled in confusion. Suwarrow leaped from the litter
in which he was carried--all bleeding and wounded as he was--and
springing on horseback, exclaimed, "I am still alive, my children!"
This was the rallying cry--he led them on to victory.

Of all the brilliant achievements of Suwarrow, there was none more
wonderful than the conquest of Ismail. It had stood out against two
sieges, and was considered almost impregnable. The Empress, provoked
at its not having yielded, gave an absolute order that it should
be taken. Potemkin, who was then at the head of the Russian army,
dreaded Catharine's displeasure should she be disappointed the third
time. In his embarrassment he consulted with Suwarrow, who undertook
the conduct of the siege. Notwithstanding the great danger of an
enterprise which had failed twice, he felt confident of success; and
said, with earnest faith in the result, "The Empress wills it--we must
obey!"

After a forced march of four days he reached Ismail at the head of
his troops. A few days were spent in the preparations necessary for
an assault. When all was ready, orders were given: the column marched
forward at midnight. At that moment a courier rode up at full speed
with dispatches from Potemkin. Suwarrow was no sooner apprised of his
arrival than he guessed with his usual quickness the nature of the
dispatches, and he determined not to receive them till the fate of
the enterprise was decided. He ordered his horse to be brought round
to the door of his tent; he sprang on it and galloped off, without
seeming to observe the courier. After a desperate resistance the Turks
at length gave way, and Ismail fell into the hands of the Russians.
With his staff gathered eagerly round Suwarrow to offer their
congratulations, the eyes of the Marshal fell upon the officer who
bore the dispatches.

"Who are you, brother?" said he.

"It is I," replied the courier, "who brought dispatches from Prince
Potemkin yesterday evening."

"What!" exclaimed Suwarrow, with affected passion,--"what! you bring
me news from my sovereign!--you have been here since yesterday, and
I have not yet received the dispatches!" Then threatening the officer
for his negligence, he handed the dispatch to one of his generals and
bade him read it aloud.

A more striking scene can scarcely be conceived. There was deep
silence as the dispatch was opened. Suwarrow and his companions in
victory listened with breathless interest. Every danger which they
had braved and surmounted was enumerated one after the other. It was
urged that an enterprise undertaken in the midst of a winter even more
than usually severe, must be disastrous, and that it was absolutely
preposterous to think it possible to make an impression on a fortress
furnished with 230 pieces of cannon and defended by 43,000 men, the
half of whom were Janissaries, with a force that amounted to no more
than 28,000--little more than half their number. The dispatch ended
with a peremptory order for the abandonment of the enterprise.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Suwarrow, as soon as the general had ceased
reading, raising his eyes to heaven and crossing himself with
devotion, "thank God, Ismail is taken, or I should have been undone!"

There was silence for a moment, as if all participated in the feeling
with which Suwarrow glanced at the different situation which would
have been his had he not succeeded; every eye was fixed on him, and
then a sudden shout of triumph burst through all the ranks. He then
penned the following brief reply: "The Russian flag flies on the
ramparts of Ismail."

It is not to our purpose to follow the victorious steps of Suwarrow
through the campaigns in which he was engaged; they are now a part
of history, and won for him that military glory after which his heart
panted from his early boyhood. Decoration after decoration, honor
after honor: title after title, marked the high estimation in which
the services of this intrepid soldier were held by his sovereign;
and never did ruler dispense favors with a more munificent hand than
Catharine. What most attracted us, and from which we most wished to
make a selection, were those characteristic traits which brought us in
a manner personally acquainted with Suwarrow. In person Suwarrow was
unlike what the imagination would picture. He was but five feet one
inch in height, and of a fragile form; his mouth was large, and his
features plain; but his countenance was full of fire, vivacity, and
penetration. When he was moved, it became severe, commanding, and even
terrible; but this seldom happened, and never without some powerful
cause. His brow was much wrinkled, but as it seemed to be so from deep
thinking it gave still greater expression to his face. Though of a
form which appeared delicate and feeble, no one could endure greater
fatigue. This may be attributed to his active and temperate habits,
and to the wonderful energy of his mind. He was most certainly able to
use more exertion and undergo more hardship and toil than most people
of a robust frame. The spirit "which burned within him" was indeed
equal to any effort. The only weak point in his character was the
horror which he had of being reminded in any way of his age as he
advanced in life: he most carefully avoided everything which could
make him think of it. All the looking-glasses in his house were
either removed or so completely covered that he could not catch even
a transient glimpse of his face or person. He often joked about his
personal appearance, but said that he had all his life avoided looking
at himself in the glass, solely that he might not perceive the change
which years bring, and which might perhaps make him suppose himself
growing too old for military pursuits. Be this as it may, he never
would look near a mirror. If he happened to go into a room where there
was one, the very moment he perceived it he shut his eyes, made all
manner of odd faces, and ran by it at his utmost speed out of the
room. When a chair chanced to be in his way he jumped over it, to show
that he retained his activity; and for the same reason he always ran
in and out of the room. It was but seldom that he was seen to move at
a slower pace. When in the company of strangers he even quickened the
speed of his motions, and exhibited the most droll antics to impress
upon their minds that he was still equal to take the field. It was the
custom to rise early--never later at any time of the year than four
o'clock, and often even at midnight--to the end of his life. As soon
as he rose he was well drenched with cold water, even in the depth of
the most severe winter. He generally dined in winter at eight o'clock
in the morning, and in summer at seven. Dinner was his principal meal.
Though his cookery could not have been very tempting, as it was made
up of ill-dressed Cossack ragouts, nobody ventured to find any fault
with it, and his good appetite made it palatable to himself. He never
sat down to a meal without a thanksgiving or an invocation for a
blessing. If any among his guests did not take part in the grace by
responding "Amen," he would say, "Those who have not said amen shall
have no _eau de vie_." He never took any refreshment through the rest
of the day, but a few cups of tea or coffee. He never exceeded at
table, but was fond of sitting long after dinner. This habit he wished
to correct, and gave his aid-de-camp, Tichinka, directions to order
him from table whenever he thought he was remaining too long; and
this was to be managed after the fashion which he prescribed. When the
injunction was obeyed, he would ask, "By whose order?" When Tichinka
made reply, "By Marshal Suwarrow's order," he immediately rose
from table, and said, with a smile, "Very well: the marshal must
be obeyed." According to his desire the same ceremony was gone
through when he was too sedentary, and as soon as he was told by
his aid-de-camp that Marshal Suwarrow had ordered him to go out he
instantly complied. As he was unlike every one, so he dressed like
nobody else. He wore whole boots so wide that they fell about his
heels. His waistcoat and breeches were of white dimity; the lining
and collar of the waistcoat were of green cloth; his little helmet of
felt was ornamented with green fringe. This was his military dress
throughout the whole year, except when the weather was intensely cold,
and then he substituted white cloth for the dimity. His appearance was
still more strange from his frequently leaving the garter and stocking
hanging loose upon one leg, while the other was booted; but as the
boot was thus occasionally discarded in consequence of a wound in
the leg, it was nothing to laugh at. His long sabre trailed along
the ground, and his thin dress hung loosely about his slight person.
Equipped in this extraordinary manner it was that Suwarrow reviewed,
harangued, and commanded his soldiers. On great occasions he appeared
in his superb dress as field-marshal, and wore the profusion of
splendid ornaments which had been bestowed on the occasion of his
victories. Among them was the magnificent golden-hilted sword, studded
with jewels, and the gorgeous plume of diamonds which he had received
from the hand of the Empress, among other marks of distinction, for
his extraordinary services at Aczakoff. At other times he wore no
ornament but the chain of the order of St. Andrew. He carried no watch
or ornaments with him, save those which commemorated his military
exploits. On these he delighted to look, as they were associated in
his mind with the most gratifying events of his life--his glory,
and the favor of his sovereign. He would sometimes show them to a
stranger, exhibiting them one by one, and setting his stamp of value
on each, as he would say, "At such an action I gained this order--at
such another, this;" and so on till he had told the remarkable
occurrence to which he owed the possession of each--a pride that
was natural in one who had earned them so bravely. His whole style
of living was marked by the greatest simplicity. He preferred the
plainest apartment, without any article of luxury: he scarcely ever
slept in a house when his troops were encamped; and he not only stayed
in his tent at night, but for the most part of the day, only entering
the house appropriated to his staff at dinner-time. Throughout his
whole military career he had never passed an entire night in bed. He
stretched himself, when he lay down to rest, on a bundle of hay; nor
would he indulge himself in a more luxurious couch, even in the palace
of the Empress. He had no carriage, but a plain kibitk, (a sort of
chariot,) drawn by hired horses, for he kept no horses; but when he
required one, as on the occasion of a review or some other military
operation, he mounted any which chanced to be at hand. Sometimes
it belonged to one of the Cossacks, but oftener was lent to him by
his aid-de-camp, Tichinka. He was without servants, keeping but one
attendant to wait upon himself, and employing some of the soldiers
in the service of his house. This mode of living arose not from
parsimony, but from an utter indifference to any kind of indulgence,
which he considered beneath a soldier's attention. He had a contempt
for money as a means of procuring gratification, but valued it as
often affording him the pleasure of being generous and kind. He gave
up his entire share of the immense booty at Ismail, and divided it
among his soldiers. He never carried any money about him, or asked
the price of anything, but left all to the management of Tichinka. His
strictness in doing what he considered just, when he conceived himself
in the slightest degree accountable, was very remarkable. On one
occasion an officer had lost at play sixty rubles, with which he had
supplied himself from the military chest. Suwarrow reprimanded the
officer severely, but refunded the sum from his own resources. "It
is right," said he, in a letter to the Empress, in which he alluded
to the circumstance, "it is right that I should make it good, for
I am answerable for the officers I employ." One of Suwarrow's odd
peculiarities consisted in keeping up the appearance of a soldier
at all times. When he saluted any person, he drew up, turned out his
toes, threw back his shoulders, kept himself quite erect, and turned
the back of his hand to his helmet, as soldiers do when saluting their
officers. He was greatly attached to Tichinka, an old soldier, who had
once saved his life. From that time he never separated from him: he
made him his aid-de-camp, and gave him the sole management of all his
affairs.

Suwarrow was very remarkable for his directness; and so great was
his aversion to an evasive or unmeaning expression, that he never
could bear the person who made use of such, and was sure to give him
the name of _Niesnion_, which may be translated, "I don't know,"
"possibly," or "perhaps." He would take no such answer; but would
say, in an emphatic tone, "try," "learn," or "set about it." Indeed,
the abhorrence in which he held any mode of expression which was not
dictated by the most perfect frankness was so great, that he could not
endure the flattery and unmeaning civility of courtiers; and he never
hesitated to mark his displeasure by bitter satire, regardless of the
presence of those against whom it was directed, even if the Empress
herself made one of the company. This caused him to be feared and
disliked by many at court. His acquirements were considerable. He
spoke eight languages--French, like a native. He composed verses
with facility; he had read much, and was particularly well-informed
in history and biography. Notwithstanding his remarkable frankness
and all his oddities, his manners were engaging and polished: his
conversation was original, energetic, and lively; he would often
indulge in sallies of pleasantry to amuse the Empress, and as he was
an excellent mimic, he would take off the uncouth manners and accents
of some of the soldiers to the life. He had a dislike to writing,
always asserting that a pen was an unfit implement for a soldier. His
dispatches were laconic, but not the less striking on that account.
Once or twice they were couched in concise couplets. His brevity
was laid aside when he addressed his soldiers. It was his custom to
harangue them at great length, sometimes even for two hours at a time,
and in the very depth of winter.

    "I remember," says M. de Guillaumanches, "that one day, in the
    month of January, he took it into his head to harangue a body
    of 10,000 men drawn up on parade at Varsovia. It was bitterly
    cold, and a freezing hoar frost came down from the sky. The
    marshal, in a waistcoat of white dimity, began his usual
    harangue. He soon found that the coldness of the weather
    made it seem long; accordingly, he stretched it to two hours.
    Almost all the generals, officers, and soldiers caught cold.
    The marshal was nothing the worse, and was even gayer than
    usual. His quarters rang with continued fits of coughing,
    and he seemed to enjoy hearing it. He had the satisfaction of
    thinking that he had taught his army to disregard fatigue, and
    winter with all its frosts."

M. de Guillaumanches speaks of the veneration which Suwarrow had for
the ministers of his religion. He would often stop a priest on the
road to implore his blessing. He loved to take part in their religious
services and to join in their chants; but it is on the goodness of his
heart that his biographer most delights to dwell. He tells us, "he was
a kind relation, a sincere friend, and an affectionate father." In the
midst of all his triumphs, it has been said that he was touched with
pity and with sorrow for suffering humanity. "I asked him," says Mr.
Tweddel, "if after the massacre of Ismail he was perfectly satisfied
with the conduct of the day. He said, he went home and wept in his
tent." Though Suwarrow spared but little time from his military
avocation for social intercourse, his tenderness for children was so
great that he could not bear to pass them without notice. He would
stop, embrace, and bless them whenever he met them: that he fondly
loved his own is sufficiently proved by the following anecdote:--

While on his way to join the army, thoughts of home were in his mind.
He felt it might be long before he should see it in, if indeed, he
_should ever_ see it. He was seized with the most intense longing to
look on his children once more. The desire became so irresistible,
that he turned from the road he was traversing, and took that to
Moscow. He rested neither day nor night till he got there. It was the
middle of the night when he reached his house; he sprang lightly from
his carriage, and knocked gently at the door. All the family were
asleep. At length he was heard by one of the domestics, and let in. He
stole on tiptoe to his children's room, and, withdrawing the curtains
cautiously, for fear of disturbing them, bent over them; and, as he
gazed on them in delight, they slept on, unconscious of their midnight
visitor. Then throwing his arms gently over them, he held them for a
moment in his fond embrace and left them a father's blessing, and then
went away to join his troops.

After the death of Catharine, in the year 1796, there was a sad change
in the fortunes of her faithful soldier. He served her successor with
the same heroic devotion with which he had promoted her interest and
glory. In 1799 he effected one of the most brilliant retreats that
stand in the annals of history. Opposed in Italy by Moreau with an
overwhelming force, when a retreat was resolved on he was so afflicted
that he wrung his hands and wept bitterly. He led his troops over the
heights of Switzerland into Germany with such consummate skill and
undaunted energy as added fresh honors to his name. The dangers and
difficulties of this memorable operation were such as would have
been considered absolutely insurmountable by one less daring, and a
commander less beloved could never have encouraged his troops to hold
out against surrender. But they followed him in the midst of winter
snows, through unknown and intricate paths and deep ravines; sometimes
passing in what haste they could along the edge of frightful chasms
and awful precipices, such as the weary traveler would tremble but to
look at. Here they were frequently exposed to the fire of the enemy,
who lay in ambush among the rocks, and ofttimes had to fight their way
at the point of the bayonet. But still, even in retreat victorious,
he achieved his object, and never yielded to the foe. He is the
only general, it is stated, except Marlborough and Wellington, who
was never defeated. The title of Prince Italisky was conferred to
commemorate the glory of his having led his army unconquered in his
retreat from Italy. He died the next year at St. Petersburgh. A broken
heart was alleged by many to have been the fatal disease which ended
his days. The indomitable spirit which is proof against danger, toil,
and privation, may yet be borne down by the stings of ingratitude. The
death of Suwarrow, so soon following his recall, and the indignities
which he received at the hands of the emperor, tells in itself a tale
of outraged feeling that needs no comment. It has been truly said
that ridicule is more bitterly resented and more rarely forgiven than
injury. The indulgence of a satiric humor, in some words spoken in
jest by Suwarrow, is said to have piqued Paul so much that he took a
cruel revenge. The rage of the emperor for the introduction of German
fashions was so great, that he determined to have the German uniform
adopted in the army.

When old Marshal Suwarrow got orders to introduce this uniform, and
received little sticks for measures and models of the soldiers tails
and side-curls, "Hair-powder," said he, "is not gunpowder, curls
are not cannons, and tails are not bayonets." This, in the Russian
language, falls into rhyme, and soon spread as a saying through the
army: and having reached the emperor's ears, is said, in _The Secret
Memoirs of the Russian Court_, to have been "_the true_ cause which
induced Paul to recall Suwarrow and dispense with his services."

The genius of Suwarrow was superior to every difficulty, and led him
to fame and honors such as few have ever attained. Though born of a
good family, he had neither money nor interest to advance him, but
pushed his own fortunes from his boyhood. He rose to the rank of
colonel when he was but twenty-nine. He was nominated general-in-chief
for having compelled the Tartars to submit to the Russian arms. He was
created a count, and obtained the surname of Rimnisky for a victory
over the Turks near the river Rimnisky, by which he saved the Prince
of Saxe Coburg and the imperial army. For his services in Poland he
was made a field-marshal, and received the grant of an estate. In the
year 1799 the title of Prince Italisky was conferred. This was the
last favor shown: the following year saw him laid in the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM DICKENS'S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

"PRESS ON."

A RIVULET'S SONG.

  "Just under an island, 'midst rushes and moss,
    I was born of a rock-spring, and dew:
  I was shaded by trees, whose branches and leaves
    Ne'er suffered the sun to gaze through.

  "I wandered around the steep brow of a hill,
    Where the daisies and violets fair
  Were shaking the mist from their wakening eyes,
    And pouring their breath on the air.

  "Then I crept gently on, and I moistened the feet
    Of a shrub which infolded a nest--
  The bird in return sang his merriest song,
    And showed me his feathery crest.

  "How joyous I felt in the bright afternoon,
    When the sun, riding off in the west,
  Came out in red gold from behind the green trees
    And burnished ray tremulous breast!

  "My memory now can return to the time
    When the breeze murmured low plaintive tones,
  While I wasted the day in dancing away,
    Or playing with pebbles and stones.

  "It points to the hour when the rain pattered down,
    Oft resting awhile in the trees;
  Then quickly descending it ruffled my calm,
    And whispered to me of the seas!

  "'Twas _then_ the first wish found a home in my breast
    To increase as time hurries along;
  'Twas then I first learned to lisp softly the words
    Which I now love so proudly--'_Press on!_'

  "I'll make wider my bed, as onward I tread,
    A deep mighty river I'll be--
  '_Press on_' all the day will I sing on my way,
    Till I enter the far-spreading sea."

  It ceased. A youth lingered beside its green edge
    Till the stars in its face brightly shone;
  He hoped the sweet strain would re-echo again--
    But he just heard a murmur--"_Press on!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM DICKENS'S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

ADDRESS FROM AN UNDERTAKER TO THE TRADE

(STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.)

I address you, gentlemen, as an humble individual who is much
concerned about the body. This little joke is purely a professional
one. It must go no farther. I am afraid the public thinks
uncharitably of undertakers, and would consider it a proof that Dr.
Johnson was right when he said that the man who would make a pun
would pick a pocket. Well; we all try to do the best we can for
ourselves--everybody else as well as undertakers. Burials may be
expensive, but so is legal redress. So is spiritual provision; I mean
the maintenance of all our reverends and right reverends. I am quite
sure that both lawyers' charges and the revenues of some of the chief
clergy are very little, if any, more reasonable than our own prices.
Pluralities are as bad as crowded gravepits, and I don't see that
there is a pin to choose between the church and the churchyard.
Sanitary revolutionists and incendiaries accuse us of gorging
rottenness, and battening on corruption. We don't do anything of the
sort, that I see, to a greater extent than other professions, which
are allowed to be highly respectable. Political, military, naval,
university, and clerical parties, of great eminence, defend abuses in
their several lines when profitable. We can't do better than follow
such good examples. Let us stick up for business, and--I was going to
say--leave society to take care of itself. No; that is just what we
should endeavor to prevent society from doing. The world is growing
too wise for us gentlemen. Accordingly, this Interments Bill, by
which our interests are so seriously threatened, has been brought into
Parliament. We must join heart and hand to defeat and crush it. Let us
nail our colors--which I should call the black flag--to the mast, and
let our war-cry be, "No surrender!" or else our motto will very soon
be, "Resurgam;" in other words, it will be all up with us. We stand in
a critical position in regard to public opinion. In order to determine
what steps to take for protecting business, we ought to see our
danger. I wish, therefore, to state the facts of our case clearly to
you; and I say let us face them boldly, and not blink them. Therefore,
I am going to speak plainly and plumply on this subject.

There is no doubt--between ourselves--that what makes our trade so
profitable is the superstition, weakness, and vanity of parties.
We can't disguise this fact from ourselves, and I only wish we may
be able to conceal it much longer from others. As enlightened
undertakers, we must admit that we are of no more use on earth than
scavengers. All the good we do is to bury people's dead out of sight.
Speaking as a philosopher--which an undertaker surely ought to be--I
should say that our business is merely to shoot rubbish. However, the
rubbish is human rubbish, and bereaved parties have certain feelings
which require that it should be shot gingerly. I suppose such
sentiments are natural, and will always prevail. But I fear that
people will by and by begin to think that pomp, parade, and ceremony
are unnecessary upon melancholy occasions. And whenever this happens,
Othello's occupation will, in a great measure, be gone.

I tremble to think of mourning relatives considering seriously what
is requisite--and all that is requisite--for decent interment, in a
rational point of view. Nothing more, I am afraid Common Sense would
say, than to carry the body in the simplest chest, and under the
plainest covering, only in a solemn and respectful manner, to the
grave, and lay it in the earth with proper religious ceremonies. I
fear Common Sense would be of opinion that mutes, scarfs, hatbands,
plumes of feathers, black horses, mourning coaches, and the like,
can in no way benefit the defunct, or comfort surviving friends, or
gratify anybody but the mob, and the street-boys. But happily, Common
Sense has not yet acquired an influence which would reduce every
burial to a most low affair.

Still, people think no more than they did, and in proportion as they
do think, the worse it will be for business. I consider that we have
a most dangerous enemy in Science. That same Science pokes its nose
into everything--even vaults and churchyards. It has explained how
grave-water soaks into adjoining wells; and has shocked and disgusted
people by showing them that they are drinking their dead neighbors.
It has taught parties resident in large cities that the very air they
live in reeks with human remains, which steam up from graves; and
which, of course, they are continually breathing. So it makes our
churchyards to be worse haunted than they were formerly believed to
be by ghosts, and, I may add, vampyres, in consequence of the dead
continually rising from them in this unpleasant manner. Indeed,
Science is likely to make people dread them a great deal more than
Superstition ever did, by showing that their effluvia breed typhus and
cholera; so that they are really and truly very dangerous. I should
not be surprised to hear some sanitary lecturer say, that the fear of
churchyards was a sort of instinct implanted in the mind, to prevent
ignorant people and children from going near such unwholesome places.

It would be comparatively well if the mischief done us by Science,
Medicine and Chemistry, and all that sort of thing--stopped here. The
mere consideration that burial in the heart of cities is unhealthy,
would but lead to extramural interment, to which our only
objection--though even that is no very trifling one--is that it
would diminish mortality, and consequently our trade. But this
Science--confound it!--shows that the dead do not remain permanently
in their coffins, even when the sextons of metropolitan graveyards
will let them. It not only informs Londoners that they breathe and
drink the deceased; but it reveals how the whole of the defunct party
is got rid of, and turned into gases, liquids, and mould. It exposes
the way in which all animal matter as it is called in chemical
books--is dissolved, evaporates, and disappears; and is ultimately, as
I may say, eaten up by Nature, and goes to form parts of plants, and
of other living creatures. So that, if gentlemen really wanted to be
interred with the remains of their ancestors, it would sometimes
be possible to comply with their wishes only by burying them with a
quantity of mutton--not to say with the residue of another quadruped
than the sheep, which often grazes in churchyards. Science, in
short, is hammering into people's heads truths which they have been
accustomed merely to gabble with their mouths--that all flesh is
indeed grass, or convertible into it; and not only that the human
frame does positively turn to dust, but into a great many things
besides. Now, I say, that when they become really and truly convinced
of all this; when they know and reflect that the body cannot remain
any long time in the grave which it is placed in; I am sadly afraid
that they will think twice before they will spend from thirty to
several hundred pounds in merely putting a corpse into the ground to
decompose.

The only hope for us if these scientific views become general, is,
that embalming will be resorted to; but I question if the religious
feelings of the country will approve of a practice which certainly
seems rather like an attempt to arrest a decree of Providence; and
would, besides, be very expensive. Hero I am reminded of another
danger, to which our prospects are exposed. It is that likely to arise
from serious parties, in consequence of growing more enlightened,
thinking consistently with their religious principles, instead of
their religion being a mere sentimental kind of thing which they never
reason upon. We often, you know, gentlemen, overhear the bereaved
remarking that they trust the departed is in a better place. Why, if
this were not a mere customary saying on mournful occasions--if the
parties really believed this--do you think they would attach any
importance to the dead body which we bury underground? No; to be sure:
they would look upon it merely as a suit of left-off clothes--with
the difference of being unpleasant and offensive, and not capable of
being kept. They would see that a spirit could care no more about
the corpse it had quitted, than a man who had lost his leg, would for
the amputated limb. The truth is--don't breathe it, don't whisper
it, except to the trade--that the custom of burying the dead with
expensive furniture; of treating a corpse as if it were a sensible
being; arises from an impression--though parties won't own it, even
to themselves--that what is buried is the actual individual, the
man himself. The effect of thinking seriously, and at the same time
rationally, will be to destroy this notion, and with it put an end
to all the splendor and magnificence of funerals, arising from it.
Moreover, religious parties, being particular as to their moral
conduct, would naturally consider it wrong and wicked to spend upon
the dead an amount of money which might be devoted to the benefit
of the living; and no doubt, when we come to look into it, such
expenditure is much the same thing with the practice of savages and
heathens in burying bread, and meat, and clothes, along with their
deceased friends.

I have been suggesting considerations which are very discouraging, and
which afford but a poor look-out to us undertakers. But, gentlemen,
we have one great comfort still. It has become the fashion to
inter bodies with parade and display. Fashion is fashion; and the
consequence is that it is considered an insult to the memory of
deceased parties not to bury them in a certain style; which must
be respectable at the very least, and cost, on a very low average,
twenty-five or thirty pounds. Many, such as professional persons and
tradespeople, who cannot afford so much money, can still less afford
to lose character and custom. That is where we have a pull upon the
widows and children, many of whom, if it were not for the opinion of
society, would be only too happy to save their little money, and turn
it into food and clothing, instead of funeral furniture.

Now here the Metropolitan Interments Bill steps in, and aims at
destroying our only chances of keeping up business as heretofore. We
have generally to deal with parties whose feelings are not in a state
to admit of their making bargains with us--a circumstance, on their
parts, which is highly creditable to human nature; and favorable
to trade. Thus, in short, gentlemen, we have it all our own way
with them. But this Bill comes between the bereaved party and the
undertaker. By the twenty-seventh clause, it empowers the Board of
Health to provide houses and make arrangements for the reception and
care of the dead previously to, and until interment; in order, as
it explains in a subsequent clause, to the accommodation of persons
having to provide the funerals--supposing such persons to desire the
accommodation. Clause the twenty-eighth enacts "That the said Board
shall make provision for the management and conduct, by persons
appointed by them, of the funerals of persons whose bodies are to be
interred in the Burial Grounds, to be provided under this Act, where
the representatives of the deceased, or the persons having the care
and direction of the funeral, desire to have the same so conducted;
and the said Board shall fix and publish a scale of the sums to be
payable for such funerals, inclusive of all matters and services
necessary for the same, such sums to be proportioned to the
description of the funeral, or the nature of the matter and services
to be furnished and rendered for the same; but so that in respect of
the lowest of such sums, the funerals may be conducted with decency
and solemnity." Gentlemen, if this enactment becomes law, we shall
lose all the advantages which we derived from bereaved parties' state
of mind. The Board of Health will take all trouble off their hands, at
whatever sum they may choose to name. Of course they will apply to the
Board of Health instead of coming to us. But what is beyond everything
prejudicial to our interests, is the proviso "that in respect of the
lowest of such sums, the funerals may be conducted with decency and
solemnity." Hitherto it has been understood that so much respect could
not be paid in the case of what we call a low affair as in one of a
certain style. We have always considered that a funeral ought to cost
so much to be respectable at all. Therefore relations have gone to
more expense with us, than they would otherwise have been willing to
incur, in order to secure proper respect. But if proper respect is to
be had at a low figure, the strongest hold that we have upon sorrowing
relatives will be taken away.

It is all very fine to say that we are a necessary class of tradesmen,
and if this Bill passes must continue to be employed. If this Bill
does pass we shall be employed simply as tradesmen, and shall obtain,
like other tradesmen, a mere market price for our articles, and common
hire for our labor. I am afraid that it will be impossible to persuade
the public that this would not be perfectly just and right. I think,
therefore, that we had better not attack the Bill on its merits, but
try to excite opposition against it on the ground of its accessory
clauses. Let us oppose it as a scheme of jobbery, devised with a view
to the establishment of offices and appointments. Let us complain as
loudly as we can of its creating a new rate to defray the expenses of
its working, and let us endeavor to get up a good howl against that
clause of it which provides for compensation to incumbents, clerks,
and sextons. We must cry out with all our might upon its centralizing
tendency, and of course make the most we can out of the pretense that
it violates the sanctity of the house of mourning, and outrages the
most fondly cherished feelings of Englishmen. Urge these objections
upon church-wardens, overseers, and vestrymen; and especially din the
objection to a burial rate into their ears. Recollect, our two great
weapons--like those of all good old anti-reformers--are cant and
clamor. Keep up the same cry against the Bill perseveringly, no matter
how thoroughly it may be refuted or proved absurd. Literally, make the
greatest noise in opposition to it that you are able, especially at
public meetings. There, recollect a groan is a groan, and a hiss a
hiss, even though proceeding from a goose. On all such occasions
do your utmost to create a disturbance, to look like a popular
demonstration against the measure. In addition to shouting, yelling,
and bawling, I should say that another rush at another platform,
another upsetting of the reporter's table, another terrifying of the
ladies, and another mobbing the chairman, would be advisable. Set to
work with all your united zeal and energy to carry out the suggestions
of our Central Committee for the defeat of a Bill which, if passed,
will inflict a blow on the undertaker as great as the boon it will
confer on the widow and orphan--whom we, of course, can only consider
as customers. The Metropolitan Interments Bill goes to dock us of
every penny that we make by taking advantage of the helplessness of
afflicted families. And just calculate what our loss would then be;
for, in the beautiful language of St. Demetrius, the silversmith,
"Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth."

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM MISS FENIMORE COOPER'S (UNPUBLISHED) "RURAL HOURS."

FIRE IN THE WOODS.

Observing an old branchless trunk of the largest size, in a striking
position, where it looked like a broken column, we walked up to
examine it. The shaft rose, without a curve or a branch, to the height
of perhaps forty feet, where it had been abruptly shivered, probably
in some storm. The tree was a chestnut, and the bark of a clear,
unsullied gray; walking round it, we saw an opening near the ground,
and to our surprise found the trunk hollow, and entirely charred
within, black as a chimney, from the root to the point where it was
broken off. It frequently happens that fire steals into the heart of
an old tree, in this way, by some opening near the roots, and burns
away the inside, leaving merely a gray outer shell. One would not
expect the bark to be left in such cases, but the wood at the heart
seems to be more inflammable than the outer growth. Whatever be the
cause, such shafts are not uncommon about our hills, gray without,
charred within.

There is, indeed, much charred wood in our forests; fires which sweep
over the hills are of frequent occurrence here, and at times they do
much mischief. If the flames are once fairly kindled in dry weather,
they will spread in all directions as the wind varies, burning
sometimes for weeks together, until they have swept over miles of
woodland, withering the verdure, destroying the wood already cut, and
greatly injuring many trees which they do not consume. Several years
since, in the month of June, there was quite an extensive fire on
the eastern range of hills; it lasted for ten days or a fortnight,
spreading several miles in different directions. It was the first
important fire of the kind we had ever seen, and of course we
watched its progress with much interest; but the spectacle was a very
different one from what we had supposed. It was much less terrible
than the conflagration of buildings in a town; there was less of power
and fierce grandeur, and more of treacherous beauty about the flames
as they ran hither and thither along the mountain-side. The first
night after it broke out we looked on with admiration: one might have
thought it a general illumination of the forest, as the flames spread
in long winding lines, gaining upon the dark wood every moment, up
and down, and across the hill, collecting here and there with greater
brilliancy about some tall old tree, which they hung with fire like
a giant lustre. But the next day the sight was a sad one indeed: the
deceitful brilliancy of the flames no longer pleased the eye: wreaths
of dull smoke and hot vapors hung over the blighted trees, and
wherever the fire had wandered there the fresh June foliage was
utterly blasted. That night we could no longer take pleasure in the
spectacle; we could no longer fancy a joyous illumination. We seemed
rather to behold the winding coils of some fiery serpent gliding
farther and farther on its path of evil: a rattling, hissing sound
accompanying its movement, the young trees trembling and quivering
with agitation in the heated current which proclaimed its approach.
The fresh flowers were all blighted by its scorching breath, and with
its forked tongue it fed upon the pride of the forest, drying up the
life of great trees, and without waiting to consume them, hurrying
onward to blight other groves, leaving a blackened track of ruin
wherever it passed.

Some fifty years since a fire of this kind is said to have spread
until it inclosed within its lines the lake and the valley, as far as
one could see, surrounding the village with a network of flame, which
at night was quite appalling in its aspect. The danger, however, was
not so great as it appeared, as there was everywhere a cleared space
between the burning forest and the little town. At times, however,
very serious accidents result from these fires: within a few days we
have heard of a small village, in the northern part of the State,
in St. Lawrence county, entirely destroyed in this way, the flames
gaining so rapidly upon the poor people that they were obliged to
collect their families and cattle in boats and upon rafts, in the
nearest pools and streams.

Of course, more or less mischief is always done; the wood and timber
already cut are destroyed, fences are burnt, many trees are killed,
others are much injured, the foliage is more or less blighted for the
season; the young plants are killed, and the earth looks black and
gloomy. Upon the whole, however, it is surprising that no more harm is
done. On the occasion of the fire referred to in these woods, we found
the traces of the flames to disappear much sooner than we had supposed
possible. The next season the smaller plants were all replaced by
others; many of the younger trees seemed to revive, and a stranger
passing over the ground to-day would scarcely believe that fire had
been feeding on those woods for a fortnight only a few seasons back.
A group of tall, blasted hemlocks, on the verge of the wood, is the
striking monument of the event. The evergreens generally suffer more
than other trees, and for some cause or other the fire continued busy
at that point for several days. We repeatedly passed along the highway
at the time, with the flames at work on either side. Of course, there
was no danger, but it looked oddly to be quietly driving along through
the fire. The crackling of the flames was heard in the village, and
the smell of smoke was occasionally quite unpleasant.

A timely rain generally puts a stop to the mischief; but parties of
men are also sent out into the woods to "fight the fire." They tread
out the flames among the dry leaves by trampling them down, and they
rake away the combustible materials, to confine the enemy to its
old grounds, when it soon exhausts itself. The flames spread more
frequently along the earth, than from tree to tree.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

FLOWERS.

  Dear friend, love well the flowers! Flowers are the sign
  Of Earth's all gentle love, her grace, her youth,
  Her endless, matchless, tender gratitude.
  When the Sun smiles on thee--why thou art glad:
  But when the Earth he smileth, _She_ bursts forth
  In beauty like a bride, and gives him back,
  In sweet repayment for his warm bright love,
  A world of flowers. You may see them born,
  On any day in April, moist or dry,
  As bright as are the Heavens that look on them:
  Some sown like stars upon the greensward; some
  As yellow as the sunrise; others red
  As day is when he sets; reflecting thus,
  In pretty moods, the bounties of the sky.

  And now, of all fair flowers, which lovest thou best?
  The Rose? She is a queen more wonderful
  Than any who have bloomed on Orient thrones:
  Sabæan Empress! in her breast, though small,
  Beauty and infinite sweetness sweetly dwell,
  Inextricable. Or dost dare prefer
  The Woodbine, for her fragrant summer breath?
  Or Primrose, who doth haunt the hours of Spring,
  A wood-nymph brightening places lone and green?
  Or Cowslip? or the virgin Violet,
  That nun, who, nestling in her cell of leaves,
  Shrinks from the world, in vain!

  Yet, wherefore choose, when Nature doth not choose?
  Our mistress, our preceptress? _She_ brings forth
  Her brood with equal care, loves all alike,
  And to the meanest as the greatest yields
  Her sunny splendors and her fruitful rains.
  Love _all_ flowers, then. Be sure that wisdom lies
  In every leaf and bloom; o'er hills and dales;
  And thymy mountains; sylvan solitudes
  Where sweet-voiced waters sing the long year through;
  In every haunt beneath the Eternal Sun,
  Where Youth or Age sends forth its grateful prayer,
  Or thoughtful Meditation deigns to stray.

       *       *       *       *       *

French Eulogy has always been prone to run riot. One M. Philoxene
Boyer, in a grave work which has just published, in Paris, thus
addresses Victor Hugo:--"You, Victor Hugo, will become not only
President of the French Republic, but President of the Universal
Republic, Chief of the Oecumenic Council of Nations, Intellectual Pope
reigning in your Paris, whilst the Pope of Religion, united with you
and Jesus Christ, the common master, will continue to reign in his
Rome."





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