Title: The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 4, July, 1851
Author: Various
Language: English
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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

_Of Literature, Art, and Science._

Vol. III. NEW-YORK, JULY 1, 1851. No. IV.



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

[Illustration]


The author of _Fanny_, _Burns_, _Marco Bozzaris_, etc., was born at
Guilford in Connecticut, in August, 1795, and in his eighteenth year
removed to the city of New-York. He evinced a taste for poetry and wrote
verses at a very early period; but the oldest of his effusions I have
seen are those under the signatures of "Croaker," and "Croaker & Co.,"
published in the _New-York Evening Post_, in 1819. In the production of
these pleasant satires he was associated with Doctor DRAKE, author of
the _Culprit Fay_, a man of brilliant wit and delicate fancy, with whom
he was long intimate. DRAKE died in 1820, and his friend soon after
wrote for the _New-York Review_, then edited by BRYANT, the lines to his
memory, beginning--

    "Green be the turf above thee,
      Friend of my better days,
    None knew thee but to love thee,
      Nor named thee but to praise."

Near the close of 1819, Halleck published Fanny, his longest poem, which
was written and printed in three weeks; in 1827 a small volume,
containing Alnwick Castle, Marco Bozzaris, and a few other pieces, which
had previously appeared in various miscellanies; and in 1836, an edition
of all his serious and more finished compositions. The last and most
complete edition of his works appeared two years ago in a splendid
volume from the press of the Appletons.

It was Lord Byron's opinion that a poet is always to be ranked according
to his execution, and not according to his branch of the art. "The poet
who executes best," said he, "is the highest, whatever his department,
and will ever be so rated in the world's esteem." We have no doubt of
the justness of that remark; it is the only principle from which sound
criticism can proceed, and upon this basis the reputations of the past
have been made up. Considered in this light, Mr. Halleck must be
pronounced not merely one of the chief ornaments of new literature, but
one of the great masters in a language, classical and immortal, for the
productions of genius which have illustrated and enlarged its
capacities. There is in his compositions an essential pervading grace, a
natural brilliancy of wit, a freedom yet refinement of sentiment, a
sparkling flow of fancy, and a power of personification, combined with
such high and careful finish, and such exquisite nicety of taste, that
the larger part of them must be pronounced models almost faultless in
the classes to which they belong. They appear to me to show a genuine
insight into the principles of art, and a fine use of its resources: and
after all that has been said and written about nature, strength, and
originality, the true secret of fame, the real magic of genius is not
force, not passion, not novelty, but art. Look all through Milton; look
at the best passages of Shakspeare; look at the monuments, "all Greek
and glorious," which have come down to us from ancient times, what
strikes us principally, and it might almost be said only, is the
wonderfully artificial character of the composition; it is the principle
of _their_ immortality, and without it no poem can be long-lived. It may
be easy to acquire popularity, and easy to display art in writing, but
he who obtains popularity by the means and employment of careful,
elaborate art, may be confident that his reputation is fixed upon a sure
basis. This--for his careless playing with the muse, by which one time
he kept the town alive, is scarcely remembered now--this, it seems to
me, Mr. Halleck has done; Mr. Halleck, Mr. Bryant, and Mr. Poe, have
done above all our authors.



THE BENEVOLENT INSTITUTIONS OF NEW-YORK.


No city in the world is more justly entitled to consideration for
active, judicious, and liberal benevolence, than New-York, though it
must be confessed that in some respects others may make a more splendid
display of the machinery of philanthropy, and even seem in the
subscriptions made every year to particular charities to be more
liberal. This is easily explained, by the fact that, while the people of
New-York are behind none in thrift and virtue, the great commercial
capital has nevertheless more than twice as much pauperism and crime,
from emigration and importation, as any other city in the world.
Foreigners who come here of their own will, foreigners who pay their own
passages to our country, are always welcome; but those who are banished
from their native places for crime, or deported for idleness,
imbecility, or any cause that renders them a burthen to the public,
should be shut out from our ports by some more efficient means than have
yet been devised for the purpose. This class alone demands of the
organized and individual benevolence of New-York a larger amount of
money every year than is paid for the relief of human wretchedness in
any other city.

The benevolent institutions of New-York are remarkable for their number,
so that in no department does an establishment indicate the attention
given to the particular necessities to which it is devoted; and not only
do the Quakers and the Jews, as in other places, take care of their own
poor, but almost every church, no matter of what denomination, is here a
well organized society for the relief of the unfortunate among its
members, and to a degree, within the sphere of its influence. Where
wealth has been acquired by its possessor, there is apt to be a generous
consideration for the less fortunate, and no city had ever so many of
the philanthropic merchants, of whom the late Samuel Ward was a type,
who are as judicious as they are liberal in shielding the oppressed,
strengthening the weak, and guiding the unwary, in pointing out ways and
furnishing means to the young who seem born to the inheritance of
degradation, and in saving others from sufferings caused by improvidence
or inevitable misfortune.

We propose no account of the humane societies of New-York, but only a
brief mention of some few of those whose edifices are most likely to
arrest the attention of strangers, as from several directions they
approach the city.

The Institution for the Blind is in the square bounded by Eighth and
Ninth Avenues and by Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets, and is
built of marble. The society was founded by Mr. Samuel Wood, aided
largely by Dr. Samuel Ackerley, and was incorporated in 1831. In the
spring of the following year the managers reported that they had made
arrangements for instructing two or three blind children, "by way of
experiment," and from that period the increase of its action and
resources has been constant. Pupils are received for one hundred and
thirty dollars a year, and the State has made provision for the
maintenance at the institution of one hundred and twenty-eight indigent
blind persons, so that it is always nearly full. The system of
instruction includes the common English studies, with philosophy and the
higher mathematics, mechanics, vocal and instrumental music, and, when
desired, such trades as the blind can advantageously practise. The
library contains more than seven hundred volumes in raised letters,
besides a considerable collection printed in ink. The occasional
exhibitions of the pupils have excited much attention, and the
institution may be regarded as altogether one of the most successful of
its kind in the world.

[Illustration: THE INSTITUTION FOR THE BLIND.]

In 1797 the celebrated Isabella Graham founded the Society for the
Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children, and in the spring of 1806,
Mrs. Alexander Hamilton, the widow of the great statesman, and Mrs.
Bethune, a daughter of Mrs. Graham and the mother of the Rev. Dr.
Bethune, with several associates, established, as a branch of that
institution, the Orphan Asylum of the City of New-York, which was
incorporated in 1807. Its first edifice was in Bank-street, but the
enlargement of its activity and resources in 1836 led to the purchase of
the ample and beautiful grounds near Eightieth-street, five miles from
the City Hall, from which the edifice described in the engraving looks
down on the Hudson, and forms one of the most picturesque views which
greet the traveller who approaches the city by the river from the north.
The eminent women whom we have mentioned continue, after nearly half a
century, to be active in its management.

[Illustration: THE ORPHAN ASYLUM.]

There is also a Protestant Half-Orphan Asylum in Sixth Avenue, a Roman
Catholic Orphan Asylum, conducted by Sisters of Charity, in Mott-street,
a Roman Catholic Half-Orphan Asylum in Eleventh-street, a very large
Colored Orphan Asylum in Twelfth-street, and several other
establishments of the same description, supported by public or private
charity, in different parts of the city. New-York is second only to
Philadelphia in the liberality of its provision for orphan children: the
college founded by Stephen Girard places the latter city in this respect
before any other in the world.

[Illustration: NEW-YORK INSTITUTION FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB.]

The Institution for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb was
incorporated in 1817, the first pupils were received in the following
year, and in 1827 the foundation was laid for the edifice now occupied
by the institution in Fiftieth street, near Fourth Avenue. Since 1831,
the President, Harvey P. Peet, LL.D. has had the chief direction of its
affairs, and its income, the number of its inmates, and its good
reputation, have rapidly increased.

The New-York Hospital in Broadway, the Bloomingdale Asylum for the
Insane, the Marine Hospital, the Seamen's Retreat, the Sailors' Snug
Harbor, and the numerous establishments (several of which have large and
splendid edifices) under the control of the municipal authorities, we
may describe at length hereafter. The illustrations of this article
evince the liberal style as well as the extent of the institutions which
the position of New-York has rendered it necessary for her citizens to
establish and support.

[Illustration: LUNATIC ASYLUM, BLACKWELL'S ISLAND.]



ADVENTURES AND OBSERVATIONS IN NICARAGUA.


We have already announced in these pages that Mr. SQUIER, who was lately
representative of the United States in Nicaragua, had in preparation for
the press an account of his residence in that interesting country, and
expressed an opinion that his work would surpass in interest and value
the entire library of English and French publications on the subject. An
examination of some of the sheets justifies our expectations; Mr. Squier
must hereafter be ranked among the most successful travel-writers as
well as antiquaries of the time; he knows what to observe and how to
observe, and his relations with the Nicaraguans were such that no
traveller had ever better opportunities for the acquisition of facts or
the formation of judgments. His work will soon be published in a
profusely illustrated octavo by Mr. Putnam. A pleasant specimen of the
author's style is afforded by the following sketch of an evening ride on
the banks of the lake of Granada, and of the sigñoras of that
metropolis.

"After a pleasant interview of half an hour we bade Don Jose "_buena
tarde_," and galloped down to the shores of the lake, just as the sun
was setting, throwing the whole beach in the shade, while the fairy
"Corales" were swimming in the evening light. The shore was ten-fold
more animated than when we landed the day previously; men on horseback,
women on foot, sailors, fishermen, idlers, children, and a swarm of
water-carriers, mingling together, gave life to the scene; while boats
and graceful canoes drawn up on the beach, barges rocking at their
anchors outside, the grim old fort frowning above, and the green border
of trees, with bars of sunlight streaming between them, all contributed
to heighten and give effect to the picture. We rode up the glacis of the
old castle, through its broken archway, into its elevated area, and
looked out beyond the broad and beautiful lake, upon the distant shores
of Chontales, with its earthquake-river, hills, and rugged volcanic
craters. Their rough features were brought out sharply and distinctly in
the slanting light which gilded the western slope of the gigantic
volcano of Momobacho, while its eastern declivity slept in purple
shadow. We were absorbed in contemplating, one by one, these varied
beauties, when the bells of the city struck the hour of the "oracion."
In an instant every voice was hushed, the horseman reined in his steed,
the rope dropped from the hands of the sailor, the sentinel on the fort
stopped short in his round; even the water-jar was left half filled,
every head was uncovered, and every lip moved in prayer. The merry waves
seemed to break more gently on the shore in harmony with the vibrations
of the distant bells, while the subdued hum of reverential voices filled
the pauses between. There was something almost magical in this sudden
hush of the multitude, and its apparent entire absorption in its
devotions, which could not fail deeply to impress the stranger
witnessing it for the first time.

"No sooner, however, had the bells ceased to toll and struck up the
concluding joyful chime, than the crowd on the shore resumed its life
and gayety, while we put spurs to our horses and darted through their
midst on our return to the city. The commandant and his companions would
only leave me at my door, where we were saluted by our host with, "Saved
your distance, gentlemen, dinner's ready!"

"An evening visit to the Señorita Teresa, finished our first entire day
in Granada. This young lady had been educated in the United States,
spoke English very well, and was withal a proficient in
music--accomplishments which we never before learned to estimate at
their true value. It was worth something to hear well executed passages
from familiar operas, amidst tangible and not painted orange trees and
palms, and in an atmosphere really loaded with tropical perfumes,
instead of the odors of oil-pots and gas lights. Eight o'clock was the
signal for general withdrawal from the streets, for then commenced the
reign of the military police, and the city became at once still and
quiet. The occasional barking of a dog, the tinkling of a distant
guitar, the soughing of the evening wind amongst the trees of the
courtyard, the measured tread and graduated "alertas!" of the sentinels,
were the only interruptions to the almost sepulchral silence. While
returning to our quarters we were startled by the "Quien vive?" of the
sentinel, uttered in a tone absolutely ferocious, and as these fellows
rarely parleyed long, we answered with all expedition, "La Patria,"
which was followed on the instant by "Que gente?" "Americanos del
Norte." This was enough--these we found were magic words which opened
every heart and every door in all Nicaragua. They never failed us. We
felt proud to know that no such charm was attached to "Ingleses,"
"Alemanes", or "Franceses."

"The day following, in accordance with the "costumbres del pais," the
customs of the country, we returned the visits of the preceding day, and
began to see more of the domestic and social life of the citizens of
Granada. We found all of the residences comfortable, and many elegant,
governed by mistresses simple, but graceful and confiding in their
manners. They were frank in their conversation and inquired with the
utmost _naïveté_ whether I was married or intended to be, and if the
ladies of El Norte would probably visit Granada, when the "Vapores
grandes," the great steamers came to run to San Juan, and the
"Vaporcitas" steameretts, to ply on the lake and river. They had heard
of a Mr. Estevens (their nearest approach to Stephens), who had written
a book about their "pobre pais," their poor country, and were anxious to
know what he had said of them, and whether our people really regarded
them as "esclavos y brutes sin verguenza," slaves and brutes without
shame, as the abominable English (los malditos Ingleses) had represented
them. They were also very anxious to know whether the party of
Californians which had passed through, were "gente commun," common
people, or "caballeros," gentlemen, upon which point, however, we were
diplomatically evasive, for there was more in the inquiry than we chose
to notice. Our lady had heard that I was a great antiquarian, and,
anticipatory to my visit, had got together a most incongruous collection
of curiosities, from "vasos antiguos," fragments of pottery, and stone
hatchets, down to an extraordinary pair of horn spectacles and a
preposterously distorted hog's hoof,--all of which she insisted on
sending to my quarters, which she did, with some rare birds, and a
plate of dulces! At every house we found a table spread with wines and
sweetmeats, and bearing a silver brazier filled with burning coals, for
the greater convenience of lighting cigars. I excited much surprise by
declining to smoke, on the ground that I had never done so; but the
ladies insisted on my taking a "cigarita," which they said wouldn't
injure a new-born babe, and paid me the compliment of lighting it with
their own fair lips, after which it would have been rank treason to
etiquette, and would have ruined my reputation for gallantry, had I
refused. I at first endeavored to shirk the responsibility of smoking by
thrusting them into my vest pocket, but found that as soon as one
disappeared, another was presented, so I was obliged "to face the music"
in the end. In every sala we found a large hammock suspended from the
walls, which was invariably tendered to the visitor, even when there
were easy chairs and sofas in the room. This is the seat of honor.

[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF THE UNITED STATES CHARGE D'AFFAIRES, SAN
JUAN DE NICARAGUA.]

"The women of pure Spanish stock are very fair, and have the
_embonpoint_ which characterizes the sex under the tropics. Their dress,
except in a few instances where the stiff costume of our own country had
been adopted, was exceedingly loose and flowing, leaving the neck and
arms exposed. The entire dress was often pure white, but generally the
skirt, or _nagua_, was of some flowered stuff, in which case the
_guipil_ (_anglice_ vandyke) was white, heavily trimmed with lace. Satin
slippers, a red or purple sash wound loosely round the waist, and a
rosary sustaining a little golden cross, with a narrow golden band, or a
string of pearls extending around the forehead and binding the hair,
which often fell in luxuriant waves upon their shoulders, completed a
costume as novel as it was graceful and picturesque. To all this add the
superior attractions of an oval face, regular features, large and
lustrous black eyes, small mouth, pearly white teeth, and tiny hands and
feet, and withal a low but clear voice, and the reader has a picture of
a Central American lady of pure stock. A large number of the women have,
however, an infusion of other families and races, from the Saracen to
the Indian and the Negro, in every degree of intermixture. And as tastes
differ, so may opinions as to whether the tinge of brown, through which
the blood glows with a peach-like bloom, in the complexion of the girl
who may trace her lineage to the Caziques upon one side, and the haughty
grandees of Andalusia and Seville on the other, superadded, as it
usually is, to a greater lightness of figure and animation of
face,--whether this is not a more real beauty than that of the fair and
more languid Señora, whose white and almost transparent skin bespeaks a
purer ancestry. Nor is the Indian girl, with her full, lithe figure,
long, glossy hair, quick and mischievous eyes, who walks erect as a
grenadier beneath her heavy water-jar, and salutes you in a musical,
impudent voice, as you pass--nor is the Indian girl to be overlooked in
the novel contrasts which the "bello sexo" affords in this glorious land
of the sun."

Some of the pleasantest incidents related in the book are those which
befell the author in his dealings with the Indians, in prosecuting his
archæological investigations. These Indians are all passionate admirers
of the United States, and of the "hijos de Washington"--the sons of
Washington. Mr. Squier was waited upon officially by the authorities of
several of the Indian pueblos or towns, and among them by the
municipality of the Indian pueblo of Subtiaba, headed by a great friend
of our author, Don Simon Roque, first alcalde, who presented him with an
address in the aboriginal language, of which the following is a literal
translation:

     "SIR: The municipality of the Pueblo of Subtiaba, of which
     we are members, entertain the highest enthusiasm in view of
     the relations which your arrival induces us to believe will
     speedily be established between Nicaragua and the United
     States, the greatest and most glorious republic beneath the
     sun. We rejoice in the depths of our hearts that a man like
     yourself has been chosen to convey to us the assurances of
     future prosperity, in the name of the sons of Washington;
     and we trust in the Almighty, that the flag of the United
     States may soon become the shield of Nicaragua on land and
     sea. Convey our sincerest thanks for their sympathy to the
     great people which you represent, and give to your generous
     government the assurances of that deep gratitude which we
     feel but cannot express. We beg of you, sir, to accept this
     humble evidence of the cordial sentiments which we entertain
     both for you, your countrymen, and your Government, and
     which are equally shared by the people which we represent

                 JOSE DE LA CRUZ GARCIAS,
    (Signed)     SIMON ROQUE,
                 FRANCISCO LUIS AUTAN."

Our author returned the visit, and gives us the following account of his
reception:

     "The reader may be assured that I did not forget my promise
     to the municipality of Subtiaba. A day was shortly
     afterwards fixed for my visit, and I was received with great
     ceremony at the cabildo or council chamber, where I found
     collected all the old men who could assist me in forming a
     vocabulary of the ancient language, which I had casually
     expressed a desire to procure. It was with difficulty that
     we could effect an entrance, for a half-holiday had been
     given to the boys of all the schools, in honor of the
     occasion, and they literally swarmed around the building. We
     were finally ushered into an inner room, where the archives
     of the municipality were preserved. Upon one side was a
     large chest of heavy wood, with massive locks, which had
     anciently been the strong box or treasury. A shadow fell
     over Simon's animated face as he pointed it out to me, and
     said that he could remember the time when it was filled with
     "duros," hard dollars, and when, at a single stroke of the
     alarm bell, two thousand armed men could be gathered in the
     plaza of Subtiaba. But those days were passed, and the
     municipality now scarcely retained a shadow of its former
     greatness. Under the crown it had earned the title 'leal y
     fiel' (loyal and true), and in reward of its fidelity it had
     received a grant of all the lands intervening between it and
     the ocean, to hold them in perpetuity for the benefit of its
     citizens. And Simon showed me the royal letters, signed "Yo,
     el Rey" (I, the King), which the imperial emperor had
     thought it not derogatory to their dignity to address to his
     predecessors in office, and notwithstanding his ardent
     republicanism, I thought Simon looked at them with something
     of regret. I inquired for manuscripts which might throw some
     light upon the early history of the country, but found only
     musty records of no interest or value.

[Illustration: INDIAN HOUSE, SUBTIABA, NICARAGUA.]

     "My attempts to fill out the blank vocabulary with which I
     was provided created a great deal of merriment. I enjoyed it
     quite as much as any of them, for nothing could be more
     amusing than the discussions between the old men in respect
     to certain doubtful words and phrases. They sometimes quite
     forgot my presence, and rated each other soundly as
     ignoramuses, whereat Simon was greatly scandalized, and
     threatened to put them all in the stocks as "hombres sin
     verguenza" (men destitute of shame). 'Ah!' said he, 'these
     old sinners give me more trouble than the young ones'--a
     remark which created great mirth amongst the outsiders, and
     especially amongst the young vagabonds who clung like
     monkeys to the window bars. The group of swarthy, earnest
     faces, gathered round the little table, upon which was
     heaped a confused mass of ancient, time-stained papers,
     would have furnished a study for a painter. It was quite
     dark when I had concluded my inquiries, but I was not
     permitted to leave without listening to a little poem, 'Una
     Decima,' written by one of the school-masters, who read it
     to me by the light of a huge wax candle, borrowed, I am
     sure, from the church for the occasion. My modesty forbids
     my attempting a translation, and so I compromise matters by
     submitting the original:


              DECIMA.

         Nicaragua, ve harta cuando
         Cesara vuestro desvelo,
         Ya levantara el vuelo
         Hermoso, alegre, y triunfante;
         Al mismo tiempo mirando
         De este personage el porte,
         Y mas sera cuando corte
         Todos los gradeciamentos:
         Diremos todos contentos
         Viva el Gobierno del Norte.

                            D. S.

"As I mounted my horse, Don Simon led off with three cheers for 'El
Ministro del Norte,' and followed it with three more for 'El Amigo de
los Indios' (the friend of the Indians), all of which was afterwards
paraded by a dingy little Anglo-servile paper published in Costa Rica,
as evidence that I was tampering with the Indians, and exciting them to
undertake the utter destruction of the white population!"



THE CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC.


_A History of the Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Wars of the North
American Tribes against the English Colonies after the Conquest of
Canada_, is the title of a new work to be published during the summer by
Francis Parkman, Jr. of Boston. Mr. Parkman, in introducing himself to
the public two or three years since, by a volume of sketches of western
travel, _The Oregon Trail_, betrayed not alone his strong natural fancy
for the wild life of the Indian, but a sensitive and sagacious eye for
character and scenery, and a style of nervous simplicity which in the
present undertaking have more perfect play in a much wider and worthier
sphere. The narrative proceeds clearly, and with simple grace. Many
figures, familiar by name, but by name only, pass sharply defined before
the reader's eye. The author has not lost in the lore of the historian
the feeling of the poet, but he does not compromise the dignity of
history, nor mistake its purpose, by indulging too much in luxuriance of
picturesque description. We congratulate Mr. Parkman that his tastes
have led him to the exploration of a subject in which we are all so
interested, a subject whose historical romance has never been before
attempted. The consultation of all the authorities, personal
observation, and the want of any unfair gilding of events or character,
fix the reader's faith in the severe integrity and justice of the
author's results. This history will materially mitigate the complaint
that American literature has so little honored the singular charm of the
aboriginal American race, and we cannot hesitate to predict for it a
position of authority to the student and of honor to the author, which
the works of few men so young in the literary career have attained.
Little estimate of its value, or of the value of any history, can be
formed from extracts, but the following will indicate the freshness and
poetic simplicity of the style, the author's exact eye for
characteristic life and scenery, and just appreciation of historical
truth and character.

Here is a glance at the life of the Iroquois:

     "The life of the Iroquois, though void of those multiplying
     phases which vary the routine of civilized existence, was
     one of sharp excitement and sudden contrast. The chase, the
     war-path, the dance, the festival, the game of hazard, the
     race of political ambition, all had their votaries. When the
     assembled sachems had resolved on war against some foreign
     tribe, and when, from their great council-house of bark, in
     the Valley of Onondaga, their messengers had gone forth to
     invite the warriors to arms, then from east to west, through
     the farthest bounds of the confederacy, a thousand warlike
     hearts caught up the summons with glad alacrity. With
     fasting and praying, and consulting dreams and omens, with
     invoking the war-god, and dancing the frantic war-dance, the
     warriors sought to insure the triumph of their arms; and,
     these strange rites concluded, they began their stealthy
     progress, full of confidence, through the devious pathways
     of the forest. For days and weeks, in anxious expectation,
     the villagers await the result. And now, as evening closes,
     a shrill wild cry, pealing from afar, over the darkening
     forest, proclaims the return of the victorious warriors. The
     village is alive with sudden commotion; and snatching sticks
     and stones, knives and hatchets, men, women, and children,
     yelling like fiends let loose, swarm out of the narrow
     portal, to visit upon the miserable captives a foretaste of
     the deadlier torments in store for them. And now, the black
     arches of the forest glow with the fires of death; and with
     brandished torch and firebrand the frenzied multitude close
     around their victim. The pen shrinks to write, the heart
     sickens to conceive, the fierceness of his agony; yet still,
     amid the din of his tormentors, rises his clear voice of
     scorn and defiance. The work is done; the blackened trunk is
     flung to the dogs, and, with clamorous shouts and hootings,
     the murderers seek to drive away the spirit of their victim.

     "The Iroquois reckoned these barbarities among their most
     exquisite enjoyments; and yet they had other sources of
     pleasure, which made up in frequency and in innocence all
     that they lacked in intensity. Each passing season had its
     feasts and dances, often mingling religion with social
     pastime. The young had their frolics and merry-makings; and
     the old had their no less frequent councils, where
     conversation and laughter alternated with grave
     deliberations for the public weal. There were also stated
     periods marked by the recurrence of momentous ceremonies, in
     which the whole community took part--the mystic sacrifice of
     the dogs, the wild orgies of the dream feast, and the
     loathsome festival of the exhumation of the dead. Yet, in
     the intervals of war and hunting, these multiform
     occupations would often fail; and, while the women were
     toiling in the cornfields, the lazy warriors vainly sought
     relief from the scanty resources of their own minds, and
     beguiled the hours with smoking or sleeping, with gambling
     or gallantry."

A glimpse of Indian winter life:

     "But when winter descends upon the north, sealing up the
     fountains, fettering the streams, and turning the
     green-robed forests to shivering nakedness, then, bearing
     their frail dwellings on their backs, the Ojibwa family
     wander forth into the wilderness, cheered only, on their
     dreary track, by the whistling of the north wind, and the
     hungry howl of wolves. By the banks of some frozen stream,
     women and children, men and dogs, lie crouched together
     around the fire. They spread their benumbed fingers over the
     embers, while the wind shrieks through the fir-trees like
     the gale through the rigging of a frigate, and the narrow
     concave of the wigwam sparkles with the frostwork of their
     congealed breath. In vain they beat the magic drum, and call
     upon their guardian manitoes;--the wary moose keeps aloof,
     the bear lies close in his hollow tree, and famine stares
     them in the face. And now the hunter can fight no more
     against the nipping cold and blinding sleet. Stiff and
     stark, with haggard cheek and shrivelled lip, he lies among
     the snow drifts; till, with tooth and claw, the famished
     wildcat strives in vain to pierce the frigid marble of his
     limbs. Such grim schooling is thrown away on the
     incorrigible mind of the northern Algonquin. He lives in
     misery, as his fathers lived before him. Still, in the brief
     hour of plenty he forgets the season of want; and still the
     sleet and the snow descend upon his houseless head."

Here another leaf from Penn's laurels:

     "It required no great benevolence to urge the Quakers to
     deal kindly with their savage neighbors. They were bound in
     common sense to propitiate them; since, by incurring their
     resentment, they would involve themselves in the dilemma of
     submitting their necks to the tomahawk, or wielding the
     carnal weapon, in glaring defiance of their pacific
     principles. In paying the Indians for the lands which his
     colonists occupied,--a piece of justice which has been
     greeted with a general clamor of applause,--Penn, as he
     himself confesses, acted on the prudent counsel of Compton,
     Bishop of London. Nor is there any truth in the
     representations of Raynal and other eulogists of the Quaker
     legislator, who hold him up to the world as the only
     European who ever acquired the Indian lands by purchase,
     instead of seizing them by fraud or violence. The example of
     purchase had been set fifty years before by the Puritans of
     New England; and several of the other colonies had more
     recently pursued the same just and prudent course."

The deaths of Wolfe and Montcalm:

     "In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of
     the grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist;
     but he wrapped his handkerchief about the wound, and showed
     no sign of pain. A moment more, and a ball pierced his side.
     Still he pressed forward, waving his sword, and cheering his
     soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within
     his breast. He paused, reeled, and, staggering to one side,
     fell to the earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers,
     Henderson, a volunteer, an officer of artillery, and a
     private soldier raised him together in their arms, and,
     bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the grass. They
     asked if he would have a surgeon; but he shook his head, and
     answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with
     the torpor of approaching death, and those around sustained
     his fainting form. Yet they could not withhold their gaze
     from the wild turmoil before them, and the charging ranks of
     their companions rushing through fire and smoke." "See how
     they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French fled
     in confusion before the levelled bayonets. "Who run?"
     demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from
     sleep. "The enemy, sir," was the reply; "they give way every
     where." "Then," said the dying general, "tell Colonel Burton
     to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off
     their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised, I will
     die in peace," he murmured; and, turning on his side, he
     calmly breathed his last!

     "Almost at the same moment fell his great adversary,
     Montcalm, as he strove, with useless bravery, to rally his
     shattered ranks. Struck down with a mortal wound, he was
     placed upon a litter and borne to the General Hospital on
     the banks of the St. Charles. The surgeons told him that he
     could not recover. "I am glad of it," was his calm reply. He
     then asked how long he might survive, and was told that he
     had not many hours remaining. "So much the better," he said;
     "I am happy that I shall not live to see the surrender of
     Quebec." Officers from the garrison came to his bedside to
     ask his orders and instructions. "I will give no more
     orders," replied the defeated soldier; "I have much business
     that must be attended to, of greater moment than your ruined
     garrison and this wretched country. My time is very short;
     therefore, pray leave me." The officers withdrew, and none
     remained in the chamber but his confessor and the Bishop of
     Quebec. To the last, he expressed his contempt for his own
     mutinous and half-famished troops, and his admiration for
     the disciplined valor of his opponents. He died before
     midnight, and was buried at his own desire in a cavity of
     the earth formed by the bursting of a bombshell."

We conclude with a sketch of Pontiac:

     "Pontiac, as already mentioned, was principal chief of the
     Ottawas. The Ottawas, Ojibwas, and Pottawattamies, had long
     been united in a loose kind of confederacy, of which he was
     the virtual head. Over those around him his authority was
     almost despotic, and his power extended far beyond the
     limits of the three united tribes. His influence was great
     among all the nations of the Illinois country; while, from
     the sources of the Ohio to those of the Mississippi, and,
     indeed, to the farthest boundaries of the wide-spread
     Algonquin race, his name was known and respected. The fact
     that Pontiac was born the son of a chief would in no degree
     account for the extent of his power; for, among Indians,
     many a chief's son sinks back into insignificance, while the
     offspring of a common warrior may succeed to his place.
     Among all the wild tribes of the continent, personal merit
     is indispensable to gaining or preserving dignity. Courage,
     resolution, wisdom, address and eloquence, are sure
     passports to distinction. With all these Pontiac was
     preëminently endowed, and it was chiefly to them, urged to
     their highest activity by a vehement ambition, that he owed
     his greatness. His intellect was strong and capacious. He
     possessed commanding energy and force of mind, and in
     subtlety and craft could match the best of his wily race.
     But, though capable of acts of lofty magnanimity, he was a
     thorough savage, with a wider range of intellect than those
     around him, but sharing all their passions and prejudices,
     their fierceness and treachery."



DR. STARBUCK MAYO, AUTHOR OF "KALOOLAH," "THE BERBER," &c.

[Illustration]


If there is any satisfaction derivable from a long and clear lineage,
the author of _Kaloolah_ ought to be a very happy man. Seven successive
generations of reputable ancestry connect him with the Rev. John Mayo, a
divine of distinguished piety and learning who in the year 1630 came to
this country, and after settling in the town of Barnstable, transferred
his residence to Boston, and became the first pastor of the South
Church. The English pedigree of this John Mayo is one of the oldest
among the gentry of Great Britain. On his mother's side Dr. Mayo also
traces his descent for several ages through the Starbucks, one of the
primitive families of that most primitive of all places, the island of
Nantucket.

The parents of Dr. Mayo removed to the village of Ogdensburg on the St.
Lawrence under the circumstances very similar to those described in
Kaloolah, and he was there born in the year 1812. His early intellectual
training was under the pedagogueism of the Rev. Josiah Perry, one of the
few men formed by nature for school-masters, who has left as marked a
memory in a smaller sphere as did ever Parr or Burke in theirs. Never
was instruction better given in all the elements of a thorough English
education than for many years in his well-known school, which has
produced several of the most distinguished men of the present time. From
this the subject of our memoir was transferred, at the age of eleven or
twelve, for the purpose of pursuing classical studies, to the academy at
Potsdam, which enjoyed for a number of years the superintendence in the
office of its principals of a succession of very eminent men, among them
the present Rt. Rev. Bishop of North Carolina. His successor, under whom
Dr. Mayo's pupilage occurred, was the Rev. Mr. Banks, a Presbyterian
divine from New England, of learning, taste, and refinement, such as
were rarely met with even in that day among men of his class.

The description of the early life of Jonathan Romer is in the main the
history of the author himself. At the age of seventeen he commenced the
study of medicine, which he pursued with ardor and success. In 1832,
having attended for three years the lectures of the College of
Physicians and Surgeons in this city, he underwent his examination for a
degree, but did not receive a diploma till the ensuing term, not having
attained the legal age of twenty-one. After spending several years in
the city hospitals and in private practice, he abandoned brilliant
professional prospects to go abroad, partly for the benefit of his
health and partly urged by the spirit of adventure, which had long led
him to form plans for the exploration of Central Africa. Perhaps it is
to be regretted that he was prevented by the infirmity of
short-sightedness from emulating the achievements of Park, Clapperton
and Ledyard, for which his moral and physical constitution eminently
fitted him. He travelled extensively in Spain and Barbary however, and
we have the results in Kaloolah and in The Berber.

Anonymously, in various magazines, Dr. Mayo had written much and well,
but he was scarcely known as an author until the appearance of the work
upon which his fame still chiefly rests, _Kaloolah, or Journeyings to
the Djébel Kumri_, in the spring of 1849. It has frequently been said
that Kaloolah was suggested by the popular works of Herman Melville, but
it was written and nearly printed before the appearance of Typee, the
first of Mr. Melville's productions; and we see no reason for another
opinion, that it was an offspring of the author's love for Defoe; if it
was not an altogether spontaneous and independent work, its parentage
was probably less famous; we know of no composition so nearly resembling
Kaloolah as the pretended _Narrative of Robert Adams, an American sailor
who was wrecked on the Western Coast of Africa, in the year 1810,
detained three years in slavery by the Arabs, and afterward several
months a resident in the city of Timbuctoo_. This was a piece of pure
fiction, though brought out in London in a splendid quarto under the
endorsement of the Lord Chancellor, the President of the Royal Society,
and many other eminent persons in literature, science, and affairs, and
elaborately and credulously reviewed in the Edinburgh, the Quarterly,
and other Reviews. The hero of this performance, after various
adventures, was married to a dusky princess in the _terra incognita_,
and made almost as many marvellous discoveries as are recorded by
Jonathan Romer. Another and a very different writer, who selected
central Africa to be the field of somewhat similar inventions, was the
learned and ingenious Richard Adams Locke, whose astonishing history of
revelations in the moon was not more creditable to his abilities than
his singularly recovered MSS. of a lost traveller by the borders of the
Niger and in middle Africa, published in the _New Era_ journal in this
city about the year 1838. But we do not suppose Dr. Mayo was indebted to
either of these works for the idea of his story. And just as erroneous
as the charge of plagiarism, and much more absurd, is the notion that he
designed Kaloolah as a "satirical criticism on life and manners in
New-York." A writer in the _North British Review_ declares that he
"could not help laughing aloud," though seated quietly by himself, at
the "description of a musical entertainment of the court of the hero's
royal father-in-law, heaven knows where in Africa, and intended as a
burlesque on the sheer noise which is the predominant element" in all
our orchestras. We assure the shrewd critic most positively that the
author never dreamed of such a thing. Kaloolah is too well known to need
much description; its success was certain and immediate, and not many
original works have ever been published in this country which have had a
larger circulation. It evinces remarkable fertility of invention, is
exceedingly interesting, and abounds in clearly defined, spirited, and
occasionally well finished portraitures. Kaloolah, the heroine, is a
fresh and beautiful creation, worthy of any of the masters of fiction.
The hero, Romer, is designed merely as a type of the determined Yankee
adventurer, drawn with only the exaggeration demanded in works of art;
and half the seeming of extravagance in the narrative and the sketches
of nature would have disappeared if the author had not, to reduce his
volume to the size deemed by his publisher most promising of profit,
omitted all his numerous and curious notes.

Kaloolah was followed in 1850 by _The Berber, or the Mountaineer of the
Atlas_, a story of Spain and Morocco, about the close of the seventeenth
century. As a novel it is decidedly better than Kaloolah; it displays
greater skill in narration, and is written in the same pure, distinct
and nervous English. Dr. Mayo thoroughly understood from observation as
well as study all the accessories of his subject, and we are mistaken if
any recent book on northern Africa gives a more clear, spirited or just
impression of its scenery or of the character and manners of its people.
The hero is of the highest style of the half-barbarian chiefs of the
country and time; born a Christian, educated a Mohamedan, and ambitious
to free his tribe from the domination of the Moors, and to found a new
empire, with a higher civilization than was ever known to the race he
leads; and other characters have enough adventures, dimly sketched, to
fill the circles of a dozen tragedies if brought more near the eye. The
faults of the book are, an excess of incident, discursiveness preventing
proper unity and proportion, and a confessed failure of the story to
evolve all the intended moralities, which the author therefore in some
cases brings forward in his own person.

The last volume we have had from the hand of Dr. Mayo is, _Romance Dust
from the Historic Placer_, a collection of shorter stories chiefly
founded on historical incidents. In these he exhibits the fresh feeling,
occasionally the humor, and always the bold drawing and effective
coloring which distinguish his more ambitious performances. The volume
contains also a poem, but not one of such striking qualities as to
induce regret that the author has commonly chosen to write in prose. The
style of his novels, especially in the narrative parts, is uncommonly
good, but with its many excellencies it does not seem to us that it
possesses a poetical element.

Dr. Mayo has commenced a brilliant course, in which we trust we shall
have occasions to record still greater triumphs than those by which he
has won a place in the first rank of the young writers of English.

The portrait at the beginning of this article is very truthful; it is
from a recent daguerreotype by Brady.

[Illustration: THE CRYSTAL PALACE.]



_Original Correspondence._

     LONDON, _May 23, 1851._

     Historical Sketch--Why England was the most appropriate
     location for Exhibition--First impressions--Contrast between
     barbaric and civilized industry--Use and beauty--Moral and
     social influences.


The Great Exhibition constitutes the one absorbing topic in which, for
the time being, all other topics are merged. Go where you will, nothing
else is thought of, talked of, or heard of, from one end of London to
the other--this magnificent display of the achievements of art and
industry forms the sole theme of conversation, calling forth the most
animated descriptions, the most energetic discussions, the warmest and
most enthusiastic praise. Nor is this interest confined to London alone;
the whole kingdom shares in the excitement, and seems to be only waiting
for warmer weather, and the approaching reduction of the entrance fee,
to march upon the metropolis, and satiate its curiosity within the walls
of the Crystal Palace. As the season advances, and the brilliant success
of the enterprise becomes known, foreign nations, who have contributed
so largely to the splendor of the show, will send over hosts of friendly
visitants; and the World's Fair, so veritably cosmopolitan in design and
execution, will become equally so in its social character and results.

As the activity of the present age developes itself mainly through
productive and commercial industry, this collection of the choicest
industrial products of all the nations of the globe, is not only in
perfect accordance with the spirit of the epoch, but seems indeed to
belong so properly to the present day, that it may be doubted whether
such an event could have taken place at any earlier period: while the
political and social conditions of Great Britain, her friendly relations
with all other powers, together with the perfect security for property,
the commercial freedom, and facilities of transport, which are here
enjoyed in a pre-eminent degree, combine to indicate this country as the
most appropriate arena for this first pacific contest of the nations;
the only one, perhaps, in the actual state of Europe, in which it could
have taken place at this time.

The traditions of the English people, also, are such as would naturally
suggest to them the idea of an enterprise of this kind; for not only
have Fairs (which may be regarded as a rude attempt at a more general
exhibition of wares than that afforded by the mere ordinary display of
shops) been common here, as elsewhere in Europe, for many centuries, but
exhibitions more nearly resembling the present Institution, in which the
palm of excellence, rather than direct commerce, is the primary object,
have taken place here frequently during the past century, through the
enterprise of individuals, or societies, independently of any assistance
from the Government. As early as the year 1756, the "Society of Arts" of
London offered prizes for the best specimens of various manufactures,
tapestry, carpets, porcelain, &c., and held public exhibitions of the
works which were offered in competition; while about the same period,
the Royal Academy, as a private society, patronized by George the Third,
rather in a personal capacity than as the head of the legislature,
organized its exhibitions of painting, sculpture, and engraving; and
during the last thirty years exhibitions of machinery and manufactures,
gotten up entirely through the efforts of private individuals, have
taken place not only in the metropolitan cities, in London, Edinburgh,
and Dublin, but in all the principal towns of the United Kingdom.

The earliest national exhibition of industrial products in France,
occurred in 1798, and was followed by others at irregular intervals
until 1819, since which period they have taken place every five years,
and have exercised a marked effect upon the industrial development of
Europe. The brilliant character of the two last of these exhibitions (in
'44 and '49), led to several ineffectual attempts on the part of the
Society of Arts, and others, to interest the British Government in the
getting up of a similar exhibition of the products of British industry,
to be held in 1851.

At length in 1849, Prince Albert, who, as President of the Society of
Arts, had known and sanctioned all these proceedings, took the project
under his own personal superintendence, enlarged upon the original
design by proposing to invite the co-operation and competition of all
foreign nations, and proceeded to settle the principles upon which the
enterprise, thus modified, should be conducted, and the mode in which
it should be carried out.

The first steps toward the realization of this new plan, were made in
the name, and under the auspices of the Society of Arts; but so
universal was the interest which this noble project called forth
throughout the country, that it was thought advisable to make it a
national concern, by taking it out of the hands of the Society, and
intrusting its execution to a body of royal commissioners, appointed for
that purpose by the Government, with Prince Albert as its President; the
Government, meantime, giving its sanction only to the undertaking, and
merely lending its aid when it was absolutely indispensable, as in
correspondence with foreign countries, providing a site for the
building, organization of police, and the cost of such assistance
whenever it entailed expense, being defrayed from the funds of the
Exhibition, thus leaving all the responsibility of the attempt,
pecuniary or other, with the commissioners themselves.

The subsequent history of the "rise and progress" of the undertaking;
the promptitude with which the requisite funds were subscribed by
private generosity; the selection of Hyde Park as the site of the
projected Industrial Palace; the various plans proposed for the
building, and the final adoption of the design of Mr. Paxton, after the
model of a conservatory by him erected for the Duke of Devonshire; the
admirable manner in which this design has been carried out by the
architects, Messrs. Fox & Henderson; the cordial response with which
England's friendly challenge has been answered by all the peoples of the
globe, from her next-door neighbors across the channel, to the far-off
denizens of Orient, and remote islands of sunny southern seas; the
imposing ceremonial which, on the appointed day, threw open the vast
Museum to the gaze of an impatient public; the crowds of titled dames
and potent seigneurs, of the "wealth, beauty and fashion" of the
aristocratic world, that fill, day after day, the immense area,
wandering from one magnificent display to another, and marvelling at the
richness, perfection, and variety of the countless objects that meet
their eyes at every turn; the probability of a somewhat formidable
thronging of less elegant, but equally interested visitors, when the
"shilling days" begin; the fabulous wealth flowing, week after week,
into the treasury of the royal commissioners at the various entrances of
the buildings; and the growing desire on the part of the public, that
the funds, thus arising from the Exhibition itself, should be
appropriated to the formation of a "Permanent Museum of the Art and
Industry of all Nations;" all this is too well known to call for further
comment.

The first impression created by the interior aspect of the Crystal
Palace, is one of admiration. Magnificent indeed is the lofty dome of
the transept, arching over glorious old trees, oriental shrubbery,
statuary, fountains, and masses of gorgeous flowers; the brilliant
perspective of the central aisle, with its double lines of galleries,
stretching away on either hand, and traversed by countless avenues,
every point of the vast expanse presenting its own special subject of
interest, and challenging the beholder's gaze. But so extensive and
various is this great collection, so striking are the contrasts of form,
color, and use, presented by the endless succession of objects that meet
the eye in every direction, that the sentiment of admiration soon gives
place to a feeling of hopeless bewilderment. A careful study of maps and
catalogues, and many visits, spent in making a general survey of the
various departments of the building, are indispensable preliminaries to
a more intimate acquaintance with the admirable objects contained in
each. But the topographic and distributive arrangements of the building
understood, the chaos of one's impressions becomes gradually into order;
and the work of examination goes on with more success.

The transept and the western wing are occupied by Great Britain and her
colonial possessions; the eastern wing is appropriated to foreign
nations, the countries lying nearest the tropics being ranged
immediately round the transept. Objects of art and artistical industry
occupy the central portions of the building; raw materials, machinery,
hardware, and carriages being placed nearest to the walls. The objects
admitted to the exhibition come under four general categories: raw
materials, machinery, manufactures, and fine arts, and are divided into
thirty classes, an arrangement which greatly facilitates the business of
investigation and comparison.

Many of the Oriental nations are very fully represented, especially
India; it would be difficult to cite any department of Indian life and
industry not illustrated in the ample collections of her natural and
manufactured products, gathered together with the utmost care. China,
Tunis, Persia, and the islands of the Indian archipelago, are also here
in great force, and make a very brilliant display. The exquisite texture
of many of their woven fabrics, the richness of color and effect, the
incredible _fineness_ and delicacy of workmanship displayed in many of
their manufactured articles, prepared with the aid only of the rudest
tools, often surpass all that the enlightened skill of European artisans
can accomplish, and may furnish western industry with many valuable
models and precious suggestions for future use. But the beauty of
eastern productions lies solely in perfection of detail; there is
nothing large, generous, or comprehensive in barbaric industry. All that
its resources can accomplish is lavished on objects of parade and
luxury, often absolutely useless, and always destined for the privileged
few; the element of ordinary existence, all that goes to make up the
daily life of the masses, is coarse and rudimentary. These shawls,
which, for fineness of texture, richness of color, and beauty of design,
leave the choicest productions of European looms at an immeasurable
distance; these muslins and gauzes, finer than gossamer, yet covered
with exquisite traceries in gold and silver thread, fabrics that seem
too etherially light to be worn by others than the ladies of Titania's
court; these silks and satins, and damasks of admirable texture, and of
richest dyes; these magnificent garments, stiff gold embroidery, with
precious stones and with tinsel whose glancing hues produce an effect
quite as brilliant as that of the jewels; how strangely they contrast,
these splendid things intended for the few, with the coarseness of the
fabrics destined for the ordinary use of the many. Compare these
magnificent housings and accoutrements, these saddles of velvet, stiff
with gold, these reins, and swords and daggers, full of pearls and
jewels, with those clumsy implements of labor, and those uncouth, heavy
utensils of domestic life. Compare the elaborate workmanship of screens,
cabinets, vases, lamps, and tables, with the primitive candles and
suspicious-looking soaps; the magnificence of carriages and palanquins,
luxuriously cushioned, and hung with velvet and gold, in which lazy,
bloated grandees are lounging, laden with jewels and finery, with the
naked, emaciated bearers, human brutes that replace beasts of burden,
and contrast, unfavorably, with average European horses!

In European industry, on the contrary, an ascentional, out-reaching
movement is every where visible. Beauty remains no longer in scornful
isolation, divorced from use, but descending into the domain of
every-day existence, incorporates her divine essence in all the forms of
common life, pervading the lowliest spheres, raising and ennobling the
humblest details, by her purifying and vivifying presence. This
tendency, visible in the industry of all European nations, is still more
clearly evident in the manufactures of France and England, whose
productions, standing at the head of all others, constitute the highest
expression of the industrial spirit of the age. Here the hardest and
heaviest materials, wood, iron, and stone, become plastic under the
workman's hand, assuming the most brilliant polish, the lightest and
most elegant forms; grates, fire-irons, and kitchen-ranges, rival, in
lustre and beauty, the attractions of diamonds, goldsmiths' work, and
flowers. The admirable construction of machinery shares in the
enthusiasm excited by the beautiful fabrics woven by their tireless
fingers; and the "Golden Marriage" of use and beauty is every where
celebrated under varying forms.

They who imagine that art has died out of the world, and sigh for the
chisel of Praxiteles, the pencil of Apelles, and the glorious
conceptions of the masters of the middles ages, would do well to visit
the Crystal Palace, and contrast the rudeness which shaped all the
elements of ordinary life in former periods, with the elegance and
beauty which the simplest objects of common use are beginning to assume.
Not, however, that the one necessarily precludes the other, or that we
are fated to produce no more fine statues and paintings, no more
monumental temples and palaces, because we now have, at lower prices
than were paid in ancient times for inferior articles, beautiful
carpets, and fabrics of silk, wool, and cotton, furniture, porcelain,
and glass, in which the thought of the artist and the craft of the
artisan are so admirably blended that they seem to be identical. Art is
not dead; it is throwing out wider and deeper roots, and will bear
richer fruits in the garden of the future, enriched by the mingled
detritus of by-gone ages, than it has ever borne in the primitive
formations of the past.

One of the most interesting features of the present exhibition, the one
which constitutes its distinguishing character, is, undoubtedly, its
universality, and the interest which it excites among all nations, and
all classes. And it was time that the results of human activity in its
various departments, should thus be gathered together from the four
corners of the globe, for the world is cut up into so many small
fractions, and each fraction lives so much within the limits of its own
narrow circle, ignoring, for the most part, all that is going on outside
of it, that it is in the highest degree desirable that people should
begin to see something of what their neighbors are doing.

It is time that nations met elsewhere than on the field of battle, and
measured their strength and dignity by some more rational standard than
the relative force of their cannon; time also that the various classes
of society, so widely separated by the artificial divisions of caste and
fortune, should look, at length, into each other's face and recognize
the band of a common nature and of common needs; that the world's, as
yet, unhonored workers, beholding the glorious fruits of their prolific
energy, should perceive the sublimity of their mission and take fresh
heart and fresh hope; that the rich should learn, from the grand results
of labor, to appreciate more justly its nobleness and worth.

That the exhibition of 1851, successful as it is evidently destined to
be, should fully realize this most desirable end, is hardly to be
expected; but that it will do much toward creating a better
understanding between classes and countries, and thus pave the way for
the bringing in of a future era of universal helpfulness and good-will,
may be very confidently predicted.

    STELLA.



FRENCH FEUILLETONISTES UPON LONDON.


The leading Parisian journals have correspondents in London during the
Great Exhibition, and as the _corps_ of Parisian feuilletonistes
comprises much of the richest and rarest talent of the great French
metropolis, there is a piquancy and brilliance in these daguerreotypes
of London life and the impressions of English character, which is very
entertaining. No traveller who remembers dining at any of the recherché
cafés upon the Boulevards with a Frenchman, and chatting with him of
England and London, can forget the cold chill that curled through the
Parisian's conversation, as if he were a Pole, gossipping of Siberia, or
the glances of intense satisfaction and pride which he cast upon the
lively and lovely groups in the street, inly thanking God that he was
not born a child of _perfide Albion_.

But these gentlemen talk not alone of the Exhibition, but of the "town"
in general. Their articles wear the air of the journals of heroic
adventurers who have penetrated into barbarous lands. They are clearly
home-sick, these sybarites. We extract the following from a translation
in the London _Literary Gazette_, prefaced with a few editorial remarks.
Speaking of the variety of their topics the reviewer says: "Thus the
great Jules Janin, in the _Journal des Débats_, notwithstanding the
interest of portions of his article, some of which have been translated
into our journals, makes the infamy of French republicans, and his own
fervent love and devotedness to the royal family of Orleans, the burden
of his lucubrations. M. Blanqui, the historian of political economy, and
translator of Adam Smith, faithful as becomes an economist to his _idée
fixe_, bewails in the _Presse_ the folly of France in rejecting the
doctrines of free trade, and clamors loudly for an immediate reform of
French tariffs. M. Jules de Prémary fills column after column in the
_Patrie_ with descriptions of English manners, customs, and
peculiarities; and yet he admits that he knows nothing of our language,
and has only resided amongst us for a few days. Parisian _littérateurs_
pride themselves on being men of imagination, poets, _penseurs
fantasistes_; and it is clear that it would be as reasonable to chain an
eagle to a dog-cart, as to expect _them_ to deal with a plain,
practical, matter-of-fact thing in the methodical business-like way of
the English journalist. Of these, the lines of Miss Fanny Fudge are
strikingly true:

                          "Vain, critics, vain
    All your efforts to saddle wit's fire with a chain!!
    To blot out the splendor of fancy's young stream,
    Or crop in its cradle the newly-fledged beam!!!"

But though our worthy _confrères_ of the Parisian press have thus let
their wits go a wool-gathering, and left the poor Exhibition in the
lurch, it is but just to state that one and all display on the whole a
most friendly feeling towards the English; and even in quizzing us, as
most of them do, display great good nature. They feel, perhaps, a little
sore at having been outstripped by us in the establishment of the first
great Universal Exhibition; but this was only natural, and they console
themselves by stating that it was in France that the idea was first
conceived, and by solemnly promising that France will some day _prendre
sa revanche_. The most amusing of the _feuilletonistes_ is
unquestionably M. Jules de Prémary, of the _Patrie_; and we have thought
it worth while to translate a portion of his last letter, as a specimen
of what an intelligent man of letters feels on visiting us for the first
time, and before he becomes well acquainted with us:

     "One of the principal causes of surprise to me in walking
     along the streets of London, has been to see myself all at
     once become a curious animal. I did not think that I had any
     of the qualities necessary for such a thing, being neither
     humpbacked nor club-footed, neither a giant nor a dwarf.
     Thus, then, on the day of my arrival I went along Regent
     Street, and heard the exclamations and laughter of the crowd
     on seeing me, I examined myself from head to foot, to
     ascertain the cause of the unhoped-for success which I
     obtained in England. I even felt all up my back, thinking
     that perhaps some facetious boy might have transformed me
     into a walking placard. There was nothing, however; but I
     had moustachios and a foreign air! A foreign air! That is
     one of the little miseries on which you do not count, O
     simple and inexperienced travellers!

     "At home you may have the dignity and nobleness of the
     Cid--you may be another Talma: but pass the Channel--show
     yourself to the English, and in spite of yourself you will
     become as comic as Arnal. Arnal! do I say? why, he would not
     make them laugh so much as you do; and they would consider
     our inimitable comedians Levassor and Hoffmann as serious
     personages. Do not be angry, then, or cry with  Alceste,--

        'Par la sambleu! Messieurs, je ne croyais pas être
         Si plaisant que je suis!'

     They would only laugh the more. In this respect the English
     are wanting in good taste and indulgence. Their astonishment
     is silly and their mockery puerile. The sight of a pair of
     moustachios makes them roar with laughter, and they are in
     an ecstasy of fun at the sight of a rather broad-brimmed
     hat. A people must be very much bored to seize such
     occasions for amusing themselves. However, all the
     _travers_, like all the qualities of the English, arise from
     the national spirit carried to exaggeration. They consider
     themselves the _beau ideal_ of human kind. Their stiffness
     of bearing, their pale faces, their hair, their whiskers cut
     into the shape of mutton chops, the excessive height of
     their shirt collars, and the inelegant cut of their
     coats--all that makes them as proud as Trafalgar and
     Waterloo.

     "In our theatres we laugh at them as they laugh at us, and
     on that score we are quits. But in our great towns they are
     much better and more seriously received than we Frenchmen
     are in England.

     "At Paris now-a-days nobody laughs at an Englishman; but at
     London every body laughs at a Frenchman. We do not make this
     remark from any feeling of ill-will; in fact, we think that
     to cause a smile on the thin and pinched-up lips of old
     England is not a small triumph for our beards and
     moustachios. After all, too, the astonishment which the
     Englishman manifests at the sight of a newly disembarked
     Frenchman (an astonishment which appears singular when we
     call to mind the frequent communications between the two
     nations), is less inexplicable than may be thought.
     Geographically speaking, France and England touch each
     other--morally, they are at an immeasurable distance.
     Nothing is done at Calais as at Dover, nothing at London as
     at Paris. There is as much difference between the two races
     as between white and black. In France, the Englishman
     conforms willingly to our customs, and quickly adopts our
     manner of acting; but in England we are like a stain on a
     harmonious picture.

     "Our fashion of sauntering along the streets, smiling at the
     pretty girls we meet, looking at the shops, or stopping to
     chat with a friend, fills the English with stupefaction.
     They always walk straight before them like mad dogs. In
     conversation there is the same difference. In England it is
     always solemn. Left alone after dinner, the men adopt a
     subject of conversation, which never varies during all the
     rest of the evening. Each one is allowed to develop his
     argument without interruption. Perhaps he is not understood,
     but he is listened to. When he has ended, it becomes the
     turn of another, who is heard with the same respect. The
     thing resembles a quiet sitting of the Parliament. But in
     France, conversation is a veritable _mélée_--it is the
     contrary excess. A subject is left and taken up twenty
     times, amidst joyous and unforeseen interruptions. We throw
     words at each other's heads without doing ourselves any
     harm; smart sallies break forth, and _bon mots_ roll under
     the table. In short, the Englishman reflects before
     speaking; the Frenchman speaks first and reflects
     afterwards--if he has time. The Frenchman converses, the
     Englishman talks: and it is the same with respect to
     pleasure. Place a Frenchman, who feels _ennui_, by the side
     of an Englishman who amuses himself, and it will be the
     former who will have the gayest air. From love, the
     Englishman only demands its brutal joys; whereas the
     Frenchman pays court to a woman. The Englishman, at table,
     drinks to repletion; the Frenchman never exceeds
     intoxication.

     "A difference equally striking exists between the females of
     the two countries. I do not now speak of the beauty of the
     type of the one, or the elegance and good taste of the
     others; but I will notice one or two great contrasts. In
     France, a young girl is reserved, is timid, and as it were
     hidden under the shade of the family: but the married woman
     has every liberty, and many husbands can tell you that she
     does not always use it with extreme moderation! In England,
     you are surprised at the confident bearing of young girls,
     and the chaste reserve of married women. The former not only
     willingly listen to gallant compliments, but even excite
     them; whilst the latter, by the simple propriety of their
     bearing, impose on the boldest.

     "The boldness of young girls in England was explained to me
     by the great emigration of young men--in other words, by the
     scarcity of husbands. The French girl who wants a husband is
     ordinarily rather disdainful; the English girl is by no
     means difficult.

     "A Frenchwoman walks negligently leaning on our arm, and we
     regulate our steps by the timidity and uncertainty of hers:
     the Englishwoman walks with the head erect, and takes large
     strides like a soldier charging. An accident made me
     acquainted with the secret of the strange way of walking
     which Englishwomen have. I was lately on a visit to the
     family of a merchant, whose three daughters are receiving a
     costly education. The French master, the drawing master, and
     the music master had each given his lesson, when I saw a
     sergeant of the grenadiers of the guard arrive. He went into
     the garden, and was followed by the young ladies.

     "'Ah! mon Dieu!" I cried to the father, 'these young ladies
     are surely not going to learn the military exercise!'

     "'No,' said he, with a smile.

     "'What, then, has this professor in a red coat come for?'

     "'He is the _master of grace_."

     "'What! that grenadier, who is as long as the column in
     Trafalgar-square?'

     "'Yes, or rather he is the _walking master_.'

     "I looked out of the window, and saw the three young ladies
     drawn up and immovable as soldiers, and presently they began
     to march to the step of the grenadier. They formed a
     charming platoon, and trod the military step with a
     precision worthy of admiration. I asked for an explanation
     of such a strange thing.

     "'We in England,' said my host, 'understand better the duty
     of women than you Frenchmen do. We cannot regulate our
     manner of walking on that of a being subjected to us. Our
     dignity forbids it. It is the woman's duty to follow us.
     Consequently she must walk as we do,--we can't walk as she
     does.'

     "'_Ma foi!_' said I, 'I must admit that in progress you are
     decidedly our masters. In France the law, it is true,
     commands the wife to follow her husband; but it does not, I
     confess, say that she must do so at the rate of a _quick
     march_!'

     "The contrasts between the two countries are in truth
     inexhaustible. Indeed I defy the most patient observer, to
     find any point of resemblance between them. In France,
     houses are gay in appearance; in London, with the exception
     of some streets in the centre, such as Regent-street or
     Oxford-street, they are as dark and dismal as prisons. Our
     windows open from the left to the right; windows in England
     open from top to bottom. At Paris, to ring or knock too loud
     is vulgar and ill-bred; at London, if you don't execute a
     tattoo with the knocker or a symphony with the bell, you are
     considered a poor wretch, and are left an hour at the door.
     Our hack cabs take their stand on one side of the street; in
     England they occupy the middle. Our coachmen get up in front
     of their vehicles; in England they go behind. In Paris,
     Englishmen are charming; at home they are--Englishmen. One
     thing astonishes me greatly--that the English don't walk on
     their hands, since we walk on our feet."

But the French gentlemen do not have it all their own way. The London
_Leader_ attacks them pleasantly in a similar spirit, yet it is always
tinged, upon both sides, with a shade of caustic feeling: "Jules Janin,
who has fallen in love with our fog and kindliness, announces to all
France the joyful news that there will be no Waterloo banquet this June:
the flag of France floating over the Crystal Palace suggests to the Duke
that the banquet would be a breach of hospitality, because it would
recall such "cruel souvenirs!" Janin believes that report; or at least
prints it, which is to give journalistic credence to it. We are sorry to
think how "cruelly" France will be disappointed; and we are amused at
the excessive pre-occupation of Frenchmen with this said battle of
Waterloo. It is the ineradicable belief of every Frenchman that we in
England are in a perpetual self-swagger about Waterloo. We are prodigal
of the word upon omnibus, shop, street, and road, because we wish to
humble France at every corner. Waterloo-house is an insult!
Waterloo-bridge a defiance! Wellington boots an outrage! Every step you
take you trample on the national pride of France, for with "insular
arrogance" you walk in boots named of Wellington or of Blucher! We are
intoxicated with our success at having beaten the French--never having
drubbed them before, from the times of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt,
down to the Peninsular Campaign! This one success of Waterloo--(which,
after all, was _not_ a success, as France clearly gained the battle,
only she quitted the field in disgust!)--we cannot forget; we cherish
it, we riot in it; we blazon the name everywhere to flatter our national
pride and humiliate the foreigner. And, curious enough, the foreigner
_is_ humiliated! He turns his head away as he passes Waterloo-house; he
declines crossing Waterloo-bridge, or crosses it in a passion; and even
his national dread of rain cannot induce him to ride in a Waterloo
omnibus. Of all the many profound misconceptions of English society
current in France, none, we venture to say, is more completely baseless
than the belief in the English feeling about Waterloo. Though it would
be impossible to persuade a Frenchman that omnibus proprietors, hotel
keepers, and builders were guilty of no national swagger in using the
offending word 'Waterloo.'"



SCHALKEN THE PAINTER.--A GHOST STORY.


We take the following from a volume of of ghost stories, with
illustrations by Phiz, which has lately been published in London. One
Minheer Vanderhausen, through the means of a certain persuasive
eloquence, backed by money, becomes the husband of Rose, the niece of
Gerard Douw, and with whom Schalken, the celebrated painter's pupil, was
in love. Vanderhausen and his wife set out ostensibly for Rotterdam, but
receiving no communication from either for a long time, Gerard resolves
upon a journey to the city. No such individual as Vanderhausen is known
there, and the fate of the poor wife is told as follows:--

     "One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the
     fire, having accomplished a comfortable meal, and had
     yielded to the silent and delicious melancholy of digestion,
     when their ruminations were disturbed by a loud sound at the
     street door, as if occasioned by some person rushing and
     scrambling vehemently against it. A domestic had run without
     delay to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and they
     heard him twice or thrice interrogate the applicant for
     admission, but without eliciting any other answer but a
     sustained reiteration of the sounds. They heard him then
     open the hall-door, and immediately there followed a light
     and rapid tread upon the staircase. Schalken advanced
     towards the door. It opened before he reached it, and Rose
     rushed into the room. She looked wild, fierce, and haggard
     with terror and exhaustion; but her dress surprised them as
     much even as her unexpected appearance. It consisted of a
     kind of white woollen wrapper, made close about the neck,
     and descending to the very ground. It was much deranged and
     travel soiled. The poor creature had hardly entered the
     chamber when she fell senseless on the floor. With some
     difficulty they succeeded in reviving her; and on recovering
     her senses she instantly exclaimed, in a tone of terror
     rather than mere impatience, 'Wine! wine!--quickly, or I'm
     lost!"

     "Astonished, and almost scared, at the strange agitation in
     which the call was made, they at once administered to her
     wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste and eagerness
     which surprised them. She had hardly swallowed it, when she
     exclaimed, with the same urgency, 'Food, for God's sake;
     food at once, or I perish!'

     "A large fragment of a roast joint was upon the table, and
     Schalken immediately began to cut some; but he was
     anticipated; for no sooner did she see it than she caught
     it, a more than mortal image of famine, and with her hands,
     and even with her teeth, she tore off the flesh, and
     swallowed it. When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little
     appeased, she was on a sudden overcome with shame; or it may
     have been that other more agitating thoughts overpowered and
     scared her, for she began to weep bitterly, and to wring her
     hands.

     "'Oh! send for a minister of God!' said she; 'I am not safe
     till he comes; send for him speedily.'

     "Gerard Douw dispatched a messenger instantly, and prevailed
     on his niece to allow him to surrender his bedchamber to her
     use. He also persuaded her to retire there at once to rest:
     her consent was extorted upon the condition that they would
     not leave her for a moment.

     "'Oh, that the holy man were here!' she said; 'he can
     deliver me: the dead and the living can never be one; God
     has forbidden it.'

     "With these mysterious words she surrendered herself to
     their guidance, and they proceeded to the chamber which
     Gerard Douw had assigned to her use.

     "'Do not, do not leave me for a moment!' she said; 'I am
     lost for ever if you do.'

     "Gerard Douw's chamber was approached through a spacious
     apartment, which they were now about to enter. He and
     Schalken each carried a candle, so that a sufficiency of
     light was cast upon all surrounding objects. They were now
     entering the large chamber, which, as I have said,
     communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose suddenly
     stopped, and, in a whisper which thrilled them both with
     horror, she said, 'O God! he is here! he is here! See, see!
     there he goes!'

     "She pointed towards the door of the inner room, and
     Schalken thought he saw a shadowy and ill-defined form
     gliding into that apartment. He drew his sword, and raising
     the candle so as to throw its light with increased
     distinctness upon the objects in the room, he entered the
     chamber into which the shadow had glided. No figure was
     there--nothing but the furniture which belonged to the room;
     and yet he could not be deceived as to the fact that
     something had moved before them into the chamber. A
     sickening dread came upon him, and the cold perspiration
     broke out in heavy drops upon his forehead; nor was he more
     composed when he heard the increased urgency and agony of
     entreaty with which Rose implored them not to leave her for
     a moment.

     "'I saw him,' said she, 'he's here. I cannot be deceived; I
     know him; he's by me; he is with me; he's in the room. Then,
     for God's sake, as you would save me, do not stir from
     beside me.'

     "They at length prevailed upon her to lie down upon the bed,
     where she continued to urge them to stay by her. She
     frequently uttered incoherent sentences, repeating again and
     again, 'The dead and the living cannot be one; God has
     forbidden it:' and then again, 'Rest to the wakeful--sleep
     to the sleep-walkers.' These and such mysterious and broken
     sentences she continued to utter until the clergyman
     arrived. Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that
     terror or ill-treatment had unsettled the poor girl's
     intellect; and he half suspected, from the suddenness of her
     appearance, the unseasonableness of the hour, and, above
     all, from the wildness and terror of her manner, that she
     had made her escape from some place of confinement for
     lunatics, and was in imminent fear of pursuit. He resolved
     to summon medical advice as soon as the mind of his niece
     had been in some measure set at rest by the offices of the
     clergyman whose attendance she had so earnestly desired; and
     until this object had been attained, he did not venture to
     put any questions to her which might possibly, by reviving
     painful or horrible recollections, increase her agitation.
     The clergyman soon arrived; a man of ascetic countenance and
     venerable age--one whom Gerard Douw respected much,
     forasmuch as he was a veteran polemic, though one perhaps
     more dreaded as a combatant, than beloved as a Christian--of
     pure morality, subtile brain, and frozen heart. He entered
     the chamber which communicated with that in which Rose
     reclined; and immediately on his arrival she requested him
     to pray for her, as for one who lay in the hands of Satan,
     and who could hope for deliverance only from heaven.

     "That you may distinctly understand all the circumstances of
     the event which I am going to describe, it is necessary to
     state the relative position of the parties who were engaged
     in it. The old clergyman and Schalken were in the anteroom
     of which I have already spoken; Rose lay in the inner
     chamber, the door of which was open; and by the side of the
     bed, at her urgent desire, stood her guardian; a candle
     burned in the bedchamber, and three were lighted in the
     outer apartment. The old man now cleared his voice, as if
     about to commence; but before he had time to begin, a sudden
     gust of air blew out the candle which served to illuminate
     the room in which the poor girl lay, and she with hurried
     alarm exclaimed, 'Godfrey, bring in another candle; the
     darkness is unsafe.'

     "Gerard Douw, forgetting for the moment her repeated
     injunctions, in the immediate impulse, stepped from the
     bedchamber into the other, in order to supply what she
     desired.

     "'O God! do not go dear uncle,' shrieked the unhappy girl;
     and at the same time she sprang from the bed and darted
     after him, in order by her grasp to detain him. But the
     warning came too late; for scarcely had he passed the
     threshold, and hardly had his niece had time to utter the
     startling exclamation, when the door which divided the two
     rooms closed violently after him, as if swung to by a strong
     blast of wind. Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but
     their united and desperate efforts could not avail so much
     as to shake it. Shriek after shriek burst from the inner
     chamber, with all the piercing loudness of despairing
     terror. Schalken and Douw strained every nerve to force open
     the door; but all in vain. There was no sound of struggling
     from within, but the screams seemed to increase in loudness,
     and at the same time they heard the bolts of the latticed
     window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon the sill
     as if thrown open. One _last_ shriek, so long, and piercing,
     and agonized, as to be scarcely human, swelled from the
     room, and suddenly there followed a death-like silence. A
     light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from the bed
     to the window, and almost at the same instant the door gave
     way, and yielding to the pressure of the external
     applicants, they were nearly precipitated into the room. It
     was empty. The window was open, and Schalken sprang to a
     chair, and gazed out upon the street and canal below. There
     was no one there; but he saw, or thought he saw, the waters
     of the broad canal beneath settling ring after ring, in
     heavy circles, as if a moment before disturbed by the
     submersion of some ponderous body."



SKETCHES OF LIFE IN SWEDEN.


Hans Christian Anderson, the Danish poet and story-teller, whose
_Improvisatore_ is one of the most beautiful and intrinsically truthful
of the myriad beautiful books upon Italian life, has published a new
work, _Pictures of Sweden_. It is very genial summer reading, consisting
of detached sketches of Swedish life and scenery, with interludes of
poetic reverie. The London journals complain that it is not sufficiently
well translated, but we quote the following characteristic passages in
which the same weird child-likeness of feeling which his readers will
recall, is expressed in the peculiar, subdued strain of northern
sentimentalism, which is more the complexion, than the substance of his
style. Here is the prelude to the book:

     "It is a delightful spring: the birds warble, but you do not
     understand their song! Well, hear it in a free translation.

     "'Get on my back,' says the stork, our green island's sacred
     bird, 'and I will carry thee over the Sound. Sweden also has
     fresh and fragrant beech woods, green meadows and
     cornfields. In Scania, with the flowering apple-trees behind
     the peasant's house, you will think that you are still in
     Denmark.'

     "'Fly with me,' says the swallow; 'I fly over Holland's
     mountain ridge, where the beech-trees cease to grow; I fly
     further towards the north than the stork. You shall see the
     vegetable mould pass over into rocky ground; see snug, neat
     towns, old churches and mansions, where all is good and
     comfortable, where the family stand in a circle around the
     table and say grace at meals, where the least of the
     children says a prayer, and, morning and evening, sings a
     psalm. I have heard it, I have seen it, when little, from my
     nest under the eaves.'

     "'Come with me! come with me!' screams the restless
     sea-gull, and flies in an expecting circle. 'Come with me to
     the Skjärgaards, where rocky isles by thousands, with fir
     and pine, lie like flower beds along the coast; where the
     fishermen draw the well-filled nets!'

     "'Rest thee between our extended wings,' sing the wild
     swans. 'Let us bear thee up to the great lakes, the
     perpetually roaring elves (rivers), that rush on with arrowy
     swiftness; where the oak forest has long ceased, and the
     birch-tree becomes stunted. Rest thee between our extended
     wings: we fly up to Sulitelma, the island's eye, as the
     mountain is called; we fly from the vernal green valley, up
     over the snow-drifts, to the mountain's top, whence thou
     canst see the North Sea, on yonder side of Norway.

     "'We fly to Jemteland, where the rocky mountains are high
     and blue; where the Foss roars and rushes; where the torches
     are lighted as _budstikke,_ to announce that the ferryman is
     expected. Up to the deep, cold-running waters, where the
     midsummer sun does not set; where the rosy hue of eve is
     that of morn."

Stockholm is thus pictured, with an allusion, at the close, to a
building dear to us all, now--as that which was first enriched by the
voice, whose recent lapse into silence has made our hearts heavy:

     "It is but the work of one night; the same night when Oluf
     Hakonson, with iron and with fire, burst his onward way
     through the stubborn ground; before the day breaks the
     waters of the Mälar roll there; the Norwegian prince, Oluf,
     sailed through the royal channel he had cut in the east. The
     stockades, where the iron chains hang, must bear the
     defences; the citizens from the burnt-down Sigtuna erect
     themselves a bulwark here, and build their new little town
     on stock-holms.[A] The clouds go, and the years go! Do you
     see how the gables grow? there rise towers and forts. Birger
     Jarl makes the town of Stockholm a fortress; the warders
     stand with bow and arrow on the walls, reconnoitring over
     lake and fiord, over Brunkaberg sand-ridge. There where the
     sand slopes upwards from Rörstrand's Lake they build Clara
     cloister, and between it and the town a street springs up:
     several more appear; they form an extensive city, which soon
     becomes the place of contest for different partisans, where
     Ladelaas's sons plant the banner, and where the German
     Albrecht's retainers burn the Swedes alive within its walls.
     Stockholm is, however, the heart of the kingdom: that the
     Danes know well; that the Swedes know too, and there is
     strife and bloody combating. Blood flows by the
     executioner's hand, Denmark's Christian the Second, Sweden's
     executioner, stands in the market-place. Roll, ye runes! see
     over Brunkaberg sand-ridge, where the Swedish people
     conquered the Danish host, there they raise the May-pole: it
     is midsummer-eve--Gustavus Vasa makes his entry into
     Stockholm. Around the May-pole there grow fruit and
     kitchen-gardens, houses and streets; they vanish in flames,
     they rise again; that gloomy fortress towards the tower is
     transformed into a palace, and the city stands magnificently
     with towers and draw-bridges. There grows a town by itself
     on the sand-ridge, a third springs up on the rock towards
     the south; the old walls fall at Gustavus Adolphus's
     command; the three towns are one, large and extensive,
     picturesquely varied with old stone houses, wooden shops,
     and grass-roofed huts; the sun shines on the brass balls of
     the towers, and a forest of masts stands in that secure
     harbor. * * *

     "It is a very little semicircular island, on which the
     arches of the bridge rest: a garden full of flowers and
     trees, which we overlook from the high parapet of the
     bridge. Ladies and gentlemen promenade there; musicians
     play, families sit there in groups, and take refreshments in
     the vaulted halls under the bridge, and look out between the
     green trees over the open water, to the houses and mansions,
     and also to the woods and rocks: we forget that we are in
     the midst of the city. It is the bridge here that unites
     Stockholm with Nordmalen, where the greatest part of the
     fashionable world live, in two long Berlin-like streets; yet
     amongst all the great houses we will only visit one, and
     that is the theatre. We will go on the stage itself--it has
     an historical signification. Here by the third side-scene
     from the stage-lights, to the right, as we look down towards
     the audience, Gustavus the Third was assassinated at a
     masquerade; and he was borne into that little chamber there,
     close by the scene, whilst all the outlets were closed, and
     the motley group of harlequins, polichinellos, wild men,
     gods and goddesses, with unmasked faces, pale and terrified,
     crept together; the dancing ballet-farce had become a real
     tragedy. This theatre is Jenny Lind's childhood's home. Here
     she has sung in the choruses when a little girl; here she
     first made her appearance in public, and was cheeringly
     encouraged when a child; here, poor and sorrowful, she has
     shed tears, when her voice left her, and sent up pious
     prayers to her Maker. From hence the world's nightingale
     flew out over distant lands, and proclaimed the purity and
     holiness of art."

We ramble a moment in the garden of Linnæus, and contemplate his
monument. It is withered and wasted now; it appears not unlike that
grave garden of Ferney, with the close bower in which Voltaire used to
walk and meditate:

     "The walls shine brightly, and with varied hues, in the
     great chapel behind the high altar. The fresco paintings
     present to us the most eventful circumstances of Gustavus
     Vasa's life. Here his clay moulders, with that of his three
     consorts. Yonder, a work in marble, by Sargel, solicits our
     attention: it adorns the burial-chapel of the De Geers; and
     here, in the centre aisle, under that flat stone, rests
     Linnæus. In the side chapel, is his monument, erected by
     _amici_ and _discipuli_; a sufficient sum was quickly raised
     for its erection, and the King, Gustavus the Third, himself
     brought his royal gift. The projector of the subscription
     then explained to him, that the purposed inscription was,
     that the monument was erected only by friends and disciples,
     and King Gustavus answered: 'And am not I also one of
     Linnæus's disciples?' The monument was raised, and a hall
     built in the botanical garden, under splendid trees. There
     stands his bust; but the remembrance of himself, his home,
     his own little garden--where is it most vivid? Lead us
     thither. On yonder side of Fyri's rivulet, where the street
     forms a declivity, where red-painted wooden houses boast
     their living grass roofs, as fresh as if they were planted
     terraces, lies Linnæus's garden. We stand within it. How
     solitary! how overgrown! Tall nettles shoot up between the
     old, untrimmed, rank hedges. No water-plants appear more in
     that little dried-up basin; the hedges that were formerly
     clipped, put forth fresh leaves without being checked by the
     gardener's shears. It was between these hedges that Linnæus
     at times saw his own double--that optical illusion which
     presents the express image of a second self--from the hat to
     the boots. Where a great man has lived and worked, the place
     itself becomes, as it were, a part and parcel of him: the
     whole, as well as a part, has mirrored itself in his eye; it
     has entered into his soul, and becomes linked with it and
     the whole world. We enter the orangeries: they are now
     transformed into assembly-rooms; the blooming winter-garden
     has disappeared; but the walls yet show a sort of herbarium.
     They are hung round with the portraits of learned Swedes--a
     herbarium from the garden of science and knowledge. Unknown
     faces--and, to the stranger, the greatest part are unknown
     names--meet us here."

A palace of Gustavus Vasa's:

     "There yet stands a stone outline of Vadstene's rich palace
     which he (Gustavus Vasa) erected, with towers and spires,
     close by the cloister. At a far distance on the Vettern, it
     looks as if it still stood in all its splendor; near, in
     moonlight nights, it appears the same unchanged edifice, for
     the fathom-thick walls yet remain; the carvings over the
     windows and gates stand forth in light and shade, and the
     moat round about, which is only separated from the Vettern
     by the narrow carriage road, takes the reflection of the
     immense building as a mirrored image.

     "We now stand before it in daylight. Not a pane of glass is
     to be found in it; planks and old doors are nailed fast to
     the window frames; the balls alone still stand on the two
     towers, broad, heavy, and resembling colossal toadstools.
     The iron spire of the one still towers aloft in the air; the
     other spire is bent: like the hands on a sundial it shows
     the time--the time that is gone. The other two balls are
     half fallen down; lambs frisk about between the beams, and
     the space below is used as a cow-stall.

     "The arms over the gateway have neither spot nor blemish:
     they seem as if carved yesterday; the walls are firm, and
     the stairs look like new. In the palace yard, far above the
     gateway, the great folding door was opened, whence once the
     minstrels stepped out and played a welcome greeting from the
     balcony, but even this is broken down: we go through the
     spacious kitchen, from whose white walls, a sketch of
     Vadstene palace, ships, and flowering trees, in red chalk,
     still attract the eye.

     "Here where they cooked and roasted, is now a large empty
     space; even the chimney is gone; and from the ceiling where
     thick, heavy beams of timber have been placed close to one
     another, there hangs the dust-covered cobweb, as if the
     whole were a mass of dark gray dropping stones.

     "We walk from hall to hall, and the wooden shutters are
     opened to admit daylight. All is vast, lofty, spacious, and
     adorned with antique chimney-pieces, and from every window
     there is a charming prospect over the clear, deep Vettern.
     In one of the chambers in the ground floor sat the insane
     Duke Magnus (whose stone image we lately saw conspicuous in
     the church), horrified at having signed his own brother's
     death-warrant; dreamingly in love with the portrait of
     Scotland's Queen, Mary Stuart; paying court to her and
     expecting to see the ship, with her, glide over the sea
     towards Vadstene. And she came--he thought she came--in the
     form of a mermaid, raising herself aloft on the water: she
     nodded and called to him, and the unfortunate Duke sprang
     out of the window down to her. We gazed out of this window,
     and below it we saw the deep moat in which he sank."

FOOTNOTES:

[A] "Stock, signifies bulks, or beams; holms, _i.e._ islets, or river
islands; hence, Stockholm."



A FRENCHMAN'S OPINIONS OF AMERICAN FEMALE POETS.


We find in the Paris _Revue des Deux Mondes_, for May 15, an article,
which we translate for _The International_, on "The Female Poets of
America,"[B] by M. E. MONTEGUT. This writer's opinions respecting the
influence of Protestantism on the cultivation of poetry may amuse those
who remember who have been the greatest poets. It is a part of the cant
of criticism to point to mediæval art as a fruit of the Roman Catholic
ascendency--as if the Roman Catholics had done more than the Protestants
for high art since the Reformation. But M. Montegut is a man of wit, and
his criticism, though we confess that it loses some of its point in our
version, will entertain the hundred of our countrywomen who make verses.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is an opinion very generally entertained that the Americans are
almost exclusively occupied with material affairs, with commerce, and
the varied forms of mechanical industry. The volume of Mr. Griswold will
contribute to dispel any such idea, for in its four hundred pages,
nearly of the size of quartos, there are quoted ninety of the most
celebrated female poets of North America: ninety female poets! and all,
with few exceptions, contemporary. Why, all Europe could not count a
greater number. If therefore, we bear in mind that this voluminous
poetic _flore_ contains only the names of women, and that Mr. Rufus
Griswold has consecrated two volumes of similar dimensions, one to the
Poets of the masculine gender, and the other to the Prose-Writers of
both genders, it is difficult to believe in the literary sterility of
the United States. But why is it, that among these three or four hundred
writers, only three or four are known beyond the Atlantic? It is, that a
literature is not altogether composed of harmonious reveries, of elegant
imitations, of agreeable fancies; that poetry does not consist in a
melodious rhythm only, nor even in a tasteful choice of words, nor in a
perfect knowledge of language. Poetry, as well as all the possible
expressions of thought and genius, arises from the very depths of the
soul. It is the exterior expression of the national life, the
recital,--from the lips of an individual animated and transported with
the popular spirit--of the mysteries of his country's existence, and the
desires, aspirations and convictions of his countrymen. The poet is the
interpreter of the moral character of his country to other nations, and
his works are the highest embodiment of the manners and habits of life
in his country and his time. The poetry which does not fulfil these
conditions is not poetry. Any man writing verse, who does not feel
himself agitated in a more lively and distinct manner with the desires
which torment his contemporaries as a vague fever, who does not know
that his whole mission is to express, in an artistic and harmonious
form, the clamors and the incorrect utterance of these desires, is not
and cannot be a poet.

If such be the moral necessities which give birth to poetry, how is it
that America has not an original literature? How is it that she has no
great artists, and that there are but three or four writers--Cooper,
Channing, Emerson--who well express her spirit and tendencies? None of
the great moral qualities necessary to a poet are wanting to Americans.
They have a national pride, approaching even to sensitiveness; they have
firm and free religious faiths; life is energetic and manifests itself
abundantly every where. How is it, we ask, that we meet no man of genius
to tell us of the miracles of triumph over nature and barbarism; of
those hardy industrial enterprises, and those wonderful displays of
human activity around them; to sing the adventurous heroes of commerce
and mechanism, and that singular marriage in domestic life of sedentary
virtues with a changing, nomadic disposition--the love of the fireside,
which remains undisturbed in the midst of perpetual displacement, as of
old the tents of the patriarchs were pitched in the evening and stricken
in the morning? Is it that there is no poetry in these subjects? Here,
indeed, is a curious phenomenon, and one of the least-studied laws of
literary history.

But ought we to regard Americans unfortunate because they have no
literature of their own? In some points of view it is a reason for
envying them. When true poetry appears among a people, it is not always
a prophetic sign of future greatness; it is oftener a reflection of
greatness passed away. It announces not new destinies, but recounts a
history of the vanished and vanishing. Whenever the voice of a great
poet is heard, we are sure that the customs, the institutions, and the
religions he sings, are near their decline. Thus, Shakspeare, the most
faithful mirror of the middle and feudal ages, came with reform and the
sixteenth century; and Calderon, with the decay of Spanish Catholicism.
That opinions and manners should partake of poesy, it is necessary that
they begin to fade away into the realm of the fabulous past; it is
necessary, in order that the ideal should appear, that these cease to
exist. It was formerly said, and not without reason, "Happy the people
who have no literature!" and in our time we are tempted to say: Happy
the people who have no great poets! it is a proof that they enjoy the
plentitude of life, that they have nothing to regret, that they are
still in all their primal innocency, and the native energy of their
being.

It is curious, also, to observe, how men animated by an heroic faith,
seldom see that that faith and the deeds which it inspires, belong to
the poetic and ideal. The first Puritans, who embarked, without
resources, in a frail vessel, to seek in America the enjoyment of a free
religion, now appear to us truly poetical. Walter Scott has drawn a
thousand original characters of cavaliers and round-heads. Do you know
what was the literature of those men full of the spirit of the Bible? Do
you know what was the character of the first poetic publications in the
United States? We open Mr. Griswold's volume, and the first name is that
of Anne Bradstreet, who proceeded thither with her father, an ardent
nonconformist. Here is the title under which her poems were printed, in
the year 1640, at Boston: "_Several Poems, compiled with great variety
of Wit and Learning, full of delight; wherein especially is contained a
compleat Discourse and Description of the Four Elements, Constitutions,
Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, together with an exact Epitome of
the Three First Monarchies, viz. the Assyrian, Persian, and Grecian; and
the beginning of the Roman Commonwealth to the end of their last King;
with divers other Pleasant and Serious Poems: By a Gentlewoman of New
England._" This Mrs. Bradstreet, called by the Americans, at this epoch,
the "tenth muse"--probably a very good Protestant--made invocations to
Phoebus, and imitated ---- Dubartas! Certainly, the emigrant
Americans, who were indeed the most zealous of all Protestants, did not
suspect the mournful poetry which Protestantism contains--a poetry which
we perceive to-day. It is even a part of the American life of our times.
But this absence of real poetry is far from being a bad sign; it is, on
the contrary, a proof of strength and energy.

Great works are not what we require of Americans; we would rather
endeavor to discover in them the traces of the moral spirit of their
country, its philosophical and historic signs, rather than poetic fables
skilfully constructed and eloquently told. For example, these female
poets of North America, suggest an interesting question for Europeans to
examine. Have all those Misses and Mistresses who write poems, dramas
and sonnets, any features of resemblance with our female authors? Has
America, which is represented so coarse in manners, inherited the vices
of European society, and become so degenerate as to give birth to that
monstrous nondescript, named among us a _bas-bleu_? We have endeavored,
diligently, to discover, in this large volume, traces of resemblance
between our women of letters and the female poets of America, but we
have discovered none. These daughters and wives of American citizens, of
merchants, bankers, magistrates and doctors in theology, do not write as
our female authors, from vain ambition, or love, or scandal, or (what
among us is by no means uncommon) to repent of the scandal that they
have occasioned. They write as among us young girls draw or sing. Poesy
is for them an ornamental art, and nothing more. Besides, this great
number of female poets in America, is explained by the much more liberal
education received by the women of English blood and of the Protestant
religion. We can find better specimens of poetry, certainly, but nothing
equalling them in the discretion and reserve that reign in all their
verses. We have sought, diligently, to discover the sentiments which
American women are most pleased in translating into written poetry: one
only is expressed, freely and energetically--maternal love. The other
sentiments and virtues are carefully veiled, as subjects upon which it
would be improper to dwell. Such verses are full of scruples and
delicacies, and to us, it is their principal charm. Love, so difficult
for the female heart to acknowledge in words; passionate confidences, so
easily turned into sarcasms, and almost repulsive when uttered by the
mouth of a woman, find no place in the inspirations of the American
poetess. There are no strongly expressed individual passions. Vague and
objectless longings--the cold lights of mere fancy, are the
characteristics of those writers. Sometimes we discover a regret, or a
mournful remembrance, but so obscure as to be nearly lost in a vastly
diffused hope of some good which is not realized. We have endeavored to
discover if the sentiment of conjugal love were there, but we are
disappointed. To us, Europeans, who are overwhelmed with romances, in
which this chaste sentiment is analyzed and written of in a manner to
produce absolute nausea, it is not, perhaps, known how much discretion
there is in this passionless exterior, and how commendable it is that so
holy a sentiment should not pass the sacred inclosures of the female
heart; that it should not wound the delicacies of its own natural
reserve and silence. The talents of these writers are exercised upon
permitted subjects, and not, as too often among our own female poets,
upon subjects at once easy and unlawful.

This modesty and reserve throughout the work become necessarily
monotonous--but it is of no great consequence to us. We would not have
written if it had not been to acknowledge specimens of real literary
excellence. But we have in the work itself what is of considerable value
as reflecting in some degree the American character. We can use these
elegies, reveries and monodies as a means of discovering the nature of
the virtues thus brought out from obscurity, though in coloring too pale
and uniform. The life of these women possesses nothing adventurous,
passionate, or eccentric. It is composed of three facts: birth,
marriage, and death. As to the intervals between these three solemn
events, the biographer says little, and we suppose they are filled with
exemplary virtues and the accomplishment of duties which human and
divine law imposes upon the woman. Three of these, however, are
distinguished from the others by their position in society, or by their
talents, and constitute the only singularities of the work.

We have just remarked, that these _poésies_ are all written by the
daughters of rich merchants, lawyers, and doctors of divinity; two,
however, are of low condition--a negress, Philis Wheatley Peters; and a
domestic, Maria James. The negress belonged to the close of the
eighteenth century, and was born at a time to justify the pamphlets of
Franklin on slavery, and the demands of philanthropy. This "daughter of
the murky Senegal," as one of her critics called her, has been, thanks
to the circumstances of her color, birth, and condition, a sort of
historic character. Sold at ten years of age, in a public mart of
slaves, she was purchased by Mrs. Wheatley, a lady who educated her, and
who afterwards permitted her to be called by her own name. This negress,
so little known now, has had her day in history; she visited London,
where she was an object of general esteem. Washington corresponded with
her, and the Abbé Grégoire, our revolutionary regicide, announced her a
great poet, in his Essay upon the Intellectual and Moral Faculties of
the Negro. The opponents of slavery applauded her verses with
enthusiasm, and the upholders of slavery denounced and slandered her.
She has been, for a moment, in the eyes of the universe, the noblest
type of her race--this humble black slave has been, in the civilized
world, the representative of all her brethren. Her existence has been
one of the incidents of universal history, and this unknown person has
had her share, however small, in the revolutions of the world.

Maria James was a poor servant, the child of an emigrant from Wales. An
unlettered poet, she drew her only instruction from the Bible, the
Pilgrim's Progress, and Miss Hannah More, a kind of Madame de Genlis of
puritanism; and yet it was this poor girl who wrote the most perfect
lyric, the neatest, and in a literary view, the best composed, that we
find in the collection; the lyrical pieces, by the way, are not
generally well written. The thoughts are indefinite, the images
confounded, and in some way run in upon each other. The principal
sentiment is seldom neatly distinguished. These lyrics are as the
buzzing of bees, or rather as honey scarcely formed, of which each drop
contains the perfume of the flower whence it was extracted. Here is a
piece by Maria James, which we do not give as her best, but which
overflows with a profound religious feeling, and turns the heart of the
reader, for a moment, to the haven of eternal repose:


THE PILGRIMS: TO A LADY.

      We met as pilgrims meet,
        Who are bound to a distant shrine,
      Who spend the hours in converse sweet
      From noon to the day's decline--
    Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears
    And their hopes, as they passed through the valley of tears.

      And still they commune with delight,
        Of pleasures or toils by the way,
      The winds of the desert that chill them by night,
        Or heat that oppresses by day:
    For one to the faithful is ever at hand,
    As the shade of a rock in a weary land.

      We met as soldiers meet,
        Ere yet the fight is won--
      Ere joyful at their captain's feet
        Is laid their armor down:
    Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear,
    In hope of the crown which the victors wear.

      Though daily the strife they renew,
        And their foe his thousands o'ercome,
      Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view
        Of safety, protection, and home:
    Where they knew that their sov'reign such favor conferred,
    "As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard."

      We met as seamen meet,
        On ocean's watery plain,
      Where billows rise and tempests beat,
        Ere the destined port they gain:
    But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave,
    Assured that their pilot is mighty to save.

      They dwell on the scenes which have past,
        Of perils they still may endure--
      The haven of rest, where they anchor at last,
        Where bliss is complete and secure--
    Till its towers and spires arise from afar,
    To the eye of faith as some radiant star.

      We met as brethren meet,
        Who are cast on a foreign strand,
      Whose hearts are cheered as they hasten to greet
        And commune of their native land--
    Of their father's house in that world above,
    Of his tender care and his boundless love.

      The city so fair to behold,
        The redeemed in their vestments of white--
      In those mansions of rest, where, mid pleasures untold,
        They finally hope to unite:
    Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend
    To God and the Lamb in a world without end.

But of all these poetesses, the most remarkable, certainly to us, is
Maria Brooks, who died in 1845, the author of a curious poem entitled
_Zophiel_, which Southey admired, and which Charles Lamb declared to be
too extraordinary to have been conceived in the mind of a woman.
Unfortunately, in Mr. Griswold's volume, we have only an incomplete
analysis, with some brief fragments, of this poem. Notwithstanding its
incompleteness, however, there is enough to show a powerful life and a
wonderful imagination. There is in the poem a surprising union of Thomas
Moore and Shelley. Imagine the bowers of _Lalla Rookh_, through which is
sweeping the northern tempest of Shelley, bending the trees and
scattering the roses. The odes _To Cuba_, to the _Shade of her Child_,
and all her other lyrics, have, in a word, a very remarkable movement,
and are full of mysterious inquietudes and inexplicable burnings. We
cannot have an idea of the sweetness, and at the same time the
impetuosity which mingle in her verses, without thinking of the
impossible combination of the eagle and the dove--a dove with the stroke
of an eagle's wing, and which would yet, in spite of its power, retain
the timid nature of the dove, be frightened at its own strength, and
tremble in looking upward to the sun. Her compositions are full of
daring ideas imperfectly expressed, as if she were afraid of the
boldness of her heart. Often, however, her thoughts fall into the
_alambiqué_, the abstract and metaphysical. Her love to her child
inspired the best lines she ever composed. The sports of the little one,
whom she should see no more, associated with the remembrance of forests,
plains, and cataracts, give to that love the grandeur and infinitude of
American Nature. Of all the female poets of the new world, Maria Brooks
seems to possess most the sibylline inspirations of the celebrated women
of contemporaneous Europe. Yet she has none of that Byronean spirit that
reigns so much among them; and if we would indicate the European poetry
school to which she should be attached, we would cite, rather than that
of Byron, the names of Southey, her admirer, of Coleridge, and of John
Wilson, the author of the _City of the Plague_.

Maria Brooks is the only brilliant exception that we have met in the
collection of Mr. Griswold. All her poetic companions draw their
inspirations, not from their individual life, but their education, and
as this education is the same for all, it is not astonishing that their
works are uniform and monotonous. Yet, we do not complain, as we have
already intimated, for we are thus enabled to see some of the features
of American character more easily than if an original genius inspired
each of the poetesses. The religious sentiment, for example, is every
where uttered in these verses, but indeed it is the same that we find in
the writings of American essayists--a sort of Christian theism which is
becoming more the character of Protestantism in America. The spirit of
Christ breathes indeed in these pages, but the person itself is seldom
seen: Christ is always the teacher and saviour of the world, but the
crucified Redeemer is well nigh forgotten. The Son of God is manifested
as he appeared to his disciples; transfigured upon Tabor, they see him
in the radiant light conversing with the prophets of the ancient law. Do
you prostrate humanity in the place of the disciples and the astonished
crowd at the foot of the mountain, then you have an idea of the life of
the religious faiths more and more adopted in America. But the torments
of the Divine agony--the cross of Golgotha, and all the tragedy in the
Saviour's history upon earth, which the nations of the middle ages and
the ancient Christians held in precious remembrance, are almost
forgotten. We mention the fact as being one which the religious and
philosophic of our times may reflect upon with profit. It is the symptom
of an imminent crisis in Protestantism, and sooner or later, will not
fail of attracting discussion. This theistic sentiment, which is the
foundation of the writings of Channing and Theodore Parker, makes itself
felt continually in the verses of this collection which by manner or
subject relate to religion.

The descriptions of nature, oddly enough, never strike, as one would
expect, by their novelty. Far away we see pleasantly the names of palms,
cotton-trees, cocoa trees, and the botanic names of flowers unknown to
us, but it is no matter whether we exchange all these trees and exotic
plants for poplars, oaks, and birches, or the modern plants of our
Europe. We feel very little, in any poetry, the particular sentiment of
an original nature. In the midst of the woods and forests of the new
world, one can readily believe himself among those of France or England;
he will remark only a more lively picture of verdure and waters. Have
you ever seen the landscapes of Theodore Rousseau? The grass is greener
and the yellow leaves are yellower than in the paintings of any other
artist. But the presence of nature is not there. Such is the effect upon
us of the descriptions given by these female poets. Here, in support of
our assertion, is a picture by Mrs. Frances Green.

      Stillness of summer noontide over hill,
    And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream,
    Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep
    Upon the drooping eyelids of the air.
    No wind breathed through the forest that could stir
    The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound
    Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird,
    Or else the polished leaves were turning back
    To their own natural places, whence the wind
    Of the last hour had flung them. From afar
    Came the deep roar of waters, yet subdued
    To a melodious murmur, like the chant
    Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest.
    A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves,
    And from their shivering stems an utterance came,
    So delicate and spirit like, it seemed
    The soul of music breathed, without a voice.
    The anemone bent low her drooping head,
    Mourning the absence of her truant love,
    Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye,
    To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south,
    Coming to wake her with renewed life.
    The eglantine breathed perfume; and the rose
    Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light,
    Fair as the vermil on the cheek of hope.
    Where'er in sheltered nook or quiet dell,
    The waters, like enamored lovers, found
    A thousand sweet excuses for delay,
    The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast,
    Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came
    To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves.
      The wild-bee hovering on voluptuous wing,
    Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence
    Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup,
    As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep.
    The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate;
    Each looked within the other's drowsy eyes,
    Till outward objects melted into dreams.
      The rich vermilion of the tanager,
    Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green,
    Like rubies set in richest emerald.
    On some tall maple sat the oriole,
    In black and orange, by his pendent nest,
    To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs;
    While high amid the loftiest hickory
    Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest
    Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat,
    Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth.
    And higher yet, amid a towering pine,
    Stood the fierce hawk, half-slumbering, half-awake,
    His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest,
    As if he sought for plunder in his dreams.
      The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad,
    To revel in the sunshine; and the hare
    Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect
    Against the soft air-current; then she crept,
    With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns.
    The squirrel stayed his gambols; and the songs
    Which late through all the forest arches rang,
    Were graduated to a harmony
    Of rudimental music, breathing low,
    Making the soft wind richer--as the notes
    Had been dissolved and mingled with the air.
    Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves
    Were lulled by their own chanting: breathing low,
    With a just audible murmur, as the soul
    Is stirred in visions with a thought of love,
    He whispered back the whisper tenderly
    Of the fair willows bending over him,
    With a light hush upon their stirring leaves,
    Blest watchers o'er his day-dreams. Not a sign
    Of man or his abode met ear or eye,
    But one great wilderness of living wood,
    O'er hill, and cliff, and valley, swelled and waved,
    An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock
    Which bound and strengthen'd all their massive roots
    Stood the great oak and giant sycamore;
    Along the water-courses and the glades
    Rose the fair maple and the hickory;
    And on the loftier heights the towering pine--
    Strong guardians of the forest--standing there,
    On the old ramparts, sentinels of time,
    To watch the flight of ages.[C]

These verses are pretty, perhaps very pretty. They give nature a
charming appearance,--too much like the "everlasting spring" of Ovid. Do
you not seem to lie in the shade of a European forest? Here are the same
trees, the same flowers, the same animals. But the trees are more
abundant of leaves, the grass is thicker, the sun is brighter, the
waters warmer. But there is no profoundly original painting, no broad
description by a few great outlines.

The sentiment of the beautiful and ideal is expressed in this collection
of poetry, in an uncolored, abstract, and metaphysical manner. We are
not sure that all these women love and understand the beautiful arts,
and particularly the plastic arts; the only one whose influence they
feel deeply, and which they seem to prefer, is music. And this
preference among the moderns for music is a curious fact. The
superiority given to it above painting and sculpture may be accounted
for in some degree by the fact that music accords more with woman's
instincts. Music is truly the art of the nineteenth century _par
excellence_; it is the art which expresses best incredible aspirations;
it is an art democratic in its essence. Appreciated by all living
beings, even the unintelligent tribes, to be felt, music demands neither
science nor long study--it makes every one happy, and tells to each the
story of his love.

To produce sculptors, poets, and painters, it is necessary that a
country should boast of many centuries, of a history, of a long
succession of traditions, of established customs; but modern nations,
particularly Americans, outstrip time, act with precipitation, and have
no leisure to wait the traditions of history. Hence this extraordinary
love of music, the least costly of the arts. They love music as one
loves the conversations of the evening, and refreshing sleep after a
hard day's labor. The art of music then is, if we dare say so, the art
of nations who have no time for meditation and reflection--the art of
ardent and feverish nations; for, to be understood, it requires only
that a man should have a soul, with warm desires and hopes. We find in
this collection two sonnets in honor of Beethoven and Mozart, in which
the genius of the two masters is perfectly appreciated and felt. They
are from Margaret Fuller, since Countess d'Ossoli, who was drowned by
shipwreck on her return to her native country.


BEETHOVEN.

    Most intellectual master of the art,
      Which best of all teaches the mind of man
      The universe in all its varied plan--
    What strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart!
    Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart,
      There the rich bass the reason's balance shows;
      Here breathes the softest sigh that love e'er knows;
    There sudden fancies seeming without chart,
      Float into wildest breezy interludes;
    The past is all forgot--hopes sweetly breathe,
    And our whole being glows--when lo! beneath
      The flowery brink, Despair's deep sob concludes!
    Startled, we strive to free us from the chain--
    Notes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again!


MOZART.

    If to the intellect and passions strong
      Beethoven speak, with such resistless power,
      Making us share the full creative hour,
    When his wand fixed wild Fancy's mystic throng,
    Oh, Nature's finest lyre! to thee belong
      The deepest, softest tones of tenderness,
      Whose purity the listening angels bless,
    With silvery clearness of seraphic song.
    Sad are those chords, oh heavenward striving soul!
      A love, which never found its home on earth,
      Pensively vibrates, even in thy mirth,
    And gentle laws thy slightest notes control;
    Yet dear that sadness! spheral concords felt
    Purify most those hearts which most they melt.

Of these two sonnets, we prefer that of Mozart, as expressing better, in
our opinion, the character of the music of the great master--as more
discriminating than that of Beethoven--a perfect description besides of
the author of _Fidelio_. The sonnets appear curious to us as sparklings
of æsthetic poetry beyond the seas.

The sentiments of American pride and of national susceptibility vibrate
here and there in all this poetry, but not very often. The remembrance
of the early emigrants, the description of America when inhabited by
savage hordes, and the comparison of this barbaric state with the
industrial wonders of the nineteenth century, are themes somewhat rare,
but which are nevertheless not forgotten. We have also noticed two or
three pieces which brought a smile upon our lips--where the shades of
old Indian sachems appear to bless modern civilization, and seem ready
to thank the Great Spirit for having exterminated their race, despoiled
and chased from their own native woods and prairies. There are besides a
few pieces borrowed from historic subjects, and a few dedicated to
individuals; some pages in honor of Washington and Napoleon, and this is
all. The rest is composed of mere musings, fancies, and elegies,
expressing no precise and distinct sentiment.

But what matters the relative weakness of this poetry? Let us rise to
higher spheres than that purely literary. The moral character and the
virtues which this collection of poetry suggests are superior to the
poetry itself. Who can tell, indeed, the good which may be done by these
musical reveries and innocent caprices? They have been composed in the
bosom of tranquility, by the fireside, among parents, children,
relatives, and friends. These were the public to which they addressed
themselves, who admired them, and drew from them their contributions to
the good and beautiful. Probably many chaste tendernesses are recognized
by the banks of these little limpid fountains of poesy; many hearts have
rejoiced in these tender harmonies; many a man, weary with the labors of
the day, has felt the sweet words of his daughter or his wife thrill his
soul; he has beheld the bright gleams of ideal realities, and laid
himself down and dreamed of images of higher beauty. In that hard,
practical country, many poetic germs have thus taken root, many coarse
natures have become more refined. What matters it, then, whether these
specimens of poetry be original or not?--they have been useful. We offer
our thanks to the female poets of America, for the seeds of piety,
virtue, and nobility sown in their country. Without noise, without
humanitary pretensions, they have fulfilled their mission of religion
and refinement.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] THE FEMALE POETS OF AMERICA: BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. Philadelphia,
Henry C. Baird, 1851.

[C] From Nanuntenoo, an Indian Romance. By Frances H. Green.
Philadelphia, 1850.



JEANNE MARIE, AND LYRICAL POETRY IN GERMANY.


We are induced to translate for _The International_ the following
crisply written critique from _Die Grenzboten_, not only from its giving
for the benefit of certain of our _dilettanti_ German scholars a few
judicious remarks on the true merit of their "new celebrity," JEANNE
MARIE, but because the preceding account of the present state of lyrical
poetry in Germany, is very nearly as applicable to lyrical poetry as it
now exists among the rising bards of America and England as to that of
the father-land:

"It is now about a century since the beginning of our most brilliant
German lyrical era, and we are at the conclusion of a series of
developments, which individually display all of the peculiarities
indicative of the decline of a great epoch in art. The incredible number
of subjects which have been artistically treated, has inspired the minds
of our cotemporaries with an almost superfluity of poetically adapted
figures, forms, tones and materials, with which we are familiar from our
first breath. Vast numbers of corresponding series of similes, and
combinations of words and sentences have been naturalized in our
language, and the spirit of the rising generation cannot be other than
powerfully influenced by the incredible variety of forms and phrases,
which it acquires during education. From all which a limitation of the
creative power naturally results--since there is hardly a sentiment,
hardly a perception of the present day, which has not been rendered
applicable to poetic art; and the array of these imposing creations ring
in the soul of the young poet wonderfully through each other. It is
almost impossible to experience a new feeling which has not been sung,
and yet the impulse still exists to win for the again and again
experienced, a value, and a certain degree of originality. From which
results the most desperate efforts, by means of bold, artificial, highly
polished or tasteless images and comparisons, to form a style and
acquire a peculiar literary physiognomy: efforts which should by no
means be despised, even when the critic is compelled to blame its
results; for it is natural and unavoidable. Such a superabundance of
poetic forms of address, applications, words, and measures, are at
present current in the world, that for every poetic feeling a prosaic or
metrical reminiscence rings and echoes consciously or unconsciously, and
more or less clearly, through the poetic soul. To avoid this wearisome
beaten path, our poets are driven, on the one hand, into unheard of
refinements of metre and words--or on the other, into an affected
barbarism and roughness. And since the quantity of poetic metres,
applications, and forms of speech, has become so incredibly large that
they every where pass and are received as a sort of _spiritual small
change_, it has become infinitely easier to express an idea in tolerably
good poetic language, than it was fifty years ago. Gleim, Holty, and
Bürger, are to us great men, not because their poems are so much better
than those manufactured at the present day, but because their every poem
was a victory gained over the barbarism and want of form in the German
language as it then existed--a true conquest for the realm of beauty and
art. At present, any fool who has by heart his Schiller or his Heine,
can collect and write that which may pass for his 'poem'--though perhaps
not an atom of the whole is the result of aught save mere reproduction.
What is really wanting to all our writers is the _correct_ and
_artistic_ adaptation of terms. For this modern dilettanti reproduction
and combination of the thoughts and forms of others is but a rough and
uncomely parody of those poetic creations, which were consecrated by an
earnest striving and silent battle with the force of language. Among the
numerous modern poets in Germany, there live not a dozen who can write a
truly correct verse and make just applications of our so poetically
adapted language. The which assertion, seemingly a paradox--is
nevertheless natural enough.

"And yet the creative impulse lives in many a soul, nor has there for a
long time existed a more generally diffused or more exquisite
appreciation of lyrical poetry than during the past year. New poets of
an aristocratic or pious tendency are eagerly purchased and admired,
which is also according to rule, since they reflect the spirit of the
age, and correspond with modern wants. Such a peculiar influence on the
interest of the public at large has naturally conducted to the most
elegant style of publication of recent poems. It has become a real
pleasure to see their paper, type, and binding, and their neat garments
of fine linen, delicately trimmed and lettered with burnished gold. Such
a highly ornamented work at present adorns every table, and appears
right well in the white little hand of its fair possessor.

"The poems of Jeanne Marie, the popular romance writer, are by an
intelligent and well educated lady. She has evidently observed and
reflected much in the world, and had also her own experiences
therein--yet knows how to express with propriety and consciousness her
most passionate feelings. She is, however, in her poems, rather witty
and calculating, than inspired with heart and soul. Those productions
are, for the greater part, images and comparisons--not unfrequently very
exquisitely conceived and executed--the _point_ being occasionally a
gross antithesis, as for example in the poem, _Alles nur Du_:

    "'What I most longed for, thou hast to me given,
      What I possess, belongeth all to thee;
    Thou art mine _I_--thine is my life and heaven,
      My life is thine, and thine my all _To-Be_.'

"Or in other poems, the conclusion merely amounts to the explanation of
a comparison, as in the _New Cloak Song_, in which on a rusty nail, a
torn cloak explains itself as the cloak of Christian love. But where our
poetess simply narrates or describes, her art is truly agreeable, only
that the lively and closely detailed perceptions, which shoot forth in
her soul, often appear obscure from a want of practice in poetic
language, and not unfrequently entirely perverted on account of an utter
deficiency in logical acuteness.

"But since this poetess is endowed with far more than her
cotemporaries--_id est_, a peculiar talent to conceive and represent in
a lively manner epic details--let us, for the sake of art, gently beg of
her to do something for this her talent. She is by far too ignorant of
the art of application of terms in lyrical poetry, her delivery is too
variable and inaccurate, while botched-up expressions (_Flickwörter_)
and startling instances of incorrectness in language are in her writings
every where to be met with. As yet she is a mere amateur and
_dilettant_, and her right, to lay before the literary world her poetic
inspirations, may very correctly be doubted; and yet she has evidently
in her the material for something far better. This she can attain in
only one way. She must lay aside all the flaunt and tawdriness of her
similes and figures, and then strive to express a lively emotion or an
interesting expression, with the simplest words, first in prose--and
_then_ in verse. What she has written should then be carefully thought
over--every line and word tested, and no inaccuracy in poetical
perceptions, no oblique expression, and no metrical defect be suffered
to remain."



_Authors and Books._


A new German work, entitled _Klopstock in Zurich from the years 1730 to
1751_, gives quite a new portrait of the poet of the Messias, who, both
by the time of his appearance and by the dignity of his theme, is held
as the patriarch of German poetry. In this sprightly little volume the
mystic halo with which an exaggerated homage has invested the head of
the genial young German rolls away, and we behold a pleasant fellow in
gay summer costume, floating about upon the blue lake of Zurich,
surrounded by a circle of fair and admiring votaries, to whom he chants
strains from his immortal poem, and reaps a harvest of kisses in return.
We behold a chivalrous equestrian dashing through the still streets of
old Zurich, draining unreasonable depths of beer with wild students,
biting glass, and swallowing coal, until the old Bodmer with whom he was
living--a reverential admirer of the great Prophet of the Messias, and
in whose imagination Klopstock sat separate in a godlike and passionless
serenity--was bitterly grieved by these earthly experiences of a Greek
rather than of a Christian divinity, complained, remonstrated, rebuked,
until the jovial poet was forced to leave the good Bodmer's house, and
betake himself to Rape's, with whom he sat in silken hose, and
speculated upon the universe. It is always pleasant to hear these human
facts of the heroes of fame and imagination. Few things remove
Washington farther from the general sympathy than the unbending
austerity of hue in which his mental portrait is always colored. Why
should our great men, whose humanity makes them dearer, go so solemnly
and sadly through all posterity? Burns could draw the tired hostlers of
village inns from their beds to listen open-mouthed and open-hearted to
his wondrous and witching stories. Shakspeare shall always have stolen
sheep, even though De Quincy proves by splendid and resonant reasoning
that he could never have done it. Raphael shall have been a warm-blooded
man, spite of our cold-blooded speculations upon his saintship, so that
we shall not wonder at De Maistre's delicate and dainty truth that the
Fornarina "loved her love more than her lover." Not that sheep-stealing,
or any other peccadillo is beautiful, or in any way to be commended or
imitated, but that these are the signs of human and actual sympathy
which these great and glorious geniuses show us--as stately sky-sailed
galleons, sweeping the sea into admiring calm at their progress, might
hang out simple lanterns to the fishing-smacks around, to show their
crews that the same red blood was the sap of all that splendid life. "Is
he not the Just?" "Yes--and because he is the Just, I have done it."
Poor old Herr Bodmer could not see with equanimity the illustrious guest
of his imagination boating about the lake with the girls at Zurich, and
selling the stanzas--of priceless worth to him--for a snatched and
blushing kiss. For our own part, we are glad that generous Mr. Morikofer
has pulled off the bleached horse hair wig of factitious gravity, and
shown us the natural moist and waving hair of a human-hearted poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

A _History of German Literature_, from W. WACKERNAGEL, is coming out in
parts at Basle. Since Gervinus there has been no broad treatment of the
subject. But Gervinus gives us rather a history of the cultivation than
of the literature of Germany. Vilmar is much too partial and partisan,
and Hillebrand treats only the period from Lessing to the present time.
Wackernagel surveys the whole ground from the beginning. The first part
of his work is occupied with the elder literature of Germany, but he has
handled it so dexterously that it interests the general reader, even
while he develops the laws by which the old high German proceeded from
the Gothic, and the middle high German from that. He divides the
literary history into three parts. 1. The old high German era, Frank,
Carlovingian, of the German Latinity of the bards. 2. The middle high
German, beginning with the Crusades, and treating all the chivalric,
social, and international relations which they inspired. 3. The new
German style. The treatise is original and profound, and lacks only a
little more elaboration of the biographical notices.

       *       *       *       *       *

A somewhat curious proof of the influence which America at present
exerts, even in language, may be found in the title of a dictionary
(English and German), recently published at Brunswick. The title alluded
to, is as follows: _A new and complete dictionary of the English and
German languages, compiled with especial regard to the American idiom
for general use; containing a concise grammar, &c., &c._: by WILLIAM
ODELL ELWELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

CARL HEIDELOFF, whose exquisite work on the architectural ornaments of
the Middle Ages, should entitle him to the gratitude of every student of
mediæval art, will publish, before the end of this month, by Geigar of
Nuremberz, a folio, illustrated with the finest steel engravings,
entitled _Architectonic Sketches, and complete buildings, in the
Byzantine and Old German styles_.

       *       *       *       *       *

It has long been a mooted point among the philosophers of the beautiful
in Germany whether the art of gardening was a legitimate branch of
æsthetic culture. Bouterweck denied that the artificial perversions of
an old-fashioned French garden had the slightest relation to art, but
admitted that the _Landschafts-gartenkunst_, or art of landscape
gardening, might very properly be ranked with painting and sculpture.
Thiersch passes the subject by in silent contempt, while Tittman, whose
work on beauty and art is fast becoming a universal hand-book of
æsthetics, declares, on the other hand, that it is, even more than
architecture, closely allied to the study of the beautiful, since its
object is far less directly connected with human wants, and more nearly
related to the attractive and fascinating. Herr Rudolph Siebeck would
appear, however, to have put the question for a time at rest, by a work
at present publishing by Voigt, in Leipsic, entitled _Die Vildende
Gartenkunst, in ihren modernen Formen_, which, as he very correctly
asserts, "embraces in one comprehensive theory all those laws of the art
of gardening which æsthetics present, by the application of natural and
artificial methods, in order to plan and execute walks and grounds,
according to the dictates of a refined taste." In pursuance of this
great aim, Herr Siebeck, (who was, by the way, formerly the imperial
Russian court-gardener at Lazienka, and is at present council-gardener
at Leipsic,) after completing his education as a practical gardener,
scientifically studied the higher principles of his art at the
universities of Munich and Leipsic, both of which, but particularly the
former, have long been celebrated for the facilities which they afford
for this study. After which, under the kind patronage of Baron Hugel, he
journeyed to "every country" the natives of which had so far advanced in
the art of gardening as to deserve the honor of a visit. The results of
this study and labor are given in the above-titled volume, which
embraces all things, if not exactly from the cedar of Lebanon to the
hyssop on the wall, at least from the largest royal park to the smallest
garden in a city. The work is illustrated with twenty colored garden
plans, arranged according to the following categories: 1. Kitchen
Gardens. 2. Pleasure Gardens. 3. Pleasure and Kitchen Gardens. 4. Public
Gardens. 5. A Botanical Garden.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first volume of a new _Life of Goethe_, by J. W. SCHAFER, has been
published, of which we find flattering accounts. Also the _Life and
Times of Joachim Jurgins_, with Goethe's fragments upon his works by G.
C. Guhsaner. He was the contemporary of Galileo, Kepler, Cartesius, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

FRANZ LISZT, the famous pianist, has written a pleasant pamphlet in
favor of the project of a Goethean Institute of Art in Weimar, where he
is chapel master.

       *       *       *       *       *

WEIL--not _Alexander_ of the Corsaire, but Dr. GUSTAV WEIL, Professor of
Oriental languages and History at Heidelberg--is publishing at Mannheim,
a _History of the Khalifs_,[D] which, as regards extent, erudition, and
accuracy, may be fairly ranked with any work on this subject extant. The
title is, however, only partial; that of "An Universal History of
Islamism," would be far more appropriate. The Khalifate forms, so to
speak, a nucleus around which are grouped as integral parts all of the
numerous dynasties which were in any degree connected with the
Khalifate, while those which were more nearly within its influence, as
the Saffarides, the Tulinides, Bujides, and Saljucks, are illustrated
with extraordinary learning and research. An excellent history of Arabic
literature to the midst of the fourth century of the Hegira is
appropriately introduced. The reader will remember that SCHLOSSER, in
the introduction to his fourth volume of the _Weltgeschichte_, remarks
that in the oriental portion of that work he had been guided _solely_ by
the "Life of Mohammed," by Weil, and this "History of the Khalifate," of
which, however, only the first volume had then appeared. _Weil_, remarks
the great "modern Tacitus," "is at present universally recognized as one
of the first oriental scholars in Germany or France. He has brought from
manuscripts many new things to light, and his works may be regarded as
historical sources."

       *       *       *       *       *

VON RAHDEN, a German officer of note, has published some very
interesting _Reminiscences of a Military Career_. The third part, which
is just completed, contains the history of his campaigns with the
earliest army in Spain. He is a soldier of the old type, and was devoted
body and soul to Don Carlos--and if his story occasionally expands into
romance, it is readily forgiven for the greater local truth and
impression thereby obtained. He paints battle-pieces in a most vivid
manner, pervaded by that interest in the individual which lends so
fascinating a charm to all narration. In his first Spanish battle, when
stationed as an outpost in the very tempest of bullets and balls, he
quietly takes time to draw the country and the situation of the enemy.
His hero is Lichnowsky--the young German Prince, who was so inhumanly
butchered during the session of the German Parliament in Frankfort. He
was in Spanish battle as cool, skilful, and death-despising, as he was
chivalric against the crudeness of the political philosophers, and noble
against the beastly brutality of his assassins, in central Germany.

       *       *       *       *       *

The third part of the life of BARON VON STEIN, the celebrated Prussian
statesman, is published. The chief interest of this part is the history
of Stein's sympathy with the Emperor Alexander of Russia, whom he
regarded as the Saviour of Europe.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADELBERT KELLER, one of the most zealous among the mediæval romantic
antiquaries of the Tubingen school, and well known by his accurate
editions of the _Gesta Romanorum, Les Romans des Sept Sages, Romancero
del Cid_, and _Gudrun_, has recently, in company with Wilhelm Holland,
prepared for the press a new edition of the songs of _Guillem IX., Count
of Poictiers and Duke of Aquitania_. In addition to the chair of
Professor Extraordinary of Modern Languages, (which our readers need not
be informed is nothing very extraordinary at a German university,)
Keller holds the far more important office of teacher of the German
Language and Literature at the university of Tubingen. We presume that
few men, even in France or Germany, have more carefully or
enthusiastically hunted over the various MS. libraries of Italy or his
own country, in search of Minnesinger and Provençal literature than
Keller.

       *       *       *       *       *

The twenty-fifth publication of the _Geschichte der Europaischen
Staaten_ (History of the States of Europe) consists of continuations of
histories of Austria and Prussia. The series is edited by the well-known
scholars HEEREN and UKERT. It has been in progress more than twenty
years, and is designed to embrace a complete body of American history,
by competent authors. Fifty volumes have already been issued, embracing
in complete works, Italy, by Leo, finished 1832; German Empire, by
Pfister, 1836; Saxony, by Bottiger, 1837; Netherlands, by Van Kampen,
1837; Austria, by Mailath, 1850; France to the Revolution, by Schmidt,
1848; France, from the Revolution, by Wachsmuth, 1844; the Histories of
Denmark, by Dahlmann (vol. III. in 1844); of Portugal, by Schafer (vol.
III. in 1850); of Russia, continued by Herrmann after Strahl's decease
(vol. IV. 1849); of Prussia, by Stenzel (vol. IV. 1850) are all far
advanced, and their completion may be looked for at no distant period.
Single volumes, also, have appeared, by Zinkeisen, on the Ottoman
Kingdom; by Ropel, on Poland; and by Bulau on the Modern History of
Germany. The _Athenæum_ observes that when the series is completed, the
Germans and those who read German in other countries will have, in no
immoderate compass, a body of European history, uniform in its general
plan, and maintaining a standard of competent authorship such as cannot,
we believe, be found in any other language.

       *       *       *       *       *

The well-known Countess SPAUR, the wife of the Bavarian Ambassador at
Rome, is engaged upon a series of memoirs of events connected with the
flight of the Pope from Rome in 1849. It will be remembered that the
Pope escaped under convoy of the Bavarian ambassador, and the consequent
completeness of information added to the graceful elegance of her style,
will produce a brilliant and interesting book.

       *       *       *       *       *

A singular occurrence which took place very recently in Berlin affords a
curious illustration of a line in _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_, in
which, speaking of German idioms, the writer somewhat inaccurately
remarks, that "the U, twice dotted, is pronounced like E;" inaccurately,
we say, since this pronunciation is not found in the pure north German.
Dr. WIRTH, director of the opera at Berlin, was during the past month
confounded by some not very intelligent police agents of that city with
the revolutionary WURTH (who was however deceased in 1848), arrested,
and subjected to much personal inconvenience, before he could prove to
their satisfaction that he was not the _ci-devant_ disturber of kingly
peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

The COUNTESS IDA HAHN-HAHN, has written her spiritual experience in a
work published in Mannheim, entitled, _From Babylon to Jerusalem_. It is
a history of her own soul, showing how it journeyed from confusion and
doubt to peace. In it she says of the famous holy coat of Treves: "It
was not comprehended--what did that show? How wonderful and incredible
it was that thousands and thousands journeyed up the Rhine and down, not
alone of the lower classes, but of the intelligent, of the cultivated
and elegant class. And could this be really the Saviour's garment? And
were the cures real which had been reported in all the journals as
wrought by it? Like all the rest, I shared the religious enthusiasm of
which no Protestant can conceive. Instead of ridiculing and scorning, I
wrote that I knew not if this was the identical garment, but this was
certainly the same faith that cast the woman at the feet of Christ, and
caused her to kiss the hem of his robe, and be healed. My instinct was
just, but my reasoning false. For if the old faith was so fast, so
glowing, and so immortal in the old church, how could I ever say better
_no_ church than _one_ only?"

       *       *       *       *       *

A singular book is announced in Germany, a country in which we are not
aware that singular books have ever been rare, under the title of
_Intercourse with the Departed by means of Magnetism_. "A book for the
consolation of Humanity, containing the most irresistible evidence of
the personal continuance and activity of the soul after its separation
from the body, collected from contemporary notes taken from extatic
somnambulists, by LUIS ALPHONSE CAHAGNET, with a critical preface by Dr.
J. Newberth, authorized magnetizer in Berlin and Associate of the
Imperial Leopold Academy of Sciences." A prospectus, modest enough in
style but of very large pretensions, sets forth that it is not a
speculation, but a communication of truth, which is nowise contrary to
the Christian religion, but is calculated to exercise a genial influence
upon the faithful to disperse all doubts and to advance the kingdom of
Faith and Love. Who will fail warmly to wish "God-speed" to a work that
proposes to accomplish such rich results?

       *       *       *       *       *

In Russia the singular prejudice has long obtained that the old
Sclavonian dialects had nothing in common with the Russian language. But
there is now a change in the opinions of the learned, and many skilful
philologists are at present engaged in scientific speculations upon the
subject. SRESNEWSKY, DAWYDOFF, and SCHEWYREFF have recently published
works upon the question. The first has "Memoirs upon the new efforts
towards a philological investigation of the old Sclavonian Language,"
and "Thoughts upon the History of the Russian Language." Dawydoff has
published "An attempt at a Grammar of Universal Comparison of the
Russian Language," and Schwyreff "A Journey to the Convent of
Kirillo-Bjeloserski," an archæological work, represented as a model of
its kind. Schewyreff is a well known, educated, and learned man, fully
cognizant of the results of philogical study in the west. It is evident
that Russia constantly aims to put herself abreast of western science.
Wostokoff is busy upon a complete grammar of the old Sclavonic language,
and a dictionary of the same. Both works will soon go to press. Since
Dobrowsky, the area of old Sclavonian philology has much extended
itself, and there can be no doubt that Wostokoff has made use of all the
new material. The study of the Sclavonian language and literature has
more than a merely philological interest. It will throw much light upon
the confused history of Eastern Europe from the sixth to the ninth
century,--a light sadly needed, even after Schaffarik's Sclavonian
antiquities.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Munich, we observe that THIERSCH, Professor of Fine Arts at the
University of the "German Athens," and whose _Aesthetik_, if not the
most philosophic, is at least the most agreeable and practical, (though
we know that _Krug_ disposes of it in conversation very briefly with the
expression "merely eclectic,") has published a new edition of his _Ziber
das Erechtheum auf der Akropolis zu Athen_, with excellent colored
illustrations by METZGER. Out of Germany the reputation of Thiersch
rests principally upon his researches into and elucidations of Athenian
antiquities.

       *       *       *       *       *

A drama by an unknown poet, ROBERT PRÖLSS, _The Right of Love_, attracts
much attention in Germany, from its clear and interesting style, its
fresh and lively dialogue, and the delicate drawing of its characters.
The author seems to have modelled himself upon Shakspeare, but his work
shows traces also of Italian study, and the critics, without questioning
Prölss' originality or asserting an imitation, are reminded of
Machiavelli's Mandragora. They find in the author the material of a
genuine dramatist--experience, feeling, a sharp insight into character,
and great skill in dialogue. The literary eye must be fastened upon such
promise. It is so refreshing to find a Phenix in a mare's nest.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Pictures of Travel and Study, from the North of the United States of
America_, is the title of a new book of travel by Mr. CHARLES QUENTIN, a
German gentleman and official from Prussia. It is a diary of
impressions, and without aiming at any high literary or philosophical
excellence, abounds in sharp and smart observations. Some things do not
escape the shrewd eye of Mr. Quentin, that not all Americans observe. As
an illustration, we remark his notice of the American female habit in
"shopping," of tumbling over all the goods in the shop and departing
without finding "anything to suit." Hence our author infers the social
supremacy of women in America. A new way of arriving at the old fact--a
fact which the sane and sensible of the sex cannot fail to perceive and
acknowledge. The book is written in a vivacious, colloquial humor.

       *       *       *       *       *

ERNST FORSTER, well known as having married the daughter of Jean Paul
Richter, but more celebrated for his translation of and notes to the
best version of Vasari ever published, and who would deserve an
honorable mention were it only for his well-known hospitality to all
Americans visiting Munich, has recently given to the world, through the
eminent bibliographist and publisher Kaiser, a brochure, entitled, _Wem
Gebuhrt der Krang?_ (Who deserves the Wreath?) a holiday-gift on the
occasion of uncovering the colossal bronze statue of Bavaria. Next to
King Ludwig himself, there are no Germans of the present day who
entertain more comprehensive or sounder views of art in its manifold
relations than Dr. Ernst Forster.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since the remarkable increase of late years of the use of stucco
ornaments in our Atlantic cities, we deem it almost a duty to call the
attention of our builders to a work by Professor Eisenlohr, recently
published, at a very moderate price, by Veith, of Carlsruhre, entitled
_Architectural Ornaments, in Clay and Gypsum, for practical use, with
Lithographed Illustrations_. Folio, 1 volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

The publishing house of BROCKHAUS, one of the largest in Germany, is
printing a series of Russian novels and poems, translated into German by
William Wólfsohn.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The History of the United States Exploring Expedition_, under
Lieutenant WILKES, is just translated and published in Germany.

       *       *       *       *       *

COUNT MORITZ STRACHWITZ has published a new volume of poems. His former
books have been well received.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR BULAU'S _Review of the Year 1850_, has reached a second
edition.

       *       *       *       *       *

BAYARD TAYLOR'S _El Dorado_ has lately appeared in a German
translation.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Paris the first volume of the collection of _Greek and Latin
Physicians_ has just appeared. To the profession this will be a work of
the greatest interest and importance. The idea originated with Dr.
DAREMBERG, a learned physician, enamored of his art, versed in the
ancient languages--familiar with the study of MSS., and a visitor of all
the principal libraries of Europe for the purposes of his work. The book
will comprise the text of the authors, collated with manuscripts, and
with the best editions, with a French translation and notes. To each
division there will be a copious index. Daremberg has too well
appreciated the scope and dignity of his work to suppose that it could
be accomplished by any individual, and has therefore associated with
himself several of the most distinguished savans in various departments
of the undertaking, both in France and elsewhere. He comprehended no
less the immense expense of the work, and applied in its inception under
the monarchy, to the Government for aid. It was granted, and the
Republic does not shrink from the fulfilment of that promise of its
predecessor, in so truly a democratic work--for every thing which tends
to the knowledge of the means of preserving health is essentially
democratic. The French translation is admirably precise and clear; the
notes are numerous but useful--chiefly upon natural history--the customs
of the ancients--their hygiene, and upon all points which required
elucidation. The work cannot be completed for several years, but
Daremberg is young and ardent, and for his future labors he will have
the solace of his first great and undoubted success.

       *       *       *       *       *

The correspondence of MIRABEAU during the last three years of his life,
and the complete history of his relations to the Court, is announced in
Paris by Le Normant, in three octavo volumes. According to the _Journal
des Débats_, the greatest part of these papers have never been printed.
Mirabeau, a few days before his death, (2d April, 1794,) delivered them
to his friend the Count de Mark, from whose hands, when he died at
Brussels in 1833, they came into the possession of M. de Barcourt. This
gentleman, formerly Ambassador to the United States, has enriched the
volume with historical notes and commentaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOUIS BLANC has published a political pamphlet called _Plus de
Girondins_ (No more Girondins), in which the opposition of the extreme
party to the moderate party is expressed with the greatest force. The
freedom of the press, and the liberty of public meeting, he wishes
entirely unlimited, and the clubs to be every where opened as popular
schools of politics. Exile has but knit him more closely to the
democratic ideas, for whose development he hoped so much in the
Revolution of '48. His compeer, Ledru Rollin, achieved nothing by his
last year's work upon the Decadence of England, but ridicule in England,
and no great fame at home.

       *       *       *       *       *

A curious anecdote is told of SCRIBE, the French vaudevilliste. He was
one day at work in his cabinet, when a young man entered. It was
Lacenaire. He seemed very modest, and stated delicately the occasion of
his visit. He had been appointed to a situation in Belgium, but was
entirely without means, and requested of Scribe thirty or forty francs
to pay his way to Brussels. Scribe was attracted by the young man's tone
and manner. "Thirty to forty francs," said he, "are too few. I must give
you a hundred, and if you choose to repay them, you can do so to an old
woman in Brussels, who was a servant of our family. Here is her
address." So saying, Scribe went to his drawer and took out the gold for
the young man, who expressed his gratitude with all the elegance of a
cultivated and sensitive mind, and left a copy of verses with Scribe for
a remembrance. Since then Lacenaire has confessed that he knew the
arrangement of Scribe's chamber, and had chosen an hour when the
servants were absent. "I put myself between Scribe and the bell-rope,
and if he had refused me, I should have made short and noiseless work
with my knife. Scribe owed his life to his generosity." In this little
story is there not an averted tragedy as sad as Eugene Aram's?

       *       *       *       *       *

A new work, of great importance to the oriental student, will soon reach
England from Siam, where it has been already published. It is a new
Siamese grammar, prepared by the Roman Catholic Vicar General, who has
resided in Siam for twenty years. In the "Journal of the English
Archipelago," Mr. Taylor Jones announces the work and its value, with
some illustrative facts in the author's life. The bishop brings to the
task not alone his own remarkable intelligence and devotion, but the
results of the inquiries of his predecessors for two centuries. The work
forms a quarto of two hundred and forty-six pages, and treats of a mass
of matter necessary to the understanding of the language, but which is
not elsewhere to be found. Among this the reckoning of time, of money,
measures, and weights, as well as chronology, literature, and religion,
are included. The eight or ten pages devoted to chronology afford a
clear and just insight into the old history of Siam. The enumeration of
Siamese books, although not complete, shows that Siamese literature is
by no means poor. The miscellaneous list contains one hundred and fifty
various books upon grammar, arithmetic, astronomy, astrology, and
history, and many poetical works, especially romances. The various
warlike romances of China are very faithfully translated and broadly
diffused in Siam. Sometimes these ponderous productions climb to a
series of ninety volumes. The historical reports of Siam make forty
volumes, and there are no less than thirty-six holy Buddhist books. A
sketch of Buddhism is given in the present work, and the good bishop is
now about commencing a Siamese dictionary.

       *       *       *       *       *

The literature of democracy has received another illustration in a
social tragedy in five acts, by the citizen Xavier Sauriac, entitled The
Death of Jesus. Its object of course is to embody dramatically the
sentiment of the old Revolution that Jesus Christ was a _Sans Culottes_,
akin to the feeling which causes ardent abolitionists to assert that he
was a negro. This tragedy makes Jesus Christ a democratic philosopher,
Herod an apostle, Magdalen a kind of Fleur de Marie. The hero rehearses
a plan for the salvation of the world, which is simply crude communism.
We quote an illustration:

    "Quand l'etat, héritier de la famille éteinte,
    Sera du sol entier possesseur sans contrainte,
    Qu'il serve alors de pére à tous les citoyens
    Et de la vie à tous dépense les moyens."

And again:

    "Dans les bizars brillante du luxe industriel,
    Il devienue lui seul, marchand universel."

This work is probably a very sincere one, and deserves a prominent place
among the curiosities of literature. Nevertheless, such familiar
presentation of the Saviour is not only blasphemous but ridiculous.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. ALEXANDER DUFAÏ has published in Paris a satire on socialist women,
under the title of _Lélila, ou la Femme Socialiste_, and the journals of
the sect are very angry with him that he illustrates the tendencies of
socialism by presenting as his heroine its female apostle, George Sand.
That there may be no doubt of his intention, he tells us in the preface
that he has made _Lélila_ narrate her childhood, education, and poetic
dreams, her marriage with a _sous préfet_, who did not "understand" her,
and her amours with a poet who _did_ understand her, for he carried her
off; he has also made _Lélila_ marry by turns all the socialist systems
in the persons of their chiefs; and finally, shows her in the revolution
of 1848, presiding at _Le Club des Femmes_, and playing an active part
in public life. "After this," observes the _Leader_, "he has the
shameless audacity to say he attacks the 'species,' not the
'individual!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

The two last volumes of the Remains of SAINT-MARTIN have just been
issued from the National Press in Paris, under the title, _Fragments of
a History of the Arsacides, posthumous work of M. Saint-Martin_. He was
a well-known French _litterateur_, and director of the library of the
Arsenal. Strange stories are told of his unwearied diligence and
devotion to details. He was the original proposer of a plan for a
systematic and scientific investigation of oriental antiquities, and
another for a collection of oriental classics. This latter was his
darling project, for the execution of which Louis XVIII. granted a
commission; but the revolution of 1830 ruined his hopes. Yet a new
commission was named, and on the day upon which it was to hold its first
session, Saint-Martin was stricken by the cholera, and died without
knowing that the hope of his life would be fulfilled.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Univers_ at Paris announces a newly-discovered document in relation
to the trial of Louis XVI., proving that the report of the Debates in
the _Moniteur_ were falsified. This document is reported to have been
published on the third of January, 1794, but has escaped all the
historians. It occurs in the report of the commission appointed by the
Convention to examine the papers found in Robespierre's possession. A
letter turns up, written by the editor of the Debates of the Convention
in the _Moniteur_ to Robespierre, and of this import: "You know that we
always report more fully the speeches of the Mountain than of the other
side. In Convet's complaint against you, I printed only a short sketch
of his first point, but the whole of your reply. And in the report of
the King's trial I introduced on his side only enough to preserve an
appearance of impartiality," &c., &c. Lamartine received these papers to
examine when he announced his history of the Girondins, but returned
them, saying that he could make no use of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

An important work is announced by Joubert in Paris, _Les Murailles
Revolutionaries_, being a complete collection of professions of faith,
proclamations, placards, decrees, bulletins, facsimiles of signatures,
inedited autographs, &c., from February, 1848, to the present day: three
volumes quarto. It is to be published in twenty-four parts, one part
every month, and will supply a very important want of the future
historian of these last remarkable years.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. UBICINI has just published in Paris a very interesting work on the
Ottomans, _Lettres sur la Turquie_. These letters were first printed in
successive numbers of the _Moniteur_, from March, 1850, to the present
summer, and they treat with decided ability and with freshness the chief
subjects connected with Mohammedan civilization, and with the present
condition and prospects of the Turkish empire, as the government,
administration, army, finances, agriculture, commerce, public
instruction, organization of religion, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Collection of Sacred Moralists_, which has been for some time in
course of publication in Paris, under the editorial supervision of the
famous editor of French classics, M. Lefèvre, has been just completed by
the publication of the two volumes, of which one contains the _Moral
Thoughts_ of Confucius, and the other the work known as _The Sacred Book
of China_.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. REGNAULT'S new book, which he would have regarded as a completion of
Louis Blanc's _Histoire de Dix Ans_, is described as a very violent and
not very clever pamphlet.

       *       *       *       *       *

LAMARTINE'S sentimental and lachrymose romance of _Raphaël_, has passed
into a third edition in Paris.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French poet MERY has just published a romance entitled _Confessions
de Marion Delorme_. We cannot imagine any additional interest from
fictitious coloring to a life such as it is believed was really led by
the heroine.

     "Marion Delorme was born in 1612 or 1615, but where is not
     exactly known, though probably in Champagne or Franche
     Comté. Of marvellous beauty and exquisite wit, she became,
     after certain amatory adventures, the mistress, and
     subsequently by secret marriage the wife, of Cinq Mars, and,
     as such, was persecuted by the terrible Cardinal Richelieu.
     Even before he was sent to the scaffold, she had formed
     other intrigues, and then had a long list of lovers, amongst
     whom were de Grammont and Saint Evremont; then she became
     the 'glass of fashion and the mould of form, the observed of
     all observers,' and the admired of all gallants of the good
     city of Paris; then she dabbled in politics, and eventually
     became one of the chiefs of the malcontent party; then she
     was in danger of arrest, like the Princes de Conti and de
     Condé; then to escape a jail she spread a rumor that she was
     dead, and actually got up a mock funeral of herself;
     afterwards, she escaped to England, married a lord, and in a
     short time became a widow with a legacy of £4000; then she
     returned to France, and on her way to Paris was attacked by
     brigands, robbed of her money, and made to marry the chief
     of the band; four years later she was again a widow, and
     then she wedded a M. Laborde; after living with him
     seventeen years, he died, and she went to Paris with the
     remains of her fortune; robbed by her domestics, she was
     reduced to beggary, and continued to lead a wretched
     existence to the extraordinary age of one hundred and
     thirty-four!"

       *       *       *       *       *

M. CUVILLIER-FLEURY has published _Portraits Politiques et
Revolutionnaires_, containing Louis Philippe and the Duchess d'Orleans,
Causes of the Revolution, Lamartine, Louis Blanc, Eugene Sue, Victor
Hugo, Proudhon, &c., &c. M. Cuvillier-Fleury was one of the Secretaries
of Louis Philippe.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PARKE GODWIN'S beautiful romance of Vala (published by Putnam) has
been translated into the Swedish language. One of the journals of
Stockholm announces the translation in terms of just appreciation. "Our
excellent Lind," it is observed, "is showered over with the California
gold, but no tribute given her can equal in worth the exquisite gem
which is here cast at her feet by this most imaginative author."

       *       *       *       *       *

The author of "How to make Home Unhealthy" has published in London _A
Defence of Ignorance_. It is addressed to the largest of the markets,
but to one that buys few books.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new novel by CHARLES DICKENS is to be commenced early in the autumn.
Neither the title nor the subject has been announced.

       *       *       *       *       *

A noble author, Viscount MAIDSTONE, has just published a poem in six
cantos, under the title of Abd-el-Kader.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. THACKERAY, who promises to come and see us, and who, of course, will
talk about us with the world afterwards, is delivering a course of six
lectures in London upon the English humorists. The first was good, and
as good as was expected, which is great praise--for few things are so
difficult as for a famous man to satisfy public expectation. The London
_Leader_ thus speaks of it:

     "On Thursday the great satiric painter of social life--the
     Fielding of our times--commenced at Willis's rooms the first
     of those 'Lectures on the English Humorists of the
     Eighteenth Century,' which many months ago we announced as
     in preparation. We have never heard a lecture that delighted
     us more. It was thoughtful and picturesque, with some
     wonderful traces of pathos and far-reaching sentences.
     Dwelling upon the moral aspects of Swift's position and
     career, rather than attempting a criticism on his works,
     Thackeray held his audience from first to last. He gave a
     vivid picture of the early life and loneliness of the great
     satirist amidst the exasperating servilities and insults
     endured from Temple's household, as also of the turbulent
     political bravo coming up to London to carve for himself a
     pathway among lords whom he despised. In this part of the
     lecture it was felt that, while satirizing that condition of
     political corruption which made Swift a bravo, and used him
     as such, the censor still touched upon living foibles; at
     the allusion to the South Sea Bubble, with its railway
     parallel, we observed some fair shoulders wince! Nor were
     religious cant and formalism untouched in the admirable
     picture of Swift's sacrifice of his life to an hypocrisy.
     The audience was of the elite--Thomas Carlyle, Macaulay,
     Milman, Milnes, Sir Robert Inglis, the Duke and Duchess of
     Argyle, the Duchess of Sutherland, Lady Constance Leveson
     Gower, Lady Lichfield, with many others, not a few lovely
     women, and several men well known in literature and art."

Of his second lecture we quote the _Times_:

     "The heroes of his second lecture were Congreve and Addison.
     For Congreve, while he admitted the brilliancy of his wit,
     he evinced no great respect. He characterized him as the
     greatest literary "swell" that ever lived. With an air of
     greatness, Congreve put on his best clothes, stalked among
     wits who all thronged to admire him, however eminent they
     might be, and approached fine ladies with a certainty of
     conquest. The "I am the great Mr. Congreve!" was the
     complacent ejaculation which seemed to break through all he
     said and did. His character as a man of gallantry was
     illustrated by citations from his poems, in which he
     adulates or insults the ladies whom he immortalizes, and
     every where appears as the irresistible seducer, sure to be
     victorious in the end. And who could resist that very great
     Mr. Congreve, with his very fine coat, squeezing a hand,
     covered with diamonds, through the ringlets of a dishevelled
     periwig? Of the moral principle of his comedies Mr.
     Thackeray spoke with disgust, and traced the worship of
     youth and recklessness, and the disrespect of old age, which
     are such leading characteristics in those brilliant works,
     through a whole series of dramatic categories from the
     comedy to the puppet-show. The constant tendency, he
     humorously described, is a recommendation to "Eat and drink,
     and go to the deuce, when your time comes, if deuce there
     be; and he confessed that he regarded these witty banquets
     without love as he would contemplate the ruins of Sallust's
     house at Pompeii, with all its ghastly relics of festivity.
     The foppish depreciation of his own literary productions
     with which Congreve met the compliments of Voltaire, Mr.
     Thackeray rather commended than otherwise, but not for a
     reason which would have pleased the great man. He really did
     think his productions worthless, if weighed against one
     kindly line of Steele or Addison.

     "Addison is evidently Mr. Thackeray's favorite of the
     'humorists' he has brought before the public. If Swift was
     the most wretched of mankind, Addison appeared to him as the
     most amiable. He admired the serene, calm character, who
     could walk so majestically among his fellow-creatures, and
     viewing with love all below him, could raise his eyes with
     adoration to the blue sky above. He admitted that Addison
     was not profound, and that his writings betray no appearance
     of suffering--which probably he never knew prior to his
     unlucky marriage--but at the same time he expatiated on the
     kindliness of his wisdom and the genuine character of his
     piety. The foible of drinking he did not attempt to conceal,
     but observed that we should have liked Addison less had he
     been without it, as we should have liked Sir Roger de
     Coverley less without his vanities. Greatly he admired the
     gentle spirit of Addison's sarcasm, as distinguished from
     the merciless onslaught of Swift, remarking, that in his
     mild court only minor cases were tried. Nor were words of
     commendation the only means by which Mr. Thackeray indicated
     his predilection for Addison. Of Swift he scarcely read a
     line; Congreve he illustrated, not by extracts from the
     comedies in which he lives for posterity, but by those minor
     poems which, though admired by his cotemporaries, are now
     little regarded; but he read several extracts from the
     _Spectator_, and also Addison's well known hymn, as a
     specimen of his deep feeling of devotion. Addison and
     Congreve were both prosperous men in a wordly point of view,
     and they were therefore introduced with a survey of that
     golden age, when an epithalamium on some noble marriage, or
     an ode to William III., was rewarded out of the public purse
     to an extent that made the poet comfortable for life.
     Congreve's first literary achievements earned for him,
     through the patronage of Lord Halifax, places in the
     commission for licensing hackney-coaches, in the
     Custom-house, and in the Pipe-office. 'Alas!' said Mr.
     Thackeray, 'there are no Pipe-offices now; the public have
     smoked all the pipes!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THEODORE S. FAY--of whom the literary world has heard nothing for a long
time--has in the press of the Appletons, a poem, entitled _Ulric, or the
Voices_. Mr. Fay wrote good verses twenty years ago, and we shall see
whether he has lost his art.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. HART, of Philadelphia, has lately published, in a very handsome
style, several handbooks in the mechanic arts, which are much commended.
Among them are _The Manufacture of Steel_, by Frederick Overman; _The
Practical Dyer's Guide_; the _American Cotton Spinner's Guide_, and the
London _Year Book of Facts_.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are soon to have a new book from THOMAS CARLYLE--a _Memoir of the
late John Sterling_, the "Archæus" of _Blackwood_, and the author of
some of the finest compositions in recent English literature. Sterling,
it is known to his friends, from a devout believer became a skeptic, and
then a deist, pantheist, or perhaps an atheist, and finally, having done
all that he saw to do, deliberately shut himself up to die--wrote to his
friends what time he should leave the world, and on the very day, as if
by a mere volition, went to his place. All this is concealed or passed
over very lightly by Archdeacon Hare, his biographer, and Carlyle
therefore determines that the world shall have his friend's true
history. Among Sterling's most intimate correspondents was Ralph Waldo
Emerson, and even Carlyle cannot write his life, we suspect, without
having access to the extraordinary series of letters the poet sent to
his American friend--letters, we have reason to believe, that will
command a greater fame for him than all his published works have won,
letters that almost any man might die to be the author of.

       *       *       *       *       *

The most noticeable event connected with literature in this country is
an arrangement entered into between a New-York publisher and THOMAS H.
BENTON, for the publication of the _Historical Memoirs of the Life and
Times_ of that eminent person. Mr. Benton is now about sixty-eight years
of age, and for half a century he has been an active participant in
affairs. He was thirty years a senator from Missouri, to which state he
removed some time before its admission to the Union. His name has been
connected with many great measures, and very few have exercised a more
powerful influence upon our institutions or policy. The increase of his
strength, as well as the increase of his fame, has been gradual but
regular. He has been from his youth a student. To every question which
has arrested his attention he has brought all the forces of his
understanding, and what he has acquired by incessant and painful labor
he has to an astonishing degree retained after the occasions which made
it necessary have passed. At a period much beyond the noon of other men,
he was still rising. He was of the age at which Cicero achieved his
highest triumphs, before he displayed the fullness and the perfection of
his powers, in several of the remarkable debates which have had relation
to our empire on the Pacific. With his extraordinary experience, his
faithful and particular memory, and wisdom which is master of his
temper, he is perhaps before every man of his time in the requisites for
such an undertaking as that which has occupied his leisure for many
years, and the chief portion of his time since he ceased to be a
senator. His work will probably make some five large octavo volumes, and
it may be believed that in fame, authority, and length of life, it will
equal the immortal production of Clarendon.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new _Life of Mr. Jefferson_ is soon to be published by Mr. RANDALL,
who has been honorably distinguished in his connection with the
government of this state. The work will embrace a very interesting
sketch of the private life of Mr. Jefferson, by Mr. Thomas Jefferson
Randolph, the statesman's grandson and executor. Whatever we may think
of the abilities or the special services of Mr. Jefferson, we are of
that large number who regard his principles as altogether erroneous and
injurious, and his character with little respect. The time is coming in
which his history must be written, not by a maker of books, but by a
philosophical statesman. Every year the materials are becoming more
accessible. The writings of Adams and Hamilton, now in course of
publication, are important contributions to them. The looked-for
correspondence of Madison will serve largely for the same end; but Mr.
Jefferson's life cannot be thoroughly understood until the collection of
his papers in the possession of the government is carefully and
intelligibly studied. The four volumes of his letters printed by Mr.
Randolph, embrace but about eight hundred, but there were sold to the
government by his executor the enormous number at _forty-two thousand
letters_ and other documents, of which nearly sixteen thousand were
written or signed by Mr. Jefferson himself. A large proportion of these
papers are doubtless most important for the illustration of contemporary
French and American biography, but the whole of them should be read by
whoever attempts to write the history of the apostle of the radical
democracy in the United States.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Memoir _with a selection of the unpublished writings of the late
Margaret Fuller, Countess d'Ossoli_, is announced as in preparation by
her friends RALPH WALDO EMERSON and WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. The letters
of Margaret Fuller to the _Tribune_, would fill a large volume, and we
hope they will be reprinted with the collection of her private
correspondence and inedited essays. And some of her later critical
writings for the _Tribune_, in which the fame of more than one favorite
of certain coteries was assailed--will her editors have courage to
reproduce them? Pray you, gentlemen, consider that you propose bringing
Margaret Fuller herself from the sea, to speak again to us in her own
language; if the figure you present speak not as she spoke--all that she
would speak, regardless of your regards--it will not be believed that
you have commission for what you undertake.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. FREDERICK OGILBY, of Philadelphia, has in preparation a _Memoir
with selections from the Writings of the late Rev. John D. Ogilby,
D.D._, whose death at Paris was recently mentioned in these pages, and
of whose life and character we have received an eloquent portraiture in
the address delivered at his funeral by Bishop Doane.

       *       *       *       *       *

An interesting article in the last _Southern Quarterly Review_ on the
life and writings of Edward Everett embraces some learned and elegant
philological discussions, in which Mr. Everett (of whom Dr. GILMAN, the
writer, is a very warm admirer) is convicted of the use of several
vulgarities, _e. g._ "in our midst," "in this connection," "reliable,"
&c. It is not often that such nice criticism is adventured in an
American review. By the way, we are surprised that in none of the
reviewals of Everett that have fallen under our notice has there been
even the suggestion of a parallel between the classical orator of
Harvard and Mr. Legaré. A feeble eulogist in a Philadelphia magazine
compares him with Webster, which is merely ridiculous, as the two men
have nothing in common. It would have pleased us if Dr. Gilman had
weighed the merits of the illustrious Carolinian against those of the
New Englander most deserving of critical comparison with him.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. GILMORE SIMMS has in the press of a Charleston publisher a complete
collection of his poems--or rather a collection embracing all his
poetical compositions which so nearly meet the approval of his judgment
that he is willing to preserve them under his name. Mr. Simms is a
voluminous writer in verse as well as in prose, and we agree to an
opinion in the _Southern Literary Messenger_, that as a poet he has by
no means received justice from his contemporaries. Scarce any one in
this country has produced more fair verses, and with the fair is much
that is really beautiful. How much this proportion would be increased if
he would but labor! and not turn off sonnets as editors do paragraphs.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. OAKESSMITH has published in the _Tribune_, ten numbers of an
eloquently earnest performance under the title of _Woman and her Needs_.
She has none of the silly and maudlin extravagances of the "Women's
Rights" party, so called, and her work may safely be placed before those
of Mary Wolstoncraft and Margaret Fuller, for ability; but we regard all
these productions as uncalled for and injurious to the best interests of
the sex. A book of much more real value may be looked for in Catherine
Beecher's _True Remedy for Woman's Wrongs_, in the press of Phillips &
Sampson, of Boston. There is no woman of stronger intellect than Miss
Beecher's now writing in this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

We learn with much regret that the Rev. Dr. THOMAS H. SMYTH, of South
Carolina, of whose many and various contributions to religious and
historical literature we gave some account in an earlier number of _The
International_, is dangerously ill in Italy, where his family have
recently joined him. Dr. Smyth, our advices state, had twice been
stricken with paralysis, and had been compelled entirely to forego all
his literary occupations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The new novels of the last month have been numerous. The Harpers have
published _Caleb Field_, by the author of Mrs. Margaret Maitland;
_Eastbury_, by Harriet Drury; _The Heir of Wast-Wayland_, by Harriet
Drury; _Yeast, a Problem_, by the author of Alton Locke; and some half
dozen others. From T. B. Peterson, of Philadelphia, we have _Ginevra, or
the History of a Portrait_, which we understand is by a daughter of the
late S. L. Fairfield: it is much praised in some of the journals. M.
Hart has given us another clever novelette, by Caroline Lee Hentz, under
the title of _Rena_. From Lippincott, Grambo & Co., we have _Lord and
Lady Harcourt_, one of the pleasantest books of the season.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS BREMER has passed the winter and spring in the south and west,
where she has been received with much hospitality, and detained with the
affection she seems every where to inspire. Within a few weeks she has
visited Florida, with a family of her friends from Charleston, and she
has given very careful attention, under the most favorable
circumstances, to the institutions of the southern states. She is now on
her way through Tennessee and Virginia to New-York, and will soon return
to Sweden, by way of London.

       *       *       *       *       *

H. BALLIERE has just published _Vestiges of Civilization, or the
Ætiology of History, Religious, Æsthetical, Political and
Philosophical_. It appears to be written with much ability, but we are
by no means inclined to believe in the truth of the author's views. He
applies to civilization the processes which the author of the _Vestiges
of Creation_ applied to Natural History; and without attaining to the
fame of that work, the Vestiges of Civilization will probably share its
condemnation.

       *       *       *       *       *

All our readers who were accustomed to read the journals twenty years
ago, will remember SHOCCO JONES, the immortal defender of the fame of
North Carolina. We had thought the mortal part of him was sent to the
bourne he was so fond of describing in fine rhetoric when he wrote
duel-challenges until a few days ago, when a friend advised us that he
had lately listened to him saying mass in a Roman Catholic chapel in
Mississippi. Who would have thought it?

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. CHARLES SCRIBNER, (successor of Baker & Scribner,) has in press a
large number of interesting new works, among which are _Incidents in the
Life of a Pastor_, by the Rev. Dr. Wisner of Ithica; _The Captains of
the Old World_, by Henry William Herbert; _Naval Life: the Midshipman_,
by Lieutenant Lynch, Commander of the late Dead Sea Expedition; _The
Fall of Poland_, by L. C. Saxton; _The Evening Book_, by Mrs. Kirkland;
_Rural Homes_, by G. Wheeler; _The Epoch of Creation_, in which the
scripture doctrine is contrasted with the geological theory, by Eleazer
Lord; &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

We perceive by the religious journals that Mr. JOHN NEAL, who for twenty
or thirty years has been the chief literary gladiator of the country,
has recently given his attention to religion, and is now laboring with
characteristic activity for its advancement in the city and vicinity of
Portland. Of course this is very pleasing intelligence, but we cannot
help a regret that the conversion of the author of "Randolph" had not
taken place before he printed his reviewal of the _Life of Poe_.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. FRANCES H. GREEN has in press a collection of her Poems, which will
soon be published in a stout duodecimo, by Mr. Strong, in Nassau-street.
The merits of Mrs. Green may be partially inferred from the notice of
her in the article on our Female Poets which we translate from the last
number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, in another part of this magazine.
She has remarkable powers of description, a rich fancy, and much
poetical feeling.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. MITCHELL has published (Charles Scribner) a new edition of his
_Fresh Gleanings_, one of the most delightful books of travel we ever
read; a new edition, with a preface, in which he for the first time
avows himself the author of _The Lorgnette_, (Stringer & Townsend); and
he has a new work in the press of Mr. Scribner, besides a new and
illustrated edition of _The Reveries of a Bachelor_.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, F.R.S., has returned to England, and will
soon give to the world his views of society and manners in America. He
said indeed on one or two occasions that he should write no book about
us, yet we have it from excellent authority that he has matured his plan
for the purpose, and will lose no time in bringing out the results of
his summer's observation.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. HOLBROOK, of Charleston, whose splendid work on reptiles entitles
him to be ranked with the great naturalists of the time, has taken up
his residence for the summer, we understand, at Cambridge,
Massachusetts, where he will be occupied with his forthcoming book on
American fishes, which in the beauty of its illustrations at least will
equal his previous performance.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. JUDD has in the press of Phillips & Sampson, a new edition of his
first and best novel, _Margaret, a Tale of the Real and the Ideal_. We
hope it will be illustrated with the admirable sketches of Darley.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. SCHOOLCRAFT, we are pleased to learn, has in the press of
Lippincott, Grambo & Co., his personal memoirs. They will constitute a
work of much and varied interest.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. MELVILLE will soon be again before the public in a romance. The
title of his new work is not announced, but we believe it is in press.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have before us the first volume--printed at Charleston, with an
elegance that would do credit to our best northern printers--of the
_History of Alabama, and Incidentally of Georgia and Mississippi, from
the Earliest period_, by ALBERT JAMES PICKETT. In _The International_
for May we gave some account of the design. The work is executed
throughout with great care, and Colonel Pickett may be congratulated
upon having done a very important service to his State, by his arduous
and intelligently prosecuted labors, of which he gives an interesting
account in the following extract from his preface:

     "About four years since, feeling impressed with the fact
     that it is the duty of every man to make himself, in some
     way, useful to his race, I looked around in search of some
     object, in the pursuit of which I could benefit my
     fellow-citizens; for, although much interested in
     agriculture, that did not occupy one-fourth of my time.
     Having no taste for politics, and never having studied a
     profession, I determined to write a History. I thought it
     would serve to amuse my leisure hours; but it has been the
     hardest work of my life. While exhausted by the labor of
     reconciling the statements of old authors, toiling over old
     French and Spanish manuscripts, travelling through Florida,
     Alabama and Mississippi, for information, and corresponding
     with persons in Europe and elsewhere, for facts, I have
     sometimes almost resolved to abandon the attempt to prepare
     a History of my State.

     "In reference to that portion of the work which relates to
     the Indians, I will state, that my father removed from Anson
     county, North-Carolina, and carried me to the wilds of the
     'Alabama Territory,' in 1818, when I was a boy but eight
     years of age. He established a trading house, in connection
     with his plantation, in the present county of Autauga.
     During my youthful days, I was accustomed to be much with
     the Creek Indians--hundreds of whom came almost daily to the
     trading house. For twenty years I frequently visited the
     Creek nation. Their green-corn dances, ball-plays, war
     ceremonies, and manners and customs, are all fresh in my
     recollection. In my intercourse with them, I was thrown into
     the company of many old white men, called 'Indian
     countrymen,' who had for years conducted a commerce with
     them. Some of these men had come to the Creek nation before
     the revolutionary war, and others, being tories, had fled to
     it during the war, and after it, to escape from whig
     persecution. They were unquestionably the shrewdest and most
     interesting men with whom I ever conversed. Generally of
     Scotch descent, many of them were men of some education. All
     of them were married to Indian wives, and some of them had
     intelligent and handsome children. From these Indian
     countrymen I learned much concerning the manners and customs
     of the Creeks, with whom they had been so long associated,
     and more particularly with regard to the commerce which they
     carried on with them. In addition to this, I often conversed
     with the Chiefs while they were seated in the shades of the
     spreading mulberry and walnut, upon the banks of the
     beautiful Tallapoosa. As they leisurely smoked their pipes,
     some of them related to me the traditions of their country.
     I occasionally saw Choctaw and Cherokee traders, and learned
     much from them. I had no particular object in view at that
     time, except the gratification of a curiosity, which led me,
     for my own satisfaction alone, to learn something of the
     early history of Alabama.

     "In relation to the invasion of Alabama by De Soto, which is
     related in the first chapter of this work, I have derived
     much information in regard to the route of that earliest
     discoverer, from statements of General McGillivray, a Creek
     of mixed blood, who ruled this country, with eminent
     ability, from 1776 to 1793. I have perused the manuscript
     history of the Creeks, by Stiggins, a half-breed, who also
     received some particulars of the route of De Soto, during
     his boyhood, from the lips of the oldest Indians. My library
     contains many old Spanish and French maps, with the towns
     through which De Soto passed, correctly laid down. The sites
     of many of these are familiar to the present population.
     Besides all these, I have procured from England and France
     three journals of De Soto's expedition.

     "One of these journals was written by a cavalier of the
     expedition, who was a native of Elvas, in Portugal. He
     finished his narrative on the 10th February, 1557, in the
     city of Evora, and it was printed in the house of Andrew de
     Burgos, printer and gentleman of the Lord Cardinal and the
     Infanta. It was translated into English, by Richard Hakluyt,
     in 1609, and is to be found in the supplementary volume of
     his voyages and discoveries; London: 1812. It is also
     published at length in the Historical Collections of Peter
     Force, of Washington city.

     "Another journal of the expedition was written by the Inca
     Garcellasso de la Vega, a Peruvian by birth, and a native of
     the city of Cusco. His father was a Spaniard of noble blood,
     and his mother the sister of Capac, one of the Indian
     sovereigns of Peru. Garcellasso was a distinguished writer
     of that age. He had heard of the remarkable invasion of
     Florida by De Soto, and he applied himself diligently to
     obtain the facts. He found out an intelligent cavalier of
     that expedition, with whom he had minute conversations of
     all the particulars of it. In addition to this, journals
     were placed in his hands, written in the camp of De
     Soto--one by Alonzo de Carmona, a native of the town of
     Priego, and the other, by Juan Coles, a native of Zafra.
     Garcellasso published his work, at an early period, in
     Spanish. It has been translated into French, but never into
     English. The copy in our hands is entitled 'Histoire de la
     Conquete de la Floride ou relation de ce qui s'est passé
     dans la découverte de ce pais, par Ferdinand De Soto,
     Composée en Espagnol, par L'Inca Garcellasso de la Vega, et
     traduite en Francois, par St. Pierre Richelet, en deux
     tomes; a Leide: 1731.'

     "I have still another journal, and the last one, of the
     expedition of De Soto. It was written by Biedma, who
     accompanied De Soto, as his commissary. The journal is
     entitled 'Relation de ce qui arriva pendant le voyage du
     Captaine Soto, et details sur la nature du pas qu'il
     parcourut; par Luis Hernandez de Biedma,' contained in a
     volume entitled 'Recuil de Pieces sur la Floride,' one of a
     series of 'Voyages et memoires originaux pour servir a la
     L'Histoire de la Recouverte de L'Amerique publies pour la
     premier fois en Francois; par H. Ternaux-Compans. Paris:
     1841.'

     "In Biedma there is an interesting letter written by De
     Soto, while he was at Tampa Bay, in Florida, which was
     addressed to some town authorities in Cuba. The journal of
     Biedma is much less in detail than those of the Portuguese
     Gentleman and Garcellasso, but agrees with them in the
     relation of the most important occurrences.

     "Our own accomplished writer, and earliest pioneer in
     Alabama history--Alexander B. Meck, of Mobile--has furnished
     a condensed, but well written and graphic account of De
     Soto's expedition, contained in a monthly magazine, entitled
     'The Southern,' Tuscaloosa, 1839. He is correct as to the
     direction assumed by the Spaniards, over our soil, as well
     as to the character of that extraordinary conquest."

We shall recur to the work on receiving the second volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

LORD CAMPBELL, (who is himself a somewhat voluminous author, in history
and general literature,) has reversed the decision of Baron Rolfe, given
last year, and has decided that foreigners _first publishing_ in England
are entitled to copyright. He declared that the act of Anne for the
encouragement of learning was furthered by allowing a copyright to
aliens who first published in England, that Parliament had always
favored the importation of foreign literature, and that the law would
still protect the property of the foreign author, recognize his rights,
and give him redress for all wrongs inflicted upon him in England.

This decision is one of very great importance, though not final, as the
pirating booksellers have determined to carry the matter before the
House of Lords, where Brougham, Lyndhurst, and several others of great
authority, are known to be against them. Meantime, Bentley and the other
purchasers of American copyrights, have issued advertisements warning
the public against the purchase of unauthorized editions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. DR. BAIRD has added to the number of his works _The Christian
Retrospect and Register, a Summary of Scientific Moral and Religious
Progress in the First Half of the XIXth Century_. (_12mo. M. W. Dodd._)
It is an interesting compend of events, of which even a condensed
history might fill a dozen volumes. In all respects it is superior to a
work of the same design published by Dr. Davis, and formerly reviewed in
this magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Parthenon_, is the title of a new work, remarkable for the beauty
of its typography and of its wood cuts, to be published by Loomis &
Griswold. It will be in about a dozen parts, the price of each of which
will be one dollar. The first number contains, with a new story by Mr.
Cooper, the best poem ever published by Mr. Duganne, and two really
excellent poems by William Ross Wallace.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOUISA PAYSON HOPKINS has just published (Gould & Lincoln of Boston) an
excellent little volume in practical religion, entitled _Life's Guiding
Star_, and designed to illustrate the second and third questions of the
Westminster Catechism.

       *       *       *       *       *

The works of the late Rev. WALTER COLTON, U. S. N., will soon be
completed in the edition of A. S. Barnes & Co. They have already
published _Ashore and Afloat_, and _Three Years in California_, which
appeared before the author's death, and since then, _Land and Lee_,
embracing the volume published many years ago under the title of
"Constantinople and Athens." The posthumous volumes are carefully and
judiciously edited by the Rev. HENRY T. CHEEVER, whose own works of a
somewhat similar character we have always to notice with praise.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Appletons have in press _Io!_ a novel, by a member of the Canadian
Parliament, which gives large promise in the proof sheets; _The
Philosophy of Mechanics_, by Mr. Allen, of Providence; _Campaigns in
Mexico and by the Rio Grande_, by Brevet Major ISAAC J. STEVENS, in
which Major Ripley, author of the History of the Mexican War, published
by Harpers, is likely to receive more hot shot than he encountered on
the field; _Sunbeams and Shadows_, a novel, by Miss HULSE, of Baltimore,
and several other new works.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _History of the Protestants of France, from the Commencement of the
Reformation to the Present Period_, by G. S. FELICE, Professor of
Theology at Montauban, has been published in a handsome octavo, by
Edward Walker, Fulton street. In the April number of _The
International_, we described this work, from a copy of the French
original that fell in our way, not knowing that it was in course of
translation. We renew our commendations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Traveller's and Tourist's Guide through the United States, Canada,
&c._, by W. WILLIAMS, (published by Lippincott, Grambo & Co., of
Philadelphia), is the most convenient and comprehensive hand-book of the
kind we have seen. It appears in time for the tourists of the summer,
who will find in it all the information they need, as to routes,
distances, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

The author of "Standish the Puritan," who indulges a natural taste for
letters, after having won fortune and eminence at the bar, is now
finishing the last sheets of a new novel for the Harpers, on his estate
in Georgia.

       *       *       *       *       *

CZERNY'S _Method of the Piano Forte_, which we believe to be in all
respects as good a book of instruction for that instrument, as was ever
made, has been reprinted in a good edition by Oliver Ditson, of Boston.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new edition of CARDINAL WISEMAN'S _Lectures on the Principal Doctrines
of the Catholic Church_, has been published by John Murphy & Co., of
Baltimore. This is a very able work, though less interesting to the mass
of readers than its eminent author's work on the connexion between
Science and Revealed Religion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the new poems of the month are several fine ones by a new
candidate for favor--a young woman of Connecticut--who writes in the
_Tribune_. We quote two of them:


TRAILING ARBUTUS.

            Darlings of the forest!
              Blossoming alone
            When Earth's grief is sorest
              For her jewels gone--
    Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown.

            Tinged with color faintly,
              Like the morning sky,
            Or more pale and saintly,
              Wrapped in leaves ye lie,
    Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

            There the wild wood-robin
              Hymns your solitude,
            And the rain comes sobbing,
              Through the budding wood,
    While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude.

            Were your pure lips fashioned
              Out of air and dew:
            Starlight unimpassioned,
              Dawn's most tender hue--
    And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?

            Fairest and most lonely,
              From the world apart,
            Made for beauty only,
              Veiled from nature's heart,
    With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

            Were not mortal sorrow
              An immortal shade,
            Then would I to-morrow
              Such a flower be made,
    And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.

    A. W. H.


INDOLENCE.

    Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent,
      So is the grass growing tenderly, slowly;
      So is the violet fragrant and lowly,
    Drinking in quietness, peace, and content;
      So is the bird on the light branches swinging,
      Idly his carol of gratitude singing,
    Only on living and loving intent.

    Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent!
      So is the cloud overhanging the mountain
      So is the tremulous wave of a fountain,
    Uttering softly its eloquent psalm;
      Nerve and sensation in quiet reposing,
      Silent as blossoms the night dew is closing,
    But the full heart beating strongly and calm.

    Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent!
      If it be idle to gather my pleasure
      Out of creation's uncoveted treasure,
    Midnight, and morning; by forest and sea;
      Wild with the tempest's sublime exultation;
      Lonely in Autumn's forlorn lamentation;
    Hopeful and happy with Spring and the bee.

    Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent?
      Thralls of the earth, and its usages weary;
      Toiling like gnomes where the darkness is dreary,
    Toiling and sinning, to heap up your gold.
      Stifling the heavenward breath of devotion;
      Crushing the freshness of every emotion;
    Hearts like the dead, that are pulseless and cold!

    Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent?
      Thou who art living unloving and lonely,
      Wrapped in a pall that will cover thee only,
    Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost!
      Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are weeping
      O'er thy forsaked and desolate sleeping;
    Art thou not indolent!--Art thou not lost?

    A. W. H.

ALICE CAREY continues to write pieces full of grace and feeling. Here is
one from the _National Era_:


ANNIE CLAYVILLE.

      In the bright'ning wake of April
        Comes the lovely, lovely May,
      But the step of Annie Clayville
        Falleth fainter day by day.
      In despite of sunshine, shadows
        Lie upon her heart and brow:
      Last year she was gay and happy--
        Life is nothing to her now!

      When she hears the wild bird singing,
        Or the sweetly humming bee,
      Only says she, faintly smiling,
        What have you to do with me?
      Yet, sing out for pleasant weather,
        Wild birds in the woodland dells--
      Fly out, little bees, and gather
        Honey for your waxen wells.
      Softly, silver rain of April,
        Come down singing from the clouds,
      Till daffodils and daisies
        Shall be up in golden crowds;
      Till the wild pinks hedge the meadows,
        Blushing out of slender stems,
      And the dandelions, starry,
        Cover all the hills with gems.
      From your cool beds in the rivers,
        Blow, fresh winds, and gladness bring
      To the locks that wait to hide you--
        What have I to do with spring?

    May is past--along the hollows
        Chime the rills in sleepy tune,
      While the harvest's yellow chaplet
        Swings against the face of June.

      Very pale lies Annie Clayville--
        Still her forehead, shadow crowned,
      And the watchers hear her saying,
        As they softly tread around:
      Go out, reapers, for the hill tops
        Twinkle with the summer's heat--
      Lay from out your swinging cradles
        Golden furrows of ripe wheat!
      While the little laughing children,
        Lightly mixing work with play,
      From between the long green winrows
        Glean the sweetly-scented hay.
      Let your sickles shine like sunbeams
        In the silver-flowing rye,
      Ears grow heavy in the cornfields--
        That will claim you by and by.
      Go out, reapers, with your sickles,
        Gather home the harvest store!
      Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,
        I shall go with you no more.

      Round the red moon of October,
        White and cold the eve-stars climb,
      Birds are gone, and flowers are dying--
        'Tis a lonesome, lonesome time,
      Yellow leaves along the woodland
        Surge to drifts--the elm bough sways,
      Creaking at the homestead window
        All the weary nights and days.
      Dismally the rain is falling--
        Very dismally and cold;
      Close, within the village graveyard,
        By a heap of freshest mould,
      With a simple, nameless headstone,
        Lies a low and narrow mound,
      And the brow of Annie Clayville
        Is no longer shadow-crowned.
      Rest thee, lost one, rest thee calmly,
        Glad to go where pain is o'er--
      Where they say not, through the night-time,
        "I am weary," any more.

MR. BOKER has a fine poem entitled "I have a Cottage," in the July
_Graham's Magazine_.

FOOTNOTES:

[D] Weil's _History of the Khalifs_. 3 vols. octavo. Besserman,
Mannhein, 1851.



_The Fine Arts._


There have been new discoveries of sculptures in Athens. The foundations
of the old Council House were disclosed, and farther investigation led
to the discovery of very beautiful remains. They are mostly fragmentary,
but of the finest style. Especially an arm, with drapery, is very fine,
and as the investigations are not yet completed, it is hoped that other
parts of the statue may be obtained. More than sixty inscriptions have
been also revealed. They are mostly decrees in praise of and memorials
of honor to certain men. Some are of the Macedonian, others of the Roman
period. Mr. Pittakis, the long resident and famous Athenian antiquariae,
has been properly put at the head of the party of investigation. His
topographical knowledge of Athens is probably superior to that of any
other living man.

       *       *       *       *       *

The German painter CORNELIUS has recently composed a picture for the
hospital of the Sisters of Charity in Berlin. The cartoon is at present
in Dresden, where it will be cut in wood by the artist's old friend,
Director von Schnorr, for the Art-Guild there. It will afterward be
engraved upon steel, and sold for the benefit of the hospital. The
subject is taken from the life of Elizabeth. The mother of the Landgrave
of Thuringen has seen that Elizabeth has laid a beggar on the nuptial
bed, for the purpose of nursing her, and he brings her son to see how
his wife forgets his dignity as well as her own. But her worldly
selfishness is shamed in the most surprising manner. An angel has drawn
aside the curtain, and the landgrave, instead of a beggar, beholds the
Saviour himself, who, with gentle aspect, stretches his hand toward the
mother and son. Under the picture is the motto, "What ye have done to
the least of these brethren, that ye have done to me." In its essential
character this picture resembles the cartoon for a painting upon glass
in the cathedral of Aix. In both pictures the artist has reverted to the
sensibility of his youth, and created forms which recall the paintings
of the old German and elder Italian masters. In the present drawing the
figures of Elizabeth and of the two angels (one of whom is in a
reverential posture behind the bed) are radiant with celestial
tenderness and loveliness. From the countenance of Christ beams the
divinely mild rebuke of the deepest feeling of mistaken virtue. The
landgrave, a fine manly figure, is full of the earnest expression of the
knowledge fast dawning upon his mind, and his mother shows
characteristic worldliness subdued by a higher power. The whole picture
is penetrated by the devotional sentiment of the middle ages. These are
not modern figures in middle age costume, but men who belong to their
time by expression and bearing. In the freedom and simplicity of
treatment we recognize the master, who may properly reproduce the life
and art of a past time, from his entire sympathy with it. Another
cartoon in the great series for the Berlin Campo Santo, upon which
Cornelius is now engaged, represents the happiness of those who hunger
and thirst after righteousness.

       *       *       *       *       *

A German critic, speaking of the statues of the Greek Slave by Powers
and of the Wounded Indian by Stevenson, says of the latter that the
touch of genius is visible in the work, but it is only the copying of
nature, and has no ideal character; and of the former that the artist
must have developed his talent by long and patient study and
contemplation of the finest creations of art. The forms of nature are
not only reproduced, with the most poetic truth, but a glow of spiritual
beauty breathes all over the work. It is most interesting, concludes the
critic, to see the laying of the corner-stone of American art, an
edifice whose completion none of us will live to see.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Festival of the unveiling of the statue of Frederick the Great, at
Berlin, on the last day of May, is represented as one of the most
splendid spectacles ever witnessed in that city. The memory of "Old
Fritz" is cherished with a peculiar enthusiasm by the masses, who turned
out in immense numbers. The day was the 110th anniversary of Frederick's
ascending the throne. The monument is a real historical work, and,
besides its artistic merit, may be consulted as an authentic record of
the warriors and statesmen who helped to found a great kingdom. It is an
immense advance on the insipid allegorical style, with its eternal Fames
with trumpets, and Victories descending with garlands. Except in one or
two of the small bas-reliefs, Rauch has adhered to strict reality, only
so skilfully modified that it never becomes vulgar or commonplace. His
Ziethens and Winterfeldts are warriors as stern and dignified in their
"regulation" uniforms as if they were presented on the fields of Torgau
and and Rossbach, like Achilles and Hector on the plains of Troy. A
letter in the London _Times_ says there were present about eighty aged
soldiers who had served under the great King, and one old Hussar, of
Ziethen's regiment, was pointed out as having actually fought in the
Seven Years' War; the junior of the party could not be less than
fourscore; they were all accommodated with seats specially provided for
them; they wore the uniform of the period, of the old regulation cut,
but newly made for the day, so that the veterans looked quite brilliant.
Some of them, perhaps, had not worn a uniform for half a century.

       *       *       *       *       *

The author of _Wanderings of a Pilgrim, during Four-and-Twenty Years in
the East_, has employed herself, since her return to England, in
superintending the painting of a Diorama of Hindostan. Perhaps no one
else has so numerous a collection of beautiful sketches taken in the
East, and few, indeed, possess her knowledge of Indian manners and
customs.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the close of last month the bronze statues of Gustavus Adolphus, and
of Tegner, the Swedish poet who wrote the _Children of the last Supper_,
were cast in Munich.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since our last number, JENNY LIND has closed the series of her farewell
concerts in New-York, and a week afterward dissolved her business
relations with Mr. Barnum. Her career of nine months in this country has
been a triumph unprecedented in the history of artistic success. She has
appealed everywhere to the great general sympathy of the multitude, and
partly, undoubtedly, owing to the prestige of her European fame, and the
wonder at her remarkable vocalism, she has sung always before an
audience essentially and characteristically American.

But the great service she has rendered, the fact which history would
regard, is her introduction to us of some of the finest music,
presented in a manner entirely adequate, and yet entirely different from
all to which we were accustomed. She has illustrated the fact, that a
noble nature ennobles the position of a public artist, and that the most
appreciative artistic sympathy with the highest and most unpopular
music, has yet something popularly sympathetic. It is the old story of
great genius. It is Burns, again, at once the despair of the most
brilliant and cultivated talent, and the delight of the entirely
illiterate and vulgar sense. From this career of JENNY LIND must date a
new era for us, both in musical taste and musical criticism. Now that
she has shown us what is good music, whether popular or not, and what is
perfect performance of it, whether in any favorite school or not, it
will no longer do to smear mediocrity with superlatives, or to criticise
music upon any grounds other than those of the criticism of all other
arts. The manner in which JENNY LIND took our Penates, our _Sweet Home_,
and _Auld Robin Gray_, and _Comin' thro' the Rye_, and restored them to
us with a more graceful and significant life, was one of the most
beautiful signs of the presence and power of genius. To that, every
thing has been subservient. The large and gracious charities of the
woman, the natural simplicity of her manner, and the personal magnetism
which she every where diffused, were but the ornaments of the pure
artistic nature, the divine priesthood of genius. JENNY LIND continues
her progress through the country. It is understood that, after a month,
she will retire from the public eye, for the rest which she so much
requires, and afterwards, we learn from the best authority, she will, if
possible, resume her concerts.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OPERA.--Immediately upon the departure of JENNY LIND, Mr. Maretzek
opened the doors of the Astor Place Opera House for a short season,
preparatory to his summer campaign in Castle Garden. Under his auspices
BOSIO has reappeared, and BETTINI has made his bow. BOSIO is so
beautiful a woman, she has a voice so subtly sweet and sympathetic, a
style of singing so simple and sufficient, and an instinctive
feminineness of feeling fine enough to make her acting always agreeable,
that her impression as a Prima Donna is the most symmetrical we have
known in New-York. Her womanliness is her charm and her success. Even in
characters of so grandiose proportions in the imagination, as
_Lucrezia_, she never drops for a moment the interest of the spectator,
although it is new to him to find a tender feeling in his regard for the
Borgia. This tenderness, however, is not fatal to the artistic effect.
It is that quality of feeling which he would have for a lost but lovely
Magdalen. BOSIO'S _Zerlina_ is another quite perfect representation. Its
arch grace and sparkling beauty have never been surpassed by any Zerlina
we have seen. BOSIO, however, sketches rather than colors. Her acting is
a suggestive outline which the imagination naturally fills--and, within
the range of singers possible to us, we could select none so singularly
fascinating as Bosio for the summer moonlight at Castle Garden.

BETTINI is a young man, with a fresh, sweet, sympathetic tenor voice,
which happily harmonizes with BOSIO'S. He has rather too magniloquent a
style both of acting and singing, but is a very agreeable artist. We
could lay in the shadows of his portrait delicately, yet deeply enough,
by saying that he is _young_. He has made a decided hit upon the town,
and the first evening at Castle Garden attracted an audience of not less
than three thousand.

Donizetti's opera of _Marino Faliero_ has been produced at Castle
Garden, for the first time in America. It is only second rate music, but
was admirably sung by the company. MARINI looks the Doge and wears the
ducal robe with great dignity and success.



NICHOLAS VON DER FLUE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY THE AUTHOR OF "RURAL
HOURS."


The fifteenth century proved an eventful and important period of Swiss
history. The age which preceded it gave birth to the people, and brought
them an independent existence and a name; but it left them at its close
the mere skeleton of a political body, and it was not until a later day
that their national constitution received fulness and development--it
was not until the fifteenth century that the people acquired a clearly
distinct character and position among the countries of Europe.

Several of the most celebrated battles in Swiss history, those which
gave the confederates military fame with other nations, belong to this
period. The battle of St. Jacques is altogether one of the most
extraordinary on record. Thirty thousand French troops, chiefly from the
free company of Armagnac, commanded by the Dauphin, afterwards Louis
XI., marched to the defence of Zurich, which had revolted against the
confederacy. They arrived at Basle in August, 1444. Fifteen hundred
Swiss, from the cantons of Berne, Lucerne, Soleure and Basle, were
dispatched to meet them. They found several thousand of the enemy in
advance. These they attacked, repulsed, and pursued to the river Birs,
and then, dashing into the stream after the flying enemy, and in face of
a heavy cannonade, they actually assaulted the whole army of France in
their camp on the opposite shore. The daring corps were soon divided,
but they fought like lions. Five hundred were in an open meadow, exposed
on all sides to the enemy; the remaining nine hundred threw themselves
behind a garden wall. These last repulsed the enemy there several times,
and made two attacks in their turn. Hundreds and thousands of the
Armagnacs fell--man by man the brave Swiss were struck down. The battle
lasted ten hours before the whole corps of Swiss had fallen, for then
only could the enemy pause. Fourteen hundred and ninety of the
confederates were numbered with the dead, ten men only escaping by
flight. Thousands upon thousands of the French army lay piled about the
dead Swiss. This defeat, if such a name be fitted to the battle of St.
Jacques, produced all the results of a victory: the siege of Basle was
abandoned, a peace was speedily concluded, and it was in consequence of
this brilliant action that Louis XI., when he ascended his father's
throne, concluded with the Swiss that close alliance which has lasted
nearly to the present times.

It was in the fifteenth century also that Charles of Burgundy attacked
the confederates with all the forces of one of the richest and most
powerful princes of the age. On the third of March, 1476, twenty
thousand Swiss marched from Neufchatel to meet the army of Burgundy near
Granson, a force which, with its followers, numbered one hundred
thousand strong. The battle began in the morning, and at night Charles
the Bold was flying through the passes of the Jura, with five
companions, his brilliant army dispersed to the four winds of heaven,
his choicest treasures in the hands of the frugal Swiss. In the month of
June of the same year Charles again appeared in Switzerland, at the head
of an army still larger than that he had commanded at Granson. On the
twenty-second of June he lay before the little town of Morat, which he
had assaulted in vain. The Swiss, with thirty-four thousand men,
advanced to meet him, and with their usual ardor rushed upon the whole
Burgundian force. In a few hours they had again routed an invading army
nearly four times their own numbers. Charles fled from the field, with a
small escort, leaving fifteen thousand of his army dead on the battle
ground, while thousands more were drowned in the adjoining lake.

Having been thus successful when opposed to northern troops, the Swiss
shortly after tried their strength against a southern foe, the Duke of
Milan. On this occasion the confederates were the aggressors, although
under the plea of retaliation. A party of Italians had cut timber in one
of their forests. Immediately a descent upon the Italian valleys was
planned, and a considerable force crossed the southern Alps. A Milanese
army of fifteen thousand men marched up the Ticino to meet the
mountaineers. At the village of Giornico lay the Swiss vanguard of six
hundred men, from Uri, Schweyz, Lucerne, and Zurich, the main body of
their troops not having yet advanced so far. It was mid-winter of the
year 1478. The Swiss caused the Ticino to overflow the meadows before
the village, which soon became a field of ice; and as the Milanese army
advanced upon Giornico, the confederates sallied out upon _skates_, and
with this advantage over their enemies, six hundred Swiss put to flight
a Milanese army of fifteen thousand men.

At that period the principal weapons were crossbows, arquebuses, lances,
and halberds. Battle-axes and swords were also common, as well as knives
and daggers. The body was still protected by armor, generally among the
Swiss of plain workmanship; the head was covered by a helmet, or among
the common soldiery with a thick felt hat, ornamented with feathers of
the ostrich or the cock, according to the means of the owner. A white
cross was stitched on the clothing in conspicuous places, and served as
a common uniform badge with the confederates.

Victories so brilliant as those of Granson, Morat, and Giornico, with a
defeat so advantageous as that of St. Jacques, spread the fame of the
mountaineers through Europe--princes eagerly sought their aid as
mercenaries; they were frequently opposed to each other in rival armies,
and as their fidelity became as well known as their courage, they were
solicited to form the body-guards of royalty.

The Swiss guards of the kings of France have a place in history. Their
honorable fidelity to Louis XVI. is known the world over. Even within
the present century the Swiss have watched at the gates of the
Tuileries, Louis XVIII. having revived the custom on his return to
France. After the Hundred Days, however, the body was finally disbanded.
To the present hour it is understood that the King of Naples and the
Pope are still (or were very shortly since) surrounded by body-guards
from the confederacy.

But much as these different wars added to Swiss glory, they were
followed by serious evils to the nation. A warlike, rapacious spirit,
and with it the love of a roving, restless life, spread with wonderful
rapidity among the people. Their mountain homes were deserted, their
lands lay fallow, their flocks were sold to procure the means of arming
themselves, employment among foreign powers was eagerly sought, and when
it could not be obtained, parties of disbanded soldiers and idle
camp-followers spread disorder through the country to such an extent
that the severest measures were resorted to, and in the space of a few
months as many as fifteen hundred vagabonds of this description were
publicly executed.

The rich spoils of the Burgundian army produced a very unhappy effect.
The gold, and silver, and jewels found in the deserted camp gave the
conquerors a taste for riches to which they had hitherto been strangers.
Formerly they had been a frugal and contented people, but a few short
years produced a very striking change in this respect; a thirst for gold
became general, bribes were openly offered and received, and foreign
coin had an all-powerful influence in directing the course of their
politics. Not only were the military openly in the pay of their
neighbors, but the public men of the different cantons were only too
well acquainted with German florins, Italian ducats, and French crowns.
It is true, this fact was not considered so disgraceful in those times
as it would be to-day. For, two hundred years since, half the court of
England, with the king at their head, were in the pay of Louis XIV. But
it would appear that bribery became more frequent and more impudent in
Swiss politics than in those of other countries at the same period. On
one occasion the French minister had his money-bags publicly opened at
Berne, and the royal pensions or bribes distributed in the town with the
sound of the trumpet. At Friburg heaps of crowns were openly displayed,
piled up with shovels, and the bystanders were asked if the silver did
not sound better than the empty promises of the Emperor Maximilian,
nicknamed _Pochidanari_, or the Pennyless. At another time the French
ambassador went to the baths of Baden, in Arau, where people from all
parts of the country were assembled, kept open house, paid the score for
large troops of the company, and actually threw gold into the bathing
rooms, for the women to scramble for. The result of a course like this
was very injurious to Swiss character. Highly honorable for courage and
fidelity, it has yet been considered as too generally colored by the
love of money, verifying the proverb, "_point d'argent, point de
Suisse_."

But this mercenary spirit was not the only evil brought upon the
confederacy by the victories of the fifteenth century. Internal
differences of the gravest nature soon followed. The division of the
spoil was very unsatisfactory to the rural cantons. They made loud
complaints of injustice, and became extremely jealous of the greater
intelligence, power, and influence of the towns; while the burghers, in
their turn, became suspicious of the pastoral cantons, accusing them of
wishing to promote disturbances between themselves and their
subjects--subjects, we say, for the towns having acquired by conquest or
purchase parcels of territory here and there, governed them as the
feudal lords governed their vassals. In short, from the whole history of
that period it is evident that a spirit of suspicion and jealousy was
rife throughout the confederacy, threatening disunion and revolution. In
the hope of restoring confidence and unity, a council or Diet was
convened at Stantz, one of the principal towns of the canton of
Unterwalden.

One by one, the deputations from the different cantons made their
appearance at the little town of Stantz. They came by the lake of
Lucerne, or lake of the forest cantons, as it is more frequently called
by the people themselves, a beautiful sheet of limpid water, lying in
the bosom of noble Alpine mountains, with sweet pastoral valleys opening
here and there among the solemn cliffs. There were soldiers, merchants,
lawyers, and peasants in the assembly; there were burghers from Berne,
Zurich, and Lucerne, with shepherds from Schwyz and Uri; in addition to
the regular deputies, there were also agents from St. Gall, Appenzell,
Soleure, and Friburg, applying for admission to the confederacy, to
which they had been hitherto only allies. It was in the winter season
that the Diet assembled. The session was scarcely opened when it became
evident that they had met in an evil temper; every subject introduced
was received with bitterness, mistrust, and suspicion. The angry
passions of the rural cantons were thoroughly aroused; they were
extremely jealous of the towns, and no reasoning could induce them to
accede to the application for admission from Friburg and Soleure. These
districts were headed by important cities, and every city was accused of
tyranny. The burghers knew too much, they were too rich, they were too
prosperous. The deputies of the larger cantons, on the other hand, were
indignant at this petty jealousy, and at the refusal to receive Soleure
and Friburg, whose citizens had fought side by side with them in so many
of their struggles. The subject of the division of the spoils from the
war with Burgundy was again advanced by the rural cantons with renewed
bitterness. In short, every matter broached seemed to offer only another
field for mistrust and fierce contention.

While the Diet was thus holding its stormy session at Stantz, a
conspiracy against Lucerne was discovered. The peasants of a rural
district subject to the town were implicated in it; they had resolved to
seize the occasion of an approaching festival for attacking the
burghers, murdering the governor and council, and razing the city to the
ground, so that in future nothing but a village, like their own, should
exist on the spot. Tidings of the discovery of this conspiracy only
aggravated the evil temper of the Diet. From invective and accusation
both parties proceeded to the gravest threats. The deputies of Friburg
and Soleure, in the hopes of restoring a better understanding,
voluntarily withdrew their application, but in vain. Both parties were
too highly exasperated. Reconciliation was held to be impossible.
Disunion and civil war, that most wretched, most shameful warfare, were
declared inevitable.

The canton of Unterwalden was divided into two districts, each including
one of the two great gorges of that region. Each of these valleys had
its own towering mountains, with rocky summits, wooded heights, and
green alpine pastures. Through each flowed a stream, or rather wild
torrent, and the more level lands on their banks were thickly sprinkled
with rustic dwellings, in near neighborhood. Stantz, the seat of the
Diet, and a mere village, was the principal town of Lower Unterwalden.
The sister valley of Upper Unterwalden was the most fertile and
beautiful. Its chief village was Sarnen. A stream called the Melch ran
through a branch of the valley, to which it gave its name of Melchthal.
This dale was already noted ground in Swiss history, as the native spot
of two of their heroes. Arnold von Melchthal, the companion of Tell,
was a peasant of this valley, as his name denotes; and Arnold von
Winkelried, to whose heroic self-sacrifice they owed the victory of
Sempach, was also born and lived on the banks of the Melch. During the
time of the critical Diet of Stantz, there lived in this valley a family
by the name of Loewenbrugger. They were among the most important
peasants of the dale. Ten children, five sons and five daughters, had
been born in the paternal cottage. Some were living there at the time,
with their mother, others had married and gone to different homes. The
father was absent. Nicholas Loewenbrugger had for many years held a
conspicuous position in his native district. He had served his country
faithfully on many occasions by his wisdom and his courage. During their
wars he had distinguished himself highly, not only for bravery, but also
for humanity. When still in middle life, however, he had retired from
the little world about him, leaving his paternal estate to the care of
his wife, and choosing a cliff on one of the neighboring mountains, he
there built himself a hermitage, in which he gave up his whole time to
devotion and religious services. So great was the simplicity of his
ascetic life, that it is said his only bed was the floor of his cell,
and his pillow a stone. It was even believed that for years he had taken
no other nourishment than the blessed elements of the holy sacrament.
Whatever exaggerations may have been credited in that superstitious age,
it is at least certain that his unfeigned piety and saintly life had
acquired for him a high place in the respect of his countrymen, while
the name of Nicholas von der Fluë, or Nicholas of the Rock, from the
spot where he dwelt, was honored far and wide through the cantons.

News of the fierce dissensions of the Diet of Stantz spread rapidly
through the different valleys about the lake of the forest cantons;
every hour it was expected that the assembly would break up in violence,
and the deputies hurry home to prepare the different cantons for a
terrible internal struggle. Every appearance warranted this opinion. The
priest of Stantz, Heinrich Imgrund, was one of those who most sincerely
mourned this state of things. One day, when matters were at the worst,
and the danger appeared most imminent, the worthy man took his
walking-staff, and proceeded to the Melchthal. It was in winter, the
last week of December, and the old priest made his way over the snow and
ice to the hermitage of the pious Nicholas of the Fluë. There he
hastened to lay before the good man the state of things in Stantz, and
the dangers that threatened their common country. The hermit, unlike
many of his recluse brethren, had not lost all interest in the higher
events of the world to which he belonged, and he determined that every
means in his power should be employed to avert the impending evil. Early
on the morning of December 22d, 1481, the venerable man, now far
advanced in life, left his little cell on the rock, and bent his way
towards Stantz, and we may well believe that, as he went on his
patriotic errand, earnest prayers were offered by him in behalf of his
misguided countrymen.

Arrived at Stantz, he proceeded immediately to the hall where the Diet
was in session. While yet without the walls, the stormy uproar and
fierce discord of the assembly reached his ears. Hurrying his steps, the
old man entered the hall. He had scarcely crossed the threshold, when
his venerable figure, aged face, and hoary locks, attracted general
attention; in another instant he was known to be Nicholas of the Rock.
As if by instinctive impulse, the whole assembly rose to their feet.
Seizing the moment of their respectful attention, the venerable man
addressed them in earnest, fervent tones. There were those in the Diet
to whom his voice was not strange; men, who in former years had known
him as the soldier and the patriot, while to all within the walls his
character for wisdom and sanctity was well known. Every eye was fixed
upon his venerable countenance, every ear listened eagerly to the words
which fell from his honored lips. It was a remarkable scene; a spectator
could never have credited that this was an authoritative assembly into
which the hermit had presented himself unbidden; it seemed rather as if
that hall were the presence chamber of the wise and saintly man, and
deputies from far and near--knight, merchant, and peasant--had gathered
about him, and pressed forward to receive his judgment. With all the
eloquence of wisdom, and a heartfelt interest, the venerable man
addressed the assembly. He implored, he warned, he admonished; he
reminded them the interests of a whole nation were committed to their
hands, and that for the powers with which they were intrusted they were
not responsible to man alone, but also to their Almighty Maker. Had they
met together like traitors, like madmen, to tear asunder the body
politic over which they were the appointed guardians? Where was the
calmness of deliberation with which a dignified assembly should meet to
utter, and to listen? Was it to revile each other, to menace, that they,
grave and mature men, had come from the farthest limits of their common
country? Such language as he had heard, such disorder as he had
witnessed when he first crossed that threshold, was it manly, was it
honorable, was it rational? He bade them pause, and tell him to what,
under Providence, they owed their present position as a free and
independent nation, respected by their neighbours. Every man there
present knew beyond all contradiction, that it was to their union they
owed this great debt of glory and prosperity. Without union they never
could have attained to independence; without union they never could have
preserved their freedom against one of the most powerful princes of
Europe. And now, the very bond to which they and their fathers owed
every national blessing and individual safety, they stood ready, in a
moment of passion, to sever violently. He asked them if a national bond
were absolutely nothing, that they held it now so cheap? There were men,
he knew, in every land who held cheap each tie which bound them to their
fellows--men who had no feeling for father, or brother, or son; but,
thanks be to God, such was not the case with all. Most human hearts
could value every social bond, whether of family, kindred, or country.
And what course would they take, should the evil work be accomplished?
Did they expect to thrive better singly--each canton to face the world
and all its manifold interests alone, or did they mean to cling
together, a few here, a few there, one nation broken up into half a
dozen nations? Did they expect that any future union could be closer and
dearer than that which had already held together for generations men of
the same blood and language; men who had suffered and triumphed
together? He warned them that if the evil spirit of disunion and strife
were now let loose and encouraged by themselves, they must not expect it
to end its work to-day, to stop short at the very hour they required it
to sleep again; like all other evil influences, it must either be
checked and controlled, or the fatal poison must spread farther and
farther, until it ended in utter anarchy and confusion. It is not for
man, made of the dust of the earth, to rouse evil and accursed passions,
and bid them go thus far and no farther. He implored them to let no
narrow, selfish, momentary interest blind them to interests immeasurably
higher, and more lasting. It remained for the men of that generation to
say whether the crisis should be a fatal one or not; it lay within their
power to steer the ark of their country's hopes safely over a stormy
sea, or purposely, deliberately, wilfully, to rush on the breakers,
until that noble, honored fabric foundered for ever. Evil passions,
suspicion, envy, jealousy, wrath, had too often, in the history of the
world, worked out general, public misery: but he trusted there was yet
within the bosom of their own people wisdom, patience, and moderation
sufficient to carry them safely through the storm. He called upon every
good man, every honest man, who could rise superior to the selfishness
of the race, to move and act in the blessed cause of peace and concord.
He advised them to look each at his own post and duty, and to meddle
less with those of his neighbors; he implored them, for conscience'
sake, not to be so ready with mutual suspicion and recrimination. He
warned them that whatever evils were to be remedied, the task must be
undertaken calmly and dispassionately to be well done.

Then proceeding to the subjects immediately under discussion, he
continued: "Let not the towns insist on claims which are injurious to
the old confederates. Let the rural cantons bear in mind how Soleure and
Friburg fought by their side, and received them freely into the
confederacy. Beware of intrigues, confederates! Beware of discord! Far
be it for any to sacrifice his father-land for selfish interests of his
own."

The old man paused. The better intentioned of the deputies, who had been
silenced by the violence of their companions, pressed about him. He
repeated his counsels; he entered more particularly into the subjects of
dispute; more and more gathered to the ranks of peace; and, in short, it
is a matter of history that the earnest address of the good man worked
an entire change in the temper of the Diet. In one hour's time the
country was saved. It may be doubted whether there is on record, in the
whole course of history, so striking an instance of the influence of
disinterested wisdom upon a public assembly at a moment so critical.
Probably, such an incident could only occur in a simple state of
society, where legislative pride and legislative weakness had not made
such rapid strides as in later times. Happily for Switzerland, the
question was decided on the spot; during that same day's session every
subject under debate was peaceably settled. The confederacy was saved.
Friburg and Soleure were received into the union. The venerable Nicholas
had proposed that territorial conquests should be shared according to
cantons, and the other spoil according to the population; both questions
were immediately decided in accordance with this plan. Other points were
amicably settled; and, instead of a fatal rupture, a covenant was
entered into, since called the "Covenant of Stantz," by which the bonds
of union were drawn closer. The deputies separated in a friendly temper,
and the happy news of reconciliation spread rapidly through the quiet
valleys and busy towns, while from the Alps to the Jura, the bells of
town-house, church, and convent, poured forth over hill and dale their
grateful peal of national joy.

To the present day the Swiss thankfully recur to the 22d of December,
1481, and the appeal of Nicholas von der Fluë to the Diet of Stantz, as
a memorable epoch in their history. Certainly the incident is very
remarkable, and almost without a parallel in history. To us of the
present day, when revolution and violence are rife, when invective and
accusation form the common speech of public writers and public speakers,
to us of these days of controversy the fact that the personal character
and wisdom of one man should have pacified and influenced to such a
degree a stormy assembly, appears all but incredible.

The traveller who visits the canton of Unterwalden to-day finds its
mountains sublime, its valleys beautiful, its waters limpid and living,
as of old. It is a wholly pastoral region, and the smooth green meadows
are thickly sprinkled with peasant homes, neat, cheerful, and peculiar,
like those of all Switzerland. The valley of the Melch is particularly
populous, its green pasture grounds protected by noble mountains, rising
on either side six or eight thousand feet towards the heavens, are
closely dotted with pretty cottages. Among these rustic dwellings, that
once inhabited by Nicholas Loewenbrugger is still shown. It is in good
preservation, and much like those which surround it. Probably the
architecture, like the dress of the Swiss peasantry, has varied but
little for generations. Several personal relics of the venerable man are
also preserved, and shown to the pilgrim traveller--these are two
swords, a silver goblet, and a couple of wooden spoons. It is very
probable that they were in fact what they claim to have been, the
property of the good man, for we, in this country of change, have little
idea of the great care taken with family relics of this description in
the households of the old world. A chapel has been built near the cell
occupied by the hermit; his tomb is at Sachslen, about a league from the
village of Sarnen, in the principal church of the canton. Descendants of
the patriot are still living in Unterwalden, where his family long held
a very honorable position, and is well represented at the present day.
But those who boast of his own blood and name can scarcely claim a
deeper and more heartfelt veneration for his memory than that which is
felt throughout the whole confederacy. There is no name in Switzerland,
not even that of Tell, revered more highly than the name of Nicolas von
der Fluë. "Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the
children of God."

Probably, if earnest efforts in behalf of concord, like those of the old
hermit, were more frequently made, history would, on many occasions,
show less gloomy pictures than those which she now unfolds to the world.
But it is a singular fact that, generally, good men are more easily
disheartened, and, consequently, far less active in times of internal
disturbance than the selfish and intriguing. Surely this ought not to
be.



A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[E]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

_Continued from page 346._


CHAPTER XXX.

Mrs. Hazleton was very consoling. She was with Mrs. Hastings two or
three times in the week, and poor Mrs. Hastings required a considerable
degree of consolation; for the arrest of her husband, coming so close
upon the bitter mortification of loss, and abatement of dignity, and at
the end of a long period of weak health, had made her seriously ill. She
now kept her bed the whole day long, and lay, making herself worse by
that sort of fretful anxiety which was constitutional with her as well
as with many other people. Mrs. Hazleton's visits were a great comfort
to her, and yet, strange to say, Emily almost always found her more
irritable after that lady had left her.

Poor Emily seemed to shine under the cloud of misfortune. Her character
came out and acted nobly in the midst of disasters. She was her mother's
nurse and constant attendant; she kept her father informed of every
thing that passed--not an opportunity was missed of sending him a
letter; and although she would have made any sacrifice to be with him in
prison, to comfort and support him in the peril and sorrow of his
situation, she was well satisfied that he had not taken her, when she
found the state into which her mother had fallen.

Often, after Mrs. Hazleton had sat for an hour or two with her sick
friend, she would come down and walk upon the terrace for a while with
Emily, and comfort her much in the same way that she did Mrs. Hastings.
She would tell her not to despond about her mother: that though she was
certainly very ill, and in a dangerous state, yet people had recovered
who had been quite as ill as she was. Then she would talk about lungs,
and nerves, and humors, and all kinds of painful and mortal diseases, as
if she had studied medicine all her life; and she did it, too, with a
quiet, dignified gravity which made it more impressive and alarming.
Then again, she would turn to the situation of Mr. Hastings, and wonder
what they would do with him. She would also bring every bit of news that
she could collect, regarding the case of Sir John Fenwick, especially
when the intelligence was painful and disastrous; but she hinted that,
perhaps, after all, they might not be able to prove any thing against
Mr. Hastings, and that even if they did--although the Government were
inclined to be severe--they might, perhaps, commute his sentence to
transportation for the colonies, or imprisonment in the Tower for five
or six years.

It is thus our friends often console us; some of them, from a dark and
gloomy turn of mind, and some of them from the satisfaction many people
feel in meddling with the miseries of others. But it was neither natural
despondency of character, nor any general love of sorrowful scenes or
thoughts, that moved Mrs. Hazleton in the present instance. She had a
peculiar and especial pleasure in the wretchedness of the Hastings
family, and particularly in that of Emily. The charming lady fancied
that if Marlow were free from his engagement with Emily the next day,
and a suitor for her own hand, she would never think of marrying him. I
am not quite sure of that fact, but that is no business of ours, dear
reader, and one thing is certain, that she would have very willingly
sacrificed one half of her whole fortune, nay more, to have placed an
everlasting barrier between Emily and Marlow.

She was thus walking with her dear Emily, as she called her, one day on
that terrace at the back of the house where the memorable conversation
had taken place between Mr. Hastings and Sir John Fenwick, and was
treating Emily to a minute and particular account of the death of the
latter, when Marlow suddenly arrived from London, and entered the house
by the large glass door in front. He found a servant in the hall who
informed him that Mrs. Hastings was still in bed, and that Emily was
walking on the terrace with Mrs. Hazleton. Marlow paused, and considered
for a moment. "Any thing not dishonorable," he said to himself, "is
justifiable to clear up such a mystery;" and passing quietly through the
house into the dining-room, which had one window opening as a door upon
the terrace, he saw his fair Emily and her companion pass along towards
the other end of the walk without being himself perceived. He then
approached the window, and calculating the distances nicely, so as to be
sure that Mrs. Hazleton was fully as far distant from himself as she
could have been from Sir John Fenwick and Mr. Hastings on the evening
when they walked there together, he pronounced her name in an ordinary
tone, somewhat lower than that which Mr. Hastings usually employed.

Mrs. Hazleton instantly started, and looked round towards the spot where
Marlow was now emerging from the room.

The lady could not miss an occasion, and the moment she saw him she
exclaimed, "Dear me! there is Mr. Marlow; I am afraid he brings bad
tidings, Emily."

Emily paused not to consider, but with her own wild grace ran forward
and cast herself into his arms.

Fortunately Mrs. Hazleton had no dagger with her. Her face was
benevolent and smiling when she joined them; for the joy there was upon
Emily's countenance forbade any affectation of apprehension. It said as
plainly as possible, "All is well;" but she added the words too,
stretching forth her hand to her supposed friend, and saying, "Dear Mrs.
Hazleton, Charles brings me word that my father is safe--that the
Government have declared they will not prosecute."

"I congratulate you with my whole heart, Emily," replied the lady; "and
I do sincerely hope that ministers may keep their word better in this
instance than they have done in some others."

"There is not the slightest doubt of it, my dear madam," said Marlow;
"for I have the official announcement under the hand of the Secretary of
State."

"I must fly and tell my mother," said Emily, and without waiting for a
reply she darted away.

Mrs. Hazleton took a turn or two up and down the terrace with Marlow,
considering whether it was at all possible for her to be of any further
comfort to her friends at the Court. As she could not stay all night,
however, so as to prevent Emily and Marlow from having any happy private
conversation together and as she judged that, in their present joy, they
would a good deal forget conventional restraints, and give way to their
lover-like feelings even in her presence, which would be exceedingly
disagreeable to her, she soon re-entered the house, and ordered her
carriage.

It must be acknowledged that both Emily and Marlow were well satisfied
to see her depart, and it is not to be wondered at if they gave
themselves up for half an hour to the pleasure of meeting again.

At the end of that time, however, Marlow drew forth a letter from his
pocket, carefully folded, so that a line or two only was apparent, and
placing it before Emily, inquired if she knew the hand.

"It is mine," said Emily, at first; but the moment after she exclaimed
"No!--it is not; it is Mrs. Hazleton's. I know it by the peculiar way
she forms the _g_ and the _y_.--Stay, let me see, Marlow. She has not
done so always; but that _g_, and that _y_, I am quite certain of. Why
do you ask, Marlow?"

"For reasons of the utmost importance, dear Emily," he answered, "have
you any letters or notes of Mrs. Hazleton's?"

"Yes, there is one which came yesterday," replied Emily; "it is lying on
my table up-stairs."

"Bring it--bring it, dearest girl," he said; "I wish very much to see
it."

When he had got, he examined it with a well-pleased smile, and then
said, with a laugh, "I must impound this, my love. I am now on the right
track, and will not leave it till I have arrived at perfect certainty."

"You are very strange and mysterious to-day, Marlow," said the beautiful
girl, "what does all this mean?"

"It means, my love," replied Marlow, "that I have very dark doubts and
suspicions of Mrs. Hazleton,--and all I have seen and heard to-day
confirms me. Now sit down here by me, dear Emily, and tell me if, to
your knowledge, you have ever given to Mrs. Hazleton cause of offence."

"Never!" answered Emily, firmly and at once. "Never in my life."

Marlow mused, and then, with his arms round her waist, he continued,
"Bethink yourself, my love. Within the course of the last two or three
years, have you ever seen reason to believe that Mrs. Hazleton's
affection for you is not so great as it appears?--Has it ever
wavered?--Has it ever become doubtful to you from any stray word or
accidental circumstance?"

Emily was silent for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully, "Perhaps
I did think so, once or twice, when I was staying at her house, last
year."

"Well, then, now, dear Emily," said Marlow, "tell me every thing down to
the most minute circumstance that occurred there."

Emily hesitated. "Perhaps I ought not," she said; "Mrs. Hazleton showed
me, very strongly, that I ought not, except under an absolute
necessity."

"That necessity is now, my love," replied Marlow; "love cannot exist
without confidence, Emily; and I tell you, upon my honor and my faith,
that your happiness, my happiness, and even your father's safety,
depends in a great degree upon your telling me all. Do you believe me,
Emily?"

"Fully," she answered; "and I will tell you all."

Thus seated together, she poured forth the whole tale to her lover's
ears, even to the circumstances which had occurred in her own room, when
Mrs. Hazleton had entered it, walking in her sleep. The whole conduct of
John Ayliffe, now calling himself Sir John Hastings, was also displayed;
and the dark and treacherous schemes which had been going on, began
gradually to evolve themselves to Marlow's mind. Obscure and indistinct
they still were; but the gloomy shadow was apparent, and he could trace
the outline though he could not fill up the details.

"Base, treacherous woman!" he murmured to himself, and then, pressing
Emily more closely to his heart, he thanked her again and again for her
frankness. "I will never misuse it, my Emily," he said; "and no one
shall ever know what you have told me except your father: to him it must
be absolutely revealed."

"I would have told him myself," said Emily, "if he had ever asked me any
questions on the subject; but as he did not, and seemed very gloomy just
then, I thought it better to follow Mrs. Hazleton's advice."

"The worst and the basest she could have given you," said Marlow; "I
have had doubts of her for a long time, Emily, but I have no doubts now;
and, moreover, I firmly believe that the whole case of this John
Ayliffe--his claim upon your father's estate and title--is all false and
factitious together, supported by fraud, forgery, and crime. Have you
preserved this young man's letter, or have you destroyed it, Emily?"

"I kept it," she replied, "thinking that, some time or another, I might
have to show it to my father."

"Then one more mark of confidence, my love," said Marlow; "let me have
that letter. I do not wish to read it; therefore you had better fold it
up and seal it; but it may be necessary as a link in the chain of
evidence which I wish to bring forward for your father's satisfaction."

"Read it, if you will, Marlow," she answered; "I have told you the
contents, but it may be as well that you should see the words: I will
bring it to you in a moment."

They read the letter over together, and when Marlow had concluded, he
laid his hand upon it, saying, "This is Mrs. Hazleton's composition."

"I'm almost inclined to fancy so, myself," answered Emily.

"He is incapable of writing this," replied her lover; "I have seen his
letters on matters of business, and he cannot write a plain sentence in
English to an end without making some gross mistake. This is Mrs.
Hazleton's doing, and there is some dark design underneath it. Would to
God that visit had never taken place!"

"There has been little happiness in the house since," said Emily,
"except what you and I have known together, Marlow; and that has been
sadly checkered by many a painful circumstance."

"The clouds are breaking, dear one," replied Marlow, rising; "but I will
not pause one moment in my course till all this is made clear--no, not
even for the delight of sitting here by you, my love. I will go home at
once, Emily; mount my horse, and ride over to Hartwell before it be
dark."

"What is your object there?" asked Emily.

"To unravel one part of this mystery," replied her lover. "I will
ascertain, by some means, from whom, or in what way, this young man
obtained sufficient money to commence and carry on a very expensive suit
at law. That he had it not himself, I am certain. That his chances were
not sufficiently good, when first he commenced, to induce any lawyer to
take the risk, I am equally certain. He must have had it from some one,
and my suspicions point to Mrs. Hazleton. Her bankers are mine, and I
will find means to know. So, now, farewell, my love; I will see you
again early to-morrow."

He lingered yet for a moment or two, and then left her.


CHAPTER XXXI.

Marlow was soon on horseback, and riding on to the country town. But he
had lingered longer with Emily than he imagined, and the day declined
visibly as he rode along.

"The business hours are over," he thought; "bankers and lawyers will
have abandoned the money-getting and mischief-making toils of the day;
and I must stay at the inn till to-morrow."

He had been riding fast; but he now drew in his rein, and suffered his
horse to walk. The sun was setting gloriously, and the rich, rosy light,
diffused through the air, gave every thing an aspect of warmth, and
richness, and cheerfulness. But Marlow's heart was any thing but gay.
Whether it was that the scenes which he had passed through in London,
his visits to a prison, his dealings with hard official men, the
toiling, moiling crowds that had surrounded him; the wearisome, eternal,
yet ever-changing struggle of life displayed in the streets and houses
of a capital, the infinite varieties of selfishness, and folly, and
vice, and crime, had depressed his spirits, or that his health had
somewhat suffered in consequence of anxious waiting for events in the
foul air of the metropolis, I cannot tell. But certain, he was sadder
than was usual with him. His was a spirit strong and active, naturally
disposed to bright views and happy hopes, too firm to be easily
depressed, too elastic to be long kept down. But yet, as he rode along,
there was a sort of feeling of apprehension upon his mind that oppressed
him mightily. He revolved all that had lately passed. He compared the
state of Mr. Hastings' family, as it actually was, with what it had been
when he first knew it, and there seemed to be a strange mystery in the
change. It had then been all happiness and prosperity with that
household; a calm, grave, thoughtful, but happy father and husband; a
bright, amiable, affectionate mother and wife; a daughter, to his mind
the image of every thing that was sweet, and gentle, and tender--of
every thing that was gay, and sparkling, and cheerful; full of light and
life, and fancy, and hope. Now, there was a father in prison, deprived
of his greatest share of worldly prosperity, cast down from his station
in society, gloomy, desponding, suspicious, and, as it seemed to him,
hardly sane: a mother, irritable, capricious, peevish, yielding to
calamity, and lying on a bed of sickness, while the bright angel of his
love remained to nurse, and tend, and soothe the one parent, with a
heart torn and bleeding for the distresses of the other. "What have they
done to merit all this?" he asked himself. "What fault, what crime have
they committed to draw down such sorrows on their heads? None--none
whatever. Their lives had been spent in kindly acts and good deeds; they
had followed the precepts of the religion they professed; their lives
had been spent in doing service to their fellow-creatures, and making
all happy around them."

Then again, on the other hand, he saw the coarse, and the low, and the
base, and the licentious prosperous and successful, rising on the ruins
of the pure and the true. Wily schemes and villanous intrigues obtaining
every advantage, and honesty of purpose and rectitude of action
frustrated and cast down.

Marlow was no unbeliever--he was not even inclined to skepticism--but
his mind labored, not without humility and reverence, to see how it
could reconcile such facts with the goodness and providence of God.

"He makes the sun shine upon the just and the unjust, we are told," said
Marlow to himself; "but here the sun seems to shine upon the unjust
alone, and clouds and tempests hang about the just. It is very strange,
and even discouraging; and yet, all that we see of these strange,
unaccountable dispensations may teach us lessons for hereafter--may give
us the grandest confirmation of the grandest truth. There must be
another world, in which these things will be made equal--a world where
the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. We only see
in part, and the part we do not see must be the part which will
reconcile all the seeming contradictions between the justice and
goodness of God and the course of this mortal life."

This train pursued him till he reached the town, and put up his horse at
the inn. By that time it was quite dark, and he had tasted nothing since
early in the morning. He therefore ordered supper, and the landlord, by
whom he was now well known--a good, old, honest, country landlord of the
olden time--brought in the meal himself, and waited on his guest at
table. It was so much the custom of gentlemen, in those days, to order
wine whenever they stopped at an inn--it was looked upon so much as a
matter of course that this should be done for the good of the
house--that the landlord, without any direct commands to that effect,
brought in a bottle of his very best old sherry, always a favorite wine
with the English people, though now hardly to be got, and placed it by
the side of his guest. Marlow was by habit no drinker of much wine. He
avoided, as much as in him lay, the deep potations then almost universal
in England; but, not without an object, he that night gave in to a
custom which was very common in England then, and for many years
afterwards, and requested the landlord, after the meal was over, to sit
down, and help him with his bottle.

"You'll need another bottle, if I once begin, Master Marlow," said the
jolly landlord, who was a wag in his way.

Marlow nodded his head significantly, as if he were prepared for the
infliction, replying quietly, "Under the influence of your good chat,
Mr. Cherrydew, I can bear it, I think."

"Well, that's hearty," said the landlord, drawing a chair sideways to
the table; for his vast rotundity prevented him from approaching it full
front. "Here's to your very good health, sir, and may you never drink
worse wine, sit in a colder room, or have a sadder companion."

Now I have said that Marlow did not invite the landlord to join him,
without an object. That object was to obtain information, and it had
struck him even while the trout, which formed the first dish at his
supper, was being placed on the table, that he might be able, if
willing, to afford it.

Landlords in England at that time--I mean, of course, in country
towns--were very different in many respects, and of a different class
from what they are at present. In the first place, they were not fine
gentlemen: in the next place, they were not discharged valets de
chambre, or butlers, who, having cheated their masters handsomely, and
perhaps laid them under contribution in many ways, retire to enjoy the
fat things at their ease in their native town. Then, again, they were on
terms of familiar intercourse with two or three classes, completely
separate and distinct from each other--a sort of connecting link between
them. At their door the justice of the peace, the knight of the shire,
the great man of the neighborhood, dismounted from his horse, and had
his chat with mine host. There came the village lawyer when he had
gained a cause, or won a large fee, or had been paid a long bill, to
indulge in his pint of sherry, and gossipped, as he drank it, of all the
affairs of his clients. There sneaked in the Doctor to get his glass of
eau de vie, or plague water, or aqua mirabilis, or strong spirits, in
short of any other denomination, and tell little dirty anecdotes of his
cases, and his patients. There the alderman, the wealthy shop-keeper,
and the small proprietor, or the large farmer, came to take his cheerful
cup on Saturdays or on market-day. But, besides these, the inn was the
resort, though approached by another door, of a lower and a poorer
class, with whom the landlord was still upon as good terms as with the
others. The wagoner, the carter, the lawyer's and the banker's clerk,
the shopman, the porter even, all came there; and it mattered not to Mr.
Cherrydew or his confraternity, whether it was a bowl of punch, a
draught of ale, a glass of spirits, or a bottle of old wine that his
guests demanded; he was civil, and familiar, and chatty with them all.

Thus under the rosy and radiant face of Mr. Cherrydew, and in that good,
round, fat head, was probably accumulated a greater mass of information,
regarding the neighborhood in which he lived, and all that went on
therein, than in any other head in the whole town, and the only
difficulty was to extract that part of the store which was wanted.

Marlow knew that it would not do to approach the principal subject of
inquiry rashly; for Mr. Cherrydew, like most of his craft, was somewhat
cautious, and would have shut himself up in silent reserve, or enveloped
himself in intangible ambiguities, if he had known that his guest had
any distinct and important object in his questions--having a notion that
a landlord should be perfectly cosmopolitan in all his feelings and his
actions, and should never commit himself in such a manner as to offend
any one who was, had been, or might be his guest. He was fond of
gossipping, it is true, loved a jest, and was not at all blind to the
ridiculous in the actions of his neighbors; but habitual caution was in
continual struggle with his merry, tattling disposition, and he was
generally considered a very safe man.

Marlow, therefore, began at a great distance, saying, "I have just come
down from London, Mr. Cherrydew, and rode over, thinking that I should
arrive in time to catch my lawyer in his office."

"That is all over now, sir, for the night," replied the landlord. "In
this, two-legged foxes differ from others: they go to their holes at
sunset, just when other foxes go out to walk. They divide the world
between them, Master Marlow; the one preys by day, the other by
night.--Well, I should like to see Lunnun. It must be a grand place,
sir, though somewhat of a bad one. Why, what a number of executions I
have read of there lately, and then, this Sir John Fenwick's business.
Why, he changed horses here, going to dine with Sir Philip, as I shall
call him to the end of my days. Ah, poor gentleman, he has been in great
trouble! But I suppose, from what I hear, he'll get clear now?"

"Beyond all doubt," said Marlow; "the Government have no case against
him. But you say very true, Mr. Cherrydew, there has been a sad number
of executions in London--seven and twenty people hanged, at different
times, while I was there."

"And the town no better," said Mr. Cherrydew.

"By the way," said Marlow, "were you not one of the jury at the trial of
that fellow, Tom Cutter?--Fill your glass, Mr. Cherrydew."

"Thank you, sir.--Yes I was, to be sure," answered the landlord; "and
I'll tell you the funniest thing in the world that happened the second
day. Lord bless you, sir, I was foreman,--and on the first day the judge
suffered the case to go on till his dinner was quite cold, and we were
all half starved; but he saw that he could not hang him that night, at
all events--here's to your health, sir!--so he adjourned the Court, and
called for a constable, and ordered all of us, poor devils, to be locked
up tight in Jones's public-house till the next day; for the jury-room is
so small, that there is not standing-room for more than three such as
me. Well, the other men did not much like it, though I did not
care,--for I had my boots full of ham, and a brandy-bottle in my
breeches-pocket. One of them asked the judge, for all his great black
eyebrows, if he could'nt go on that night; but his lordship answered,
with a snort like a cart horse, and told us to hold our tongues, and
mind our own business, and only to take care and keep ourselves
together. Well, sir, we had to walk up the hill, you know, and there was
the constable following us with his staff in his hand; so I had
compassion on my poor fellow-sufferers, and I whispered, first to one,
then to another, that this sort of jog would never do, but I would
manage to tell them how to have a good night's rest. You see, says I,
here's but one constable to thirteen people, so when you get to the
cross-roads, let every man take up his legs and run, each his own way.
He can but catch one, and the slowest runner will have the chance. Now,
I was the fattest of them all, you see, so that every one of them
thought that I should be the man. Well, sir, they followed my advice;
but it's a different thing to give advice, and take it. No sooner did we
get to the cross-roads, than they scattered like a heap of dust in the
wind, some down the roads and lanes, some over the styles and gates,
some through the hedges. Little Sninkum, the tailor, stuck in the hedge
by the way, and was the man caught, for he was afraid of his broadcloth;
but I stood stock still, with a look of marvellous astonishment, crying
out, "For God's sake catch them, constable, or what will my lord say to
you and me?" Off the poor devil set in a moment, one man to catch
twelve, all over the face of the country. He thought he was sure enough
of me; but what did I do? why, as soon as he was gone, I waddled home to
my own house, and got my wife to put me to bed up-stairs, and pass me
for my grandfather. Well, sir, that's not the best of it yet. We were
all in Court next day at the right hour, and snug in the jury-box before
the judge came in; but I have a notion he had heard something of the
matter. He looked mighty hard at Sninkum, whose face was all scratched
to pieces, and opening his mouth with a pop, like the drawing of a cork,
he said, "Why, man, you look as if you and your brethren had been
fighting!" and then he looked as hard at me, and roared, "I hope
gentlemen, you have kept yourselves together?" Thereupon, I laid my two
hands upon my stomach, sir,--it weighs a hundred and a half, if it were
cut off to-morrow, as I know to my cost, who carry it--and I answered
quite respectful, "I can't answer for the other gentlemen, my lord, but
I'll swear I've kept myself together." You should have heard how the
Court rang with the people laughing, while I remained as grave as a
judge, and much graver than the one who was there; for I thought he
would have burst before he was done, and a fine mess that would have
made."

Serious as his thoughts were, Marlow could not refrain from smiling; but
he did not forget his object, and remarked, "There were efforts made to
save that scoundrel, and the present Sir John Hastings certainly did his
best for his friend."

"Call him John Ayliffe, sir, call him John Ayliffe," said the host.
"Here's to you, sir,--he's never called any thing else here."

"I wonder," said Marlow, musingly, "if there was any relationship
between this Tom Cutter and John Ayliffe's mother?"

"Not a pin's point of it, sir," replied the landlord. "They were just
two bad fellows together; that was the connection between them, and
nothing else."

"Well, John stood by his friend, at all events," said Marlow; "though
where he got the money to pay the lawyers in that case, or in his suit
against Sir Philip, is a marvel to me."

Mine host winked his eye knowingly, and gave a short laugh.

That did not entirely suit Marlow's purpose, and he added in a musing
tone, "I know that he wanted to borrow ten pounds two or three months
before, but was refused, because he had not repaid what he had borrowed
of the same party, previously."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the landlord; "there are secrets in all things. He
got money, and money enough, somehow, just about that time. He has not
repaid it yet, either, but he has given a mortgage, I hear, for the
amount; and if he don't mortgage his own carcase for it too, I am very
much mistaken, before he has done."

"Mortgage his own carcase! I do not understand what you mean," replied
Marlow. "I am sure I would not give a shilling for that piece of earth."

"A pretty widow lady, not a hundred miles off, may think differently,"
replied the landlord, grinning again, and filling his glass once more.

"Ah, ha," said Marlow, trying to laugh likewise; "so you think she
advanced the money, do you?"

"I am quite sure of it, sir," said Mr. Cherrydew, nodding his head
profoundly. "I did not witness the mortgage, but I know one who did."

"What! Shanks' clerk, I suppose," said Marlow.

"No, sir, no," replied the landlord; "Shanks did not draw the mortgage,
either; for he was lawyer to both parties, and Mrs. Hazleton didn't like
that;--O, she's cute enough!"

"I think you must be mistaken," said Marlow, in a decided tone; "for
Mrs. Hazleton assured me, when there was a question between herself and
me, that she was not nearly as rich as she was supposed, and that if the
law should award me back rents, it would ruin her."

"Gammon, sir!" replied the landlord, who had now imbibed a sufficient
quantity of wine, in addition to sundry potations during the day. "I
should not have thought you a man to be so easily hooked, Mr. Marlow;
but if you will ask the clerk of Doubledoo and Kay, who was down here,
staying three or four days about business, you'll find that she advanced
every penny, and got a mortgage for upwards of five thousand
pounds;--but I think we had better have that other bottle, sir?"

"By all means," said Marlow, and Mr. Cherrydew rolled away to fetch it.

"By the way, what was that clerk's name you mentioned?"

"Sims, sir, Sims," said the landlord, drawing the cork; and then setting
down the bottle on the table, he added, with a look of great contempt,
"he's the leetlest little man you ever saw, sir, not so tall as my girl
Dolly, and with no more stomach than a currycomb, a sort of cross breed
between a monkey and a penknife. He's as full of fun as the one, too,
and as sharp as the other. He will hold a prodigious quantity of punch,
though, small as he is. I could not fancy where he put it all, it must
have gone into his shoes."

"Come, come, Mr. Cherrydew," said Marlow, laughing, "do not speak
disrespectfully of thin people--I am not very fat myself."

"Lord bless you, sir, you are quite a fine, personable man; and in time,
with a few butts, you would be as fine a man as I am."

Marlow devoutly hoped not, but he begged Mr. Cherrydew to sit down
again, and do his best to help him through the wine he had brought; and
out of that bottle came a great many things which Marlow wanted much
more than the good sherry which it contained.


CHAPTER XXXII.

It was about ten o'clock in the day when Marlow returned to the Court,
as it was called. The butler informed him that Miss Emily was not
down--a very unusual thing with her, as she was exceedingly matutinal in
her habits; but he found, on inquiry, that she had sat up with her
mother during the greater part of the night. Marlow looked at his watch,
then at the gravelled space before the house, where his own horse was
being led up and down by his groom, and a stranger who had come with him
was sitting quietly on horseback, as if waiting for him. "I fear," said
Marlow, after a moment's musing, "I must disturb your young lady. Will
you tell her maid to go up and inform her that I am here, and wish to
speak with her immediately, as I have business which calls me to London
without delay." The man retired, and Marlow entered what was then called
the withdrawing room, walking up and down in thought. He had not
remained many minutes, however, when Emily herself appeared, with her
looks full of surprise and anxiety. "What is the matter, Marlow?" she
said. "Has any new evil happened?"

"Nay, nay, my love," said Marlow, embracing her tenderly. "You must not
let the few ills that have already befallen you, my Emily, produce that
apprehensiveness which long years of evil and mischance but too often
engender. Brighter days are coming, I trust, my love; so far from new
evils having arisen, I have been very fortunate in my inquiries, and
have got information which must lead to great results. I must pursue the
clue that has been afforded me without a moment's delay or hesitation;
for once the thread be broken I may have difficulty in uniting it again.
But if I judge rightly, my Emily, it will lead me to the following
results. To the complete exposure of a base conspiracy; to the
punishment of the offenders; to the restoration of your father's
property, and of his rank."

He held her hand in his while he spoke, and gazed into her beautiful
eyes; but Emily did not seem very much overjoyed. "For my own part," she
said, "I care little as to the loss of property or station, Marlow, and
still less do I care to punish offenders; but I think my father and
mother will be very glad of the tidings you give me. May I tell them
what you say?"

Marlow mused for a moment or two. He was anxious to give any comfort to
Mrs. Hastings, but yet he doubted her discretion, and he replied, "Not
the whole, dear Emily, except in case of urgent need. You may tell your
mother that I think I have obtained information which will lead to the
restoration of your father's property, and you may assure her that no
effort shall be wanting on my part to attain that object. Say that I am,
even now, setting out for London for the purpose, and that I am full of
good hopes. I believe I can prove," he added, after a moment's
consideration, and in reality more to lead Mrs. Hastings away from the
right track than from any other consideration, although the point he was
about to state was a fact, "I believe I can prove that the missing leaf
of the marriage register, which was supposed to have been torn out by
your grandfather's orders, was there not two years ago, and that I can
show by whose hands it was torn out at a much later date. Assure her,
however, that I will do every thing in my power, and bid her be of good
hope."

"I do not understand the matter," answered Emily, "and never heard of
this register, but I dare say my mother has, and will comprehend your
meaning better than I do. I know the very hope will give her great
pleasure."

"Remember one thing, however, dear Emily," replied Marlow, "on no
account mention to her my suspicions of Mrs. Hazleton, nor show any
suspicions of that good lady yourself. It is absolutely necessary that
she should be kept in ignorance of our doubts, till those doubts become
certainties. However, in case of any painful and unpleasant
circumstances occurring while I am absent, I must leave these papers
with you. They consist of the note sent you by Mrs. Hazleton which you
showed me, a paper which I feel confident is in her handwriting, but
which imitates your hand very exactly, and which has led to wrong
impressions, and the letter of young John Ayliffe--or at least that
which he wrote under Mrs. Hazleton's direction. I have added a few words
of my own, on a separate sheet of paper, stating the impression which I
have in regard to all these matters, and which I will justify whenever
it may be needful."

"But what am I to do with them?" asked Emily, simply.

"Keep them safely, and ever at hand, dear girl," replied Marlow, in a
grave tone. "You will find your father on his return a good deal
altered--moody and dissatisfied. It will be as well for you to take no
notice of such demeanor, unless he expresses plainly some cause of
discontent. If he do so--if he should venture upon any occasion to
reproach you, my Emily--"

"For what?" exclaimed Emily, in utter surprise.

"It would be too long and too painful to explain all just now, dear
one," answered her lover. "But such a thing may happen, my Emily.
Deceived, and in error, he may perhaps reproach you for things you never
dreamt of. He may also judge wrongly of your conduct in not having told
him of this young scoundrel's proposal to you. In either case put that
packet of papers in his hands, and tell him frankly and candidly every
thing."

"He is sometimes so reserved and grave," said Emily, "that I never like
to speak to him on any subject to which he does not lead the way. I
sometimes think he does not understand me, Marlow, and dread to open my
whole heart to him, as I would fain do, lest he should mistake me still
more."

"Let no dread stop you in this instance, my own dear girl," Marlow
answered. "That there have been dark plots against you, Emily, I am
certain. The only way to meet and frustrate them is to place full and
entire confidence in your father. I do not ask you to speak to him on
the subject unless he speaks to you, till I have obtained the proofs
which will make all as clear as daylight. Then, every thing must be
told, and Sir Philip will find that had he been more frank himself he
would have met with no want of candor in his daughter. Now, one more
kiss, dear love, and then to my horse's back."

I will not pursue Marlow's journey across the fair face of merry
England, nor tell the few adventures that befell him on the way, nor the
eager considerations that pressed, troop after troop, upon his mind,
neither will I dwell long upon his proceedings in London, which occupied
but one brief day. He went to the house of his banker, sought out the
little clerk of Messrs. Doubledoo and Kay, and contrived from both to
obtain proof positive that Mrs. Hazleton had supplied a large sum of
money to young John Ayliffe to carry on his suit against Sir Philip
Hastings. He also obtained a passport for France, and one or two letters
for influential persons in Paris, and returning to the inn where he had
left the man who had accompanied him from the country, set out for
Calais, without pausing even to take rest himself. Another man, a clerk
from his own lawyer's house, accompanied him, and though the passage was
somewhat long and stormy, he reached Calais in safety.

Journeys to Paris were not then such easy things as now. Three days
passed ere Marlow reached the French capital, and then both his
companions were inclined to grumble not a little at the rapidity with
which he travelled, and the small portion of rest he allowed them or
himself. In the capital, however, they paused for two days, and,
furnished with an interpreter and guide, amused themselves mightily,
while Marlow passed his time in government offices, and principally with
the lieutenant of police, or one of his commissaries.

At length the young gentleman notified his two companions that they must
prepare to accompany him at nine o'clock in the morning to St. Germain
en Laye, where he intended to reside for some days. A carriage was at
the door to the moment, and they found in it a very decent and
respectable gentleman in black, with a jet-hilted sword by his side, and
a certain portion of not very uncorrupt English. The whole party jogged
on pleasantly up the steep ascent, and round the fine old palace, to a
small inn which was indicated to the driver by the gentleman in black,
for whom that driver seemed to entertain a profound reverence. When
comfortably fixed in the inn, Marlow left his two English companions,
and proceeded, as it was the hour of promenade, to take a walk upon the
terrace with his friend in black. They passed a great number of groups,
and a great number of single figures, and Marlow might have remarked, if
he had been so disposed, that several of the persons whom they met
seemed to eye his companion with a suspicious and somewhat anxious
glance. All Marlow's powers of observation, however, were directed in a
different way. He examined every face that he saw, every group that he
came near; but at length, as they passed a somewhat gayly dressed woman
of the middle age, who was walking alone, the young Englishman touched
the arm of the man in black, saying, "According to the description I
have had of her, that must be very like the person."

"We will follow her, and see," said the man in black.

Without appearing to notice her particularly, they kept near the lady
who had attracted their attention, as long as she continued to walk upon
the terrace, and then followed her when she left it, through several
streets which led away in the direction of the forest. At length she
stopped at a small house, opened the door, and went in.

The man in black took out a little book from his pocket, closely written
with long lists of names.

"Monsieur et Madame Jervis," he said, after having turned over several
pages. "Here since three years ago."

"That cannot be she, then," answered Marlow.

"Stay, stay," said his companion, "that is _au premier_. On the second
floor lodges Monsieur Drummond. Old man of sixty-eight. He has been here
two years; and above Madame Dupont, an old French lady whom I know quite
well. You must be mistaken, Monsieur, but we will go into this
_charcutier's_ just opposite, and inquire whether that is Madame Jervis
who went in."

It proved to be so. The pork butcher had seen her as she passed the
window, and Marlow's search had to begin again. When he and his
companion returned to their inn, however, the man whom he had brought up
from the country met him eagerly, saying, "I have seen her, sir! I have
seen her! She passed by here not ten minutes ago, dressed in weeds like
a widow, and walking very fast. I would swear to her."

"Oh, ho," said the man in black, "we will soon find her now," and
calling to the landlord, who was as profoundly deferential towards him
as the coachman had been, he said in the sweetest possible tone, "Will
you have the goodness to let Monsieur Martin know that the _bon homme
grivois_ wishes to speak with him for a moment?"

It was wonderful with what rapidity Monsieur St. Martin, a tall, dashing
looking personage, with an infinite wig, obeyed the summons of the _bon
homme grivois_.

"Ah, _bon jour_, St. Martin," said the man in black.

"_Bon jour, Monsieur_," replied the other, with a profound obeisance.

"A lady of forty--has been handsome, fresh color, dark eyes, middle
height, hair brown, hardly gray," said the man in black. "Dressed like
an English widow, somewhat common air and manner, has come here within a
year. Where is she to be found, St. Martin?"

The other, who had remained standing, took out his little book, and
after consulting its pages diligently, gave a street and a number.

"What's her name?" asked the man in black.

"Mistress Brown," replied Monsieur St. Martin.

"Good," said the man in black, "but we must wait till to-morrow morning,
as it is now growing dark, and there must be no mistake; first, lest we
scare the real bird in endeavoring to catch one we don't want, and next,
lest we give annoyance to any of his Majesty's guests, which would
reduce the king to despair."

The next morning, at an early hour, the party of four proceeded to the
street which had been indicated, discovered the number, and then entered
a handsome hotel, inhabited by an old French nobleman. The man in black
seemed unknown to either the servants or their master, but a very few
words spoken in the ear of the latter, rendered him most civil and
accommodating. A room in the front of the house, just over that of the
porter, was put at the disposal of the visitors, and the man who had
accompanied Marlow from the country was placed at the window to watch
the opposite dwelling. It was a balmy morning, and the house was near
the outskirts of the town, so that the fresh air of the country came
pleasantly up the street. The windows of the opposite house were,
however, still closed, and it was not till Marlow and his companions had
been there near three quarters of an hour, that a window on the first
floor was opened, and a lady looked out for a moment, and then drew in
her head again.

"There she is!" cried the man who was watching, "there she is, sir."

"Are you quite certain?" asked the man in black.

"Beyond all possible doubt, sir," replied the other. "Lord bless you, I
know her as well as I know my own mother. I saw her almost every day for
ten years."

"Very well, then," said the man in black, "I will go over first alone,
and as soon as I have got in, you, Monsieur Marlow, with these two
gentlemen, follow me thither. She won't escape me when once I'm in, but
the house may have a back way, and therefore we will not scare her by
too many visitors at this early hour."

He accordingly took his departure, and Marlow and his companions saw him
ring the bell at the opposite house. But the suspicion of those within
fully justified the precautions he had taken. Before he obtained
admission, he was examined very narrowly by a maid-servant from the
window above. It is probable that he was quite conscious of this
scrutiny, but he continued quietly humming an opera air for a minute or
two, and then rang the bell again. The door was then opened. He entered,
and Marlow and his companions ran across, and got in before the door was
shut. The maid gave a little scream at the sudden ingress of so many
men, but the gentleman in black told her to be silent, to which she
replied, "Oh, Monsieur, you have cheated me. You said you wanted
lodgings."

"Very good, my child," replied the man, "but the lodgings which I want
are those of Madame Brown, and you will be good enough to recollect that
I command all persons, in the king's name, now in this house, to remain
in it, and not to go out on any pretence whatever till they have my
permission. Lock that door at the back, and then bring me the key."

The maid, pale and trembling, did as she was commanded, and the French
gentleman then directed the man who had accompanied Marlow to precede
the rest up the stairs, and enter the front room of the first floor. The
others followed close, and as soon as the door of the room was open, it
was evident that the lady of the house had been alarmed by the noise
below; for she stood looking eagerly towards the top of the stairs, with
cheeks very pale indeed. At the same moment that this sight was
presented to them, they heard the man who had gone on exclaim in
English, "Ah, Mistress Ayliffe, how do you do? I am very glad to see
you. Do you know they said you were dead--ay, and swore to it."

John Ayliffe's mother sank down in a seat, and hid her face with her
hands.


CHAPTER XXXIII.

Marlow could not be hard-hearted with a woman, and he felt for the
terrible state of agitation and alarm, to which John Ayliffe's mother
was reduced.

"We must be gentle with her," he said in French to the Commissary of
Police, who was with him, and whom we have hitherto called the man in
black.

"_Oui, monsieur_," replied the other, taking a pinch of snuff, and
perfectly indifferent whether he was gentle or not,--for the Commissary
had the honor, as he termed it, of assisting at the breaking of several
gentlemen on the wheel, to say nothing of sundry decapitations,
hangings, and the question, ordinary and extraordinary, all of which
have a certain tendency, when witnessed often, slightly to harden the
human heart, so that he was not tender.

Marlow was approaching to speak to the unfortunate woman, when removing
her hands from her eyes, she looked wildly round, exclaiming, "Oh! have
you come to take me, have you come to take me?"

"That must depend upon circumstances, madam," replied Marlow, in a quiet
tone. "I have obtained sufficient proofs of the conspiracy in which your
son has been engaged with yourself and Mr. Shanks, the attorney, to
justify me in applying to the Government of his most Christian Majesty
for your apprehension and removal to England. But I am unwilling to deal
at all harshly with you, if it can be avoided."

"Oh! pray don't, pray don't!" she exclaimed vehemently; "my son will
kill me, I do believe, if he knew that you had found me out; for he has
told me, and written to me so often to hide myself carefully, that he
would think it was my fault."

"It is his own fault in ordering your letters to him to be sent to the
Silver Cross at Hartwell," replied Marlow. "Every body in the house knew
the handwriting, and became aware that you were not dead, as had been
pretended. But your son will soon be in a situation to kill nobody; for
the very fact of your being found here, with the other circumstances we
know, is sufficient to convict him of perjury."

"Then he'll lose the property and the title, and not be Sir John any
more," said the unhappy woman.

"Beyond all doubt," replied Marlow. "But to return to the matter before
us; my conduct with regard to yourself must be regulated entirely by
what you yourself do. If you furnish me with full and complete
information in regard to this nefarious business, in which I am afraid
you have been a participator, as well as a victim, I will consent to
your remaining where you are, under the superintendence of the police,
of which this gentleman is a Commissary."

"O, I have been a victim, indeed," answered Mrs. Ayliffe, weeping. "I
declare I have not had a moment's peace, or a morsel fit to eat since I
have been in this outlandish country, and I can hardly get any body, not
even a servant girl, who understands a word of English, to speak to."

Marlow thought that he saw an inclination to evade the point of his
questions, in order to gain time for consideration, and the Commissary
thought so too: though both of them were, I believe, mistaken; for
collaterality, if I may use such a word, was a habit of the poor woman's
mind.

The Commissary interrupted her somewhat sharply in her catalogue of the
miseries of France, by saying, "I will beg you to give me your keys,
madame, for we must have a visitation of your papers."

"My keys, my keys!" she said, putting her hands in the large pockets
then worn. "I am sure I do not know what I have done with them, or where
they are."

"O, we will soon find keys that will open any thing," replied the
Commissary. "There are plenty of hammers in St. Germain."

"Stay, stay a moment," said Marlow; "I think Mrs. Ayliffe will save us
the trouble of taking any harsh steps."

"O yes, don't; I will do any thing you please," she said, earnestly.

"Well then, madame," said Marlow, "will you have the goodness to state
to this gentleman, who will take down your words, and afterwards
authenticate the statement, what is your real name, and your ordinary
place of residence in England?"

She hesitated, and he added more sternly, "You may answer or not, as you
like, madame; we have proof by the evidence of Mr. Atkinson here, who
has known you so many years, that you are living now in France, when
your son made affidavit that you were dead. That is the principal point;
but at the same time I warn you, that if you do not frankly state the
truth in every particular, I must demand that you be removed to
England."

"I will indeed," she said, "I will indeed;" and raising her eyes to the
face of the Commissary, of whom she seemed to stand in great dread, she
stated truly her name and place of abode, adding, "I would not, indeed I
would not have taken a false name, or come here at all, if my son had
not told me that it was the only way for him to get the estate, and
promised that I should come back directly he had got it. But now, he
says I must remain here forever, and hide myself;" and she wept
bitterly.

In the mean while, the Commissary continued to write actively, putting
down all she said. She seemed to perceive that she was committing
herself, but, as is very common in such cases, she only rendered the
difficulties worse, adding, in a low tone, "After all, the estate ought
to have been his by right."

"If you think so, madame," replied Marlow, "you had better return to
England, and prove it; but I can hardly imagine that your son and his
sharp lawyer would have had recourse to fraud and perjury in order to
keep you concealed, if they judged that he had any right at all."

"Ay, he might have a right in the eyes of God," replied the unhappy
woman, "not in the eyes of the law. We were as much married before
heaven as any two people could be, though we might not be married before
men."

"That is to say, you and your husband," said the Commissary in an
insinuating tone.

"I and Mr. John Hastings, old Sir John's son," she answered; and the
Commissary drawing Marlow for a moment aside, conversed with him in a
whisper.

What they said she could not hear, and could not have understood had she
heard, for they spoke in French; but she grew alarmed as they went on,
evidently speaking about her, and turning their eyes towards her from
time to time. She thought they meditated at least sending her in custody
to England, and perhaps much worse. Tales of bastiles, and dungeons, and
wringing confessions from unwilling prisoners by all sorts of tortures,
presented themselves to her imagination, and before they had concluded,
she exclaimed in a tone of entreaty, "I will tell all, indeed I will
tell all, if you will not send me any where."

"The Commissary thinks, madame," said Marlow, "that the first thing we
ought to do is to examine your papers, and then to question you from the
evidence they afford. The keys must, therefore, be found, or the locks
must be broken open."

"Perhaps they may be in that drawer," said Mrs. Ayliffe, pointing across
to an escrutoire; and there they were accordingly found. No great search
for papers was necessary; for the house was but scantily furnished, and
the escrutoire itself contained a packet of six or seven letters from
John Ayliffe to his mother, with two from Mr. Shanks, each of them
ending with the words "_read and burn_;" an injunction which she had
religiously failed to comply with. These letters formed a complete
series from the time of her quitting England up to that day. They gave
her information of the progress of the suit against Sir Philip Hastings,
and of its successful termination by his withdrawing from the defence.
The first letters held out to her, every day, the hope of a speedy
return to England. The later ones mentioned long fictitious
consultations with lawyers in regard to her return, and stated that it
was found absolutely necessary that she should remain abroad under an
assumed name. The last letter, however, evidently in answer to one of
remonstrance and entreaty from her, was the most important in Marlow's
eyes. It was very peremptory in its tone, asked if she wanted to ruin
and destroy her son, and threatened all manner of terrible things if she
suffered her retreat to be discovered. As some compensation, however,
for her disappointment, John Ayliffe promised to come and see her
speedily, and secure her a splendid income, which would enable her to
keep carriages and horses, and "live like a princess." He excused his
not having done so earlier, on the ground that his friend Mrs. Hazleton
had advanced him a very large sum of money to carry on the suit, which
he was obliged to pay immediately. The letter ended with these words,
"She is as bitter against all the Hastings' as ever; and nothing will
satisfy her till she has seen the last of them all, especially that
saucy girl; but she is cute after her money, and will be paid. As for my
part, I don't care what she does to Mistress Emily; for I now hate her
as much as I once liked her,--but you will see something there, I think,
before long."

"In the name of Heaven," exclaimed Marlow, as he read that letter, "what
can have possessed the woman with so much malice towards poor Emily
Hastings?"

"Why, John used always to think," said Mistress Ayliffe, with a weak
smile coming upon her face in the midst of her distress, "that it was
because Madame Hazleton wanted to marry a man about there, called
Marlow, and Mistress Emily carried him off from her."

The Commissary laughed, and held out his snuff-box to Marlow, who did
not take the snuff, but fell into a deep fit of thought, while the
Commissary continued his perquisitions.

Only two more papers of importance were found, and they were of a date
far back. The one fresh, and evidently a copy of some other letter, the
other yellow, and with the folds worn through in several places. The
former was a copy of a letter of young John Hastings to the unfortunate
girl whom he had seduced, soothing her under her distress of mind, and
calling her his "dear little wife." It was with the greatest difficulty
she could be induced to part with the original, it would seem, and had
obtained a copy before she consented to do so. The latter was the
antidote to the former. It was a letter from old Sir John Hastings to
her father, and was to the following effect:

     "Sir:

     "As you have thought fit distinctly to withdraw all vain and
     fraudulent pretences of any thing but an illicit connection
     between your daughter and my late son, and to express
     penitence for the insolent threats you used, I will not
     withhold due support from my child's offspring, nor from the
     unfortunate girl to whom he behaved ill. I therefore write
     this to inform you that I will allow her the sum of two
     hundred pounds per annum, as long as she demeans herself
     with propriety and decorum. I will also leave directions in
     my will for securing to her and her son, on their joint
     lives, a sum of an equal amount, which may be rendered
     greater if her behavior for the next few years is such as I
     can approve.

    "I am, sir, your obedient servant,

                       "JOHN HASTINGS."


Marlow folded up the letter with a smile, and the Commissary proceeded,
with all due formalities, to mark and register the whole correspondence
as found in the possession of Mrs. Ayliffe.

When this was done, what may be called the examination of that good lady
was continued, but the sight of those letters in the hands of Marlow,
and the well-satisfied smile with which he read them, had convinced her
that all farther attempt at concealment would be vain. Terror had with
her a great effect in unloosing the tongue, and, as is very common in
such cases, she flew into the extreme of loquacity, told every thing she
knew, or thought, or imagined, and being, as is common with very weak
people, of a prying and inquisitive turn, she could furnish ample
information in regard to all the schemes and contrivances by which her
son had succeeded in convincing even Sir Philip Hastings himself of his
legitimacy.

Her statements involved Mr. Shanks the lawyer in the scheme of fraud as
a principal, but they compromised deeply Mrs. Hazleton herself as
cognizant of all that was going on, and aiding and abetting with her
personal advice. She detailed the whole particulars of the plan which
had been formed for bringing Emily Hastings to Mrs. Hazleton's house,
and frightening her into a marriage with John Ayliffe; and she dwelt
particularly on the tutoring he had received from that lady, and his
frantic rage when the scheme was frustrated. The transactions between
him and the unhappy man Tom Cutter she knew only in part; but she
admitted that her son had laughed triumphantly at the thought of how Sir
Philip would be galled when he was made to believe that his beloved
Emily had been to visit her young reprobate son at the cottage near the
park, and that, too, at a time when he had been actually engaged in
poaching.

All, in fact, came forth with the greatest readiness, and indeed much
more was told than any questions tended to elicit. She seemed indeed to
have now lost all desire for concealment, and to found her hopes and
expectations on the freest discovery. Her only dread, apparently, being
that she might be taken to England, and confronted with her son. On this
point she dwelt much, and Marlow consented that she should remain in
France, under the supervision of the police, for a time at least, though
he would not promise her, notwithstanding all her entreaties, that she
should never be sent for. He endeavored, however, to obviate the
necessity of so doing, by taking every formal step that could be devised
to render the evidence he had obtained available in a court of law, as
documentary testimony. A magistrate was sent for, her statements were
read over to her in his presence by the commissary of police, and though
it cannot be asserted that either the style or the orthography of the
worthy commissary were peculiarly English, yet Mrs. Ayliffe signed them,
and swore to them in good set form, and in the presence of four
witnesses.

To Marlow, the scene was a very painful one; for he had a natural
repugnance to seeing the weakness and degradation of human nature so
painfully exhibited by any fellow-creature, and he left her with
feelings of pity, but still stronger feelings of contempt.

All such sensations, however, vanished when he reached the inn again,
and he found himself in possession of evidence which would clear his
beloved Emily of the suspicions which had been instilled into her
father's mind, and which he doubted not in the least would effect the
restoration of Sir Philip Hastings to his former opulence and to his
station in society.

The mind of man has a sun in its own sky, which pours forth its
sunshine, or is hidden by clouds, irrespective of the atmosphere around.
In fact we always see external objects through stained glass, and the
hues imparted are in our windows, not in the objects themselves. It is
wonderful how different the aspect of every thing was to the eyes of
Marlow as he returned towards Paris, from that which the scene had
presented as he went. All seemed sunshine and brightness, from the
happiness of his own heart. The gloomy images, which, as I have shown,
had haunted him on his way from his own house to Hartwell--the doubts,
if they can be so called--the questionings of the unsatisfied heart in
regard to the ways of Providence--the cloudy dreads which almost all men
must have felt as to the real, constant, minute superintendence of a
Supreme Power being but a sweet vision, the child of hope and
veneration, were all dispelled. I do not mean to say that they were
dissipated by reason or by thought, for his was a strong mind, and
reason and thought with him were always on the side of faith; but those
clouds and mists were suddenly scattered by the success which he had
obtained, and the cheering expectation which might be now well founded
upon that success. It was not enough for him that he knew, and
understood, and appreciated to the full the beauty and excellence of his
Emily's character. He could not be contented unless every one connected
with her understood and appreciated it also. He cared little what the
world thought of himself, but he would have every one think well of her,
and the deepest pang he had perhaps ever felt in life had been
experienced when he first found that Sir Philip Hastings doubted and
suspected his own child. Now, all must be clear--all must be bright. The
base and the fraudulent will be punished and exposed, the noble and the
good honored and justified. It was his doing; and as he alighted from
the carriage, and mounted the stairs of the hotel in Paris, his step was
as triumphant as if he had won a great victory.

Fate will water our wine, however--I suppose lest we should become
intoxicated with the delicious draught of joy. Marlow longed and hoped
to fly back to England with the tidings without delay, but certain
formalities had to be gone through, official seals and signatures
affixed to the papers he had obtained, in order to leave no doubt of
their authenticity. Cold men of office could not be brought to
comprehend or sympathize with his impetuous eagerness, and five whole
days elapsed before he was able to quit the French capital.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R.
James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New-York.



HORACE WALPOLE'S OPINIONS OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES.


The correspondence of the Earl of Orford and the Rev. William Mason, the
friend and biographer of Gray, has just been published, and the critics
seem to regard it as more entertaining than any previous collection of
the letters of the noble and celebrated author. The _Examiner_ says they
bring out with marked prominence his abhorrence of the Scotch, his
bitter dislike of Johnson, and the men of genius connected with him, his
uneasy contempt for Chesterfield and Lyttleton, his impatience of
Garrick's popularity, and his better founded scorn of Cumberland and his
clique. We do not mention his studied injustice to Chatterton, because
in this there was not a little natural resentment of as great an
injustice to himself on the part of poor Chatterton's upholders; but
perhaps nothing is more painfully impressed on all the letters than his
monstrous persistence in the refusal of all merit to the most
distinguished writers of his time who did not happen to belong to his
set. Let the reader remember that within a few years before these
letters, and during their continuance, all the writings of Sterne had
been produced, and all the writings of Goldsmith; that Johnson had
published _Rasselas_ and the _Idler_, the edition of _Shakspeare_, the
_Dictionary_, and the _Lives of the Poets_; that Smollett had given _Sir
Lancelot Greaves_ and _Humphrey Clinker_ to the world; that the first
publication of Lady Mary Wortley Montague's letters had taken place;
that Percy had published his _Reliques_, Reid his _Inquiry_, and Hume
his immortal _History_; that the most important portion of the _Decline
and Fall_ had appeared, and that the theatres could boast of the farces
of Foote and the comedies of Goldsmith, Colman, and Sheridan. Yet here
is all that Walpole can say of it!

     "What a figure will this our Augustan age make! Garrick's
     prologues, epilogues, and verses, Sir W. Chambers's
     Gardening, Dr. Nowel's Sermon, Whittington and his Cat, Sir
     John Dalrymple's History and Life of Henry II. What a
     library of poetry, taste, good sense, veracity, and
     vivacity! Ungrateful Shebbear! indolent Smollett! trifling
     Johnson! piddling Goldsmith! how little have they
     contributed to the glory of a period in which all arts, all
     sciences are encouraged and rewarded! Guthrie buried his
     mighty genius in a review, and Mallet died of the first
     effusions of his loyalty. The retrospect makes one
     melancholy, but Ossian has appeared, and were Paradise once
     more lost, we should not want an epic poem!"

We take other passages from the letters exhibiting the same spirit--now
simply entertaining:

     "Dr. Goldsmith has written a comedy--no, it is the lowest of
     all farces, it is not the subject I condemn, though very
     vulgar, but the execution. The drift tends to no moral, no
     edification of any kind--the situations, however, are well
     imagined, and make one laugh in spite of the grossness of
     the dialogue, the forced witticisms, and total improbability
     of the whole plan and conduct. But what disgusts me most is,
     that though the characters are very low, and aim at low
     humor, not one of them says a sentence that is natural or
     marks any character at all. It is set up in opposition to
     sentimental comedy, and is as bad as the worst of them.
     Garrick would not act it, but bought himself off by a poor
     prologue.

     "You will be diverted to hear that Mr. Gibbon has quarrelled
     with me. He lent me his second volume in the middle of
     November. I returned it with a most civil panegyric. He came
     for more incense, I gave it, but alas! with too much
     sincerity, I added, 'Mr. Gibbon, I am sorry you should have
     pitched on so disgusting a subject as the Constantinopolitan
     history. There is so much of the Arians and Eunomians, and
     semi-Pelagians; and there is such a strange contrast between
     Roman and Gothic manners, and so little harmony between a
     Consul Sabinus and a Ricimer, Duke of the Palace, that
     though you have written the story as well as it could be
     written, I fear few will have patience to read it.' He
     colored; all his round features squeezed themselves into
     sharp angles; he screwed up his button-mouth, and rapping
     his snuff-box, said, "It had never been put together
     before'--'so well,' he meant to add, but gulped it. He meant
     'so well,' certainly, for Tillemont, whom he quotes in every
     page, has done the very thing. Well, from that hour to this,
     I have never seen him, though he used to call once or twice
     a week: nor has sent me the third volume, as he promised. I
     well knew his vanity, even about his ridiculous face and
     person, but thought he had too much sense to avow it so
     palpably.

     "I have read Sheridan's Critic, but not having seen it, for
     they say it is admirably acted, it appeared wondrously flat
     and old, and a poor imitation; it makes me fear I shall not
     be so much charmed with the School for Scandal, on reading,
     as I was when I saw it."

There is of course no denying that these attempts to make "small beer"
of the Gibbons, Humes, Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Smolletts, and other
spirits already secure and serene among the immortals, however amusing
in themselves, become mighty ridiculous by the side of as perpetual
praise of the writer's own clique.



THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H.
DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from page 357._


XI.--ON PAROLE.

Three days after the night upon which the father and son had knocked at
the door of No. 7 Rue de Menors, another scene occurred. It was ten
o'clock. The Prince had not appeared at dinner. Confined by a slight
indisposition to his room, he sent an excuse to his daughter-in-law. The
Prince was respectful as far as possible to Aminta, looking on her as
head of the family and mistress of the household. The Countess of
Grandmesnil had embroidered away a portion of the day, contradicted her
niece, admired her nephew, commented on the last sermon of the Abbé de
Rozan on worldly pleasures, contriving therein to insert various
bitter-sweet allusions to Aminta. Finally the Countess left the room.

The Marquis and Marquise were then alone together. After her discovery
of the nocturnal absence of Henri, and especially after the reading of
the fatal note in which an appointment was made with the Marquis, Aminta
felt a sadness which she could not overcome. Too proud to reproach him,
or suffer him to discover her sorrow, divided between unextinguished
love and deep mortification, Aminta lived in perpetual constraint,
biding her grief and humiliation under a false tranquillity, the
recompense for which she found in solitary tears. The Marquis seemed ill
at ease. He had for some days been as moody as possible. His absence
became every day more frequent, and the sudden departure of the Countess
made his situation very annoying to both of them. Not a word was said
for some moments. Henri sat with his eyes fixed on a paper, though he
did not read, and Aminta convulsively twisted between her fingers a kind
of work which just then was fashionable. Her eyes however occasionally
strayed to her husband's face, on which they rested with anxiety. As she
thus examined him, the features of Henri finally assumed such an
expression of despair that Aminta could not repress her sorrow, and
said, "What _is_ the matter? are you in pain?"

"I? not at all! I am well--very well," said the Marquis. "I have
something of importance to attend to," and he added, as he looked at
the clock, "I am already rather late."

Aminta, in a supplicating tone, said, "Henri, once the most important
business of your life was to be with me."

"The business which calls me out is by no means as pleasant as that
would be."

"I wish I thought so," said Aminta--"for the needle of jealousy had
entered her heart.

"Aminta," said Maulear, looking at her, "what is the matter? what do you
mean?"

"That I am afraid I have lost the greatest blessing of life in a
marriage like ours, and that, when my confidence in you is lost,
happiness is gone for ever."

"And why have you lost it?" said Maulear.

"You have yourself destroyed it. You, whom I thought so frank--you, in
the oaths of whom I had confidence--for whom I abandoned my mother and
my country," said she, with tears. "You, against whose love I contended,
for I was afraid I would not be happy, or rather that you would not be.
Alas! I am now sure of this. Your coldness, your indifference, your
abandonment, tell me so more distinctly than your tongue could. Yet I
had rather you should say so, for there would at least be boldness in
the confession, while meanness is the element of dissimulation."

The head of the poor young woman fell on her shoulder, and she shed
bitter tears.

"Aminta," said Henri, as he drew near and sought to take her hand, "I
swear that I have not deceived you."

Aminta looked towards him with a countenance lighted up with joy, but a
frightful thought, the recollection of the letter, pierced her heart
like an arrow.

"He deceives me," said she, and she felt herself blush for the man who
did not blush himself, though he was committing perjury. The door of the
room was then opened, and the Prince de Maulear entered. He was pale and
agitated, though he had a smile on his lips. The smile, however, was
cold and evidently studied. "You are about to go out, Marquis," said he,
pointing to the hat which the latter had in his hand, without appearing
to remark either the trouble of Henri or the tears of Aminta.

"Excuse me, Monsieur, but I have an important appointment."

"I am sorry for your appointment," said the Prince, "but you must break
it."

"I cannot," muttered Henri.

"I hope you will," said the Prince, but his manner implied, "you must."

"Very well, sir," said the Marquis, putting down his hat and gloves,
with marked ill humor, "I obey you."

The Prince paid no further attention to him, but placed a chair near
Aminta, sat beside her, and pointing out a chair to the Marquis, bade
him do so also.

"We thought you unwell," said the Marquise to her father-in-law, making
an effort to restrain herself. "We are glad to see it is not the case."

"For three days," said the Prince, "I have not felt well. Too long a
walk for a person of my age, and some important affairs have fatigued
both my body and mind. I therefore determined to pass this evening
calmly and quietly with you--with my family. I do not," said he,
speaking to Henri, "expect it will be gay, but we cannot make a holiday
all the time. We must sometimes be calm, and reflect. You, my daughter,"
said he to Aminta, "may be sure I will do all I can to aid you. I know
you like to hear my old stories, but if you did not, and it were
unpleasant to you, you would bear with me. I am about to tell you a long
one." The Marquis and the Marquise listened to the Prince with surprise.
The tone of this preamble seemed to them so foreign to the ordinary
language and habits of the Prince, that they began to see something
stranger even than the piquant anecdotes and traditions he delighted in
narrating. "This story is a revelation of a story I long doubted whether
or not I should confide to you. Its avowal cannot but be painful to me,
and a man does not like to blush before his children."

"Why do so, then, my father?" said Henri.

"Because I wish to, monsieur," said the Prince sternly. "Because in the
course of his life man must suffer, when its suffering is good in its
effects, because thereby he may punish evil, and do his duty." The young
couple looked at the Prince with terror, for his brow was moody, and on
his lips--across which irony, gayety, and sarcasm so often played--there
were now the marks of anger, menace, and indignation.

The old man spoke thus: "After leaving Mettan, whither I had followed
the Princess, I went to Naples in 1792. Like almost all the _émigrés_ of
that day, I had no money. One of the first Frenchmen I met with in that
city was Count Max de Nangis, with whom I had previously become
acquainted in the strangest manner. We had been educated by the
Benedictines, but our scholastic success was most unequal; for the Count
saw me regularly surpass him, and carry away every college prize. He
naturally disliked me. When we had entered society, our whimsical hate
continued,--so that I seemed born to be the evil genius of the Count. If
our horses were entered for the same stake, mine won the purse;
sometimes by a length or a head only--but they won. If the Count fell in
love, he did so with a woman that loved me, and the Count was soon sent
adrift. My marriage soon capped the climax. Count Max had a charming
cousin, Mlle. de Devonne, whom he loved passionately. Their marriage had
been quietly agreed on between the families, and was to be solemnized on
the majority of M. de Nangis. I was introduced to the Duke de Devonne,
and saw his daughter, the most beautiful woman of the Court. After a
short time I became passionately in love with her. I soon saw that my
love was returned, and as the marriage to which I have referred had only
been a matter of family-talk, known to a few friends, but not to the
public, my father induced the Dauphin to ask the Duke de Nangis for his
daughter's hand for me. Unwilling to offend the Prince, led astray by
the manifest interest of his daughter, and anxious to gratify her, the
Duke consented. The Count de Nangis was enraged, and challenged me;--I
wounded him in the arm. We fought again;--I wounded him in the thigh. He
challenged me again; and I run him through the body; he was forced to be
satisfied. All these duels took place in the county of _Saluces_, in
Savoy,--then belonging to my family, and whither I had gone to attend to
business-matters. I married Mlle. de Devonne, who was your noble and
excellent mother,"--this was said to Henri, "I have told you this to
explain the hatred which had existed so long a time in the heart of M.
de Nangis, when we met at Naples, in 1792. The first months of my
sojourn were sad and solitary. Too proud to inform any one of the nature
of my sufferings, I lived retired; and, except a few countrymen as poor
as I was, saw no one. This was easy enough; for I had brought no letter
of recommendation to the eminent people of that capital, in which I made
such a bad figure, and amid which I was isolated. This life made one of
my habits and tastes suffer cruelly. A painful circumstance, however,
mortified my self-love, and increased my humiliation,--the Count de
Nangis then was 'the observed of all observers,' in Naples. More prudent
or more fortunate than I, he saved large sums of money from the tempest
which overwhelmed all the large fortunes of France. He had a number of
servants, and in luxury and magnificence equalled the wealthiest persons
of the city. Notwithstanding my anxiety to avoid him, I met him
frequently, and I saw in his expression a kind of disdain and contempt
which wounded me to the soul. One day, when I was more desperate than
ever, I received a letter from France, and in it a check for fifty
thousand livres, which the Countess of Grandmesnil had sent me.
Intoxicated with joy, I hastened to get possession of this money, and
careless of the future, forgot this would be the only sum I should
receive for a long time, or perhaps would ever receive. I indulged in
mad extravagance, took a carriage, and three days afterwards presented
myself at various noble houses, where my rank and title procured me a
ready reception. I saw M. de Nangis; we met in the same rooms, amid
people of high rank, and there was no trace of our old differences. I
fancied, though, that the Count exhibited a secret spite at my recovery
of fortune, which he thought more stable than it really was. At this
time people in Naples played high. The palace of Prince Leta was every
night filled with rich strangers, and with the principal nobles of
Naples. Over his tables, loaded with gold, they played all night long. I
was taken to Prince Leta's, where a strange idea took possession of me.
I fancied that I might, without danger or risk, increase my revenue, and
probably triple the poor sum I had been fortunate to receive. I played,
and my good fortune did not desert me; at first I won with the strangest
good fortune. My daring increased, and I made some bold bets, which were
successful; so that in the course of a few evenings I won three hundred
thousand francs."

The eyes of the Marquis glittered with strange light, as he heard his
father speak thus. The Prince did not seem to observe it, and
continued--

"Chance led me into a room where the Count de Nangis also was--he too
played. Remembering how my fortune had always seemed to surpass his, and
all the victories I had won at his expense, I could not refrain from
secretly pitying him for the fate which had again brought him into
contact with me, and which led him again to contend with one who had
uniformly triumphed over and beaten him in fortune, love, and war. We
began to play--the Count betting high, and I following his example. The
game was something between faro and lansquenet, now completely
forgotten, having been replaced by _écarté_." The Prince saw his son
tremble at the mention of the last game; for a few moments he paused,
and then continued--

"The first games were unfortunate for me; I lost--I doubled the stakes,
and lost again. At the conclusion of the evening my hundred thousand
crowns were reduced to a hundred thousand francs. I returned home
completely overpowered, but less stupefied at my own losses than at the
success of my rival, who heretofore had been so unfortunate. On the next
day I sent to M. de Nangis, before noon, the fifty thousand francs I
owed him--on the previous evening I had on my person only fifty thousand
francs with me. That night we met again at Prince Leta's. The game
began--there were many spectators. I won ten thousand francs, and smiled
confidently at the change of fortune. It soon, however, changed once
more.--When the clock struck twelve I was ruined! 'On my honor!' said
the Count, 'I have sought for ten years to contend with you, Prince. If
gold could indemnify me for all the losses you have caused me, confess
that, to-day, we are even.' My heart was ready to burst with rage, and I
was ready to insult him. 'We will not stop here, I hope,' said M. de
Nangis; 'and I wish to have more of your money; provided I have fifty
thousand francs of yours, I ask nothing more of the god Plutus.'

"A terrible contest then took place in my mind. To confess that I had no
more money--that I was ruined, seemed impossible; a miserable false
pride prevented me. Should I, however, go on, and contract a debt which
I could not discharge? 'Prince,' said the Count, pushing ten notes of a
thousand francs towards me, 'ten thousand francs more I wish to lose,
and something tells me that luck is about to turn.' The devil spoke to
me through the mouth of man. '_On parole_,' said I, 'for I have no money
with me.' '_Pardieu_, said the Count, 'people like ourselves never have
more than fifty thousand francs in our pocket-books. _Parole_ is our
cash, and none but citizens and bankers, who are loaded with gold like
mules in Guatemala, have any thing else. Your word is good for five
hundred thousand francs, and I will take it for cash.' I felt an icy
coldness run through my veins and stop at my very heart. I played again,
and again I lost and won again. An hour afterwards I owed sixty thousand
francs to the Count de Nangis. 'What is the matter?' said he ironically,
'are you ill.' 'The heat,' said I, rising, 'is excessive; and if you
please we will stop here.' 'As you please,' said the Count; 'and
to-morrow you shall have your revenge.' 'To-morrow, then, be it,' said
I. My head was hot, yet a cold perspiration stood on my brow; my sight
became troubled, my legs quailed, and I saw before me the terrible
spectacle of dishonor. He at last had his enemy in his power, and was
about to doom him to infamy. Two words seemed written before my eyes,
and by their aspect terrified me. Those two words contained all I had to
fear and apprehend--they were worse to me than death. These words were a
contract of honor, a sacred article in even the gambler's code. These
words had been pronounced by the Count as he pushed his money towards
me: they were '_on parole_.' I went to my hotel--for I had not yet left
the modest room I had inhabited while a more comfortable suite was being
prepared--and gave way to despair. 'My name disgraced!' cried I, 'the
name of the Prince de Maulear, which has been pure and honored for so
many centuries, made vile and disgraced by a miserable debt of sixty
thousand francs, a sum once scarcely to be considered as a fraction of
the revenues of my family!' There was no one by to aid me--no one to
whom I could own my fault, my remorse, and my despair. Day came, and the
horror of my situation increased as the fatal hour drew near. Unable to
resist this frightful torment I said, 'No! I will not live dishonored; I
will not bear a disgraced, shameful, and dishonored life.' I went to the
table and wrote: 'I owe to the Count de Nangis the sum of 60,000 francs,
for which I bequeath him all the profits ever likely to accrue to me
from my property in France. Here, when I am about to die, I enjoin my
son to discharge this debt of honor by every means in his power.' I then
took my pistols, loaded and cocked them--now be bold for one moment, and
spare yourself years of shame and disgrace!--I placed one of the pistols
with the muzzle at my heart, and the other in my mouth. I was about to
pull the trigger when I heard a noise. The partition which divided me
from the next room was shattered, and through the opening thus made, I
saw a man, pale and agitated. This person advanced towards we with a
pocket-book in his hands. 'Stop,' said he, 'here is what you owe--this
pocket-book contains sixty thousand livres.'"


XII.--THE GAMBLER.

The Prince de Maulear continued his story. Aminta timidly looked at her
father-in-law with painful emotion, for she knew how he must suffer in
making such a confession. The Marquis seemed to suffer under increasing
discomfort and terror.

"At the sudden and almost supernatural apparition of this stranger, who
thus rose before me, the weapons fell from my hands, and as I was unable
to speak, I made use of my eyes to question him.

"'I was there,' said the man, pointing to the chamber whence he had
burst so suddenly; 'I have not lost one of the words you have uttered
since your return--I have watched every moment, the long and cruel agony
of your soul. You have revealed yourself to me, your name, your family,
your isolated hopes, and your isolation in this city. I have seen your
despair hourly increase, until, but for me, you would have reached the
climax. Monsieur,' continued he, with a tone full of religion and
sensibility, 'make this day the happiest of my life by enabling me to
save one of my fellows.'

"'One of your fellows, Monsieur? alas I am not such, for if I estimate
you according to your actions, you are a man of honor and heart, while
I....'

"'You,' said he, interrupting me, 'you are like what you think me, a man
of honor and heart. The proof that such is the case is, that, unable to
bear the consequences of a moment of weakness, you were about to die to
avoid the consequences of that error. Monsieur de Maulear,' continued
the stranger, and he took my hand with touching kindness, 'permit me to
restore you to life and happiness, for you have a family perhaps, and
children, and cannot abandon all thus. Listen to me,' said he, as he saw
me refuse the pocket-book he offered me; 'I had a father who was one of
the noblest and best of men. He died many months ago, and my tears tell
you how I regret him. I know that he is in heaven and blesses me for
what I do now, for thus he would have done. The money I offer you is a
part of his fortune, and I am sure I appropriate it as he would wish me.
To refuse this, Monsieur, would be to exhibit ingratitude to Providence,
which has evidently watched over you, in permitting me to hear and
induce you to pause.'

"'But,' said I, with deep emotion, 'you do not know me, and such a
service....'

"'Have I not told you,' said he, 'that in your sorrow you told me all.
Do not, however, think I wish to be useful without a condition. I exact
one, and you will excuse me for making it the consideration of what I
propose to do.'

"'What is it?' said I. 'You can exact any thing from man as the price of
his honor.'

"'Well, swear to me that you will never play again.'

"'I do, I do!' said I. 'I pledge my faith not to.'

"'Take this pocket-book then,' said the stranger. It is now ten o'clock,
and debts of honor should always be paid before noon.'

"'But your name, at least, I should know, Monsieur, before I take your
gold.'

"'An insignificant one, which derives its only merit from the virtues of
him who transmitted it to me. My name is Luigi Rovero.'"

"My father," said the Marquise, "my father, was it he who...."

She paused from a sentiment of respect and delicacy to the Prince.

"This, however, is not the only benefit he conferred on me. From the
effects of the emotion I had undergone, a horrible illness seized me,
and during this malady of long days and endless nights of suffering, my
new friend never left me. A crisis ensued; for three days my life was in
danger, and depended on the precision with which a certain remedy was
administered to me. For three days and nights he watched me without one
minute of repose, and he not only restored my honor but preserved my
life. Rovero was a very brother to me, and I passed a whole year at
Naples, living with him and never leaving him. A few months after I was
able to discharge my pecuniary obligation to him--my debt of honor was
beyond my capacity. Here is the portrait of the person who was so dear
to me," said the Prince, and he took from his pocket a magnificent gold
box on which was a miniature set with diamonds. "Look at it, my
daughter," said he, "and observe the noble face yours so often recalls
to me."

Aminta kissed the portrait, and Henri, then remembering the picture
which Signora Rovero had shown him on his second visit to Sorrento,
explained his surprise when he saw it, for he had often seen the box and
the magnificent portrait.

"Plans, prejudices, pride, and family pride," said the Prince, "my
child, disappeared, as you know, when I heard the words 'The daughter of
Rovero.' Rovero was my savior and brother. From that moment I understood
that in the far-away skies, he besought me to discharge my debt towards
him, and to prove the extent of my gratitude. I understood that he would
have bequeathed his daughter to me, to become my own; therefore, when I
opened my arms you became my child, and since then my love for you has
continually increased. When I took charge of your life, my daughter, I
took charge of your happiness, which I thought secured for ever. For
some time, though, you have shed tears in secret--do not tell me no,"
said the Prince, as he saw Aminta make a motion of negation. "I have
studied you closely, and one cannot deceive a father's heart--I am your
father. Monsieur," said the Prince, turning towards his son, "now you
know why I love your wife. You see that her sorrows are mine, and that
her tears melt my heart. For two months you have distressed and made her
weep over your neglect and indifference, the fatal secret of which I
know and intend to tell her."

Henri quivered with fear.

"Father, for pity's sake, do not...."

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "had you blushed earlier you would not do
so now."

"My daughter," said he, pointing to the Marquise who bent before him;
"your husband is not false to you, but he is a gamester."

"Then he has not deceived me," said the young woman. With an emotion she
could not restrain, she rushed into the arms of the Marquis. For some
moments the Prince looked at her with deep emotion, for Aminta forgave
and pardoned all in one who had not betrayed her. Then the Prince
continued sadly--

"Do not rejoice so soon, my child; gaming is the instigator of all
vices, and has led him so far as to _risk his honor without the means of
redeeming his parole_."

"Monsieur," said the Prince to his son, "I have told you a terrible
story, to prove to what abasement the passion for gaming can reduce a
man. That abasement you are in danger of."

"Father, if you knew the temptation."

"I do--for three days ago your mysterious life was revealed to me. In
the circle to which you belong, in one of those societies formed to
divide and interfere with domestic life--where persons go in search of a
liberty and after a license they do not find at home--in that place, led
astray by morbid self-esteem, you played for the first time. What, in a
man of your rank, should have been a mere amusement, a fugitive
pleasure, became a serious business. You played to win, or rather to
repair your losses. In the saloons of Paris you were constantly at the
écarté tables, that cursed game, the chances of which have ruined so
many persons. Thanks to it, you won immense sums from young Lord Elmore,
at the last ball of M. L----, which you lost again in the more doubtful
house of Mme. Fanny de Bruneval, where you had an appointment."

"Ah, father! then he went to that woman's house to play?" said Aminta,
almost involuntarily.

"What else should he go for to the house of a dowager of fifty, who
receives all sorts of people, and where every thing is suspicious, from
her guests to the very cards they use? This very night, in consequence
of information received from me, that elegant abode will be examined by
the police most scrupulously. That," said the Prince, "is one of the
reasons why I have prevented my son from going thither. Now, Monsieur,"
said the Prince, "make an explanation of the state of your funds. You
had six hundred thousand francs from your mother, you have expended two
hundred thousand in furniture, horses, carriages, articles of luxury,
and presents to your wife. With the expenditure of this money I have no
fault to find, for you cannot estimate too highly the angel Heaven has
sent you. Then you had four hundred thousand francs. You have realized
this money, and during the last two months have lost the sum of three
hundred and ninety thousand francs. This evening, Monsieur, you were
about to tempt fortune with the ten thousand francs now in your
possession. Is not this the exact state of your affairs?"

"Ah, Monsieur, it is cruel to say all this before the Marquise."

"It is a hundred times less cruel than the suspicion to which you
abandon her. Did you not see just now that instead of reproaching the
gamester who had ruined her, she experienced only a tender emotion for
the husband she loved? Henri," continued the Prince, taking his son's
hand in his own, "when I told you how once in my life I had erred, when
I confessed to you a fault which yet makes my cheek blush, I sought to
make you pause on the abyss into which you were near plunging. In
telling you this secret I deprived myself of the right of severity to
you. When, in a letter I wrote to you at Naples, I spoke lightly of a
loss at cards I had undergone, I did not doubt that some day I would be
obliged to tell you all that had taken place. I was wrong, however, in
forbidding you to beware of what I had spoken of; for I should have
known that there are passions, like other diseases, which a father
transmits to his children. The body, like the soul, inherits them. I
however pardon and forget all I have mentioned."

Henri clasped the old man's hand, and Aminta kissed the Prince.

"I will," said the latter, "only pardon you on the terms imposed on me
by my generous friend Rovero. You will swear to me, on your honor, that
you will never play again, and I will confide in you as he did in me."

"I do swear," said the Marquis, "and will die if I ever break my oath."

"Now listen to me, my children," said the Prince, kindly; "I have a
hundred thousand francs a year--I will allow you fifty. A similar sum
satisfies me. To protect you, however, from all temptations to
extravagance, I give you the income and not the capital, and as a reward
of my indulgence, as a recompense of my courage in making the confession
of a great error of my life, make your wife happy, reward her by
tenderness for the care you have subjected her to, for the uneasiness
she has known, and my heart will be gratified for the bliss she will owe
you, as something to discharge my debt to her father."

The Prince clasped his children to his heart and left. While this was
occurring at the Hotel de Maulear, a storm overhung the hospitable roof
of Mme. Fanny de Bruneval. This house had been correctly estimated by
the Prince de Maulear, angry as he naturally was at the sums lost by his
son in those saloons. Madame de Bruneval assumed the military title of
widow of an ex-colonel of the Imperial Guard. There had really been such
a colonel on the _rôles_ of the _grande armée_. Such a soldier had not
only had flesh and blood, but crosses and decorations. He had beaten,
and well beaten, the Austrians, but had lost his horse at Leipsic, and
been cut down by one of the black hussars of Brunswick. All this was
real, positive, and printed in black and white. There was no doubt about
it. It was doubtful, though, if the Colonel ever had a wife. The
_Moniteur_ mentioned the battles and the death--it said nothing of
Madame. Colonel de Bruneval, once, during a time of peace--such times
were rare with the Emperor--came to Paris with a lady about forty,
blonde like a German, rosy and fresh as a German, and speaking French
with a German accent. The Colonel introduced the lady to his brethren in
arms as _Madame la Colonelle_, and no one asked any other questions. No
one was ever bold enough to ask if the contract was perfectly regular;
for the Colonel was six feet high, tall as a drum-major, and was not
only a giant, but susceptible as possible, having a habit of translating
logic and syllogisms into sword-cuts and sabre slashes. The widow of the
Colonel, naturally enough, opened her house to her husband's
brothers-in-arms after the fatal blow of the black Brunswicker. The
house of Mme. Bruneval, in 1818, had become a Bonapartist club, at which
the police squinted with unusual forbearance for a long time. We must,
however, say, that the widow soon saw that the illustrious soldiers who
frequented her house did not indemnify her by their conversation for her
expenses. She therefore sought to make the presence of these heroes
available, and mingled with them a few honest people who were fond of
play, from whom the lights, like the altars of the god Plutus, received
the tithe of the stakes. At the widow's the play was high, and all kinds
of games were recognized. All, however, was fair and above board, and
this kind of reputation attracted thither many persons who would not
have met on a field of battle less orthodox. People in good society were
met with there. People who, like the Marquis de Maulear, were unwilling
to play in public, looked for excitement without regard to chance and
society. There the famous match between the Marquis and Lord Elmore took
place. Count Monte-Leone also went occasionally to Mme. Bruneval's,
since he used to meet there many _Carbonari_ and Bonapartists; for, as
we have said, people of the most diverse opinions all united for one
purpose, to destroy what was, and make their ideas triumph from the
wreck of the general chaos.

On the evening of the lesson given by the Prince to the Marquis de
Maulear, the Count presented Taddeo to Mme. de Bruneval, and while the
play seemed animated in various parts of the room, the _Carbonari_
talked in a neighboring room of a plan conceived by several wealthy
Americans who were affiliated with the society, of a plan to bear off
the Emperor Napoleon from his prison at St. Helena, and carry him to
France. Important, however, as the subject was, the Count paid but
little attention to it. He was then at one of the most painful crises of
his life. In about an hour he would need all his courage and persuasion
to combat and conquer one of the greatest obstacles man can meet with in
his career--the will of an energetic and passionate woman. Not long
before, Monte-Leone had received the following note:

"For fifteen days I have not seen you. I do not know why you avoid me. I
had rather die than continue to live thus. I wish to hear my fate from
your own lips. For eight days _he_ will be away. Come--if you refuse
me--if you are not with me when midnight comes, it will be the proof of
an eternal adieu, and I will cease to live."

The Count waited with impatience for the period of this terrible
interview. He knew the feeling which had inspired this note, how full of
irrepressible indignation her mind was, and that it would shrink from no
danger and no excess. He sought in vain to shake off Taddeo, but since
the scene in Verneuil street, when the wretch set to watch Monte-Leone
had been overheard by Rovero, the young man had been almost
heart-broken. On this evening, though, he did not lose sight of Taddeo
for an instant. The Count saw with terror that the time was drawing
near, yet he could not leave the room. Taking advantage of a moment when
Taddeo was not by, the Count was about to leave, when a noise was heard
in the anteroom. The door was thrown open, and a man with a white scarf
advanced amid the company. There was no possibility of mistake, for
justice, herself, as the Prince de Maulear had told his son, had come
into the gaming-house, disguised as a Commissary of Police. All who were
present felt the greatest uneasiness--they were about to be arrested on
the double charge of _Carbonarism_ and forbidden play. Was it to the
gamesters or to the _Carbonari_ that the Commissary paid his visit? All
were excited, though from different motives.

"Madame," said the Commissary, exhibiting his warrant to Madame
Bruneval, who, like the commander of a besieged place, sought to parley
with the enemy; "you are the widow of Colonel de Bruneval."

"I am, sir," said the German lady, whose color became greater than ever,
"and cannot conceive why I should be thus insulted. I am not, I suppose,
under the surveillance of the police."

"Excuse me, madame," said the Commissary, "your house has long been
pointed out to us, as the rendezvous of many Buonapartists"--the
Buonapartists became alarmed--"and," continued the Commissary, "as a
place where forbidden games are played. For these reasons, we are about
to make an examination in the premises and in relation to the persons
here--until that is completed, none can leave this room."

The clock struck twelve. The sound made the Count grow pale, for it was
the hour of the rendezvous. His situation was annoying, and a moment's
delay might bring about a catastrophe. The note had said: "If you are
not at my house by midnight, I shall be dead before one." The Count made
up his mind, and with his habitual decision in all critical,
embarrassing, or dangerous conjunctures, said that he must at all risks
get out of the house and go whither he was expected, to save life--which
every moment endangered. In such a state of affairs, _ruse_ was the best
course he could adopt--especially as that promised his immediate
extrication. He was about to adopt a difficult course; he purposed to
put out the lights, rush on the magistrate and his attendants, and then
break through the doors. Before adopting this extreme course, the Count
wished to know if he had many Carbonari around him. Glancing around the
guests of Madame Bruneval, he placed his hand on his brow and made
slowly the secret sign by means of which the Carbonari recognized each
other. The Commissary had not removed his eyes from the Count, who he
was well aware, though he did not know his name, was one of the
principal persons of the assemblage. No sooner had Monte-Leone made the
sign than, much to his surprise, he saw the Commissary acknowledge it.
The Count then discovered that the magistrate was a Carbonari, and that
there was one more brother than could have been expected in the room.
This strange circumstance had its explanation in the statement of
D'Harcourt at Doctor Matheus's: "We meet our brethren every where; in
the city, in the courts, among the lawyers, and among the judges." The
inquiry was brief and a mere matter of form. The Commissary did nothing.
Monte-Leone was one of the first who received permission to leave.
Followed by Taddeo, he rushed out. Rovero called on him to stop, but the
Count paid no attention to his cries. The clock was about to strike one,
and hurrying across the streets and squares of Louis XV., with the
rapidity of an arrow, he did not pause until he had reached the _Champs
Elysées_, where a little green door veiled by a hedge was opened to
admit him.


XIII.--DESPAIR.

When the door opened, a woman appeared and said, "Follow me, Count,
Madame is waiting for your excellency."

"What o'clock is it?" asked he, with great anxiety.

She answered, "A quarter after one."

"When did you leave your mistress?"

"At twelve. Madame bade me wait here for you."

"Lost!--dead! perhaps dead!" exclaimed the Count. He hurried down the
alley directly to the hotel.

"Signore! Signore!" said the woman; "all the servants have not perhaps
gone to bed, and if you be seen now in the garden of the Embassy, what
will people say and think of Madame?"

"Take me directly to her," said the Count, "for her life is in danger."

"Her life!" said the woman, with terror. Then, as if struck with an
idea, she added, "Wait, though, Madame bade me not come into her room
until to-morrow, unless I brought your excellency with me."

"Come, come," said the Count, dragging the woman after him. Thus they
went to the right wing of the building. A small door opened on a private
stairway communicating with the rooms of the Duchess of Palma. The
servant pointed out the door to the Count, and then preceded him. The
stairway ended at a little hall on the first floor. There the Count
stopped and the woman put a key in another door in the wall, through
which the Count entered a waiting-room and passed into a boudoir, where
the _femme de chambre_ asked him to sit for a few moments while she
informed the Duchess of his arrival. The Count was for some minutes
alone in the boudoir, and at last heard a half stifled cry behind him.
He looked around and saw the servant motionless and with terror
impressed on every feature. She pointed to the Duchess's room with one
hand, and lifted up the curtain of the door with the other. The Count
entered the room where a terrible spectacle awaited him. The Duchess,
pale as death, was extended on a sofa; by her side was a lamp almost
burnt out, and the flickering light cast from time to time a pale lustre
over this scene of sadness and death. The pulse and heart of La Felina
were motionless. By her side was a flaçon of red liquor, which was
spilled on the rosewood stand. The Count held the flaçon to his nose and
lip, and recognized its contents to be laudanum, that bringer of calm or
ruin, of sleep or death.

A feeling of deep sorrow took possession of him. The love and devotion
of that woman appeared to him in their proper light--limitless and vast.
Remorse lacerated his heart; for he charged himself with being the cause
of the terrible crime she had committed. Again the Count approached the
Duchess, and somewhat calmer than he had first been, perceived a faint
palpitation. He placed a mirror near Felina's lips, and a thin mist
overcast it. "She lives!" said Monte-Leone; "a lethargic sleep has
plunged her in this apparent death. Thank heaven, from having taken too
small a dose, the opium has acted as a narcotic--not as a poison. She
must be roused from this dangerous state. Listen," said he to the
servant, "I have a friend who will save your mistress without noise or
scandal. He is a physician, as skilful as he is prudent. Send him this,
at once," said he, writing hastily a few lines on a fragment of paper he
took from the Duchess's desk. "Order the carriage at once, say that your
mistress is ill and a physician indispensable. Suffer no one to enter
this room but the person for whom I have written, and I will answer for
the consequences. Here, this note is for Doctor Matheus, No. 7 _rue de
Babylonne_--hurry."

When Monte-Leone was alone with the Duchess, he sought to arouse her
from the sleep which oppressed her, by making her inhale the perfumes of
several flaçons which he found near. This was, however, in vain, and he
soon abandoned it. "Poor woman," said he, sitting by and looking at her
with compassion; "this is then the end of her life and love: to what
misery has she been led by passion, while mine was not more lasting than
the perfume of a rose." As he abandoned himself to these cruel thoughts,
the eyes of the Count fell on a letter, which she had with her expiring
strength attempted to throw into the fire. It had, however, fallen on
the hearth and was but partially burned. The Count took hold of it with
the intention of destroying it, lest it might contain some secret
compromising the Duchess. Just, however, as he was about to destroy it,
he fancied that he saw his own name, and unable to resist his curiosity,
he glanced rapidly over it. The following detached phrases had been
spared by the fire:

    "You gave me bread when I was famishing,
    and apparel when I had none....

    "The consequence of....

    "body and soul....

    "But I feel your....

    "is mine....

    "belongs to you....

    "This Monte-Leone deserves to be....

    "offends you....

    "live for you....

    "or if I....

    "It will be for me...."

"What is the meaning of this, said the Count, and what does she
meditate? Has the Duchess a confidant? Can this man be my enemy? How
have I injured him?"

The servant entered, and the Count placed the letter in his bosom. A
half hour passed in anxious expectation of Matheus. The wheels of a
carriage were heard in the courtyard and aroused the Count from his
thoughts. The servant went to meet the Doctor and soon after introduced
Frederick von Apsberg into the room.

"Look there," said the Count, pointing to La Felina.

The doctor drew near and examined her.

"Suicide and laudanum," said he. He felt the pulse. "Just in
time--luckily you told me what was the matter, and I have brought some
active and powerful antidotes. In a quarter of an hour cerebral
congestion would have ensued, and death." He poured out a few drops of a
liquid he had brought in a glass spoon, and forced it between the
convulsive teeth of the Duchess. Three minutes afterwards she heaved a
deep sigh. "Now I will answer for her recovery," said Von Apsberg. The
Duchess opened her eyes soon after and glanced around her. She was,
though, unable to distinguish any thing, so haggard and fixed had they
become. The Count stood aside. For a few moments through the vast room
nothing was heard but the feeble panting and anxious breathing of the
invalid, which, however, gradually grew more regular and natural.

"Madame," said the doctor, giving the Duchess a glass of water, into
which he had poured a few drops of the liquid he had brought with him,
"do you wish to live?"

"No," said the Duchess.

"Then do not take this antidote, for the poison is yet in your system
and this alone can neutralize it."

Just then Monte-Leone advanced towards La Felina.

"He here!" murmured she.

"Live," said the Count, "live, I beg you."

Without replying, the Duchess looked towards the doctor as if she were
about to ask him for the elixir. She drained the glass.

"Now," said Von Apsberg, "madame must be calm and silent; least of all
must she indulge in any emotion," added he, looking at Monte-Leone, "or
the medicine will be powerless."

"Who are _you_?" said the Duchess.

"A friend, a brother of mine, to whose heart I confide all the secrets
of my life."

_La Felina_ glanced a few moments at the doctor, and said, "I remember."

"Certainly, the Duchess has not forgot the Pulcinella at the Eutruscan
house. She has not forgotten the dreamy German lad whom she once
lectured so sternly, but who never was offended with her. The lecture
did him a great service, for the joyous Pulcinella, changing his humor
and dress, has now become a grave doctor who never jests, and insists
that his prescriptions be literally followed. To add example to precept,
I will remain in this room and watch over the prophetess of San Carlo,
and if I do not leave her cured and reasonable," said he, whispering in
the Duchess's ear, "for I am a physician of the mind as well as body, I
will at least do her some good. All my brothers of the medical
profession cannot say as much."

He then handed the Count his hat and pointed to the door.

"To-morrow evening, at nine," said the Count, "I will call on you." An
expression of joy hung on La Felina's lips, and she nodded in
acknowledgment.

Monte-Leone placed his lips on the yet icy hand of the ambassadress, and
then approached Von Apsberg, to whom he said in a low tone, "You swear
that you will save her."

"I do," said Matheus.

The Count went to the door, not the one the doctor had pointed out, but
to the secret one through which he had come, and a few minutes after was
alone in the _Champs Elysées_, doubtful whether all that had passed was
not a dream. The letter which he had found, and which rattled in his
bosom, with its mysterious broken phrases, its shreds of threats and
vengeance, sufficed to recall to his mind the reality of the scene which
he had been both an actor and participator in. According to his promise,
on the day after this series of alarms and torments, Monte-Leone went to
the hotel of the Neapolitan minister just as the bell of Saint Philippe
de Roule rang for nine. The Count on this occasion came us an ordinary
visitor to the principal door.

"The Duchess," said the usher, "made an exception of Count Monte-Leone
alone, in orders she gave that no one should be admitted. Madame had
last night a nervous attack from which she yet suffers. She, however,
expects your excellency."

The Count went into the reception room, and soon after was introduced
into the Duchess's boudoir. He found Madame de Palma lying on a divan,
and her countenance yet showed traces of her sufferings. Monte-Leone was
touched.

The Duchess gave him her hand and bade him be seated. She said, "You see
almost a spectre or ghost escaped from the grave. Do not, however, be
afraid, the ghost will not rise before you animated by wrath and anger.
Did it wish to do so, it is now too feeble." The Duchess used her salts,
as if she would regain that strength which seemed rapidly leaving her.

"Felina," said the Count, gently and sadly, "did you wish to die?"

"What now is life to me?" said she, "I meet with only contempt and
desertion from him for whom I forgot my gratitude and duty. Be frank
with me, do not fear my despair; but this doubt is too cruel. _Tell_ me
that you do not love me, let me learn it from your mouth, not from your
indifference."

The Count wished to speak.

"Ah! you do not know," continued she, and with her hand she bade him
listen, "what those long hours of expectation are, when every noise
seems to announce the coming of the person you love--when the hope
having been twenty times deceived, the ear rather than the heart listens
with the anxiety of death to the sound of every carriage which passes
by, but does not stop at your door--to the bell which announces another
visitor than the one who is expected. You do not know the torment of
those wretched evenings when alone, with no companion but sorrow--you
see ever before you your devotion to the one man all the time staring
you in the face, him attracted elsewhere by other charms. The soul that
suffers thus, by some instinctive powers, sees him approach every rival,
become intoxicated by her glance, listen to her voice, take her hand
stealthily, live in her life, while she dies a thousand times an hour--a
thousand deaths as often as despair passes a picture before her. Do you
see, Count, how horrible all this is? This is murderous, though time
must elapse before the deadly poison takes effect on the heart. In such
cases one who does not die rapidly is mad. Yesterday I had in my power
the means of avoiding such tortures."

Completely exhausted, the Duchess fell back on the cushion. The eyes of
the Count glistened with tears, and he knelt before the poor woman who
had suffered so much for him.

"Felina," said he, "until to-day I thought courage consisted in braving
danger, and even death: I now know that I have only to unveil my heart
to you to prove that my daring did not need that I should contend with
the ocean, be immured in a dungeon, and bare my neck to the axe. I will
have that courage, for to me it is a duty, and I will not shrink from
it. When I met you on the Lago di Como--when sad at the fact that I had
been deserted by men who did not know me, by the woman I adored, I saw
your immense tenderness unfolded to me, when you uttered those
passionate words which my heart had no power then of understanding, I
fancied that I had forgotten the past in the charms of a present full of
love and intoxicating passion. I told you all I felt, and was sincere
and happy. I remembered what you had done for me, and I fancied I had
found the angel of my existence in you. Alas! a few months after, the
bandage was torn from my brow, and, excuse me, but all I thought dead in
my soul became more animated than ever. I saw my tenderness was the
offspring of friendship, that my love changed into deep affection,
which, however, was not of the kind you expected from me. With terror
and despair I discovered that I was ungrateful to you. Twenty times I
was on the point of making this painful confession, yet as many times I
felt my strength fail. Now, though, when you have wished to die for the
unworthy man for whom you would have made such a sacrifice, when you
have appealed to my honor, I must speak to you, and avow to you my true
sentiments, which it would be improper for me any longer to conceal from
you."

While the Count was speaking, the Duchess lay half asleep on the divan,
with her eyes closed, and her hand on her heart, the pulsations of which
she tried to restrain. One might have thought she slept, but for her
short respiration, and the heaving of her breast, which indicated great
feverish agitation. She remained in this motionless state a few seconds
after Monte-Leone had ceased. She then slowly opened her eyelids, and
resting her head on her hand, as if her marble shoulders would not
suffice to sustain it, looked at the Count with those eyes whence
emanated the burning glance of delirium. A single look--a single glance
was cast on the Count; this glance, however, was instinct with a
terrible thought, and she became at once chill and cold.

"I thank you for your frankness," said she to the Count, giving him her
hand. "Perhaps I would have thanked you had you suffered me to die
without telling me what you have heard. You, however, wished me to live,
and I can understand why, for my death would have poisoned all your
existence. I will live, then, but for you alone." The same glance she
had thrown on the Count appeared again, but immediately died away.
"Yet," continued she, "listen to me. I cannot consent to lose you--I can
consent to be your friend, but will not think you another's."

"Felina," said the Count, "I understand you. On my life and soul, I
swear I will never speak of love to her of whom you think. Her ties and
virtues I will respect, her honor will relieve your apprehensions, and I
know what this honor imposes on me."

"I have faith in you," said Felina; "understand me, though, and do not
require what I cannot give. Do not add to my grief, the vengeance and
excess of which you cannot calculate."

"Threats!" said the Count, bitterly. He was about to speak to the
Duchess of the fragments of the letter, but was prevented by a secret
presentiment.

"No," said Felina, "not threats. Such are not intended for friends, and
to me you are a friend."

The Count took her hand. It was cold as death.

"Come to see me often," said she; "invalids need a physician; and
skilful as the one you brought last night may be, your visits will exert
a better effect--you will enable me to contend with myself. Then, too,"
said she, growing pale, "I will see you.... Now leave me, for I am
feeble. Since you wish me to live, I must not exhaust the rest of my
life ... I will try to sleep; but I will not sleep as long as I expected
to last night." Then, as if she was completely exhausted by such a
variety of shocks, she bade the Count adieu.

Monte-Leone left her. Just as he was about to cross the peristyle, he
saw the shadow of a man gliding into the hotel through the half open
door. The face of this man was suddenly lighted up by one of the
reflectors of the palace, and Monte-Leone remembered features yet
present to his memory. They were the features of STENIO SALVATORI of
_Torre del Greco_.


XIV.--THE MAGNETIZER.

The lecture the Prince had given to his son seemed to have done him
good. For two months the family of the Prince de Maulear had been calm
and happy. Aminta, in the care, attention, and watchfulness of her
husband, enjoyed again all the emotions of her early marriage days. Her
letters to her mother were filled with hope far different than that
expressed in the one we have read. Henri constantly avoided every thing
which could possibly awaken the sad passion which chance, temptation,
and the weakness of his character had led him into. He never approached
the card-table, and paid no attention to the challenges of his old
adversaries. He began to learn whist and other games of combination,
calculation, and science, which leave the head cold and the reason
sound, and at which no one ever pretended to bet a thousand francs a
trick, as was subsequently done in 1846, at the house of Count A. ----
and that of M. de R----, Minister of D. People then played whist for
whist's sake, not to become rich or bankrupt.

An unexpected event disturbed the quiet life of the inmates of the
Hotel-Maulear. Aminta received a letter from her mother, in which
Signora Rovero announced to her daughter a piece of intelligence, which
for her children's sake delighted, while for her own sake it distressed
her. The Roman Cardinal, Filippo Justiniani, her brother, of whom we
spoke in one of the first chapters of this book, had died, leaving his
fortune to his nephew and niece. This fortune was more than a million.
Signora Rovero, therefore, wished her son-in-law, the Marquis de
Maulear, and Taddeo, to come at once to Rome, to receive this
inheritance; the one in the name of his wife, and the other for himself.

This letter produced very different effects in the family of the Prince
de Maulear. Instead of rejoicing at a fortune which was to be purchased
by the absence of her husband, the young _marquise_ was rather grieved
than pleased at it. The revenue the Prince had appropriated to his
children was sufficient to make their career quite brilliant. This
increase of fortune, therefore, had little value in Aminta's eyes; but a
separation, though but temporary, from Henri might endanger, in one so
volatile as the Marquis was, the influence she had acquired over him.
She apprehended this, and fear, in a heart impassionable as his was,
could not but be the source of uneasiness and torment. The idea of
accompanying the Marquis often suggested itself to her, but it was then
the depth of winter, and her health, naturally delicate, had been so
recently shaken by the troubles she had experienced, that she could not,
at such a time, venture on such an excursion. The Prince de Maulear did
not see his son leave him without dissatisfaction. He did not think him
completely cured of the moral malady he had undertaken to cure, but
watched over him paternally and kindly. The Marquis, though he sincerely
regretted that he must be separated from his charming wife, whom he now
loved better than ever, did not conceal the pleasure which such a trip
caused him. He did not deny that the kind of atony to which his
monotonous life subjected him, made it necessary that he should be
somewhat galvanised by the excitement of travel.

Taddeo, too, had been more kindly received by the Duchess since the
scene which had taken place between Monte-Leone and her. He was
distressed at the absence which removed him from that woman whose
influence over his heart nothing could overcome.

All these feelings, however, resulted in the same circumstance--the
prompt departure of the two heirs from the eternal city. When they left,
Aminta felt a deep distress, and the Prince de Maulear a sombre
presentiment.

Fifteen days afterwards, a letter, dated at Rome, informed the young
Marquise of the arrival of her husband and brother at the capital of the
Christian world. This letter informed them also that there were
difficulties in the way of obtaining possession of the estate of
Cardinal Justiniani, from the fact that his eminence had made various
bequests to convents, churches, and religious foundations, in relation
to which it was necessary for the Holy Father himself to make a
decision, which would much retard the final arrangement of their
business.

Aminta felt that her sadness was doubled at this news, and the feeling
grew more poignant from the fact that her husband's letters became every
day more rare and more cold. Aware of the devotion of the Prince de
Maulear to her, and knowing how uneasy the old man was about his son,
the young woman did all she could to conceal her anxiety from her
father-in-law, and by means of a thousand pretexts kept from his sight
the often icy letters written by her husband. When the Prince questioned
her about what he wrote from Rome, he received an evasive reply. "Well,
well," he would say, "one should not inquire into them. Fathers have
nothing to say about them; and provided, my child, that you are happy, I
will ask nothing more." Thus two months rolled by. The young Marquise
waited anxiously every day for the coming of the post, and the hours
rolled by only to deceive her. Deep mortification soon replaced regret.
Surrounded by the homage of a society which adored her, Aminta saw
herself deserted by the man to whom she was bound for life, and the
humiliation of this indifference almost overpowered the agony she felt.
The fact was, that having already been sacrificed to the miserable
passion for play, she now fancied she was postponed to the pleasure of
travel, and her firm character, softened by the happiness in which the
early days of her marriage had been passed, began now to assume the
firmness of womanhood, with all the characteristics of the Italian
nature. Such was the condition of Aminta's mind when she received the
visit of the Count Monte-Leone. When he came she was alone. They were
both annoyed by this novel position, and for a time their conversation
was commonplace. But soon the memory of the past began to assert its
influence over them. The Count spoke of Naples as Neapolitans only can.
He infused into his conversation the passionate energy which ever exists
in their souls in relation to that climate, so highly favored by heaven.
Aminta, to whom the cold climate of France had not been that of her
love, surrendered her whole soul to the happiness awakened by those
smiling ideas. The Count recalled to her Sorrento and its perfumed
hills, its azure sea and brilliant sky. He then recalled to her the
villa where he had been so nobly welcomed, where days flitted by like
hours, where the silence of a calm and beautiful nature were only
interrupted by the breeze and the waves, which died away among myrtle
and orange-groves, or by the songs of birds in the luxuriant thickets.
Aminta listened to him with increasing trouble, for his voice had never
seemed so penetrating and mild. Astonishment took possession of her when
she thought that the mind of this man, so sensible to the charms of
nature, so aware of the simple beauties of Italian scenery, was the
energetic and powerful soul which braved death without weakness, and
defied the executioner without fear. The Count thus led, contrary to his
own wishes, into the dangerous retrospect of the past, felt his reason
give way, as he found himself in the presence of one whose very
appearance agitated his reason, because she recalled that country where
the gayest and happiest hours of his life had passed.

Aminta, anxious to triumph over the involuntary emotion which took
possession of her, diverted the Count from all the seductions of his
memory and love by asking if Taddeo was a better friend than brother,
and if letters were as great rarities to him as to herself. The Count
replied that Taddeo wrote often. He then, with an effort, shook off his
delicious dream, and sadly returned to real life. "The Marquis and he,"
said Monte-Leone, "are yet at Rome, as M. de Maulear must have told you.
Rome has never been gayer than it now is. Festivals and entertainments
are numerous, and the richest strangers of Europe are now there; while
balls and cards are all the rage."

At the last phrase Aminta grew pale. The Count observed this, and
attributing its cause to some illness, rose to go away. The Marquise,
though, said with a vivacity which surprised him, "And does the Holy
father authorize play in his states?"

"He does not authorize but tolerates it. This is sufficient for a bank
kept by a rich society of capitalists, to realize millions by this
passion, and to produce many disasters and calamities."

The Marquise felt her heart grow chill, and as she began to grow sick
she dismissed the Count.

"Will the _Marquise_ permit me to call on her again?"

"Yes, Count; and if you receive any news from Rome--from the Marquis and
my brother, tell me of it, I beg you." The Count left, more in love than
ever; and Aminta remained alone, unhappy, agitated, and a prey to
instinctive and wretched thoughts.

It now becomes our duty to conduct the reader to a magnificent hotel in
the Faubourg St. Germain, and make him a spectator of a scene which
occurred a few days after the conversation we have spoken of. We wish to
introduce him to the beautiful girl of whom Dr. Matheus caught a glimpse
from the windows of the laboratory. This girl was no longer the most
brilliant rose of the parterre. Seated in a large arm-chair, near a
window of the saloon, which looked out upon the garden, her pale
complexion, and the hectic flush of her cheek, her red lips, and the
dark ring about the eyes, indicated general indisposition. An old man
sat near her, with one of her hands in his; while, with his eyes fixed
on her, he seemed with despair to read the expression of intense
suffering. The old man was the Duke d'Harcourt, and the invalid, his
daughter _Marie_.

"Ah, papa! this is nothing but a horrid _migraine_ to which I have long
been subject. The pain in the chest which accompanies it, you know,
never lasts long, and is almost always cured by the very presence of the
kind doctor, whom we might almost fancy to be a sorcerer."

"The means he employs, my child, and which he has communicated to me, is
not sorcery, but a science, scarcely known as yet, and the source of
much dispute. I confess I had no great faith in it until experience had
revealed to me its power and reality."

"And have you faith, papa, in the power of the doctor?" asked the young
girl, with a singular accent.

"I believe, my child, in what I see. He benefits you, and therefore
dissipates all my hesitation. Magnetism is not new; Mesmer, the able
Foria, and afterwards many serious and learned men have inquired into
it, and discovered undeniable virtues. Unfortunately, imposture and
charlatanism soon took possession of it, and, therefore, it has been
overburdened with ridicule and contempt. If it be a truth, as all I have
seen induces me to think; if in the employment of this fluid there be
means to assist nature, a studious man, who has any charity towards his
fellows, should study before he decides on it, and reject nothing novel,
as it may be, until he has proven it to be false or impotent."

"Here is the doctor!" said the Vicomte d'Harcourt, quickly opening the
door, and introducing Von Apsberg.--"I have taken him from a grave
consultation to see my sister." Hurrying to his sister, the Vicomte
kissed her. Marie blushed; was not this blush caused, perhaps, by the
coming of the doctor?--Was it caused by René's kiss? The heart alone can
tell; and young women's hearts do not answer such questions very
readily.

"Marie yet suffers," said the Duke to the false Matheus. "With you
though, doctor, hope and health always return. For that reason we are
unwilling you should ever leave us." It was now the doctor's turn to
blush.

"You certainly," said he, "estimate my influence over the disease to be
in proportion to my wish to soothe it. If such were really the case, you
might be of good cheer, for my wishes are limitless."

"There is a doctor for you, modest, talented, and one who uses no drugs
and none of the remedies of the old medicine," said the Vicomte;
"pantomime with him is every thing, as with the ballet-doctors of the
opera. A few signs and gestures and away goes the disease, like the
devil when holy water is brought him."

Von Apsberg said with a smile, "such an eulogium as the Vicomte's would,
a few centuries ago, have sent me to the stake. Fortunately there is now
no danger of that, for there is no longer any faith in magicians.
Rightly enough, too, for if not so, there would be no glory and
advantage in wisdom. _Savans_ are fond of their privileges. For my own
part, though no philosopher, I do not deal in magic, though from study I
have learned that there are secret agents in nature too much neglected
even now, though much good has resulted and the most marvellous effects
have been produced from them. Of these agents, the magnetic fluid is the
surest, the most active and powerful. Like all other imponderable
fluids, it is invisible, passing through space perhaps with the rapidity
of light, though unlike the latter, its passage is not interrupted by
the opposition of opaque bodies, which it penetrates as caloric does.[F]
I do not pretend, Duke," continued Von Apsberg, "to teach you the theory
of magnetism, but at all risks to justify your confidence in me, which
now induces you to confide so precious a trust to me. As an honest man I
think I am not deceived in the hope I expressed at my first visit, that
your daughter, from my system of action, will acquire that vital force
which will enable her to overcome her natural weakness, and thus reach
the period of life when, age coming to aid nature, she will acquire a
degree of health which will bid defiance to all the accidents of youth
and assure her a healthy life in future. I call God to witness that I
act with a heartfelt conviction and religious sincerity. I will, though,
swear, that if in a short time I see no evidence of the efficacy of my
remedy, I will inform you of the fact without delay."

"I am sure, sir, you will. I confide in your honor as I do in your
skill."

"Father," said the Vicomte, "you are right to do so. The doctor is a
brother to me, and looks on Marie almost as a sister."

Both the doctor and Marie now blushed. No one though remarked it, for
just then the Prince and _Marquise_ de Maulear were announced. The Duke
said:

"They are friends and need not disturb you."

Aminta loved Marie d'Harcourt. These two beautiful women had conceived a
deep affection for each other. Aminta, though, who was a few years older
than Marie, and had a right to more gravity, as a married woman,
matronized the young girl, and it was rather an amusing picture to see a
mother twenty years old, _chaperoning_ a daughter of seventeen and
explaining the peculiarities of a life they were equally ignorant of.

"Prince," said the Duke, "Doctor Matheus is a famous magnetist, who has
been serviceable to Marie already, and when you came in was about to
subject her again to the influence of the fluid."

"_Parbleu!_" said the Prince, "I would be glad to witness the
experiment. I am myself something of an adept, having known the Abbé
Foria in my youth. People used to laugh at him, but the court and the
people were present at his curious exhibitions. I, too, was magnetized,
drank magnetic water, and passed whole hours on the magnetic chair
surrounded by iron rings; all this was to cure me of a sciatica, which,
nevertheless, he did not do at all. He asserted that I had no faith, and
that I arrayed myself against the power of the fluid. I, however, only
ask to believe, and if the doctor can convert me, I am willing."

Without answering the Prince, Von Apsberg approached Marie d'Harcourt.
Aminta sat by the patient. The doctor looked at the young girl. Seated a
few feet from her, he placed his hands in front of Marie's brow, and
then lowering them slowly, made some magnetic passes, seeming to direct
his action to the gastric regions where she suffered most. Marie did not
seem at all affected by the operation.

While Matheus was doing thus the Marquise, who sat in front of the
doctor, felt her brow grow heavy, her eyes close, and a deep
stupefaction take possession of her. She soon felt that sleep was
overpowering her, and after a few attempts to resist it, her head sunk
on her bosom, and leaning back in her chair, she was completely
overpowered.

"My daughter is sick," said the Prince, hurrying to Aminta.

"No, sir," said the physician coldly, "she only sleeps."

"She sleeps," said all who witnessed the scene, and who were evidently
surprised.


THE SOMNAMBULIST.

"She sleeps!" said Matheus, pointing to Aminta, "and to fall so suddenly
into that state when I did not intend it, shows her to be very
impressionable and nervous."

"The Prince," said the Marquis, "has often told me she is a
somnambulist."

"I am no longer amazed," said Von Apsberg, "at the spontaneity of her
sleep."

"Is it true," said the Prince, "that somnambulists have the power of
being able to see what is taking place in remote spots--that they can
transport themselves to remote places and accompany the persons who are
pointed out to them?"

"All these phenomena are real," replied the doctor, "but they demand the
most perfect lucidity in the person magnetized."

"And can," asked the Duke, "such experiments be made without
inconvenience or danger to the subjects?"

"Certainly."

"Pardieu," said the Prince, "I would like the doctor to question my
daughter."

"About what?" said Matheus.

"Something interesting to us all. For a month we have had no news from
my son, and are becoming uneasy about him."

"And do you wish," said the doctor, "to know what the Marquis de
Maulear is engaged in now?"

"Exactly," said the Prince.

"Stop," said René, "I object. There is no reason why a wife should know
what her husband is about when he is three hundred leagues away. The
devil! That is dangerous, and the Marquise might some day regret it."

"Now you see," said Marie, with her soft voice, "it would be dangerous
for her--she would not like it."

"I do not fear that," said the Vicomte, "but I vow there would be no
marriages possible, if women had the faculty of knowing at any hour, and
in any place, what their husbands are about."

"Ah!" said the Prince, "I have a better opinion of my son than the
Vicomte has of his friend, and I hope the doctor will send my
daughter-in-law on a visit to Rome."

During the whole of this time Aminta continued asleep, but so soundly,
that her bosom scarcely heaved, and her breath escaped almost insensibly
from her lips.

"But," said the doctor, "it is, in the first place, necessary that I
should establish a communication between the _Marquise_ and myself. I
must be able to place in her hands, to enable her to touch, something
which belonged to the Marquis de Maulear. The best thing is a lock of
the Marquis's hair."

"Nothing in the world is easier; my daughter-in-law always wears a
bracelet of the Marquis's hair."

"On which arm?" asked the doctor.

"On the left," said M. de Maulear. "If Mademoiselle Marie be pleased to
take it off we will place it as the doctor wishes in the hands of the
somnambulist."

"But are you sure," said Marie to Von Apsberg, "are you sure she will
not suffer?"

"I am, Mademoiselle, I would not have her suffer either for your sake or
for her own."

Marie arose from her chair and walked painfully towards the Marquise,
who, having bared Aminta's arm a little above the wrist, found there a
bracelet of the Marquis's hair. When she was about to touch it she said
to the doctor, "I shall awake her."

"Do not be afraid of that, you will not."

Slight, however, as the motion was, to which the sleeper's arm had been
subjected, the _Marquise_ half arose from her chair and made an effort
to open her eyes. Von Apsberg extended his arm towards the Marquise's
brow, and she again sank into as deep a sleep as before. The bracelet
was given by Marie to the doctor, who placed it in Aminta's hand.

"Now," said he, "we will begin." Silence was at once established, and
all was solemn and almost terrible; for it seemed that something was in
preparation of the most terrible character, and that the room was
becoming filled with all those invisible phantoms we know as TERROR,
FATE, and MISFORTUNE, and which on their leaden wings seem to soar above
mortality. The strongest and best organized minds of our kind have, in
the silent places of their hearts, something of superstition, which
develop themselves in certain conditions of the corporeal and mental
organization. Without pretending to considerations of a very serious
kind, the guests of the Duke d'Harcourt experienced a kind of mute
terror, which in this world always precedes misfortune.

The strange power which the doctor used was also well calculated to
impress those who contemplated this scene. The doctor took Aminta's hand
in his and said most respectfully:[G]

"Does the Marquise understand me?"

"Yes!" said she.

"Will you answer my questions?"

"Yes!"

"Do you read in my heart any malevolence or hostility to you?"

"No!"

"You then have confidence in me?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure that in questioning you, as I am about to, I have no other
object but to relieve you of uneasiness in relation to the Marquis?"

"I am sure that is the case."

"Well," said the Doctor, placing his thumbs on Aminta's forehead, "I
wish you to go at once to Rome, to Italy."

"It is far away," said the Marquise, feebly.

"I wish you to," said Matheus, imperiously.

"Well, well," said the sleeper, with a smile, "there is no reason why
you should be angry."

She was silent. All the spectators, with their eyes fixed and their
necks extended, seemed to watch with anxiety every scene of this
whimsical drama. Their souls seemed hung on their lips.

"Ah! my God!" said the Marquise, with agitation, "what a journey--how
cold it is amid these mountains."

"She crosses the Alps," said the doctor.

The Marquise coughed.

"You see," said Marie, "she will take cold." The young girl wrapped the
shawl around her friend.

"This cold will not be dangerous," said the Vicomte, gayly.

"Silence!" said Matheus.

"Ah!" said the somnambulist, "what a magnificent country! What a sun!
This then is Rome," said she, with enthusiasm, "the city of the
Cæsars--the eternal city--the city of God!"

She bowed herself respectfully.

"True," said Matheus, "and now you must find him you love; you must look
for your husband amid this vast city."

"No, no!" said the Marquise.

"Why not?"

"I shall lose myself amid these long streets; besides I am afraid of
these men in masks."

"Do not fear. I _wish_ you to see the Marquis at once."

The Marquise clasped the bracelet of her husband's hair convulsively,
and then uttering a cry of joy, said:

"It is he--Henri, Henri, I see him."

She extended her arms as if to embrace him. The flush which had covered
her face was soon succeeded by a mortal pallor.

"What is the matter?" asked the doctor.

"Oh God!" said she, "he does not see me. He passes by without looking at
me. Whither does he go? Why is he so sad? Why is his hair so disordered?
Why? why?"

The tone in which these words were uttered were so deeply sorrowful,
that the doctor reached forward his hand and said to the Prince: "_Must
I awaken the Marquise?_" Before the Prince could reply, Aminta stood
erect and said, "No! I will go with him. Henri, Henri! for pity's sake
do not. I never will forgive you! Henri, you would not commit perjury?
My God!" said she, clasping her hands, "he will go thither! Fatal,
terrible passion!"

She then shed tears, and fell back into the arms of Marie, who sustained
her.

"Enough, doctor, enough!" said Marie, "I beseech you. She suffers, you
see. She shall not do so. I will not consent to."

The doctor took the young woman's hand, and prepared to arouse her from
this condition and to restore her to real life. Just then the Prince de
Maulear, with intense agony on his face, rushed towards his
daughter-in-law, repelling Matheus.

"Will the health and happiness of the Marquise be endangered," said he,
"if she continue longer in this condition?"

"Her heart alone will suffer, Monsieur," said the doctor, "neither her
health nor her life is in danger."

"Go on, then, Monsieur," said the Prince, coldly, "for we speak of my
son. On what the Marquise has said depends the repose of my life, her
happiness, and the honor of my family."

"But," said Matheus, "my honor forbids me to follow up the excitement
any longer. Know that the true apostles of the science I now practise
before you, make it a rigid law never to make use of such phenomena as
you have seen, to penetrate hidden secrets, or to read by force the
consciences of those whom they submit to the exercise of their will."

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "we have around us here only honest hearts,
which are also friendly. I, therefore, do not at all fear to initiate
them into my family secrets. Besides this, vain curiosity exerts no
influence over me, but a nobler thought, the possibility, perhaps, of
preventing cruel misfortunes which I now apprehend, and which I would
anticipate."

"_See!_" said the doctor to the Marquise. "_I wish you to_----"

"No, no!" said the somnambulist. "I have seen enough. Do not force me to
follow out his wanderings--he has forgotten me--his father--his
honor--his oath--himself!"

"_See!_" said the doctor, replacing his hand over the Marquise's eyes,
"_I wish it._"

"Henri! Henri!" exclaimed she, "will nothing then restrain you?"

"What is he about, then?" said the doctor.

"See, see! he sits in front of a table covered with money. The wheel
turns. The people who look after it do so with haggard eyes. How pale
and withered they are! See how he throws the money on the table. Poor
Henri--how he suffers! His brow is frozen. How horribly pale he is! He
beats his breast. See that pale and pitiless man sweeping away all the
money! Ah!" said she, "he quivers--he seems about to faint--no, he takes
out his pocket-book, and throws other notes on the table. The wheel
turns again. My God, have pity on him! Lost, lost again! He endures
torments worse than death. Henri! for mercy's sake, stop--remember your
wife--your Aminta--"

Her sobs increased, and inarticulate sounds burst from her chest. The
Prince listened with increasing agitation to the heart-rending words of
Aminta. His eyes wandered, troubled and uncertain, between the Marquise
and the doctor. His eyes became cold, his cheeks livid, and from time to
time the noble and venerable old man seemed to bend beneath another half
century. All the others, sad and terrified, seemed fascinated by this
terrible drama.

"He has in his hand his last notes," said Aminta--"he places them before
him. Silence! hark, there is a confused noise. The wheel again makes its
odious circle. It stops--Henri advances to take them. No, no, they are
not his. The man seizes them, and takes possession of this. What does he
say?" continued she, with attention--"ruined! ruined! he says. Well,
what matter? it is only gold--only gold that he has lost. Dear Henri,"
said she, in a beseeching air, as if she knelt before him--"husband,
what is the value of your money, if you love me? Listen to me. Do not
weep, for your tears will kill me. Come to me--I forgive you. I will not
reproach you, and you will not leave me again--never, never, never. He
repels and avoids me. Whither does he go? What a desert! what an
isolated street! How dark it is!--let us follow him, and not desert him.
What do I see at the end of this street?" She looked through her hands,
as if to enable her to see further. "What long black cloth is that? What
pall is that? Henri does not walk--but I cannot follow him," said she,
in a heart-rending voice. "Listen to me, Henri, I am suffering--I have
walked so far and am so overcome. I do not see him--he is gone! he draws
near the pall. My God! is there not a mourning-cloth painted on the
horizon? It is water--a river--he rushes toward it--let us reach him--I
cannot! Ah! here he is. I am with him now. What does he want. He calls
me--he pronounces my name. Here I am--close--next to you. Your father
also calls you. Come, come, let us turn to him. He does not hear me--he
lifts his eye to heaven--he prays. Henri, Henri, why do you approach
this dark water? Take care of the water--death is before you--under your
very feet."...

Just then the Marquise uttered a terrible cry, and was seized with a
violent nervous attack.

"You would insist, Monsieur," said the doctor to the Prince, in a
reproachful tone. Then, taking the young woman's hands, he clasped them
in his own, and made a few rapid passes over her face and eyes. He then
made her smell a flaçon of salts, and opened a window of the room, close
to which he placed the Marquise's chair. This occupied a few minutes,
all who were present standing around Mme. de Maulear, and paying
attention only to her. The first excitement having passed away, they
discovered that the Prince de Maulear had fainted. The doctor drew near
the old man, and soon restored him to consciousness. When he had
recovered his senses, the Prince called the doctor to him, and
whispered, "Do you believe all this?"

The doctor clasped the hand of the Prince, and went away.

The Marquise de Maulear, smiling and calm, said, "Have I not been
asleep?"

Her memory, however, recalled nothing of the scenes which had passed
before her in her somnambulism. She forgot, as people frequently do,
both pleasant and mournful dreams....

Fifteen days after this scene Mme. de Maulear saw her mother stop at the
hotel of the Prince. Behind Signora Rovero, humble and trembling, was
the deformed and courageous boy, whom the children of Sorrento had
called Scorpione. The Marquise, both happy and surprised, rushed into
her mother's arms. With great anxiety, she suddenly cried, "Henri--the
Marquis--where is he?"

In reply, the Signora Rovero clasped her daughter to her breast, and
wept.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] The translator has here elided about two pages on the theory of
magnetism which he has thought rather detracted than otherwise from the
interest of this book.

[G] Madame la Marquise, se trouve-t-elle ainsi suffisament en rapport
avec moi?



From Fraser's Magazine.

SCENES AT MALMAISON.


The Palace of Malmaison, though not built on a large scale, became, with
the additions afterwards made, a most princely residence. The hall, the
billiard-room, the reception-rooms, the saloon, dining-room, and
Napoleon's private apartment, occupied the ground floor, and are
described as having been very delightful. The gallery was appropriated
to the noblest specimens of the fine arts; it was adorned with
magnificent statuary by Canova and other celebrated artists, and the
walls were hung with the finest paintings. The pleasure-grounds, which
were Josephine's especial care, were laid out with admirable taste;
shrubs and flowers of the rarest and finest growth and the most
delicious odors, were there in the richest profusion. But there is an
interest far deeper than the finest landscape, or the most exquisite
embellishments of art, could ever impart--an interest touchingly
associated with the precincts where the gifted and renowned have moved,
and with the passions and affections, the joys and sorrows by which they
were there agitated. It is, indeed, an interest which excites a mournful
sympathy, and may awaken salutary reflection. Who, indeed, could visit
Malmaison without experiencing such?

The vicissitudes experienced by some individuals have been so strange,
that had they been described in a romance, it would have lost all
interest from their improbability; but occurring in real life, they
excite a feeling of personal concern which forever attaches to the name
with which they are associated. Of this, the eventful life of Napoleon
furnishes a striking example. There cannot be found in the range of
history one who appears to have identified himself so much with the
feelings of every class and every time; nay, his manners and appearance
are so thoroughly impressed on every imagination, that there are few who
do not rather feel as if he were one whom they had seen and with whom
they had conversed, than of whom they had only heard and read. Scarcely
less checkered than his, was the life of Josephine: from her early days
she was destined to experience the most unlooked-for reverses of
fortune: her very introduction to the Beauharnais family and connection
with them, were brought about in a most unlikely and singular manner,
without the least intention on her part, and it ultimately led to her
being placed on the throne of France. The noble and wealthy family of
Beauharnais had great possessions in the West Indies, which fell to two
brothers, the representatives of that distinguished family; many of its
members had been eminent for their services in the navy, and in various
departments. The heirs to the estates had retired from the royal marine
service with the title of _chefs d'escadre_. The elder brother, the
Marquis de Beauharnais, was a widower, with two sons; the younger,
Vicomte de Beauharnais, had married Mademoiselle Mouchard, by whom he
had one son and two daughters. The brothers, warmly attached to each
other from infancy, wished to draw still closer the bonds which united
them, by the marriage of the Marquis's sons with the daughters of the
Vicomte; and with this view, a rich plantation in St. Domingo had never
been divided. The two sisters were looked on as the affianced brides of
their cousins; and when grown up, the elder was married to the elder son
of the Marquis, who, according to the prevalent custom of his country,
assumed the title of Marquis, as his brother did that of Vicomte. M.
Renaudin, a particular friend of the Beauharnais, undertook the
management of their West Indian property. The Marquis, wishing to show
some attention in return for this kindness, invited Madame Renaudin over
to Paris, to spend some time. The invitation was gladly accepted; and
Madame Renaudin made herself useful to her host by superintending his
domestic concerns. But she soon formed plans for the advancement of her
own family. With the Marquis's permission, she wrote to Martinique, to
her brother, M. Tacher de la Pagerie, to beg that he would send over one
of his daughters. The young lady landed at Rochefort, was taken ill, and
died almost immediately. Notwithstanding this unhappy event, Madame did
not relinquish the project which she had formed, of bringing about a
union between the young Vicomte and a niece of her own. She sent for
another;--and _Josephine_ was sent. When the young creole arrived, she
had just attained her fifteenth year, and was eminently attractive; her
elegant form and personal charms were enhanced by the most winning
grace, modesty, and sweetness of disposition. Such fascinations could
not have failed in making an impression on the young man with whom she
was domesticated. His opportunities of becoming acquainted with his
cousin were only such as were afforded by an occasional interview at the
grating of the convent, where she was being educated; so no attachment
had been formed; and he fell passionately in love with the innocent and
lovely Josephine. She was not long insensible to the devotion of a lover
so handsome and agreeable as the young Vicomte. Madame Renaudin sought
the good offices of an intimate friend, to whose influence with the
young man's father she trusted for the success of her project. In a
confidential interview the lady introduced the subject--spoke of the
ardent attachment of the young people, of the charms of the simple girl
who had won his son's heart, and urged the consideration of the young
man's happiness on his father, assuring him it rested on his consent to
his marriage with Josephine. The Marquis was painfully excited; he loved
his son tenderly, and would have made any sacrifice to insure his
happiness; but his affection for his brother, and the repugnance which
he felt, to fail in his engagement to him, kept him in a state of the
most perplexing uneasiness. At length, stating to his brother how
matters stood, he found that he had mortally offended him; so deeply,
indeed, did he resent the affront, that he declared he could never
forget or forgive it--a promise too faithfully kept.

The affection and confidence of a whole life were thus snapped asunder
in a moment. The Vicomte insisted on a division of the West Indian
property; and, with feelings so bitterly excited, no amicable
arrangement could take place, and the brothers had recourse to law, in
which they were involved for the rest of their days.

The marriage of the young people took place, and the youthful
Mademoiselle Tacher de Pagerie became Vicomtesse de Beauharnais.

It is said that her husband's uncle took a cruel revenge for the
disappointment, of which she had been the cause, by awakening suspicion
of the fidelity of Josephine in the mind of her husband. The distracting
doubts he raised made his nephew wretched; to such a degree was his
jealousy excited, that he endeavored, by legal proceedings, to procure a
divorce; but the evidence he adduced utterly failed, and after some
time, a reconciliation took place.

The uncle died, and his daughter had in the mean time married the
Marquis de Barral. So all went well with the young couple. They met with
the most flattering reception at court. The Vicomte, who was allowed to
be the most elegant dancer of his day, was frequently honored by being
the partner of the Queen. And as to Josephine, she was the admired of
all admirers; she was not only considered one of the most beautiful
women at court, but all who conversed with her were captivated by her
grace and sweetness. She entered into the gayeties of Versailles with
the animation natural to her time of life and disposition.

But the sunshine of the royal circle was, ere long, clouded, and the
gathering storm could be too well discerned; amusement was scarcely
thought of. The States General assembled, and every thing denoted a
revolutionary movement.

Josephine was an especial favorite with the Queen; and in those days,
dark with coming events, she had the most confidential conversations
with her; all the fears and melancholy forebodings which caused the
Queen such deep anxiety, were freely imparted to her friend. Little did
Josephine think, while sympathizing with her royal mistress, that she
would herself rule in that court, and that she, too, would be a sufferer
from the elevation of her situation. Her husband, the Vicomte de
Beauharnais, was then called to join the army, as war had been
unexpectedly declared. He distinguished himself so much, that he
attained the rank of general. But in the midst of his successful career,
he saw the danger which was impending, and he could perceive that not
only were the days of Louis's power numbered, but he even feared that
his life was not safe. His fears were unhappily fulfilled; and he
himself, merely on account of belonging to the aristocracy, was
denounced by his own troops, and deprived of his commission by
authority, arrested, brought to Paris, and thrown into prison. It was
during his imprisonment that the Vicomte had the most affecting proofs
of the attachment of Josephine: all the energies of her mind and of her
strong affection were bent on obtaining his liberty; no means she could
devise were left untried; she joined her own supplications to the
solicitations of friends, to whom she had appealed in her emergency; she
endeavored, in the most touching manner, to console and cheer him. But
the gratification of soothing him by her presence and endearments was
soon denied, for she was seized, and taken as a prisoner to the convent
of the Carmelites. A few weeks passed, and the unfortunate Vicomte was
brought to trial, and condemned to death by the revolutionary tribunal.
Though natural tears fell at thoughts of parting from his wife and
children, and leaving them unprotected in the world, his courage never
forsook him to the last.

When the account of his execution reached Josephine she fainted away,
and was for a long time alarmingly ill. It was while in prison, and
every moment expecting to be summoned before the revolutionary tribunal,
that Josephine cut off her beautiful tresses, as the only gift which she
had to leave her children, for all the family estates in Europe had been
seized, and the destruction of property at St. Domingo had cut off all
supplies from that quarter. Yet amidst her anxieties, her afflictions,
and her dangers, her fortitude never forsook her, and her example and
her efforts to calm them, to a degree supported the spirits of her
fellow-prisoners. Josephine herself ascribed her firmness to her
implicit trust in the prediction of an old negress which she had
treasured in her memory from childhood. Her trust, indeed, in the
inexplicable mysteries of divination was sufficiently proved by the
interest with which she is said to have frequently applied herself
during her sad hours of imprisonment to learn her fortune from a pack of
cards. Mr. Alison mentions, that he had heard of the prophecy of the
negress in 1801, long before Napoleon's elevation to the throne.
Josephine herself, Mr. Alison goes on to say, narrated this
extraordinary passage in her life in the following terms:--

     "One morning the jailer entered the chamber where I slept
     with the Duchesse d'Aiguillon and two other ladies, and told
     me he was going to take my mattress, and give it to another
     prisoner.

     "'Why,' said Madame Aiguillon, eagerly, 'will not Madame de
     Beauharnais obtain a better one?'

     "'No, no,' replied he, with a fiendish smile, 'she will have
     no need of one, for she is about to be led to the
     Conciergerie, and then to the guillotine."

     "At these words, my companions in misfortune uttered
     piercing shrieks. I consoled them as well as I could; and at
     length, worn out with their eternal lamentations, I told
     them that their grief was utterly unreasonable; that I not
     only should not die, but live to be queen of France.

     "'Why, then, do you not name your maids of honor?' said
     Madame Aiguillon, irritated at such expressions at such a
     moment.

     "'Very true,' said I, 'I did not think of that. Well, my
     dear, I make you one of them.'[H]

     "Upon this the tears of the ladies fell apace, for they
     never doubted I was mad; but the truth was, I was not gifted
     with any extraordinary courage, but internally persuaded of
     the truth of the oracle.

     "Madame d'Aiguillon soon after became unwell, and I drew her
     towards the window, which I opened, to admit through the
     bars a little fresh air. I then perceived a poor woman who
     knew us, and who was making a number of signs, which I could
     not at first understand. She constantly held up her gown
     (_robe_); and seeing that she had some object in view, I
     called out _robe_; to which she answered _yes_. She then
     lifted up a stone, and put it into her lap, which she lifted
     a second time. I called out _pierre_. Upon this, she evinced
     the greatest joy at perceiving that her signs were
     understood. Joining then the stone to her robe, she eagerly
     imitated the motion of cutting off the head, and immediately
     began to dance and evince the most extravagant joy.

     "This singular pantomime awakened in our minds a vague hope
     that possibly Robespierre might be no more.

     "At this moment, while we were vacillating between hope and
     fear, we heard a great noise in the corridor, and the
     terrible voice of our jailer, who said to his dog, giving
     him at the same time a kick, 'Get in, you cursed
     Robespierre.'"

This speech told them they were saved.

Through the influence of Barras, a portion of her husband's property, in
which Malmaison was included, was restored to Josephine. In this
favorite abode she amused herself in exercising her taste in the
embellishment of the grounds, and in the pursuit of botany; but her
chief enjoyment was in the society and instruction of her children, to
whom she was passionately attached. Their amiable dispositions and their
talents were a source of the most exquisite pleasure to her, not,
however, unmingled with regret at finding herself without the means of
conferring on them the advantages of which they were so deserving.
However, a better time was to come. Madame Tallien and several of
Josephine's friends, after a time, prevailed on her to enter into
society, and the fair associates became the principal ornaments of the
dictatorial circle. Through their influence revolutionary manners were
reformed, and all the power which their charms and their talents gave
them was exerted in the cause of humanity.

Napoleon's acquaintance with Josephine arose from the impression made on
him by her son, Eugene Beauharnais, then a little boy. He came to
request that his father's sword, which had been delivered up, might be
restored to him. The boy's appearance,--the earnestness with which he
urged his request, and the tears which could not be stayed when he
beheld the sword, interested Napoleon so much in his favor, that not
only was the sword given to him, but he determined to become acquainted
with the mother of the boy. He visited her, and soon his visits became
frequent. He delighted to hear the details which she gave of the court
of Louis.

"Come," he would say, as he sat by her side of an evening, "now let us
talk of the old court--let us make a tour to Versailles." It was in
these frequent and familiar interviews that the fascinations of
Josephine won the heart of Napoleon. "She is," said he, "grace
personified--every thing she does is with a grace and delicacy peculiar
to herself."

The admiration and love of such a man could not fail to make an
impression on a woman like Josephine. It has been said, that it was
impossible to be in Napoleon's company without being struck by his
personal appearance; not so much by the exquisite symmetry of his
features, and the noble head and forehead, which have furnished the
painter and the sculptor with one of their finest models; nor even by
the meditative look, so indicative of intellectual power; but the magic
charm was the varying expression of countenance, which changed with
every passing thought, and glowed with every feeling. His smile, it is
said, always inspired confidence. "It is difficult, if not impossible,"
so the Duchess of Abrantes writes, "to describe the charm of his
countenance when he smiled;--his soul was upon his lips and in his
eyes." The magic power of that expression at a later period is well
known. The Emperor of Russia experienced it when he said, "I never loved
any one more than that man." He possessed, too, that greatest of all
charms, a harmonious voice, whose tones, like his countenance, changing
from emphatic impressiveness to caressing softness, found their way to
every heart. It may not have been those personal and mental gifts alone
which won Josephine's heart; the ready sympathy with which Napoleon
entered into her feelings may have been the greatest charm to an
affectionate nature like hers.

It was in the course of one of those confidential evenings that, as they
sat together, she read to him the last letter which she had received
from her husband: it was a most touching farewell. Napoleon was deeply
affected; and it has been said that that letter, and Josephine's emotion
as she read it, had a powerful effect upon his feelings, already so much
excited by admiration.

Josephine soon consented to give her hand to the young soldier of
fortune who had no dower but his sword. On his part, he gave a pledge
that he would consider her children as his own, and that their interest
should be his first concern. The world can testify how he redeemed his
pledge! To his union with Josephine he was indebted for his chief
happiness. Her affection, and the interchange of thought with her, were
prized beyond all the greatness to which he had attained. Many of the
little incidents of their every-day life cannot be read without deep
interest--evincing, as they do, a depth of affection and tenderness of
feeling which it is difficult to conceive should ever have been
sacrificed to ambition. They visited together the prison where Josephine
had passed so many dreary and sad hours. He saw the loved name traced on
the dank wall, by the hand which was now his own. She had told him of a
ring, which she had fondly prized; it had been the gift of her mother.
She pointed out to him the flag under which she had contrived to hide
it. When it was taken from its hiding-place and put into her hand, her
delight enchanted Napoleon. Seldom have two persons met whose feelings
and whose tastes appeared more perfectly in unison than theirs, during
the _happy_ days of their wedded life. The delight which they took in
the fine arts was a source of constant pleasure; and in their days of
power and elevation, it was their care to encourage artists of talent.
Many interesting anecdotes are related of their kind and generous acts
towards them. In Josephine's manner of conferring favors, there was
always something still more gratifying than the advantage
bestowed--something that implied that she entered into the feelings of
those whom she wished to serve. She had observed that M. Turpin, an
artist who went frequently to Malmaison, had no coveyance but an almost
worn-out cabriolet, drawn by a sorry horse. One day, when about to take
his leave, he was surprised to see a nice new vehicle and handsome horse
drawn up. His own arms painted on the pannels, and stamped on the
harness, at once told him they were intended for him; but this was not
the only occasion on which Josephine ministered to the straitened means
of the painter. She employed him in making a sketch of a Swiss view,
while sitting with her, and directed him to take it home, and bring the
picture to her when finished. She was delighted with the beautiful
landscape which he produced, and showed it with pleasure to every
visitor who came in. The artist no doubt felt a natural gratification at
finding his fine work appreciated. Josephine then called him aside, and
put the stipulated price in bank-notes into his hand.

"This," said she, "is for your excellent mother; but it may not be to
her taste; so tell her that I shall not be offended at her changing this
trifling token of my friendship, and of the gratification which her
son's painting has given me, for whatever might be more acceptable."

As she spoke, she put into his hand a diamond of the value of six
thousand francs.

Josephine attended Napoleon in many of his campaigns. When she was not
with him, he corresponded regularly with her, and no lover ever wrote
letters more expressive of passionate attachment.

"By what art is it," he says, in one of them, "that you have been able
to captivate all my faculties? It is a magic, my sweet love, which will
finish only with my life. To live for Josephine is the history of my
life. I am trying to reach you. I am dying to be with you. What lands,
what countries separate us! What a time before you read these lines!"

Josephine returned her husband's fondness with her whole heart. Utterly
regardless of privation and fatigue, she was ever earnest in urging him
to allow her to accompany him on all his long journeys; and often, at
midnight, when just setting out on some expedition, he has found her in
readiness.

"No, love," he would say, "No, no, love, do not ask me; the fatigue
would be too much for you."

"Oh no," she would answer; "No, no."

"But I have not a moment to spare."

"See, I am quite ready;" and she would drive off, seated by Napoleon's
side.

From having mingled in scenes of gayety from her earliest days, and from
the pleasure which her presence was sure to diffuse, and perhaps, it may
be added, from a nature singularly guileless, that could see no evil in
what appeared to her but as innocent indulgencies, she was led into
expenses and frivolous gratifications which were by no means essential
for a mind like hers. Dishonest tradesmen took advantage of her
inexperience and extreme easiness, and swelled their bills to an
enormous amount; but her greatest and far most congenial outlay, was in
the relief of the distressed. She could not endure to deny the petition
of any whom she believed to be suffering from want; and this tenderness
of heart was often imposed on by the artful and rapacious. Those who,
from interested motives, desired to separate her from Napoleon, felt a
secret satisfaction in the uneasiness which her large expenditure
occasionally gave him. To their misrepresentations may be ascribed the
violent bursts of jealousy by which he was at times agitated; but he was
ever ready to perceive that there was no foundation to justify them. It
was during one of their separations, that the insinuations of those
about Napoleon excited his jealousy to such a degree, that he wrote a
hasty letter to Josephine, accusing her of _coquetry_, and of evidently
preferring the society of men to those of her own sex.

"The ladies," she says, in her reply, "are filled with fear and
lamentations for those who serve under you; the gentlemen eagerly
compliment me on your success, and speak of you in a manner that
delights me. My aunt and those about me can tell you, ungrateful as you
are, whether _I have been coquetting with any body_. These are your
words, and they would be hateful to me, were I not certain you see
already that they are unjust, and are sorry for having written them."

Napoleon's brothers strove to alienate his affections from Josephine;
but the intense agony which he suffered when suspicion was awakened,
must have proved to them how deep these affections were. Perhaps no
trait in Josephine's character exalts it more than her conduct to the
family who had endeavored to injure her in the most tender point. She
often was the means of making peace between Napoleon and different
members of his family with whom he was displeased. Even after the
separation which they had been instrumental in effecting, she still
exerted that influence which she never lost, to reconcile differences
which arose between them. Napoleon could never long mistrust her
generous and tender feelings, and the intimate knowledge of such a
disposition every day increased his love; she was not only the object of
his fondest affection, but he believed her to be in some mysterious
manner connected with his destiny; a belief which chimed in with the
popular superstition by which she was regarded as his good genius,--a
superstition which took still deeper hold of the public mind when days
of disaster came, whose date commenced in no long time after the
separation. The apparently accidental circumstance by which Josephine
had escaped the explosion of the infernal machine was construed by many
as a direct interposition of Providence in favor of _Napoleon's Guardian
Angel_.

It was just as she was stepping into her carriage, which was to follow
closely that of the First Consul to the theatre, that General Rapp, who
had always before appeared utterly unobservant of ladies' dress,
remarked to Josephine that the pattern of the shawl did not match her
dress. She returned to the house, and ran up to her apartment to change
it for another. The delay did not occupy more than three minutes, but
they sufficed to save her life. Napoleon's carriage just cleared the
explosion. Had Josephine been close behind, nothing could have saved
her. In the happy days of love and confidence, Malmaison was the scene
of great enjoyment: the hand of taste could be discerned in all its
embellishments. Napoleon preferred it to any other residence. When he
arrived there from the Luxembourg or the Tuileries, he was wild with
delight, like a school-boy let loose from school. Every thing enchanted
him, but most of all, perhaps, the chimes of the village church-bells.
It may have been partly owing to the associations which they awakened.
He would stop in his rambles if he heard them, lest his footfall should
drown the sound--he would remain as if entranced, in a kind of ecstasy,
till they ceased. "Ah! how they remind me of the first years I spent at
Brienne!"

Napoleon added considerably to the domain of Malmaison by purchasing the
noble woods of Butard, which joined it. He was in a perfect ecstasy with
the improvement; and, in a few days after the purchase was completed,
proposed that they should all make a party to see it. Josephine put on
her shawl, and, accompanied by her friends, set out. Napoleon, in a
state of enchantment, rode on before; but he would then gallop back, and
take Josephine's hand. He was compared to a child, who, in the eagerness
of delight, flies back to his mother to impart his joy.

Nothing could be more agreeable than the society of Malmaison. Napoleon
disliked ceremony, and wished all his guests to be perfectly at their
ease. All his evenings were spent in Josephine's society, in which he
delighted. Both possessed the rare gift of conversational powers.
General information and exquisite taste were rendered doubly attractive
by the winning manners and sweet voice of Josephine. As for Napoleon, he
appeared to have an intuitive knowledge on all subjects. He was like an
inspired person when seen amidst men of every age, and all professions.
All thronged round the pale, studious-looking young man--feeling that
"he was more fitted to give than to receive lessons." Argument with him
almost invariably ended by his opponent going over to his side. His tact
was such that he knew how to select the subject for discussion on which
the person with whom he conversed was best informed; and thus, from his
earliest days, he increased his store of information, and gave infinite
pleasure by the interest which he took in the pursuits of those whom
chance threw in his way. The delightful flow of his spirits showed how
much he enjoyed the social evenings. He amused his guests in a thousand
ways. If he sat down to cards, he diverted them by pretending to cheat,
which he might have done with impunity, as he never took his winnings.
He sometimes entertained them with tales composed on the moment. When
they were of ghosts and apparitions, he took care to tell them by a dim
light, and to preface them by some solemn and striking observation.
Private theatricals sometimes made the entertainment of the evening.
Different members of Napoleon's family and several of the guests
performed. The plays are described as having been acted to an audience
of two or three hundred, and going off with great effect--every one,
indeed, endeavored to acquit themselves to the best, of their ability,
for they knew they had a severe critic in Napoleon.

The amiable and engaging manners of Napoleon and Josephine gave to
Malmaison its greatest charm. The ready sympathy of Josephine with all
who were in sorrow, or any kind of distress, endeared her to every one.
If any among her domestics were ill, she was sure to visit the sick bed,
and soothe the sufferer by her tenderness. Indeed, her sympathy was
often known to bring relief when other means had failed. She was deeply
affected by the calamity of M. Decrest. He had lost his only son
suddenly by a fatal accident. The young man had been on the eve of
marriage, and all his family were busy in making preparations for the
joyful occasion, when news of his death was brought. The poor father
remained in a state of nearly complete stupor from the moment of the
melancholy intelligence. All attempts to rouse him were unavailing. When
Josephine was made acquainted with his alarming state, she lost not a
moment in hurrying to him: and leading his little daughter by the hand,
and taking his infant in her arms, she threw herself, with his two
remaining children, at his feet. The afflicted man burst into tears, and
nature found a salutary relief, which saved his life. In such acts
Josephine was continually engaged. Nothing could withdraw her mind from
the claims of the unfortunate. Her tender respect for the feelings of
others was never laid aside; and with those who strove to please her she
was always pleased. On one occasion, when the ladies about her could not
restrain their laughter at the discordant music made by an itinerant
musician, who had requested permission to play before her, she preserved
a becoming gravity, and encouraged, and thanked, and rewarded the poor
man. "He did his best to gratify us," she said, when he was gone; "I
think it was my duty not only to avoid hurting his feelings, but to
thank and reward him for the trouble which he took to give pleasure."

Such were the lessons which she impressed upon her children. She often
talked with them of the privations of other days, and charged them never
to forget those days amidst the smiles of fortune which they now
enjoyed.

Josephine saw with great uneasiness the probable elevation of the First
Consul to the throne. She felt that it would bring danger to him, and
ruin to herself; for she had discernment enough to anticipate that she
would be sacrificed to the ambition of those who wished to establish an
hereditary right to the throne of the empire. Every step of his
advancing power caused her deep anxiety. "The real enemies of
Bonaparte," she said to Raderer, as Alison tells, "the real enemies of
Bonaparte are those who put into his head ideas of hereditary
succession, dynasty, divorce, and marriage. I do not approve the
projects of Napoleon," she added. "I have often told him so. He hears me
with attention, but I can plainly see that I make no impression. The
flatterers who surround him soon obliterate all I have said." She strove
to restrain his desire of conquest, by urging on him continually a far
greater object--that of rendering France happy by encouraging her
industry and protecting her agriculture. In a long letter, in which she
earnestly expostulates with him on the subject, she turns to herself in
affecting terms: "Will not the throne," she says, "inspire you with the
wish to contract new alliances? Will you not seek to support your power
by new family connections? Alas! whatever these connections may be, will
they compensate for those which were first knit by corresponding
fitness, and which affection promised to perpetuate?" So far, indeed,
from feeling elated by her own elevation to a throne, she regretted it
with deep melancholy. "The assumption of the throne," she looked on as
"an act that must ever be an ineffaceable blot upon Napoleon's name." It
has been asserted by her friends that she never recovered her spirits
after. The pomps and ceremonies, too, attendant on the imperial state,
must have been distasteful to one who loved the retirement of home, and
hated every kind of restraint and ostentation.

From the time that Napoleon became Emperor he lavished the greatest
honors on the children of Josephine. Her daughter Hortense received the
hand of Louis Bonaparte, and the crown of Holland. Eugene, his first
acquaintance of the family and especial favorite, obtained the rank of
colonel, and was adopted as one of the imperial family; and the son of
Hortense and Louis was adopted as heir to the throne of France. The
coronation took place at Notre Dame, with all the show and pomp of which
the French are so fond. When the papal benediction was pronounced,
Napoleon placed the crown on his head with his own hands. He then turned
to Josephine who knelt before him, and there was an affectionate
playfulness in the manner in which he took pains to arrange it, as he
placed the crown upon her head. It seemed at that moment as if he forgot
the presence of all but her. After putting on the crown, he raised it,
and placing it more lightly on, regarded her the while with looks of
fond admiration. On the morning of the coronation, Napoleon had sent for
Raguideau the notary, who little thought that he had been summoned into
the august presence to be reminded of what had passed on the occasion of
their last meeting, and of which he had no idea the Emperor was in
possession. While Napoleon had been paying his addresses to Josephine,
they walked arm in arm to the notary's, for neither of them could boast
of a carriage. "You are a great fool," replied the notary to Josephine,
who had just communicated her intention of marrying the young
officer--"you are a great fool, and you will live to repent it. You are
about to marry a man who has nothing but his cloak and his sword."
Napoleon, who was waiting in the antechamber, overheard these words, but
never spoke of them to any one. "Now," said Napoleon, with a smile,
addressing the old man, who had been ushered into his presence--"now,
what say you, Raguideau, have I nothing but my cloak and sword?" The
Empress and the notary both stood amazed at this first intimation that
the warning had been overheard.

The following year, the magnificent coronation at Milan took place,
surpassing, if possible, in grandeur that at Paris. Amidst the
gorgeousness of that spectacle, however, there were few by whom it was
not forgotten in the far deeper interest which the principal actors in
the scene inspired. Amidst the blaze of beauty and of jewels, and the
strains of music, by which he was surrounded, what were the feelings of
Napoleon, as he held within his grasp the iron crown of Charlemagne,
which had reposed in the treasury of Monza for a thousand years, and for
which he had so ardently longed. Even at that moment when he placed it
on his own head, were the aspirings of the ambitious spirit
satisfied?--or were not his thoughts taking a wider range of conquest
than he had yet achieved? And for her, who knelt at his feet, about to
receive the highest honor that mortal hands can confer--did the pomp and
circumstance of that scene, and the glory of the crown, satisfy her
loving heart? Ah, surely no! It was away in the sweet retirement of
Malmaison--amidst the scenes hallowed by Napoleon's early affection. And
how few years were to elapse ere the crown just placed on the head of
Josephine was to be transferred to another?--when the place which
she--the loving and beloved--occupied by her husband's side was to be
filled by another? Though doubts had arisen in her mind--though she knew
the influence of those who feared the sceptre might pass into the hands
of another dynasty--still, the hope never forsook her, that affection
would triumph over ambition, till Napoleon himself communicated the
cruel determination. With what abandonment of self she was wont to cast
her whole dependence on Napoleon, may be seen in a letter addressed to
Pope Pius VII. In it she says: "My first sentiment--one to which all
others are subservient--is a conviction of my own weakness and
incapacity. Of myself I am but little; or, to speak more correctly, my
only value is derived from the extraordinary man to whom I am united.
This inward conviction, which occasionally humbles my pride, eventually
affords me some encouragement, when I calmly reflect. I whisper to
myself, that the arm under which the whole earth is made to tremble, may
well support my weakness."

Hortense's promising child was dead; Napoleon and Josephine had shed
bitter tears together over the early grave of their little favorite; and
there was now not even a nominal heir to the throne. The machinations of
the designing were in active motion. Lucien introduced the subject, and
said to Josephine that it was absolutely necessary for the satisfaction
of the nation that Napoleon should have a son, and asked whether she
would pass off an illegitimate one as her own. This proposal she refused
with the utmost indignation, preferring any alternative to one so
disgraceful.

On Napoleon's return from the battle of Wagram, Josephine hastened to
welcome him. After the first warm greetings and tender embraces, she
perceived that something weighed upon his mind. The restraint and
embarrassment of his manner filled her with dread. For fifteen days she
was a prey to the most cruel suspense, yet she dreaded its termination
by a disclosure fatal to her happiness. Napoleon, who loved her so much,
and who had hitherto looked to her alone for all his domestic felicity,
himself felt all the severity of the blow, which he was about to
inflict. The day at length came, and it is thus affectingly described by
Mr. Alison:

     "They dined together as usual, but neither spoke a word
     during the repast; their eyes were averted as soon as they
     met, but the countenance of both revealed the mortal anguish
     of their minds. When it was over, he dismissed the
     attendants, and approaching the Empress with a trembling
     step, took her hand, and laid it upon his heart.
     'Josephine,' said he, 'my good Josephine, you know how I
     have loved you; it is to you alone that I owe the few
     moments of happiness I have known in the world. Josephine,
     my destiny is more powerful than my will; my dearest
     affections must yield to the interests of France.'

     "'Say no more,' cried the Empress, 'I expected this; I
     understand and feel for you, but the stroke is not the less
     mortal.' With these words, she uttered piercing shrieks, and
     fell down in a swoon.

     "Doctor Corvisart was at hand to render assistance, and she
     was restored to a sense of her wretchedness in her own
     apartment. The Emperor came to see her in the evening, but
     she could hardly bear the emotion occasioned by his
     appearance."

Little did Napoleon think, when he was making a sacrifice of all the
'happiness which he had known in the world,' that the ambitious views
for which it was relinquished would fade away ere five years ran their
course. What strange destinies do men carve out for themselves! what
sacrifices are they ever making of felicity and of real good, in the
pursuit of some phantom which is sure to elude their grasp! How many
Edens have been forfeited by madness and by folly, since the first pair
were expelled from Paradise!

It was not without an effort on her part to turn Napoleon from a purpose
so agonizing to them both, that Josephine gave up all hope. In about a
month after the disclosure, a painful task devolved on the imperial
family. The motives for the divorce were to be stated in public, and the
heart-stricken Josephine was to subscribe to its necessity in presence
of the nation. In conformity with the magnanimous resolve of making so
great a sacrifice for the advantage of the empire, it was expedient that
an equanimity of deportment should be assumed. The scene which took
place could never be forgotten by those who witnessed it. Napoleon stood
pale and immovable as a statue, showing in the very stillness of his air
and countenance a deep emotion. Josephine and Hortense alone appeared
divested of every ornament, while those about them sparkled in all the
splendor of court costume. Every eye was directed to Josephine, as with
slow steps she reached the seat which had been prepared for her. She
took it with her accustomed grace, and preserved throughout a dignified
composure. Hortense stood weeping behind her chair, and poor Eugene was
nearly overcome by agitation, as the act of separation was read;
Napoleon declared that it was in consideration of the interests of the
monarchy and the wishes of his people that there should be an heir to
the throne, that he was induced "to sacrifice the sweetest affections of
his heart." "God knows," said he, "what such a determination has cost my
heart." Of Josephine he spoke with the tenderest affection and respect.
"She has embellished fifteen years of my life; the remembrance of them
will be for ever engraven on my heart."

When it was Josephine's turn to speak, though tears were in her eyes,
and though her voice faltered, the dignity of all she uttered impressed
every one who was present. "I respond to all the sentiments of the
Emperor," she said, "in consenting to the dissolution of a marriage
which henceforth is an obstacle to the happiness of France, by depriving
it of the blessing of being one day governed by the descendants of that
great man, evidently raised up by Providence to efface the evils of a
terrible revolution, and restore the altar, the throne, and social
order. I know," she went on to say, "what this act, commanded by policy
and exalted interests, has cost his heart; but we both glory in the
sacrifice which we make to the good of our country. I feel elevated by
giving the greatest proof of attachment and devotion _that ever was
given upon earth_."

It was not till Josephine heard the fatal words which were to part her
from the object of her affection for ever, that her courage seemed for a
moment to forsake her; but hastily brushing away her tears that forced
their way, she took the pen which was handed to her, and signed the act;
then taking the arm of Hortense, and followed by Eugene, she left the
saloon, and hurried to her own apartment, where she shut herself up
alone for the remainder of the day.

It is well known that, notwithstanding the courage with which the
imperial family came forward before the public on this occasion, they
gave way to the most passionable grief in private. Napoleon had retired
for the night, and had gone to his bed in silence and sadness, when the
private door opened, and Josephine appeared. Her hair fell in wild
disorder, and her countenance bore the impress of an incurable grief.
She advanced with a faltering step; then paused; and bursting into an
agony of tears, threw herself on Napoleon's neck, and sobbed as if her
heart were breaking. He tried to console her, but his own tears fell
fast with hers. A few broken words--a last embrace--and they parted. The
next morning, the whole household assembled to pay the last tribute of
respect to a mistress whom they loved and revered. With streaming eyes,
they saw her pass the gates of the Tuileries, never to return.

The feelings with which Josephine took up her residence at Malmaison,
amidst the scenes so dear to her, may be conceived; but true to the
wishes of the Emperor, and to the dictates of her own elevated mind, she
bore up under her trying situation with exemplary dignity; but grief had
done its part; and no one could look into her face, or meet the sweet
melancholy smile with which she welcomed them, without being moved.
Happy days, which she had enjoyed amidst these scenes with many of those
who waited on her, were sadly contrasted with her forlorn feelings; and
though she strove to speak cheerfully, and never complained, the tears
which she tried to check or to conceal would sometimes force their way.
The chief indulgence which she allowed her feelings was during those
hours of the day when she shut herself up in Napoleon's cabinet; that
chamber where so many moments of confidential intercourse had passed,
and which she continued to hold so sacred, that scarcely any one but
herself ever entered it. She would not suffer any thing to be moved
since Napoleon had occupied it. She would herself wipe away the dust,
fearing that other hands might disturb what he had touched. The volume
which he had been reading when last there lay on the table, open at the
page at which he had last looked. The map was there, with all his
tracings of some meditated route; the pen which had given permanence to
some passing thought lay beside it; articles of dress were on some of
the chairs; every thing looked as if he were about to enter.

Even under the changed circumstances which brought Josephine back to
Malmaison, her influence over Napoleon, which had been always powerful,
was not diminished. No estrangement took place between them. His visits
to her were frequent, though her increased sadness was always observed
on those days when he made them. They corresponded to the last moment of
her life. The letters which she received from him were her greatest
solace. It is thus she alludes to them in writing to him:--"Continue to
retain a kind recollection of your friend; give her the consolation of
occasionally hearing from you, that you still preserve that attachment
for her which alone constitutes the happiness of her existence."

The nuptials of Napoleon and Marie Louise took place a very short time
after the divorce was ratified. Whatever the bitter feelings of
Josephine might have been, they were not mingled with one ungenerous or
unjust sentiment. No ill-feeling towards the new Empress was excited in
her bosom by the rapturous greetings with which she was welcomed on her
arrival. "Every one ought," said she, "to endeavor to render France dear
to an Empress who has left her native country to take up her abode among
strangers."

But however elevated above all the meaner passions, the affections of
Josephine had received a wound from which they could never recover, and
she found it essential for any thing like peace of mind, to remove from
scenes of former happiness. She retired to a noble mansion in Navarre,
the gift of Napoleon; and as he had made a most munificent settlement on
her, she was able to follow the bent of her benevolent mind, and to pass
her time in doing good. So far from feeling any mortification on the
birth of his son, she unfeignedly participated in the gratification
which the Emperor felt, and she ever took the most lively interest in
the child. She was deeply affected when his birth was announced to her,
and retired to her chamber to weep unseen; but no murmur mingled with
those natural tears.

It is rare to meet an example of one like Josephine, who has escaped the
faults which experience tells us beset the extremes of destiny. In all
the power and luxury of the highest elevation, no cold selfishness ever
chilled the current of her generous feelings; for in the midst of
prosperity her highest gratification was to serve her fellow-creatures,
and in adverse circumstances, unspited at the world, such was still her
sweetest solace. She was, indeed, so wonderfully sustained throughout
all the changes and chances of her eventful life, that it needs no
assurance to convince us that she must have sought for support beyond
this transitory scene.

She employed the peasantry about Navarre in making roads and other
useful works. Ever prompt in giving help to those in want, she chanced
to meet one of the sisters of charity one day, seeking assistance for
the wounded who lay in a neighboring hospital. Josephine gave large
relief, promised to put all in train to have her supplied with linen for
the sick, and that she would help to prepare lint for their wounds. The
petitioner pronounced a blessing on her, and went on her way, but turned
back to ask the name of her benefactress; the answer was affecting--"_I
am poor Josephine._"

There can be no doubt but that Napoleon's thoughts often turned with
tenderness to the days that he had passed with Josephine. Proof was
given of an unchanging attachment to her, in the favors which he
lavished on those connected with her by relationship or affection. Among
her friends was Mrs. Damer, so celebrated for her success in sculpture.
She had become acquainted with her while she was passing some time in
Paris. Charmed by Josephine's varied attractions, she delighted in her
society, and they became fast friends; when parting, they promised never
to forget each other. The first intimation which Mrs. Damer had of
Josephine's second marriage was one day when a French gentleman waited
on her; he was the bearer of a most magnificent piece of porcelain and a
letter, with which he had been charged for her by the wife of the First
Consul. Great was her astonishment, when she opened the letter, to find
that it was indeed from the wife of the First Consul; no longer
Vicomtesse de Beauharnais, but her dear friend Josephine, who urged her,
with all the warmth of friendship, to pay her an immediate visit at
Paris. "I do long," she added, "to present my husband to you." Such a
tempting invitation was gladly accepted, and she was received with joy
by Napoleon and Josephine. In after years, she constantly recalled to
mind the pleasures of that visit, with mingled feelings of melancholy
and delight. The domestic scene left a lasting impression. Napoleon,
always so fascinating in conversation, made himself delightfully
agreeable to her; he loved to talk with her of her art; and his
originality, enthusiasm, and taste gave an interest to every thing he
said. He had a great admiration for Fox, and expressed a wish to have
his bust. When Mrs. Damer next visited Paris, she brought Fox's bust,
but Josephine's place was occupied by another. The Emperor saw her, and
met her with all the cordiality and kindness which the recollection of
former happy days, and her attachment to Josephine, were sure to
inspire. At parting, he gave her a splendid snuff-box, with his
likeness set in diamonds. The box is now in the British Museum.

It was in her retirement at Navarre that Josephine wept bitterly over
the fallen fortunes of Napoleon. The Russian expedition caused her such
deep inquietude that her health and spirits visibly declined; she saw in
it a disastrous fate for Napoleon, and trembled, too, for the safety of
Eugene, a son so dearly and so deservedly beloved, and who was, if
possible, rendered still more precious, as the especial favorite of
Napoleon, and as having been the means of introducing him to her.
Josephine now scarcely joined her ladies, but would remain for the
length of the day alone in her chamber, by the large travelling-desk
which contained Napoleon's letters. Among these there was one that she
was observed to read over and over again, and then to place in her
bosom; it was the last that she had received; it was written from
Brienne. A passage in it runs thus: "On revisiting this spot, where I
passed my youthful days, and contrasting the peaceful condition I then
enjoyed with the state of terror and agitation to which my mind is now a
prey, often have I addressed myself in these words: I have sought death
in numberless engagements, I can no longer dread its approach; I should
now hail it as a boon. Nevertheless, I could still wish to see Josephine
once more--" He again adds: "Adieu, my dear Josephine; never dismiss
from your recollection one who has never forgotten, and never will
forget, you."

It would be needless to dwell on the rapid events which led to
Napoleon's abdication, but it would be impossible, even in this
imperfect sketch, not to be struck by the strange coincidences of
Josephine's life,--twice married--twice escaped from a violent
death--twice crowned--both husbands sought for a divorce--one husband
was executed--the other banished! One of Napoleon's first cares, in
making his conditions when he abdicated, was an ample provision for
Josephine; 40,000_l._ per annum was settled on her.

It was after Napoleon's departure from the shores of France, that the
Emperor Alexander, touched with admiration of Josephine's character, and
with pity for her misfortunes, prevailed on her to return to Malmaison
to see him there. The associations so linked with the spot that she had
loved to beautify must, indeed, have been overpowering. It was there
that Napoleon's passionate attachment to her was formed. How many
recollections must have been awakened by the pleasure-grounds adorned
with the costly shrubs and plants which they had so often admired
_together_; how many tears had afterwards fallen among them when the
hours of separation came. The Emperor Alexander used every effort to
console her, and promised his protection to her children, but sorrow had
done its part, and the memories of other times had their effect.
Josephine fell sick; malignant sore throat was the form which disease
took, during the fatal illness of but a few days. Alexander was
unremitting in his attentions; he again soothed the dying mother by the
renewal of his promise of care for her children, a promise most
faithfully kept. It was in the year 1814 that Napoleon left France for
Elba, and also that Josephine died. The bells to which they had loved to
listen together tolled her funeral knell. Her remains rest in the parish
church of Ruel, near Malmaison. They were followed to the place of
interment by a great number of illustrious persons who were desirous of
paying this parting token of respect to one so much loved and honored.
Upwards of eight thousand of the neighboring peasantry joined the
funeral procession to pay their tribute of affection and veneration to
her, who was justly called, '_the mother of the poor and distressed_.'
The tomb erected by her children marks the spot where she takes her
'long last sleep.' It bears the simple inscription--

    EUGENE ET HORTENSE A JOSEPHINE.

Napoleon, too, paid a parting visit to the residence which he had
preferred to every other. After his unsuccessful attempt to resume the
sovereignty of France, he spent six days at Malmaison to muse over
departed power and happiness, and then left the shores of France for
ever!

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Josephine might afterwards have fulfilled this promise, had not
Madame d'Aiguillon been a divorced wife, which excluded her from holding
any situation about the Empress.



From the London Art Journal.

THE GRAVE OF GRACE AGUILAR.


"Pilgrimages, pilgrimages!" exclaimed a German friend whose family had
been shorn of its "olive branches" by so many hurricanes, that, although
still in the prime of life, his head was bowed and his hair
gray:--"pilgrimages! what is life but a pilgrimage over graves?" The
older we grow, the better we comprehend the force of this sad truth;
life is, indeed, a pilgrimage over graves; but how different are the
ideas and emotions they suggest or excite!

In pent-up cities the graves cluster round ancient churches:
congregations after congregations are pressed into festering earth until
the inclosure becomes a charnel-house; yet they prove how devoutly later
occupants have longed to rest in death with the loved in life. The
nameless mounds are hardly shrouded by broken turf; records, on the
cankering, crumbling head-stones, are almost obliterated; some are
closely bordered and capped by heavy stones, as if rich inheritors
dreaded a resurrection; others there are, where the dock and the nettle
are matted around rusty railings, as though no hand remained that ever
pressed, in friendship or affection, the hand which moulders beneath;
others, again, are marked by broad head-stones, new and well-lettered,
the black on the pure white setting forth a proud array of virtues, of
which the co-mates of the departed never heard; a few dingy and heavy
monuments stand apart, and look down with civic haughtiness on humbler
graves. Repulsive specimens of bad taste are these elaborate monuments
often; in their ornaments so unmeaning, their clumsy dignity so
intrusive, so coarsely ostentatious--the epitaphs so earnest in saying
_by whom_ the carved stones were erected!

Our village churchyards, lying away amid glorious trees, or tranquil
valleys, or sleeping on the sloping hills, where "birds sing, lambs
bleat, and ploughboys whistle,"--however picturesque they may appear in
the distance, have frequently the same uncared for aspect as those
within the city. We love the living, but we _seem_ to care little for
the dead. However much we may muse on crossing "the churchyard," or
indulge in poesy, where

    "The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,"

our places of burial, with the exception of cemeteries, which are as yet
too new to show what they may become, bear but slight testimony to the
"love which lives forever." The contrast is humiliating when we visit
other lands, and mark the attention paid to graves of relatives and
friends. A certain sum is annually set apart by the peasants in many
districts of France, for visiting and decking the resting-places of
those whom Death has taken; the fresh garland is hung on the simple
cross, and the prayer earnestly repeated for the soul's peace; and these
tributes continue for years and years, long after the bitterness of
sorrow has passed away.

We have seen an aged woman, with white hair, strewing flowers on her
mother's grave, though forty years had passed since the separation of
the living from the dead; and once, attracted by the beauty of a girl
who had been decking, and then praying, beside a nameless grave, we
asked for whom she mourned--although the word "mourned" had little
association with her bright face and sunny smile.

She answered, none of her people slept there; she had nothing of herself
to do with graves; it was Marie's mother's grave, and Marie had gone far
away--to England. Marie was her friend, and she had promised her that
she would deck that grave, and pray beside it; and all for the love she
bore her friend. We asked if she was certain Marie would return:

"No, there was no certainty; but she would watch the grave, and deck it,
and say the prayers Marie would have said, all the same; she loved
Marie, and had promised her." There was something very tender in this
friendly fidelity, this tending the dead for the sake of the living--the
living, dead to her.

For ourselves, the place of tombs has rarely been one of sorrow; we have
loved to visit the last dwellings of those who have gone home before us.
We have thought of the enjoyment of re-union; and dwelt upon the delight
of an eternity of harmony and love--that "perfect love which casteth out
fear." We have speculated on seeing Milton in the company of angels; on
recognizing Bunyan with the faithful; on beholding Fenelon at the "right
hand," and Mendelssohn among the chosen! Knowing that God is a more
merciful judge than man, we believe that there we shall see many faiths
prostrate in adoration of the one great LORD, who is for all, and "above
all, and in us all." We have looked to the higher nature, the divine
essence of those we have honored; and when noble deeds have been done,
or lofty genius has triumphed, we have listened with more than doubt to
the insinuations of those who, in former, as in present times, aim to
detract from the excellence it is not given them to understand. We do
not cater for the prejudices of sects or parties, but simply desire to
lay our tribute of homage on the graves of those who seem to us most
worthy, and have been most useful. We have enjoyed the high privilege of
knowing many remarkable people who have passed from among us during the
last twenty years,--having won for themselves a glorious immortality by
the exercise of talents which, in any other country, would have led to
national distinctions. Yet they are well remembered! and to them be
_all_ the glory of success. The memory of these great lights,--great
authors, great statesmen, great philosophers, great warriors,--is still

     "Green in our souls."

But there were some stars of lesser magnitude, who, if longer spared
among us, would have become luminaries of power; some who were summoned,
when, according to our finite views, they had arrived at the period for
their faculties to expand, and they were about to reap the harvest of
long years of labor and of care; such was Mrs. Fletcher, better known as
Miss Jewsbury, one of the chosen friends of Mrs. Hemans, who passed away
in a foreign land, far from all who loved her.

And such was GRACE AGUILAR--a Jewess, of mind so elevated, heart so
pure, and principles so just and true, as to deserve a lofty seat among
those "Women of Israel," whose lives were so beautifully rendered by her
delicate and powerful pen. It seems Quixotic in this day of sunshine, of
civil and religious liberty, to attempt to combat the prejudices which,
we are gravely told, do not now exist against the Jewish community; yet
it is impossible to observe society, and not perceive that whatever
political disabilities may be removed from them, individual prejudice
against those from whom our blessed Saviour sprang, and who gave birth
to the apostles of the Christian faith, is as deeply seated, as in the
days when faggot and fire were the ministers employed for their
conversion.

How can it be that we, in our age, look down with cold or scornful eyes
upon this once "chosen people"--chosen when the material world was in
its youth--those children of Israel, whose history is the foundation of
our faith? We read _our_ Bible, which is _their_ Bible; our code of
conduct is based upon _their_ commandments, which are _our_
commandments; _our_ salvation is gained by the Jewish sacrifice of the
lamb without spot or blemish; _our_ apostles, the promulgators of the
fulfilment of the Old Testament prophecies, and the founders of the New,
were Jews. We are especially blessed in triumphing in a hope
fulfilled--while to them the promise is yet to come; they linger and
wait century after century for what they lost, and we won: this is their
sorrow, and hard to bear is their punishment--but it should not detract
from the honor and glory which was, and is, theirs from ages past. The
condemnation we give them is unworthy of us, and undeserved by
them--_They brought no wrath upon us by their blindness_; and we should
remember the time will come when we shall be gathered--Jews and
Gentiles--together from the four quarters of the globe, from the east
and from the west, from the north and from the south, "And there shall
be one fold and one Shepherd." But of what do we, in these days, chiefly
accuse the Jews?--of being a Mammon-making, and a Mammon-loving
people?--Ought we not to look to ourselves in that matter, and remember
the old saying about houses of glass, and throwing of stones? There are
but too many evidences of late before the world, of the Mammon-worship
of _our own_ people, to render any bowing down to the molten image
remarkable in the children of Israel; yet it is marvellous how those who
think and reason on all new things, give in to old prejudices without
question or examination--clinging with childlike tenacity to foul
traditions, as if they were established truths.

We no longer politically outrage a people who have been, at all times,
LOYAL, peaceable, and industrious; we do not confine them to any
particular quarter of our great city; nor drive them out of it like
rabid dogs; we suffer them to make money and keep it, and we borrow it
for our own wants; we allow them to worship as they please--but denying
them a cordial fellowship with us, we restrict their improvement in all
Arts, but the one of money-making;--and they, unable to obtain
distinction except through their gold, naturally cling to that which
gives them what all men covet--Power.

At our first introduction to Grace Aguilar we were struck, as much by
the earnestness and eloquence of her conversation, as by her delicate
and lovely countenance. Her person and address were exceedingly
prepossessing; her eyes, of the deep blue that look almost black in
particular lights; and her hair dark and abundant. There was no attempt
at display; no affectation of learning; no desire to obtrude "me and my
books" upon any one, or in any way: in all things she was graceful and
well-bred. You felt at once that she was a carefully educated
gentlewoman, and if there was more warmth and cordiality of manner than
a stranger generally evinces on a first introduction, we remembered her
descent,[I] and that the tone of her studies, as well as her passionate
love of music and high musical attainments had increased her
sensibility. When we came to know her better, we were charmed and
astonished at her extensive reading; at her knowledge of foreign
literature, and actual learning--relieved by a refreshing pleasure in
juvenile amusements. Each interview increased our friendship, and the
quantity and quality of her acquirements commanded our admiration. She
had made acquaintance with the beauties of English nature during a long
residence in Devonshire; loved the country with her whole heart, and
enriched her mind by the leisure it afforded. She had collected and
arranged conchological and mineralogical specimens to a considerable
extent; loved flowers as only sensitive women can love them; and with
all this was deeply read in theology and history. Whatever she knew she
knew thoroughly; rising at six in the morning, and giving to each hour
its employment; cultivating and exercising her home affections, and
keeping open heart for many friends. All these qualities were warmed by
a fervid enthusiasm for whatever was high and holy. She spurned all envy
and uncharitableness, and rendered loving homage to whatever was great
and good. It was difficult to induce her to speak of herself or of her
own doings. After her death, it was deeply interesting to hear from the
one of all others who loved and knew her best (her mother), of the
progress of her mind from infancy to womanhood; it proved so
convincingly how richly she deserved the affection she inspired.

Grace Aguilar, the only daughter of Emanuel and Sarah Aguilar, was born
at the Paragon, in Hackney, in June 1816;[J] for eight years she was an
only child, and after that period had elapsed, two boys were added to
the family. Grace was of so fragile and delicate a constitution, that
her parents took her to Hastings when she was four years old; and at
that early age she commenced collecting and arranging shells, learning
to read, almost by intuition, and when asked to choose a gift, always
preferring "a book." These gift-books were not read and thrown aside,
but preserved with the greatest care, and frequently perused.

From the age of seven years this extraordinary child kept a daily
journal, jotting down what she saw, heard, and thought, with the most
rigid regard to the truth; indeed, after visiting a new scene, her chief
delight was to read and ponder over whatever she could find relating to
what she had observed. Her parents were both passionately fond of the
beauties of nature, and she enjoyed scenery with them, at an age when
children are supposed to be incapable of much observation. Her mother, a
highly educated and accomplished woman, loved to direct her child's mind
to the study of whatever was beautiful and true: before she completed
her twelfth year she wrote a little drama called "Gustavus Vasa;" it was
an indication of what, in after life, became her ruling passion.

The first history placed in her hand was that of Josephus; increasing,
as it was certain to do, her interest in her own people. In 1828, after
various English wanderings, the family, in consequence of Mr. Aguilar's
impaired health, went to reside in Devonshire. The beauty of the scenery
which surrounds Tavistock inspired her first poetic effusions, and she
became passionately fond of her new power; yet her well-regulated mind
prevented her indulging in the exercise of this fascinating talent,
until her daily duties and studies were performed.

A life spent as was that of Grace Aguilar, affords little incident or
variety; it is simply a record of talents highly cultivated, of duties
affectionately fulfilled, and, as years advanced, of the formation of a
great purpose persevered in with stoic resolution, until, supported by
pillows, and shaken by intense suffering, the trembling fingers could no
longer hold the pen. It cannot fail to interest those at all acquainted
with her writings, to learn how she mingled the most intense faith and
devotion to her own people, with respect for the teachers of
Christianity. Well as we knew her, we were quite unacquainted with her
religious habits; though the odor of sanctity exhaled from all she did
and said, she never assumed to be holier than others; never sought
discussion; never, in her intercourse with Christians, though sometimes
sorely pressed, gave utterance to a hard word or an uncharitable
feeling; even when roused to plead with eloquent lips and tearful eyes
the cause of her beloved Israel.

It is a beautiful picture to look upon--this young and highly endowed
Jewish maiden, nurtured in the bosom of her own family, the beloved of
her parents,--themselves high-class Hebrews,--gifted with tastes for the
beautiful in Art and Nature, and a sublime love for the true; leaving
the traffic of the busy city, content with a moderate competence,
soothed by the accomplishments, the graces and the devotion of that one
cherished daughter, whose high pursuits and purposes never prevented the
daily and hourly exercise of those domestic duties and services, which
the increasing indisposition of her father demanded more and more.

Stimulated by the counsel of a judicious friend, who, while she admired
the varied talents of the young girl, saw, that for any _great purpose_,
they must be concentrated, Grace Aguilar prayed fervently to God that
she might be enabled to do something to elevate the character of her
people in the eyes of the Christian world, and--what was, and is, even
more important--in their own esteem. They had, she thought, been too
long satisfied to go on as they had gone during the days of their
tribulation and persecution; content to amass wealth, without any
purpose beyond its possession; she panted to set before them "The
Records of Israel," to hold up to their admiration "The Women of
Israel," those heroic women of whom any nation might be justly proud.
Here was a grand purpose,--a purpose which made her heart beat high
within her bosom. She knew she had to write _against_ popular feeling;
she had the still more bitter knowledge that the greater number of those
for whom she contended, cared little, and thought less, of the CAUSE to
which she was devoted, heart and soul. But what large mind was ever
deterred from a great purpose by difficulties? The young Jewish girl,
with few, if any, literary connections; with limited knowledge as to how
she could set those things before the world; treasured up her intention
for a while, and then imparted it to that mother who she felt assured
would support her in whatever design was high and holy. Her mother
exulted in her daughter's plan, and had faith in that daughter's power
to work it out: she believed in her noble child, and thanked the God of
Israel, who had put the thought into her mind. Mrs. Aguilar knew that
Grace had not made religion her study only for her own personal
observance and profit. She knew that she embraced its _principles_ in a
widely-extended and truly liberal sense; the good of her people was her
first, but not her sole, object. The Hebrew mother had frequently wept
tears of joy and gratitude when she observed how her beloved child
carried her practice of the holy and benevolent precepts of her faith
into every act of her daily life--doing all the good her limited means
permitted--finding time, in the midst of her cherished studies, and
still more cherished domestic duties, and most varied occupations, to
work for and instruct her poor neighbors; and, while steadily venerating
and adhering to her own faith, neither inquiring nor heeding the
religious opinions of the needy, whom she succored or consoled. Her
young life had flowed on in bestowing and receiving blessings, and now,
when her aspiring soul sought still higher objects, how could her
mother, knowing her so well, doubt that she would falter or fail in her
undertaking! Proofs have been for some time before the world that she
did neither.

She first translated a little work from the French, called "Israel
Defended;" she tried her pinions in "The Magic Wreath," and, feeling her
mental strength, soared upwards in the cause of her people; she wrote
"Home Influence," and "The Spirit of Judaism." But the triumphant spirit
was, ere long, clogged by the body's weakness. In the spring of 1838,
she was attacked by measles, and from that illness she never perfectly
recovered. Soon, she commenced the work that of itself is sufficient to
create and crown a reputation--"The Women of Israel." But while her
mental powers increased in strength and activity, she became subject to
repeated attacks of bodily prostration; and her once round and graceful
form was but a shadow. The physician recommended change of air and
scene: and sometimes she rallied, but there was no permanent
improvement. Music was still, as it had ever been, her solace and
delight; but she was obliged to relinquish her practice of the harp, and
to exercise her voice but seldom; still her spirit cried "On, on," and
every hour she could command was devoted to her pen.

"The Records of Israel," "The Women of Israel," and "The Jewish Faith,"
separately and together, show how, heart and soul, she labored in the
cause she had so emphatically made her own. The first publication
relating so particularly to her own people, met with but a cool
reception from the English Jews; but in America (where the Hebrews enjoy
perfect equality with their Christian brethren) they hailed this rising
star with joy, and looked anxiously for its meridian. Letters and
congratulations came to her across the Atlantic; and those who had read
only her fugitive pieces, were astonished at the concentrated zeal and
pious energy which animated her when writing of the Hebrews.

A little "History of the English Jews," published by the Messrs.
Chambers, is perhaps superior to her other writings in style and
finish--the sentences are more condensed--the information more full of
interest. It was, we believe, her last labor of love, and she greatly
rejoiced in its publication. When it was finished, she had resolved to
visit the German baths, and enjoy, as much as her increased debility
permitted, the society of her eldest brother, who at the time was
studying music (the art in which he now so much excels) at Frankfort.
Her youngest brother was at sea. There were times, even before her
departure for Germany, that she felt as if her days were numbered; but
this feeling she studiously concealed from her mother, and bore her
sufferings with the sweet and placid patience which rendered it a
privilege to see her and to hear her speak. At times she thought she
might be spared a little longer to comfort her mother, to witness the
distinction certain to reward her brother, and enjoy the reputation
which now rushed upon her, especially from her own people, both here and
in America.

Devotedly attached to her friends, she bitterly regretted that she could
not take leave of them all; but her weakness increased daily; propped up
by pillows she still continued to write, until her medical advisers
expressly commanded that she should abstain from this--her "greatest and
last luxury." She obeyed, though expressing her conviction that writing
did her good, not harm; she frequently said that when oppressed by care,
anxiety, and pain, her favorite pursuit drew her from herself, and she
firmly believed that writing relieved her headaches,--and this at a
period when she had grown too ill even to listen to music. But, all--all
her sufferings were borne with angelic patience, as the will of her
Heavenly Father, and she would console her mother with words of
cheerfulness and hope.

We have said her life had in it nothing to render it remarkable; surely,
we are in error, her patient, industrious, self-sacrificing life, was
remarkable not only for its sanctity, its talent, and its high purpose,
but for its earnest and beautiful simplicity, and perfect _womanliness_.

When the period of her departure for Germany had arrived, her friends
found it difficult to bid her farewell; for they thought it would be the
last time they should ever press her thin attenuated hand; but the
brightness of her eyes, the hopefulness of her smile, made them hope
against hope. She left England on the 16th of June, 1847, lingered in
the brilliant city of Frankfort for a few weeks, and then went to the
baths at Langen Schwalback. She persevered in her use of the baths and
mineral waters, but they afforded no relief; she was seized one night
with violent spasms, and the next day was removed to Frankfort.
Convinced that recovery was now impossible, she calmly and collectedly
awaited the coming of death: and though all power of speech was gone,
she was able to make her wants and wishes known by conversing on her
fingers. Her great anxiety was to soothe her mother; though her tongue
refused to perform its office, those wasted fingers would entreat her to
be patient, and trust in God. She would name some cherished verse in the
Bible, or some dearly-loved psalm, that she desired might be read aloud.
The last time her fingers moved it was to spell upon them feebly,
"_Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him_;" when they could no
longer perform her will, her loving eyes would seek her mother and then
look upwards, intimating that they should meet hereafter. Amen!

Her death occasioned deep regret among the Hebrews both in Europe and
America: foreign tabernacles poured forth their lamentations, private
friends gave voice to their grief in prose and poetry, and the various
journals of both hemispheres spoke of her with the respect and
admiration she deserved. But to those who really knew Grace Aguilar, all
eulogium falls short of her deserts; and she has left a blank in her
particular walk of literature, which we never expect to see filled up!
Her loss to her own people is immense; she was a golden light between
the Christian and the Jew; respected and admired alike by both, she drew
each in charity closer to the other; she was a proof, living and
illustrious, of Jewish excellence and Jewish liberality, and loyalty,
and intelligence. The sling of the son of Jesse was not wielded with
more power and effect against the scorner of his people, than was her
pen against the giant Prejudice.

We have dwelt more than may be thought necessary on Grace Aguilar's
championship of her own people, because _that_ distinguishes her from
all other female authors of our time; and when writing of the "fold of
Judah," there is a tone of feeling in all she has published which
elevates and sustains her in a remarkable manner. In conversation, the
mention of her people produced the same effect. Sometimes she seemed as
one inspired; and the intense brightness of her eyes, the deep tones of
her voice, the natural and unaffected eloquence of her words, when
referring to the past history of the Jews,--and the positive radiance of
her countenance when she spoke of the gathering of the tribes at
Jerusalem, could never be forgotten by those who knew this young Jewish
lady. In time, as we have said, her own people estimated her as she
deserved. She received a very beautiful address from some of the "women
of Israel" before she left this country for Germany. Among her works of
a more general nature, "Home Influence" is perhaps the most popular; and
its sequel, "The Mother's Recompense," though only lately published, was
written as far back as the year 1836. "The Vale of Cedars" is a tale of
Jewish faith and Jewish suffering, founded on singular facts that came
to her knowledge through some of her own people: the arrangement of the
story was difficult, as it is always difficult to embellish what is
simple and dignified, without destroying its effect and beauty--but, as
we have said, whenever Grace touched upon her own people, she wrote and
spoke as one inspired; she condensed and spiritualized, and all her
thoughts and feelings were steeped in the essence of celestial love and
truth. We are persuaded that had this young woman lived in the perilous
times of persecution, she would have gone to the stake for her faith's
sake, and died praying for her murderers. And this heroism was not only
for the great trials of life; she was also a heroine in her endurance of
small sufferings, and petty annoyances, deeming it sinful to manifest
impatience, and thinking it right to be afflicted.

Grace Aguilar had earnestly desired that we should have met her at
Frankfort; and the only letter we received from her after her arrival
there, was full of the pleasant hope that we should meet again--in that
cheerful city; this was however impossible; but when we knew that we
should see her no more in this world, we promised ourselves a pilgrimage
to her grave: and over all the plans which mingled with our dreams of
the splendid churches and vast cathedrals we were to see in Germany,
would come a vision of Grace Aguilar's quiet grave in the Jewish
burying-ground of Frankfort-on-the-Main; and all the reality of the
animated handsome city, its merchant palaces in the _Zeil_, and _Neue
Mainzer Strasse_, its old _Dom_, so full of interest, with its fine
monument of Rudolph of Sachsenhausen, beside which you cannot but recall
the time when St. Bernard preached the crusade within its walls,--not
even when we stood alone beneath the roof of St. Leonhard's Church, and
knew that there once stood the Palace of Charlemagne,--not there--nor
anywhere--could we forget that we had vowed a pilgrimage to the grave of
"the lost star of the house of Judah."

How wild and inharmonious is the mingling of sights, as you whirl
through continental cities! Heroic monuments--dark and deep
dungeons--magnificent palaces--pictures--flowers--instruments of
torture--delicious operas--all crowded together into a few short days!

We had not failed to remember that the brilliant city of Frankfort was
the cradle of the Rothschilds; and it had been suggested that before we
visited the Jews' burying-ground, we should see "The Jews' Quarter," to
look upon the house where the "very rich man was born," and where his
mother chose to live to the end of her many days, preferring, wise woman
that she was, to dwell to the last amongst her own people; yet living,
we believe, long enough to know that her grandson represented in
Parliament the first city of the modern world: and so became a practical
illustration of the altered position of the Jews in the middle of the
nineteenth century--sheltered under the vine and fig-tree that
flourishes in England.

In few of the German cities did the Jews endure more persecution than in
the _free_ city of Frankfort. During the past century the gates of the
quarter to which they were confined, were closed upon them at an early
hour, and egress and ingress were alike denied. In 1796 Marshal Jourdan,
in bombarding the town, knocked down the gate of the Jews' quarter, and
laid several houses in ruin; they have not since been replaced. Another
tyrannical law, not repealed until 1834, restricted the number of Hebrew
marriages in the city to thirteen yearly. It would seem, however, that,
like the mother of the Rothschilds, the people continue to dwell in
their own quarter from choice, not necessity; and well it is for the
lover of the picturesque and for the antiquary that they do so. A ramble
in the Jews' quarter at Frankfort might well repay a journey from
London; it is like going back to the fourteenth century, and meeting the
people you read of in history far gone. Imagine the narrowest possible
streets through which a carriage can drive, flanked at either side by
houses so high that the blue sky above becomes an idea rather than a
reality; story after story, with windows of ancient construction, small
and narrow, inclosed by iron gratings, from which frequently depended
portions of many-colored draperies; garments for sale, which might have
been of the spoil of the Egyptian; strong swords and all kinds of
weapons, rust-worn; bunches of keys, whose handles would drive an
antiquary distracted by their elaborate workmanship; dresses of all
countries and all fashions, fez caps, and old but costly turbans. The
rich balconies of the most exquisite design, however time-worn; the
_jalousies_, sometimes within, sometimes without the windows; the
Atlantes, supporting entablatures; lost none of their effect from being
half draped by a scarlet mantle or variegated scarf of Barbary. Numbers
of the houses were profusely ornamented at intervals by ball-flowers in
the hollow mouldings, and balustrades, supporting carved copings. Then
above the doors, some of which evidently led to an inner court or a
mysterious-looking passage, was inserted the most exquisitely wrought
iron-work, sufficiently beautiful to form a model for a Berlin bracelet;
while from a stealthy passage peered forth the half shrouded face and
illuminated eyes of dazzling brightness, of some ancient Jewess, whose
long, lean, yellow fingers grasped the strong, but exquisitely moulded
handle of the entrance. The doors (except the very modern ones) were all
of great strength, frequently studded with nails, and the bolts, now
worn and rusty, had withstood many a rude assault. We passed beneath
small oriel windows, supported by richly carved stone brackets, gray and
mouldering; and beside bay windows, of pure Gothic times; and when we
gazed up--up--up--story after story, we saw what appeared to us more
than one Belvedere, doubtless erected by some wealthy Jew as a place
from whence he could overlook the city it was forbidden him to tread, or
to enjoy pure air, which certainly he could not do in the densely close
street beneath. Many of the brackets supporting a solitary balcony were
of beautiful design, though the greater number were defaced and
crumbling. We also passed several of the fan-shaped windows, so
characteristic of the early German style, and here and there a quaint
and fantastic _gurgoyle_; from the mouth of one depended a bunch of
soiled but many colored ribbons. What a vision it seems to us now--that
wonderful Jews' quarter of the bright and busy city of Frankfort!--a
vision of some far-off Oriental Pompeii, repeopled in a dream! Never did
we look upon faces so keen and withered, beards so black, or eyes so
bright; once we saw a curly-headed child, half naked in its swarthy
beauty, throned, like a baby-king, upon a pile of yellow cushions; and
once again, as we drove slowly on, a tall young girl turned up a face of
scornful beauty, as if she thought we pale-faced Christians had no
business there,--and those two young creatures were all we clearly
observed of youthful beauty within the "Quarter."

The avenues in the outskirts of German towns contribute greatly to their
interest,--they protect from both sun and wind. We drove leisurely along
that which leads to the Cemetery of Frankfort, and turned up a narrower
road, that we might enter the walled-off portion of ground appropriated
as the Jews' burying-ground. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the view
from the gate of entrance. The city is spread out in the valley like a
panorama; the brightest sunshine illumined the scene; a girl was seated
beneath the branches of a spreading tree in the distance; she was a
garland-weaver, and there she spent her days weaving garlands, which the
living bought from her to place on the graves of their departed friends.
The gates were open. Mrs. Aguilar had told us that HER grave was near
the wall of the Protestant burying-ground--and there we found it.

The head stone which marks the spot, bears upon it a butterfly and five
stars, and beneath is the inscription:

     "Give her of the fruits of her hands, and let her own works
     praise her in the gates."--PROV. Chap. xxxi., 31.

Our pilgrimage was accomplished. It was, though in a foreign city, a
pilgrimage to an English Shrine--for it was to the grave of an English
woman--pure and good. On the 16th of September, 1847, at the early age
of thirty-one, Grace Aguilar was laid in that cemetery, far from the
England she loved so well--the bowl was broken, the silver cord was
loosed!

We cannot conclude this tribute to the memory of one we loved,
respected, and admired, without extracting a portion of an address
presented to her by several young Jewish ladies, before her departure
for Germany. Had the gift which accompanied it been of the richest and
rarest jewels, and offered by the princes of this earthly world, it
could not have been as acceptable as it was, coming from the hearts and
hands of the maidens of her own faith.

We would simply add that the address is a proof, if proof were needed,
that Jewish ladies not only feel and appreciate what is refined, and
high, and holy, but know how to express their feelings beautifully and
well. Its orientalism does not detract from its pure and sweet
simplicity:

     "DEAR SISTER:--Our admiration of your talents, our
     veneration for your character, our gratitude for the eminent
     services your writings render our sex, our people, our
     faith,--in which the sacred cause of true religion is
     embodied, all these motives combine to induce us to intrude
     on your presence, in order to give utterance to sentiments
     which we are happy to feel, and delighted to express. Until
     you arose, it has, in modern times, never been the case,
     that a woman in Israel should stand forth, the public
     advocate of the faith of Israel, that with the depth and
     purity which is the treasure of woman, and the strength of
     mind and extensive knowledge that form the pride of man, she
     should call on her own to cherish, on others to respect, the
     truth as it is in Israel. You, sister, have done this, and
     more. You have taught us to know and appreciate our own
     dignity; to feel and to prove that no female character can
     be more pure than that of the Jewish maiden, none more pious
     than that of the women in Israel. You have vindicated our
     social and spiritual equality in the faith; you have, by
     your excellent example, triumphantly refuted the aspersion
     that the Jewish religion leaves unmoved the heart of the
     Jewish woman,--while your writings place within our reach
     those higher motives, those holier consolations, which flow
     from the spirituality of our religion, which urge the soul
     to commune with its Maker, and direct it to His grace and
     His mercy, as the best guide and protector here and
     hereafter."

We can say nothing of Grace Aguilar more eloquently or beautifully true;
it is the just acknowledgment of a large debt from the Women of Israel
to a holy and good sister, who, having done much to destroy prejudice,
and to inculcate charity, merits the thanks of the true Christian as
much as of the conscientious Jew.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] Grace Aguilar's family fled to England to escape Spanish and
Portuguese persecutions, and some of them found homes and fortunes in
the West Indies. Her mother's name was Diaz Fernandes.

[J] Her family were of the tribe of Judah. Of the original twelve tribes
two only are at present are known: the tribe of Judah, the fourth son of
Jacob and Leah, and the tribe of Benjamin, the youngest son of Jacob and
Rachel. The other tribes revolted from Rehoboam, A.M. 2964, when there
were two separate kingdoms, A.M. 3205, when the ten tribes were made
captives by Shalmaneser, king of Assyria. The ten tribes have never
since been heard of; but the Israelites believe they are in existence,
and will be gathered "from all the nations whither the Lord our God hath
scattered them." The Spanish and Portuguese Jews are of the tribe of
Judah. The German Jews are of the tribe of Benjamin.



From Frazer's Magazine.

THE CLOISTER-LIFE OF THE EMPEROR CHARLES V.--PART. II.


To be lodged in the monastic palace of Yuste was a distinction which
queen Mary of Hungary shared with one, and only one, of the visitors of
her brother. The personage whom the imperial eremite delighted thus to
honor was Francisco Borja, who a few years before had exchanged his
dukedom of Gandia for the robe of the order of Jesus. In his brilliant
youth, this remarkable man had been the star and pride of the nobility
of Spain. Heir of a great and wealthy house, which was a branch of the
royal line of Aragon, and which had given two pontiffs to Rome, he was
distinguished no less by the favor of the emperor than by the splendor
of his birth, the graces of his person, and the endowments of his mind.
Born to be a soldier and a courtier, he was also an accomplished
scholar, and no inconsiderable statesman. He broke horses and trained
hawks as well as the most expert master of the menage and the mews; he
composed masses, which long kept their place in the cathedral-choirs of
Spain; he was well versed in polite learning, and deeply read in the
mathematics; he served in Africa and Italy with distinction; and as
viceroy of Catalonia he displayed abilities for business and
administration which in a few years would have enabled him to rival the
fame of Mendoza and De Lannoy. The pleasures and the honors of the
world, however, seemed, even from the first, to have but slender
attraction for the man so rarely fitted to obtain them. In the midst of
life and its triumphs, his thoughts perpetually turned upon death and
its mysteries. Ever punctilious in the performance of his religious
duties, he early began to take delight in spiritual contemplation, and
to discipline his mind by self-imposed penance. Even in his favorite
sport of falconry, he sought occasion for self-punishment by resolutely
fixing his eyes on the ground at the moment when he knew that his best
hawk was about to stoop upon the heron. These tendencies were fixed by
an incident which followed the death of the empress Isabella. As her
master of the horse, it was Borja's duty to attend the body from Toledo
to the chapel-royal of the cathedral of Granada, and to make oath of its
identity ere it was laid in the grave. But when the coffin was opened,
and the cerements drawn aside, the progress of decay was found to have
been so rapid, that the mild and lovely face of Isabella could no longer
be recognized by the most trusted and most faithful of her servants. His
conscience would not allow him to swear, that the mass of corruption
thus disclosed was the remains of his royal mistress, but only that
having watched day and night beside it, he felt convinced that it was
the same form which he had seen wrapped in its shroud at Toledo. From
that moment, in the twenty-ninth year of his prosperous life, he
resolved to spend what remained to him of time in earnest preparation
for eternity. A few years later, the death of his beautiful and
excellent wife strengthened his purpose, and snapped the dearest tie
which bound him to the world. Having completed the Jesuits' college at
Gandia, their first establishment of that kind in Europe, and having
married his son and his two daughters, he put his affairs in order and
retired into the young and still struggling society of Ignatius Loyola.
In the year 1548, the thirty-eighth of his age, he ceased to be duke of
Gandia, and became father Francis of the Company of Jesus.

Borja did not appear at Yuste as a chance or uninvited guest. Charles
seems to have regarded him with an affection as strong as his cold
nature was capable of entertaining. It was with no ordinary interest
that he watched the career of the man whom alone he had chosen to make
the confidant of his intended abdication, and who had unexpectedly
forestalled him in the execution of the scheme. They were now in
circumstances in some respects similar, in others widely different. Both
had voluntarily descended from the eminence of their hereditary
fortunes. Broken in health and spirits, the emperor had come to Yuste to
rest and to die. The duke, on the other hand, in the full vigor of his
age, had entered the humblest of the religious orders, to work out his
salvation in a course of self-denial and toil, ending only in the grave.
His career in the Company began with severe theological study, from
which he passed to the pulpit and the professor's chair. As provincial
of Aragon and Andalusia, he had been for some time laboring as a
preacher, and teacher in various cities of Spain; he had founded
colleges at Plasencia and Seville; and he was now delivering lectures at
Alcala, in the college which Jesuit energy soon raised to be the stately
pile which still forms one of the most prominent ruins of that Palmyra
of universities.

It seems to have been in the early spring of the year 1557, that the
emperor determined to send for his old companion and counsellor. The
message was conveyed to Alcala by a servant of the count of Oropesa.
Borja at first excused himself, pleading ill-health and the duties of
his calling; and it was not until he had received a second summons, from
the mouth of the duke of Medina-Celi, that he consented to go to Yuste.
On the way he was met by a messenger, bearing a letter from the regent
Juana, which advised him that her father's object in seeking an
interview was to persuade him to pass from the Company into the order of
St. Jerome. He arrived at the monastery early in December, attended by
two brothers of the order, father Marcos, and father Bartolomé
Bustamente, the latter known to fame as a scholar, and as architect of
the noble hospital of St. John Baptist at Toledo. The emperor not only
paid his guest the unusual compliment of lodging him in his own
quarters, but even busied himself in making preparations for his
reception. To make his chamber as comfortable as conventual austerity
would permit, Luis Quixada had hung it with some tapestry which remained
in the meagre imperial wardrobe. But this his master, judging that it
would rather offend than please the visitor, caused him to take down,
supplying its place with some black cloth, of which he despoiled the
walls of his own cell.

The royal recluse received the noble missionary with a cordiality which
was more foreign to his nature than to his habits, but which on this
occasion was probably sincere. Both had withdrawn themselves from the
pomps and vanities of life; but, custom being stronger than reason or
faith, their greeting was as ceremonious as if it had been exchanged
beneath the canopy of state at Augsburg or Valladolid. Not only did the
Jesuit, lapsing into the grandee, kneel to kiss the hand of Charles, but
he even insisted on remaining upon his knees during the interview.
Charles, who addressed him as duke, of course frequently entreated him
to rise and be seated, but in vain. "I humbly beg your majesty," said
he, "to suffer me to continue kneeling; for I feel," he added, in a
spirit of extravagant loyalty, "as if, in the presence of your majesty,
I were in the presence of God himself."

Being aware of his host's intentions with regard to himself and his
habit, he anticipated them, by asking permission to give an account of
his life since he made religious profession, and of the reasons which
had led him to join the Jesuits,--"of which matters," he said, "I will
speak to your majesty as I would speak to my Maker, who knows that all
that I am going to say is true." Leave being granted, he narrated, at
great length, how, being resolved to enter a monastic order, he had
prayed, and caused many masses to be said, for God's guidance in making
his choice; how, at first, he inclined to the rule of St. Francis, but
found that, whenever his thoughts went in that direction, he was seized
with an unaccountable melancholy; how he turned his eyes to the other
orders, one after another, and always with the same gloomy result; how,
on the contrary, when it at last occurred to him to join the Company,
the Lord had filled his soul with peace and joy; how it frequently
happened in the great orders that churchmen arrived at higher honors in
this life than if they had remained in the world, a chance which he
desired by all means to shun, and which was hardly offered in a recent
and humble fraternity, still in the furnace of trial through which the
others had long ago passed; how the Company, by embracing in its scheme
the active as well as the contemplative life, provided for the spiritual
welfare of men of the most opposite characters, and of each man in the
various stages of his mental being; and lastly, how he had submitted
these reasons to several grave and holy fathers of the other orders, and
had received their approval and blessing before he took the vows which
for ten years had been the hope and consolation of his life.

The emperor listened to this long narrative with attention, and
expressed his satisfaction at hearing his friend's history from his own
lips. "For," said he, "I felt great surprise when I received at Augsburg
your letter from Rome, notifying the choice you had made of a religious
brotherhood. And I still think, that a man of your weight ought to have
entered an order which had been approved by age rather than this new
one, in which no white hairs are found, and which besides, in some
quarters, bears but an indifferent reputation." To this Borja replied,
that in all institutions, even in Christianity itself, the purest piety
and the noblest zeal were to be found near the source; that had he been
aware of any evil in the Company, he would never have joined, or he
would already have quitted it; and that, in the matter of white hairs,
though it was hard to expect that the children should be old while the
parent was still young, even these were not wanting, as might be seen in
his companion, the father Bustamente. That ecclesiastic, who had begun
his novitiate at the age of sixty, was accordingly called into the
presence. The emperor at once recognized him as a priest who had been
sent to his court at Naples, soon after the campaign of Tunis, charged
with an important mission by Cardinal Tavera, primate of Spain.

Three hours of discourse with these able, earnest, and practised
champions of Jesuitism appear to have had their natural influence on the
mind of Charles. He hated innovation with the hate of a king, a devotee,
and an old man; and having fought for forty years a losing battle
against the reform of the terrible monk of Saxony, he looked with
suspicion even upon the great orthodox movement, led by the soldier of
Guipuzcoa. The infant Company, although, or perhaps because, in favor at
the Vatican, had gained no footing in the imperial court; and as its
fame grew, the prelates around the throne, sons or friends of the
ancient orders, were more likely to remind their master, that its
general had been once admonished by the holy office of Toledo, than to
dwell on his piety and eloquence, or on the splendid success of his
missions in the East. But from his ancient servant and brother in arms,
in the quiet shades of Yuste, Charles heard a different tale, which
seems to have changed his feelings towards the Jesuits, from distrust
and dislike, to approval and friendly regard.

Sometimes the talk of the emperor and his guest was of old times, and of
their former selves. "Do you remember," said Charles, "how I told you in
1542, at Monçon," during the holding of the Cortes of Aragon, "of my
intention of abdicating the throne? I spoke of it to only one person
besides." The Jesuit replied that he had kept the secret truly, but that
now he hoped he might mention the mark of confidence with which he had
been honored. "Yes," said Charles; "now that the thing is done, you may
say what you will."

One of the emperor's most curious and interesting revelations to Borja,
was the fact that he had composed memoirs of a part of his reign. He
asked if the father thought that a man's writing an account of his own
actions savored too much of vanity; and said, that he had drawn up a
notice of his various campaigns and travels, not with any view to
vain-glory, but in order that the truth might be known; for he had
observed in the works of the historians of his time, that they were led
into error, as much by ignorance, as by passion and prejudice. What
judgment Borja delivered upon this case of conscience does not appear.
Nor is the fate of the memoirs known. But the work cannot have been
large, having been composed to beguile time spent in sailing down the
Rhine from Mayence. Van Male, to whose letters we owe our knowledge of
this fact, and who was employed to translate his master's French into
Latin, praises the terseness and elegance of the style. This translation
was spoken of, in 1560, by Ruscelli, in a letter addressed to Philip
II., as soon to be published; and Brantome wonders why so excellent a
speculation could have been neglected by the booksellers. It is plain,
therefore, that Borja is not to be blamed for the loss, if they are
indeed lost, of the precious commentaries of the Cæsar of Castile. And
indeed, though a saint, and an advocate for the mortification of all
worldly desires, he was hardly capable of advising the imperial author
to put his manuscript in one of his Flemish fireplaces. The stern
ascetic had not quite cast off, or, at least, on occasion he could
reassume, the ways and language of the insinuating chamberlain. To one
of the devout queries of the emperor, he replied in a style of courtly
gallantry, which sounds strange in the mouth of the friend of Francis
Xavier, and would have done honor to a later Jesuit, who labored in the
vineyard of Versailles. Narrating the course of his penances and
prayers, Charles asked him whether he could sleep with his clothes on;
"for, I must confess," added he, contritely, "that my infirmities, which
prevent me from doing many things of the kind that I would gladly do,
render this penance impossible in my case." Borja, who practised every
kind of self-punishment, and had in early life in one year fasted down a
cubit of his girth, eluded the question by an answer, which was perhaps
as remarkable for modesty as for dexterity. "Your majesty," said he,
"cannot sleep in your clothes, because you have watched so many nights
in mail. Let us thank God that you have done more service by keeping
those vigils in arms, than many a cloistered monk who sleeps in his
hair-shirt."

The new allegiance of the Jesuit did not permit him to spare more than
three days to his old master. Duty required him once more to take his
staff in his hand, and proceed on his visitation of the rising schools
and colleges of the company. While at Yuste he had been treated with
marked distinction. Not only did his host arrange the upholstery of his
apartment, but he sent him each day the most approved dish from his own
table, the only part of his establishment which was somewhat removed
from conventual meagerness. The honored guest set forth to Valladolid,
with the pleasing impression that he left regrets behind him; and he
likewise carried away two hundred ducats for alms, which Luis Quixada
had been directed to force upon his acceptance. "It is a small sum,"
said the mayordomo; "but in comparison with the present revenues of my
lord the emperor, it is the largest bounty which he ever bestowed at one
time."

John III., king of Portugal, dying on the 11th of June, 1557, state or
family affairs required Charles to send a trusty messenger to his
sister, the widowed queen Catherine. He immediately bethought him of his
cousin and counsellor, the Jesuit, whose order had early gained the ear
of the deceased monarch, and who himself enjoyed the friendship and
confidence of all that remained of the house of Avis. Borja received the
summons at Simancas, where he had founded a small establishment, and
whither he loved to escape from the court of Valladolid, to unstinted
penance and prayer. The sun of July had begun to scorch the naked plains
of the Duero, and the good father was in poor health. Nevertheless, he
repaired to Yuste and received his instructions; and then scorning
repose in the cool woodlands, at once took the road to Portugal across
the charred wastes of Estremadura. This haste, and the heat, threw him
into a fever, of which he nearly died in the city of Evora; and when
once more able to resume his journey, he was nearly lost, in a squall,
in crossing the Tagus to Lisbon. His mission accomplished, he eluded the
nursing of the queen and the Cardinal Henry, and hurried back to Yuste,
where he probably arrived early in September.

The usual gracious reception awaited him. The nature of his business in
Portugal has not been recorded by his biographers. But he seems to have
conducted it to the emperor's satisfaction. It was on this occasion, or
the last, that Charles returned certain letters addressed to him, by
Father Francis, on the politics and politicians of the day, and written
at his request, and on condition of close secresy. "You may be sure,"
said he, on restoring them, "that no one but I have seen them." The
confidence thus reposed in the judgment and observation of the Jesuit,
by the shrewdest prince of the age, shows how keenly the things of earth
may be scanned by eyes which seem wholly fixed on heaven.

The emperor likewise told him of a dispute between two nobles, which had
been referred to him for decision, and on which he desired his opinion,
because he probably knew on whose side the right lay. The dispute was
about a title to certain lands, and the parties were Borja's son,
Charles, then duke of Gandia, and Don Alonso de Cardona, admiral of
Aragon. Thus appealed to, the father behaved with that stoical
indifference to the voice of blood which somewhat shocked his lay
admirers, and commanded the loud applause of his reverend biographers.
"I know not," he said, "whose cause is the just one; but I pray your
majesty not only not to allow the admiral to be wronged, but to show him
all the favor compatible with equity." On the emperor's expressing some
not unnatural surprise, this Cato of the company offered the very poor
explanation of his request, that, perhaps, the admiral needed the
disputed lands more than the duke, and that it was good to assist the
necessitous.

Borja paid a fourth and last visit in the following year, 1558, to the
monastery. He was sent for by the emperor for the benefit of his
spiritual counsels, possibly after he had been attacked by his closing
illness. For within a few days after the minister's return to
Valladolid, tidings reached the court that the invalid was no more.
During his brief sojourn at Yuste, his holy conversation and example
awakened the religious zeal of Magdalena de Ulloa, the wife of the
mayordomo, Quixada. The good seed thus chance-sown by the wayside sprang
up in after years, bearing abundant fruit for the company in the three
colleges founded and endowed by that devout lady at Villagarcia,
Santander, and Oviedo. Almost a century after his visits, the fame of
the third general of the Jesuits lingered in the country around Yuste.
In 1650, the centenarian of Guijo, a neighboring village, used to tell
how he had seen the emperor and the Count of Oropesa on the road to
Xarandilla, and to point out a great tree, under which they had partaken
of a repast, and he, a child, had been permitted to pick up the crumbs.
But of the individual impressions left on his memory by that remarkable
group, none had endured for the third generation, except "the meek and
penitent face of him they called the saintly duke,"--"_el duque santo_."

In such occupations and in such companionship noiselessly glided away
the cloister life of Charles V. The benefit which his health had reaped
from the fine air of Yuste, was but transient. It began to decline
rapidly in the spring of 1558, after the death of queen Eleanor, to whom
he was tenderly attached. He caused funeral rites to be performed in her
honor, in the church of the monastery, with all the pomp of light and
music that the brotherhood could command. Indeed, funeral services were,
in some sort, the festivals of his lugubrious life; for whenever he
received intelligence of the death of a prince of the blood, or a knight
of the Golden Fleece, he caused his obsequies to be celebrated by the
Jeromites. He was also very mindful of the souls of his deceased
friends, and the masses which were offered day by day up for himself
were preceded by some for his father, his mother, and his wife.

As his infirmities increased, his prayers grew longer, and his penances
more severe. He wrapped his emaciated body in hair-cloth, and flogged it
with scourges, which were afterwards found in his cell, stained with his
blood. Restless and sleepless, he would roam, ghost-like, through the
corridors of the convent, and call up the drowsy monks for the midnight
services of the church. Once he was asked by a slugglish novice, whose
slumbers he had broken, why he could not be satisfied with turning the
world upside down, but must also disturb the peace and rest which it was
reported he had come to seek at Yuste.

From all secular things and persons he kept entirely aloof. Of the
events then passing in the world, nothing stirred his curiosity or his
interest but the ruthless crusade against heresy, led by Cardinal
Valdés, the fiercest inquisitor since the days of Torquemada. For the
great northern Reformation had made itself felt, though with feeble and
transient effect, even in Spain,--as the Lisbon earthquake troubled the
waters of Lochlomond. Strange questions were stirred in the schools of
Alcala and Salamanca; new doctrines were taught from the pulpits of
Seville and Valladolid; wool-clad wolves were said to lurk even in the
folds of St. Francis and St. Dominic; and Lutheran traders ran casks of
heretical tracts upon the shores of the bay of Cadiz. Amongst the
persons arrested at Valladolid was Dr. Augustin Cazalla, canon of
Salamanca, who had been one of the emperor's preachers, and as such, had
resided, from 1546 to 1552, at the imperial court in Germany. Though he
had distinguished himself in the land of the Reformation by sermons
against its doctrines, and had returned to Spain with untarnished
orthodoxy, he was accused not only with being infected with Lutheran
principles, but of having "dogmatized," as the inquisition happily
called preaching, in a conventicle at Valladolid. Charles was much moved
when he heard of his arrest, not with pity for the probable fate of the
man, but with horror of his crime. "Father," said he to the prior, "if
there be any thing which could drag me from this retreat, it would be to
aid in chastising heretics. For such creatures as these, however, this
is not necessary; but I have written to the inquisition to burn them
all, for none of them will ever become true Catholics, or are worthy to
live." This recommendation, seldom neglected, was exactly observed in
the case of the poor chaplain. Denying the offence of dogmatizing, he
confessed having held heretical opinions, and offered to abjure them.
Nevertheless he was "relaxed," or in secular speech, burnt, with
thirteen companions, at Valladolid, in the presence of the
princess-regent and her court.

A more illustrious victim of the holy office was Constantine Ponce de la
Fuente, canon of Seville, and famous both as a pulpit orator, and as
author of several theological works, which were much esteemed in Italy
as well as Spain. He, too, had attended the emperor in Germany, as his
preacher and almoner. For him Charles seemed to entertain more respect;
for upon hearing that he had been committed to the castle of Triana, he
remarked, "If Constantine is a heretic, he will prove a great one." The
canon's "merits," for so the inquisition, with a sort of grim humor,
called the acts or opinions which qualified a man for the stake, were
certain heretical treatises in his handwriting, which had been dug with
his other papers out of a wall. Confessing to the proscribed doctrines,
but refusing to name his disciples, he was thrown into a dungeon, damp
and noisome as Jeremiah's pit, far below the level of the Guadalquivir,
where a dysentery soon delivered him from his chains. "Yet did not his
body," says the historian[K] of Spanish literature, writing several ages
after, with all the bitterness of a contemporary, "for this escape the
avenging flames." His bones, and a carefully modelled effigy of him,
with outstretched arms, as he charmed the crowd from the pulpits of
Seville, figured at the _auto-da-fé_ which, in 1560, illuminated the
burning-place, the _quemadero_, of that city. Another sufferer there,
Fray Domingo de Guzman, was also known to the emperor. His arrest,
however, merely drew from him the contemptuous remark, that fray Domingo
might have been shut up as much for idiocy as for heresy.

In looking back on the religious troubles of his reign, Charles bitterly
regretted that he did not put Luther to death when he was in his power.
He had spared him, he said, on account of his pledged word, which,
indeed, he would have been bound to respect had the offences of Luther
merely concerned his own authority; but he now saw that he had erred, in
preferring the obligation of his promise to the greater duty of avenging
upon that arch-heretic his offences against God. Had Luther been
removed, he conceived the plague might have been stayed: now, it was
going on from bad to worse. He had some consolation, however, in
recollecting how steadily he refused to hear the points at issue argued
in his presence. At this price he had declined to purchase the support
of some of the protestant princes of the empire, when marching against
the duke of Saxony and the landgrave of Hesse; he had declined it even
when flying, with only ten horsemen, before the army of duke Maurice. He
knew how dangerous it was, especially for those who, like himself, had
little learning, to parley with heretics, who were armed with reasons so
apt and so well ordered. Suppose one of their arguments had been planted
in his soul; how did he know that he could ever have got it rooted out?
So have many better men of every form of faith learned to look upon
their belief as something external to themselves, to be kept hid away in
the dark, lest, like ice, it should melt in the free air and light of
heaven.

The grave was now in all his thoughts. One morning, his barber, a
malapert of the old comedies, ventured to ask him what he was thinking
of. "I am thinking," replied Charles, "that I have here a sum of two
thousand crowns, which I cannot employ better than in performing my
funeral." "Do not let that trouble your Majesty," rejoined the fellow;
"if you die and we live, we will take care to bury you with all honors."
"You do not perceive, Nicolas," said the emperor, rather pursuing his
own train of thought than replying to the barber, "that it makes a
difference in a man's walking, if he holds the light before or behind
him." The same opinion had been held by a bishop of Liege, Cardinal
Erard de la Mark, whom Charles must have known, and whose example
perhaps suggested the idea. For many years before 1558, the year of his
death, did this prelate rehearse his obsequies, annually carrying his
coffin to the tomb which he had prepared for himself in his cathedral.

Before deciding on the step, however, the emperor determined to submit
the question to his confessor, Fray Juan de Regla. They had just been
hearing the service for the souls of his parents and his wife. Speaking
of such rites in general, he asked the friar if they were most effectual
when performed before, or when performed after, death. Fray Juan, after
due deliberation, gave his verdict in favor of solemnities which
preceded decease. "Then," said the emperor, "I will have my funeral
performed while I am still alive."

Accordingly, this celebrated service took place next day, being the 30th
of August, 1558. So short a time being allowed for the preparations,
they cannot have severely drained the bag of dollars, which Nicholas the
barber wished to reserve for other purposes. A wooden monument, however,
was erected in the chapel in front of the high altar; the ornaments of
the convent were brought out and arranged to the best advantage; and the
whole was illuminated with a blaze of wax-lights. The household of the
emperor, all in deep mourning attended; and thither Luis Quixada brought
Don Juan, from his sports in the forest, to learn his first lesson of
the vanity of human greatness. "The pious monarch himself," says the
historian of the Jeromites, "was there, in sable weeds, and bearing a
taper, to see himself interred, and to celebrate his own obsequies." And
when the solemn mass for the defunct was sung, he came forward and gave
his taper into the hands of the officiating priest, in token of his
desire to yield his soul into the hands of his Maker. High above, over
the kneeling throng, and the gorgeous vestments, the flowers, and the
incense, and the glittering altar--the same idea shone forth in that
splendid canvas of Titian, which pictured Charles kneeling on the
threshold of the heavenly mansion.

When the dirge was sung, and the ceremonies over, and Charles had, as it
were, come back for a little while to life, he told his confessor that
he felt the better for being buried. Of a scene which might well have
shaken the nerves of the boldest hunter on the Sierra, he said next day,
that it had filled his soul with joy and consolation that seemed to
react upon his body. That evening he caused to be brought, from the
repository where his few valuables were kept, a portrait of the empress,
and hung for some time, lost in thought, over the gentle face, which, in
its blue eyes, auburn hair, and pensive beauty, somewhat resembled the
noble countenance of that other Isabella, the great queen of Castile. He
next called for a picture of our Lord praying in the Garden; and after
long gazing, passed from that to a Last Judgment, by Titian. Perhaps
this was a sketch or small copy of the great altar-piece, or it may be
that he turned to the original itself, which could be seen by opening
the window, through which his bedchamber commanded a view of the altar.
Having looked his last upon the image of the wife of his youth; it
seemed as if he were now bidding farewell, in the contemplation of this
masterpiece, to the noble art which he loved with a love that years, and
cares, and sickness could not quench, and that will ever be remembered
with his better fame. He remained so long abstracted and motionless,
that the physician who was on the watch thought it right to awake him
from his reverie. On being spoken to, he turned round and said, "I feel
myself ill." The doctor felt his pulse, and pronounced him in a fever.
He was seated at the moment in the open gallery, to the west of his
apartments, into which the sinking sun poured his tempered splendor
through the boughs of the great walnut-tree. From this pleasant spot,
filled with the fragrance of the garden and the murmur of the fountain,
and bright with glimpses of the golden Vera, they carried him to the
gloomy chamber of his sleepless nights, and laid him on the bed from
which he was to rise no more.

His old enemy, the gout, had not troubled him for several days. The
disorder with which he was now attacked was a tertian fever, likewise a
malady familiar to his shattered frame. The fits now were of unusual
violence, the cold fit lasting twice as long as the hot. His physician
twice attempted to relieve him by bleeding, but the operation seemed
rather to augment than allay the violence of the disease. Being sensible
that his hour was come, and wishing to add a codocil to his will, he
dispatched a messenger to Valladolid, to the regent Juana, requiring an
authorization for his secretary Gaztelu to act as a notary for the
purpose. The princess, seeing the imminence of the danger, along with
the authorization, instantly sent off her physician, Cornelio, to Yuste,
while she herself prepared to follow. It is possible that she also sent
father Borja, to pay a last visit of consolation to his friend.

The emperor had made his will at Brussels, on the 6th of June, 1554. The
codocil is dated at Yuste, the 9th of September, 1558. From the great
length of this document, its minuteness, and the frequent recurrence of
provisions in case of his death before he should see his son, an event
which now was beyond hope, it seems to have been prepared some time
before. But as it must have been read to him before his trembling hand
affixed the necessary signature, it remains as a proof that one of his
last acts was to urge Philip II., by his love and allegiance, and his
hope of salvation, to take care that "the heretics were repressed and
chastised, with all publicity and rigor, as their faults deserved,
without respect of persons, and without regard to any plea in their
favor." The rest of the paper is filled with directions for his funeral,
and with a list of legacies to forty-eight servants, and many thoughtful
arrangements for the comfort of those who had followed him from
Flanders. Though willing to send all his Protestant subjects to
martyrdom, he watched with fatherly kindness over the fortunes of his
grooms and scullions. It is said that Fray Juan de Regla proposed that
Don Juan of Austria should be named in the will as next heir to the
crown after Philip, his sister, and his children; but if this incredible
advice were given by the confessor, the dying man had energy enough left
to reject it with indignation.

Day by day the tide of life continued to ebb with visible fall. The sick
man, however, was still able to attend to his devotions, to confess, and
to receive the sacrament. He would not allow his confessor, Regla, to be
absent from his bedside, and the poor man, who could hardly find a
moment for his repasts, was nearly worn out with incessant watching. On
every Sunday and feast day, at half-past three in the afternoon, the
chaplain, Villalva, preached in the church, the window of the sick-room
being left open, and the doors being shut to all but the friars. The
patient likewise frequently caused passages of Scripture to be read to
him, and was never weary of hearing the psalm which begins, _Domine!
refugium factum es nobis_. On the 19th of September, towards evening,
the patient asked for the rite of extreme unction. By the desire of the
prior, Luis Quixada, who was ever at his pillow, inquired whether he
would have it administered according to the form for friars, or after
the briefer fashion of the laity. He chose the former, in which the
seven penitential psalms were read, as well as a litany and sundry
prayers and verses of scripture. During the reading of the psalms, it
was observed that he joined in the responses of the monks with an
audible voice. When the ceremony was over, instead of being exhausted,
he seemed to have been revived by it. His appetite for food having
entirely failed him for some days, Quixada seized the opportunity of
urging him to take some. "Trouble me not, Luis Quixada," said he; "my
life is going out of me, and I cannot eat." The next morning, the 20th,
he asked for the eucharist. His confessor told him that having received
extreme unction, the other sacrament was unnecessary. "It may not be
necessary," said the dying man; "yet it is good company on so long a
journey." His wish was accordingly complied with; the wafer was brought
to his bedside, followed by the whole community in solemn procession,
and he received it from the hands of his confessor with tears of
devotion, incessantly repeating the words of our Saviour, "_In me manes,
ego in te maneam_." In spite of his extreme weakness, he remained for a
quarter of an hour kneeling in his bed, and uttering devout
ejaculations, in praise of the blessed sacrament, which the simple
friars attributed to divine inspiration.

On the evening of the 19th of September, a remarkable visitor knocked at
the gate of Yuste. It was the new Archbishop of Toledo, Bartolomè
Carranza de Miranda--a name which stands high on the list of the Wolseys
of the world, of men remembered less for their splendid success than for
their signal fall. From a simple Dominican, he had risen to be a
professor at Valladolid, a leading doctor of Trent, prior of Palencia,
provincial of Spain, and prime adviser of Philip II. in that movement
which Spanish churchmen loved to call the reduction of England. During
Mary's reign, the ruthless black friar had been a mark for popular
vengeance; and Oxford, Cambridge, and Lambeth, long remembered how he
had preached the sacrifice of the mass, dug up the bones of Bucer, and
presided at the burning of Cranmer. For these services he had been
rewarded by Philip II. with the richest see in Christendom; and he was
now on his way to take possession of the throne of Toledo, little
thinking that his enemy, the inquisitor Valdes, was already preparing
the indictment which was to make his reign a long disgrace.

The archbishop was expected at Yuste. He had been long known to the
Emperor, who had paved the way for his success by sending him to display
his lore at the council of Trent. Charles had afterwards offered him the
Peruvian bishopric of Cuzco, the post of confessor to the heir-apparent
of Spain, and lastly, the bishopric of the Canaries. His refusal of all
these pieces of preferment caused his patron some surprise, which was
changed into displeasure by his acceptance of the see of Toledo. Reports
had also got abroad, which cast a doubt on the orthodoxy of the new
prelate,--of all doubts, as Charles thought, the gravest. He was anxious
for an opportunity of conversing with him, partly, it seems, to upbraid
him with his new honors, and partly in order to ascertain how far these
reports were well founded. William, one of his barbers, related that he
had heard his majesty say, "When I gave Carranza the bishopric of the
Canaries, he refused it; now he accepts Toledo. We shall see what we are
to think of his virtue." In this frame of mind, he had been expecting
the unconscious prelate for some time; these feelings of dislike being,
no doubt, strengthened by his confessor, father Regla, a bitter enemy,
and one of the foremost accusers of Carranza.

There can be no doubt that the ruin of this celebrated man was decreed
on evidence which would have been listened to only by a secret tribunal
of unscrupulous enemies. It may be that some of his printed theology
contained--what theology does not?--passages capable of interpretations
neither intended nor foreseen by the writer; it may be that he had
pillaged the writings of reformers, whose persons he would willingly
have given to the flames. But it is certain that he was a man of
unambitious nature, of active benevolence, and, according to the notions
of that age, of exemplary life; that he was a scholar and theologian of
practised and consummate skill, a wary shepherd of the faithful, a
relentless butcher of heretics; that he carried his reluctance to the
mitre so far beyond the bounds of decent clerical coyness, as to
recommend three eminent rivals to Philip II., as more fit and proper
than himself for the primacy; and that one of his first acts, as
archbishop, was to advise the king to appropriate the revenues of a
canonry in every cathedral in Spain to the use of the Inquisition.
Setting aside, therefore, the palpable personal hatred which betrayed
itself in all the proceedings against him, it seems probable that he
spoke the plain truth, when he made his dying declaration, that he had
never held any of the heretical opinions of which he had been accused.

In after days, when enduring the sickness of deferred hope in his prison
at Valladolid or at Rome, the archbishop perhaps regarded it as one of
the mischances which marked the ebb of his fortunes, that he reached
Yuste too late either to explain to the emperor the circumstances of his
promotion, or to remove the suspicion which had been cast on his faith.
On the evening of his arrival, Charles was too ill to receive him, and
the day following, although he was thrice admitted into the sick room,
he found occasion to utter only a few words. Those words, few and simple
as they were, were some weeks after reported to the Holy Office, with,
as it seems, gross exaggeration, by the confessor, father Regla.

On the 20th of September, it was evident that the end was approaching.
The few friends of the emperor who lived in the neighborhood had
assembled at the convent. The count of Oropesa was there from
Xarandilla, with several of the family of Toledo, and Don Luis de Avila
had come from Plasencia. They, and the prior and some of the monks, were
frequently in the sick-room, in which Quixada kept constant watch. The
patient had hardly spoken during the whole day. In the afternoon, when
Oropesa introduced the archbishop, he merely told him to be seated, but
was unable to hold any conversation. Towards night he grew hourly worse.
The physicians, Mathesio and Cornelio, at last announced to the group
around the bed, that the resources of their art were exhausted, and that
all hope was over. Cornelio, the court doctor from Valladolid, then
retired; Mathesio remained, feeling the pulse of the dying man, and
saying at intervals, "His majesty has only two hours to live--only one
hour--only half an hour." Charles meanwhile lay in a stupor, seemingly
unconscious of what was going on around him, but now and then mumbling a
prayer, and turning his eyes to heaven. At last he roused himself, and
pronounced the name of William Van Male. On the man's coming to his
support, he leaned towards him, as if to obtain ease by a change of
posture; at the same time uttering a groan of agony. The physician now
looked towards the door, and said to the archbishop, who was standing
there in the shade, "_Domine! jam moritur_." The prelate approached, and
knelt down by the bed, holding a crucifix in his hand, and saying in a
loud tone, "Behold him who answers for sin; sin is no more; all is
forgiven!" Sad and swarthy of visage, Carranza had also a hoarse,
disagreeable voice. On hearing it, the emperor gave signs of impatience
so distinct, that the faithful Quixada thought it right to interfere and
say, "Hark, my lord, you are disturbing his majesty." The archbishop
took the hint, and retired.

It was near two o'clock on the morning of the 21st of September, St.
Matthew's day. Fray Francisco de Villalva, the favorite chaplain, now
presented himself at the bedside. Addressing the dying man, he told him
how blessed a privilege he enjoyed in having been born on the day of St.
Matthias, the apostle, who had been chosen by lot to complete the number
of the twelve, and in being about to die on the day of St. Matthew, the
evangelist, who, for Christ's sake, had forsaken wealth, as his majesty
had forsaken imperial power. For some time he continued to hold forth in
the same edifying strain. At length, Charles, rousing himself, said,
"The time is come, bring me the candle and the crucifix." These were
cherished relics, which he had kept in reserve for this supreme hour.
The one was a taper from Our Lady's shrine at Monserrat; the other, a
crucifix of beautiful workmanship, which before had been taken from the
dead hand of his mother Juana, in the convent of Tordesillas, and which
afterwards comforted the last moments of his son Philip, in the convent
of the Escorial. When brought by the attendant, he turned eagerly to
receive them; and taking one into each hand, he remained silent for some
minutes, with his eyes fixed upon the figure of the Saviour. Those who
stood nearest the bed then heard him say, quickly, as if replying to a
sudden call, "_Ya voy, Señor_--Now, Lord, I go." A few moments of
death-wrestle between soul and body followed; and then, with a voice
loud and clear enough to be heard in the other apartments, he cried
three times, "_Ay, Jesus!_" and expired.

In or near the chamber of death were assembled the prior and the
chaplains, and the household; the count of Oropesa, his brother Don
Francisco, his cousin, Don Juan Pacheco, and his uncle Diego abbot of
Cabañas, Don Luis de Avila, and archbishop Carranza. Don Juan of
Austria, too, in the quality of page to Quixada, stood by the death-bed
of him he was afterwards so proud to call his sire.

On the day of the death, and part of the day following, the physicians
and attendants were engaged in embalming the body, and arranging it for
the grave. Meanwhile, a leaden coffin was prepared, and likewise a
massive outer case of chestnut wood, and a black velvet pall to cover
the whole. Sandoval had heard, but gave no credit to the story, of the
coffin which the emperor was said to have brought with him to Yuste, and
to have kept under his bed. Another version of the tale, he says, made
the coffin a winding-sheet, but no mention of either was found in the
minute account drawn up by the prior Angulo. When all was ready, the
coffin was lowered, by ten or twelve men, through the window which
opened from the bedchamber into the church, and placed upon a stage
erected in the middle of the isle. These preparations were hardly
completed, when the corregidor of Plasencia arrived with his clerks and
constables, and asserted that, as the emperor had died within his
jurisdiction, it was his duty to see that the remains had been deposited
in a place of safety. In spite, therefore, of the remonstrances of the
prior, he caused the coffins to be opened, that he might identify the
body.

The solemn funeral services, or the honors, as they were called, were
commenced the next day, Tuesday, the 27th of October. They were an
expansion of the rites in which the emperor had himself taken part a few
weeks before, and they lasted for three days. Mass was said each day by
the Archbishop of Toledo, the prior of Yuste assisting as deacon, and
the prior of Granada as subdeacon, amongst the tears of the whole
brotherhood. Funeral services were also preached, on the first day by
the eloquent Villalva, on the second by the prior of Granada, and on the
third by the prior of Yuste. The imperial dust was then committed to the
earth. "Let my sepulchre," said the will of Charles, "be so ordered,
that the lower half of my body lie beneath, and the upper half before,
the high altar, that the priest who says mass may tread upon my head
and breast." But the clergy present being divided in opinion as to the
lawfulness of placing under the high altar a corpse not in the odor of
sanctity, the matter was compromised by laying the coffin in a cavity
made in the wall behind, so that it encroached only on a small portion
of the holy ground.

Funeral honors also took place in the presence of the regent and her
court, in the beautiful church of the Royal Benedictines at Valladolid.
A sermon was preached on the occasion by Francisco Borja, from the text,
"_Ecce longavi fugiens et mansi in solitudine._"--"Lo! then would I
wander afar off, and remain in the wilderness." (Psalm lv. 7.)[L] It was
filled with praise of the emperor for his pious magnanimity in taking
leave of the world before the world had taken leave of him--praise
which, from the mouth of a Jesuit who had once been a wealthy grandee,
must have savored somewhat of self-glorification. Amongst other edifying
reminiscences of his friend, Borja told his hearers that he had it from
the lips of the deceased, that never, since he was one-and-twenty years
old, had he failed to set apart some portion of each day for inward
prayer.

Brussels excelled all the other cities of the Austrian dominion in the
splendor with which she did honor to the emperor's memory. The
ceremonies took place on the 29th and 30th of December. The procession,
in which King Philip walked, attended by the dukes of Savoy and
Brunswick, and a host of the nobility of Spain, Germany, and the
Netherlands, was two hours in passing from the palace to the church of
St. Gudule. Its principal feature was a huge galley, large enough for
marine service, placed on a cunningly devised sea, which answered the
double purpose of supporting some isles, emblematic of the Indies, and
of concealing the power which rolled the huge structure along. Faith,
Hope, and Charity, were the crew of this enchanted bark; and her sides
were hung with twelve paintings of Charles's principal exploits, which
were further set forth in golden letter-press on the black satin sails.
A long line of horses followed, each led by two gentlemen, and bearing
on its housings the blazon of one of the states of the emperor. They
were led up the aisle of the church past the altar, and the seats
occupied by the order of the Golden Fleece. As the last horse, covered
with a black foot-cloth, went by, the count of Bossu, one of the
knights, the early playmate and dear friend of the emperor, threw
himself on his knees, and remained for some time prostrated on the
pavement in an agony of grief.

The chapel of Yuste was merely a temporary resting-place of the royal
dead. In his will the emperor had confided the care of his bones to his
son, expressing a wish, however, to be laid beside his wife and his
father in the cathedral of Granada, in that splendid chapel-royal, rich
with the tombs and trophies of Ferdinand and Isabella. Philip, however,
shivering in the rear at St. Quentin, had already vowed to St. Lawrence
the great monastery which it was his after delight to make the chief
monument of the power and the piety of the house of Hapsburg. At the
Escorial, therefore, he united the bones of his father and mother, and
placed them, on the fourth of February, 1574, in a vault beneath the
jasper shrine, which yet contains their fine effigies, wrought in bronze
by Leoni. The occasion was marked by one of those terrific storms, sent,
as the monks supposed, by the devil, in the hope of overthrowing that
fortress of piety. A grand arch of timber, erected at the door of the
church, was blown away, and its hangings of rich brocades, rent into
minute shreds, were scattered far and wide over the surrounding chase.
Eighty years later, the repose of the emperor was once more broken by
his great-grandson, Philip IV. For thirty-three years that prince was
engaged in building the celebrated Pantheon, begun by his father, Philip
III. On the sixteenth of March, 1654, the dust of the Austrian kings of
Spain and of their consorts who had continued the line, was translated
from the plain vault of Philip II. to this splendid sepulchral chamber,
which gleamed, in the light of a thousand tapers, with its marble and
jasper and gold, like a creation of oriental romance. Each coffin was
borne by three nobles and three Jeromite friars; the procession being
headed by that of Charles V., carried by Don Luis de Haro, the Duke of
Abrantes, and the Marquess of Aytona. As the remains were to be
deposited in a marble sarcophagus, it became necessary to remove the
previous coverings, which enabled Philip IV. to come face to face with
his great ancestor. The body of the emperor was found to be quite
entire. After looking at it for some minutes in silence, the king turned
to Haro, and said, "Honored body, Don Luis." "Very honored," replied the
minister; words, brief indeed, but very pregnant; for the prior of the
Escorial has left it recorded "that they condensed all that a Christian
ought to feel on so solemn an occasion."

Charles did not leave the world without some of those portents in which
the men of that age loved to trace the influence of a remarkable death
upon the operations of nature. A comet appeared over the monastery at
the beginning of his last illness, and was seen no more after the night
on which he died. In the spring of 1558, a lily in his garden, beneath
his windows, bore two buds, of which one flowered and withered in due
course, but the other remained a bud through the summer and autumn, to
the great astonishment of the gardener and the friars. But on the night
of the twenty-first of September it burst into full bloom, an emblem of
the whiteness of the parting spirit, and of the sure and certain hope of
its reception into bliss. It was reverently gathered, and fastened upon
the black veil which covered the sacramental shrine in the church. In
the week following the grand obsequies, a pied bird, large as a vulture,
but of a kind unknown at Yuste, perched at night on the roof of the
church, exactly over the imperial grave, and disturbed the friars by
barking like a dog. For five successive nights it barked there in the
clear moonlight, always at the same hour, and always arriving from the
east, and flying away towards the west. And four years later, a holy
Capuchin of the New World, Fray Luis Mendez, as he knelt in his
convent-chapel at Guatemala, was blessed with a vision, wherein he saw
the emperor before the judgment-seat of our Lord, making his defence
against the accusing demons, with so much success that he received
honorable acquittal, and was in the end carried off to heaven by the
angels of light.

The codicil of the will of Charles, the only part of the document which
belongs to his life at Yuste, is drawn up with a minuteness of detail
very characteristic of the careful habits of the man. After a profession
of attachment to the church, and hatred of heresy, and after the
directions for his burial which have been already noticed, he proceeds
to describe a monument and an altar-piece which he wished to be erected
in the church of the convent, in the event of Yuste being chosen by his
son for the final resting-place of his bones. The altar-piece was to be
of alabaster, a copy in relief of Titian's picture of the "Last
Judgment," the picture on which he was gazing at the moment when he
first felt the touch of death. A custodia, or sacramental tabernacle,
was likewise to be made of alabaster and marble, and placed between
statues of himself and the empress. They were to be sculptured, kneeling
with hands clasped as in prayer, barefoot, and with uncovered heads, and
clad in sheets like penitents. For further particulars, he referred the
king to Luis Quixada, and the confessor Regla, who were fully instructed
in his meaning and wishes. In case of the removal of his body, instead
of the altar-piece and monument, the convent was to receive a picture
for their altar, of such kind as the king shall appoint. In compliance
with this desire, Philip presented the monks with a copy of Titian's
"Judgment," which adorned their high altar until the suppression of the
convents, in 1823, when it was carried off to the parish church of
Texeda.

The emperor next expresses his concern at hearing that the pensions
which he had granted to the servants whom he had dismissed at
Xarandilla, had been very ill-paid, and he entreats the king to order
their punctual payment for the future. He directs that the friars of
Yuste and the friars from other convents, who had been specially
employed in his service, as readers, preachers, and musicians, shall
receive such gratuities as shall appear sufficient to father Regla and
Quixada. To the confessor himself he bequeaths an annual pension of four
hundred ducats (about 80_l._ sterling), and four hundred ducats in
legacy. Of Luis Quixada he twice speaks in the most affectionate terms,
acknowledging his long and good service, and his willing fidelity in
incurring the expense and inconvenience of removing his wife and
household to Yuste. Lamenting that he has done so little to promote his
interest, he earnestly recommends him to the king's favor, and, with a
legacy of 2000 ducats, he leaves him a pension to the value of his
present appointment (without mentioning the sum), until he is provided
with a place of greater emolument. He also desires that the Infanta will
cause the amount of fines recovered by his attorney, or that might be
recovered in cases still pending against the poachers and rioters of
Quacos, to be paid into the hands of a person named by the executors for
distribution amongst the poor of the village. The contents of his larder
and cellar, and his stores of provisions in general, at the day of his
decease, and likewise the dispensary, with its drugs and vessels, he
leaves to the brotherhood of Yuste, and to the poor any money which may
remain in his coffers after defraying the wages of his servants.

These are all mentioned by name, and for the most part receive pensions,
except a few to whom small gratuities are given, it being explained that
previous provision has been made for them. The pensions range from four
hundred florins (32_l._ sterling), conferred on the doctor, Enrique
Mathesio, to ninety florins, which requite the services of Isabel
Plantin, the laundress of the table-linen. The gratuities vary from
150,000 maravedis (about 45_l._ sterling), left to the secretary
Gaztelu, to 7500, given to Jorge de Diana, a boy employed in the
workshop of Torriano. That mechanician being already pensioned to the
amount of 200 crowns, receives only 15,000 maravedis; he is likewise
reminded that he has been paid something to account on the price of a
clock which is in hand, and for which his employer is content that the
executors shall pay a fair valuation.

These sums were all to be paid at Valladolid. After the funeral service
was ended, therefore, on the 29th of October, when the count of Oropesa
and the other neighbors returned to their homes, and the archbishop took
the road to Toledo, most of the household of the emperor were also ready
to depart. Only three Flemings remained behind for a few days to bring
up the rear with the heavy baggage. Within about a fortnight after the
death of Charles, the Jeromites of Yuste were again alone among the
yellow October woods, and the convent relapsed into its ancient
obscurity, never more to be remembered, except as the cell of the
imperial recluse.

So ended the career of Charles V., the greatest monarch of the memorable
sixteenth century. The vast extent of his dominions in Europe, the
wealth poured into his coffers by the New World, the energy and sagacity
of his mind, and the important crisis of the world's history in which he
acted, have combined to make him more famous than any of the successors
of Charlemagne. The admiration which was raised by the great events of
his reign was sustained to the last by the unwonted manner of its close.
In our days, abdication has been so frequently the refuge of weak men
fallen on evil times, or the last shift of baffled bad men, that it is
difficult for us to conceive the sensation which must have been produced
by the retirement of Charles. Now that the "divinity which doth hedge a
king" has decayed into a bowing wall and a tottering fence, it is almost
impossible to look upon the solemn ceremony which was enacted at
Brussels, with the feeling and eyes of the sixteenth century. The act of
the emperor was not, indeed, a thing altogether unheard of, but it was
known only in books, and belonged, as the Spaniard used to say, to the
days of king Wamba. The knights of the Fleece who wept on the platform
around their Cæsar, knew little more about Diocletian than was known by
the farmers and clothiers who elbowed each other in the crowd below. It
was only some studious monk who was aware that a Theodosius and an Isaac
had submitted their heads to the razor to save their necks from the
bowstring; that a Lothaire had led a hermit's life in the Ardennes; that
a Carloman had milked the ewes of the Benedictines at Monte Cassino. The
retirement of Charles, therefore, was fitted to strike the imagination
of men by the novelty of the occasion, by the solemnity of its
circumstances, by the splendor of the resigned crown, and by the
world-wide fame with which it had been worn.

There can be no doubt that the emperor gave the true reasons of his act,
when, panting for breath, and unable to stand alone, he told the states
of Flanders that he resigned the government because it was a burden
which his shattered frame could no longer bear. It was to no sudden
impulse, however, that he yielded; but he calmly fulfilled a resolve
which he had cherished for many years. Indeed, he seems to have
determined to abdicate, almost at the time when he determined to reign.
For so powerful a mind has rarely been so tardy in giving evidence of
power. Until he appeared in Italy in 1530, the thirtieth year of his
age, his strong will had been as wax in the hands of other men. Up to
that time the most laborious, reserved, and inflexible of princes was
the most docile subject of his ministers. But if his mind was slow to
ripen, his body was no less premature in its decay. By nature and
hereditary habit a keen sportsman, and in youth unwearied in tracking
the wolf and the bear over the hills of Toledo and Granada, he was
reduced, ere he had turned fifty, to content himself with shooting crows
and daws amongst the trees of his gardens. Familiarized by feeble health
with images of death, he had determined twenty years before his
abdication to interpose some interval of rest between the council and
the grave. He had agreed with his empress, who died in 1538, that as
soon as the state affairs and the age of their children should permit,
they should retire into religious seclusion: he into a cloister of
friars, and she into a nunnery. In 1542, he spoke of his design to the
duke of Gandia; and in 1546 it was whispered at court, and was mentioned
by the sharp-eared envoy of Venice, in a dispatch to the Doge. Since
then, decaying health and declining fortune had maintained him in that
general vexation of spirit which he shared with king Solomon. His later
schemes of conquest and policy had resulted in disaster and disgrace.
The Pope, the great Turk, the Protestant princes, and the king of
France, were once more arrayed against the potentate who in the bright
morning of his career had imposed laws upon them all. The flight from
Innsbruck had avenged the cause which seemed lost at Muhlberg; Guise and
the gallant townsmen of Metz had enabled the French wits to turn the
emperor's proud motto, _Plus ultra_, into _Non ultra metas_. Whilst the
Protestant faith was spreading even in the dominions of the house of
Hapsburg, the doctors of the church assembled in that council which had
cost so much treasure and intrigue, continued to quibble, for the sole
benefit of the tavern-keepers of Trent. The finances both of Spain and
the other Austrian states were in the utmost disorder, and the lord of
Mexico and Peru had been forced to borrow from the duke of Florence. It
is no wonder, therefore, that he seized the first gleam of sunshine and
returning calm to make for the long-desired harbor of refuge; and that
he relieved his brow of its thorny crowns as soon as he had attained an
object dear to him as a father, a politician, and a devotee, by placing
his son Philip on the rival throne of the heretic Tudors.

His habits and turn of mind, as well as his Spanish blood, and the
spirit of his age, made a convent the natural place of his retreat.
Monachism seems to have had for him the charm, vague, yet powerful,
which soldiership has for most boys; and he was ever fond of catching
glimpses of the life which he had resolved, sooner or later, to embrace.
When the empress died, he retired to indulge his grief in the cloisters
of La Sisla, at Toledo. After his return from one of his African
campaigns, he paid a visit to the noble convent of Mejorada, near
Olmedo, and spent two days in familiar converse with the Benedictines,
sharing their refectory fare, and walking for hours in their garden
alleys of venerable cypress. When he held his court at Brussels, he was
frequently a guest at the convent of Groenendael; and the monks
commemorated his condescensions, as well as his skill as a marksman, by
placing a bronze statue of him on the banks of their fish-pond, into
which he had brought down a heron, from an amazing altitude, with his
gun. Though unable at Yuste to indulge the love of sport, which may
have had its influence in drawing him to the chestnut woods of the Vera,
we have seen that he continued to the last to take his pleasure in the
converse and companionship of the Jeromites.

In the cloister, Charles was no less popular than he had been in the
world; for in spite of his feeble health and phlegmatic temperament, in
spite of his caution, which amounted to distrust, and his selfishness,
which frequently took the form of treachery, in spite of his love of
power, and the unsparing severity with which he punished the assertion
of popular rights, there was still that in his conduct and bearing which
gained the favor of the multitude. A little book, of no literary value,
but frequently printed both in French and Flemish, sufficiently
indicates in its title the qualities which colored the popular view of
his character. "The Life and Actions, Heroic and Pleasant, of the
invincible Emperor Charles V." was long a favorite chap-book in the Low
Countries. It relates how he defeated Solyman the magnificent, and how
he permitted a Walloon boor to obtain judgment against him for the value
of a sheep, killed by the wheels of his coach; how he charged the
Moorish horsemen at Tunis; and how he jested incognito with the woodmen
of Soigne. A similar impression, deepened by his reputation for
sanctity, he seems to have left behind him amongst the sylvan hamlets of
Estremadura.

In one point alone did Charles in the cell differ widely from Charles on
the throne. In the world, fanaticism had not been one of his vices; he
feared the keys no more than his cousin of England; and he confronted
the successor of St. Peter no less boldly than he made head against the
heir of St. Louis. When he held Clement VII. prisoner in Rome, he
permitted at Madrid the mockery of masses for that pontiff's speedy
deliverance. Against the Protestants he fought rather as rebels than as
heretics; and he frequently stayed the hand of the triumphant zealots of
the church. At Wittenberg, he set a fine example of moderation, in
forbidding the destruction of the tomb of Luther--saying, that he
contended with the living, and not with the dead. But once within the
walls of Yuste, and he assumed all the passions, and prejudices, and
superstitions of a friar. Looking back on his past life, he thanked God
for the evil that he had done in the matter of religious persecution,
and repented him, in sackcloth and ashes, of having kept his plighted
word to a heretic. Religion was the enchanted ground whereon that strong
will was paralyzed, and that keen intellect fell groveling in the dust.
Protestant and philosophic historians love to relate how Charles,
finding that no two of his time-pieces could be made to go alike,
remarked that he had perhaps erred in spending so much blood and
treasure in the hope of compelling men to uniformity in the more
difficult matter of religion. We fear the anecdote must have been
invented by some manufacturer of libels or panegyrics, such as Sleidan
and Jovius, whom Charles was wont to call his liars. No remark of equal
wisdom can be brought home to the lips of the Spanish Diocletian; nor
was the philosophy "of him who walked in the Salonian garden's noble
shade" ever heard amongst the litanies and the scourges which resounded
through the cloisters of Yuste.

To those who have perused this brief record of the recluse and his
little court, it may be agreeable to know the subsequent fortunes of the
personages who acted upon that miniature stage.

Queen Mary of Hungary died at Cigales on the 28th of October, 1558, four
weeks after the death of her brother. So passed away, in the same year,
and within a few months of one another, the royal group who landed at
Laredo.

From Yuste, Luis Quixada and his wife returned to their house at
Villagarcia, near Valladolid, taking Don Juan with them. When Philip II.
arrived in Spain, in 1559, he received his brother and his guardian at
the neighboring convent of San Pedro de la Espina. They afterwards
followed the court to Madrid, where Quixada had an opportunity of
signalizing his devotion to his master's son, by rescuing him from a
fire, which burnt down their house in the night, before he attended to
the safety of Doña Magdalena. This, and his other services, were not
neglected by the king, who made him master of the horse to the
heir-apparent, and president of the council of the Indies, and gave him
several commanderies in the order of Calatrava. When Don Juan was sent
to command against the Moriscos, whom Christian persecution and bad
faith had driven to revolt in the Alpuxarras, the old major-domo went
with him as a military tutor. They were reconnoitring the strong
mountain fortress of Seron, when a bold sally from the place threw the
Castilians into disorder bordering on flight, in the course of which a
bullet from an infidel gun finished the campaigns of the comrade of
Charles V. He fell, shot through the shoulder, by the side of his pupil;
and he died of the wound at Canilles, on the 25th of February, 1570, in
the arms of his wife, who had hurried from Madrid to nurse him. Don Juan
buried him with military honors, and mourned for him as for a father.

The good Doña Magdalena retired to Villagarcia, and employed her
childless widowhood in works of charity and piety, in prayers for the
soul of her husband, and for the success of her darling young prince.
For the latter she also engaged in a work of a more practical and
secular kind; for the hero of Lepanto wore no linen but what was wrought
by her loving hands. His sad and early death severed her chief tie to
the world, and left religion no rival in her heart. The companions of
Francis Borja, who had first kindled the holy flames of her devotion at
Yuste, became her guides and counsellors; and she built and endowed no
less than three Jesuit colleges at Villagarcia, Santander, and Oviedo.
Her life of gentle and blameless enthusiasm ended in 1598, when she was
laid beside her lord in the collegiate church of Villagarcia. Amongst
the relics of that temple, two crucifixes were held in peculiar
veneration,--one being that which she had pressed to her dying lips, the
other a trophy rescued by Luis Quixada from a church burned by the Moors
in the war of the Alpuxarras.

William Van Male, the gentle and literary chamberlain, returned to
Flanders, with a slender annual pension of 150 florins, which was to be
reduced one half on his becoming keeper of the palace at Brussels, an
office of which the king had given him the reversion. He died in 1560,
and was buried in the church of St. Gudule, at Brussels, where his
widow, Hippolyta Reynen, was laid by his side in 1579.

Father Borja continued to teach and to travel with unflagging zeal. Soon
after preaching the emperor's funeral sermon, he was again in Portugal,
visiting the colleges at Evora, Coimbra, and Braga, and aiding in the
foundation of the college of Porto. Called to Rome by Pope Pius IV., to
advise on affairs of the church, he was twice chosen vicar-general of
the company; and finally, in 1565, he received the staff of Loyola.
During his rule of seven years, the order lengthened its cords and
strengthened its stakes in every part of the world, and in every
condition of mankind. Its astute politicians gained the ear of princes
and prelates who had hitherto been cold, or adverse; its colleges rose
amid the snows of Poland, and the forests of Peru; Barbary, Florida, and
Brazil, were watered with the blood of its martyrs; and its ministers of
mercy moved amongst the roar of battle, on the bastions of Malta and the
decks at Lepanto. The general of this great army visited his native
Spain, for the last time, in 1571, when he was sent by Pope Pius V. to
fan the anti-Turkish flame in the bosom of Philip II., and to add a
morsel of the true cross to the relics of the Escorial. Of the offers to
build houses for the company, which now poured in, the last that he
accepted was Doña Magdalena de Ulloa's college at Villagarcia, thus
finding, after many days, the bread which he had cast upon the waters at
Yuste. From Spain, he went to preach the crusade at the courts of
Portugal and France--an arduous journey, which proved fruitful of royal
caresses, but fatal to his enfeebled frame. Falling ill by the way, he
had barely strength to reach Rome to die. In the year 1572, the
sixty-second of his age, he was laid beside his companions in toil and
glory, and his predecessors in power, Loyola and Laynez.

       *       *       *       *       *

"After long experience of the world," says Junius, "I affirm before God,
I never knew a rogue who was not unhappy." Very likely: another author
had intimated before the observations of Junius, that even the righteous
"is of few days and full of trouble."

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Nicolas Antonio.

[L] Psalm liv. 7. The Vulgate Psalm liv. is our Psalm lv.



From the North British Review.

DICKENS AND THACKERAY.


Our impression of the difference between the two authors in the matter
of style is very much what it has always been from a general reading
acquaintance with their works, namely, that Mr. Thackeray is the more
terse and idiomatic, and Mr. Dickens the more diffuse and luxuriant
writer. Both seem to be easy penmen, and to have language very readily
at their command; both also seem to convey their meaning as simply as
they can, and to be careful, according to their notions of verbal
accuracy; but in Mr. Dickens's sentences there is a leafiness, a
tendency to words and images, for their own sake; whereas, in Mr.
Thackeray's, one sees the stem and outline of the thought better. We
have no great respect for that canon of style which demands in English
writers the use of Saxon in preference to Latin words, thinking that a
rule to which there are natural limitations, variable with the writer's
aim and with the subject he treats; but we should suppose that critics
who do regard the rule would find Mr. Thackeray's style the more
accordant with it. On the whole, if we had to choose passages at random,
to be set before young scholars as examples of easy and vigorous English
composition, we would take them rather from Thackeray than from Dickens.
There is a Horatian strictness, a racy strength, in Mr. Thackeray's
expressions, even in his more level and tame passages, which we miss in
the corresponding passages in Mr. Dickens's writings, and in which we
seem to recognize the effect of those classical studies through which an
accurate and determinate, though somewhat bald use of words becomes a
fixed habit. In the ease, and at the same time thorough polish and
propriety with which Mr. Thackeray can use slang words, we seem
especially to detect the university man. Snob, swell, buck, gent,
fellow, fogy--these, and many more such expressive appellatives, not yet
sanctioned by the dictionary, Mr. Thackeray employs more frequently, we
believe, than any other living writer, and yet always with
unexceptionable taste. In so doing he is conscious, no doubt, of the
same kind of security that permits Oxford and Cambridge men, and even,
as we can testify, Oxford and Cambridge clergymen, to season their
conversation with similar words--namely, the evident air of educated
manliness with which they can be introduced, and which, however rough
the guise, no one can mistake. In the use of the words genteel, vulgar,
female, and the like--words which men diffident of their own breeding
are observed not to risk; as well as in the art of alternating
gracefully between the noun lady and the noun woman, the Scylla and
Charybdis, if we may say so, of shy talkers--Mr. Thackeray is also a
perfect master, commanding his language in such cases with an
unconscious ease, not unlike that which enables the true English
gentleman he is so fond of portraying, either to name titled personages
of his acquaintance without seeming a tuft-hunter, or to refrain from
naming them without the affectation of radicalism. In Mr. Dickens, of
course, we have the same perfect taste and propriety; but in him the
result appears to arise, if we may so express ourselves, rather from the
keen and feminine sensibility of a fine genius, whose instinct is always
for the pure and beautiful, than from the self-possession of a mind
correct under any circumstances by discipline and sure habit. Where Mr.
Dickens is not exerting himself, that is, in passages of mere equable
narrative or description, where there is nothing to move or excite him,
his style, as we have already said, seems to us more careless and
languid than that of Mr. Thackeray; sometimes, indeed, a whole page is
only redeemed from weakness by those little touches of wit, and those
humorous turns of conception which he knows so well how to sprinkle over
it. It is due to Mr. Dickens to state, however, that in this respect his
"Copperfield" is one of his most pleasing productions, and a decided
improvement on its predecessor "Dombey." Not only is the spirit of the
book more gentle and mellow, but the style is more continuous and
careful, with fewer of those recurring tricks of expression, the dread
remnants of former felicities, which constituted what was called his
mannerism. Nor must we omit to remark also, that in passages where
higher feeling is called into play, Mr. Dickens's style always rises
into greater purity and vigor, the weakness and the superfluity
disappearing before the concentrating force of passion, and the language
often pouring itself forth in a clear and flowing song. This, in fact,
is according to the nature of the luxuriant or poetical genius, which
never expresses itself in its best or most concise manner unless the
mood be high as well as the meaning clear,--for maintaining the
excellence of the style of a terse and highly reflective writer, such as
Thackeray, on the other hand, the presence of a clear meaning is at all
times sufficient, though, of course, here also the pitch and melody will
depend on the mood....

There is one piece of positive doctrine, however, in which both Pen and
Warrington agree, and of which Mr. Thackeray's writings are decidedly
the exponents in the present day, as Mr. Dickens's are of the doctrine
of kindliness. This doctrine may be called the doctrine of
anti-snobbism. Singular fact! in the great city of London, where higher
and more ancient faiths seem to have all but perished, and where men
bustle in myriads, scarce restrained by any spiritual law, there has
arisen of late years, as there arose in Mecca of old, a native form of
ethical belief, by which its inhabitants are tried and try each other.
"Thou shall not be a snob;" such is the first principle at present of
Cockney ethics. And observe how much real sincerity there is in this
principle, how it really addresses itself to facts, and only to facts,
known and admitted. It is not the major morals of human nature, but what
are called the minor morals of society, and these chiefly in their
æsthetic aspect, as modes of pleasant breeding, that the Cockney system
of ethics recognizes. Its maxims and commands are not "Thou shalt do no
wrong," "Thou shalt have no other gods before me," "Thou shalt not
covet,"--but, "Thou shalt pronounce thy H's," "Thou shalt not abuse
waiters as if they were dogs," "Thou shalt not falsely make a boast of
dining with peers and members of Parliament." He who offends in these
respects is a snob. Thus, at least, the Cockney moralist professes no
more than he really believes. The real species of moral evil recognized
in London, the real kind of offence which the moral sentiment there
punishes, and cannot away with, is snobbism. The very name, it will be
observed, is characteristic and unpretentious--curt, London-born,
irreverent. When you say that a man is a snob, it does not mean that you
detest and abhor him, but only that you must cut him, or make fun of
him. Such is anti-snobbism, the doctrine of which Mr. Thackeray, among
his other merits, has the merit of being the chief literary expounder
and apostle. Now it is not a very awful doctrine, certainly; it is not,
as our friend Warrington would be the first to admit, the doctrine in
the strength of which one would like to guide his own soul, or to face
the future and the everlasting; still it has its use, and by all means
let it have, yes, let it have its scribes and preachers.



From Household Words.

WORK AWAY!


            Work away!
    For the Master's eye is on us,
    Never off us, still upon us,
            Night and day!
            Work away!
    Keep the busy fingers plying,
    Keep the ceaseless shuttles flying;
    See that never thread lie wrong;
    Let not clash or clatter round us,
    Sound of whirring wheels, confound us;
    Steady hand! let wool be strong
    And firm, that has to last long!
            Work away!

    Keep upon the anvil ringing
    Stroke of hammer; on the gloom
    Set 'twixt cradle and 'twixt tomb
    Shower of fiery sparkles flinging;
    Keep the mighty furnace glowing;
    Keep the red ore hissing, flowing
    Swift within the ready mould;
    See that each one than the old
    Still be fitter, still be fairer
    For the master to behold:
            Work away!

            Work away!
    For the leader's eye is on us,
    Never off us, still upon us,
            Night and day!
    Wide the trackless prairies round us,
    Dark and unsunned woods surround us,
    Steep and savage mountains bound us;
            Far away
    Smile the soft savannahs green,
    Rivers sweep and roll between:
            Work away!

    Bring your axes, woodmen true;
    Smite the forest till the blue
    Of Heaven's sunny eye looks through
    Every wild and tangled glade;
    Jungle swamp and thicket shade
            Give to-day!
    O'er the torrents fling your bridges,
    Pioneers! Upon the ridges
    Widen, smoothe the rocky stair--
    They that follow, far behind
    Coming after us, will find
    Surer, easier footing there;
    Heart to heart, and hand with hand,
    From the dawn to dusk o' day,
            Work away!
    Scouts upon the mountain's peak--
    Ye that see the Promised Land,
    Hearten us! for ye can speak
    Of the country ye have scanned,
            Far away!

            Work away!
    For the Father's eye is on us,
    Never off us, still upon us,
            Night and day!
            WORK AND PRAY!
    Pray! and Work will be completer;
    Work! and Prayer will be the sweeter;
    Love! and Prayer and Work the fleeter
          Will ascend upon their way!
    Fear not lest the busy finger
    Weave a net the soul to stay;
    Give her wings--she will not linger;
    Soaring to the source of day;
    Cleaving clouds that still divide us
    From the azure depths of rest,
    She will come again! beside us,
    With the sunshine on her breast,
    Sit, and sing to us, while quickest
    On their task their fingers move,
    While the outward din wars thickest,
    Songs that she hath learned above.

    Live in Future as in Present;
    Work for both while yet the day
    Is our own! for Lord and Peasant,
    Long and bright as summer's day,
    Cometh, yet more sure, more pleasant,
    Cometh soon our Holiday;
            Work away!



From Household Words.

OUR PHANTOM SHIP.--JAPAN.


We may as well go by the North-west passage as by any other, on our
phantom voyage to Japan. Behring Straits shall be the door by which we
enter the Pacific Ocean. We are soon flitting between islands; from the
American peninsula of Alaska runs a chain of islands,--the
Aleutian,--which lie sprinkled upon our track, like a train of crumbs
dropped by some Tom Thumb among the giants, who may aforetime have been
led astray, not in the wood, but on the water. If he landed on
Kamtchatka, from the point of that peninsula he made a fresh start,
dropping more crumbs,--the Kurile Islands,--till he dropped some larger
pieces, and a whole slice for the main island of Japan, before he again
reached the continent and landed finally on the Corea. In sailing by
these islands, we have abundant reason to observe that they indicate
main lines of volcanic action. From Behring Strait, in fact, we enter
the Pacific, between two great batteries of subterranean fire. Steering
for Japan, we pass, on the Kamtchatkan coast, the loftiest volcano in
the old world, Kamtchatskaja (fifteen thousand, seven hundred and
sixty-three feet). Following the course of the volcanic chain of Kurile
Islands, of which the most northerly belong to Russia, the southern
Kuriles are the first land we encounter subject to Japan. We do not go
ashore here, to be sent to prison like Golownin, for we are content, at
present, to remember that the natives of these islands are the hairiest
among men. We sail on, too polite to outrage Japanese propriety by
landing, even from a Phantom Ship, on the main island; so we sail to
Kiusiu, and run into the bay of Nagasaki. The isles of Japan, calling
rocks islands, are in number three thousand eight hundred and fifty. The
main island, Nippon, is larger than Ireland, and is important enough to
have been justly called the England of the Pacific Ocean.

Only there is a mighty difference between this England, talking about
liberty, or cherishing free trade, and that Dai Nippon; in which not a
soul does as he pleases, and from which the commerce of the whole world
is shut out. Dai (or great) Nippon is the name of the whole state, which
the Chinese modify into Jih-pun, and which we have further altered to
Japan. On Kiusiu, a large southern island, Nagasaki is the only port
into which, on any possible excuse, a foreign vessel is allowed to
enter. This port we are now approaching; the dark rocks of the coast
line are reflected from a brilliant sea; we pass a mountain island,
cultivated to the very summit, terrace above terrace; green hills invite
us to our haven, and blue mountains in the distance tempt us to an
onward journey. There are white houses shining among cedars; there are
pointed temple roofs; boats with their sails up make the water near us
lively; surely we shall like Japan. We enter the bay now, and approach
Nagasaki, between fruitful hills and temple groves, steeps clothed with
evergreen oak, cedars, and laurels, picturesque rocks, attacked by man,
and wheedled out of practicable ground for corn and cabbages. There is
Nagasaki on a hill side, regularly built, every house peeping from its
little nest of greens; and there is the Dutch factory, named Dezima.
Zima in Japanese means "island," for this factory is built upon an
island. No Europeans but the Dutch; no Dutch except these managers of
trade who are locked up in Dezima, may traffic with Japan; and these may
traffic to the extent only of two ships yearly, subject to all manner of
restrictions. As for the resident Dutch, they are locked up in Dezima,
which is an island made on purpose for them. As if three thousand, eight
hundred and fifty were not enough, another little island, fan-shaped,
was built up out of the sea a few yards from the shore of Nagasaki.
There the Dutchmen live; a bridge connects their island with the
mainland, but a high gate and a guard of soldiers prevent all
unseasonable rambles. In another part of the town there is a factory
allowed to the Chinese. Other strangers entering this port are treated
courteously, are supplied gratuitously with such necessaries as they
want, but are on no account allowed to see the town, still less to
penetrate into the country, and are required to be gone about their
business as soon as possible. Strangers attempting entry at any other
port belonging to Japan, are without ceremony fired upon as enemies. The
admitted Dutch traders are rigorously searched; every thing betraying
Christianity is locked up; money and arms are removed, and hostages are
taken. Every man undergoes personal scrutiny. The Dutch are allowed no
money. The Japanese authorities manage all sales for them; pay the
minutest items of expenditure, and charge it on the profits of their
trade, which are then placed on the return vessel, not in money, but in
goods. The Japanese deal justly, even generously, in their way; but it
is their way to allow the foreigners no money power. They restrict their
exports almost wholly to camphor and copper, and allow no native
workmanship to go abroad. Yet among themselves, as between one island
and another, commerce is encouraged to the utmost. The Japanese
territories range in the temperate zone through a good many degrees, and
include all shades of climate between that of Liverpool and that of
Constantinople. Between island and island, therefore, busy interchange
takes place by means of junks, like these which now surround us in the
Nagasaki harbor. You can observe how weak they look about the sterns,
with rudders insecure. The law compels them to be so; for that is an
acute device by which they are prevented from travelling too far; they
dare not trust themselves too boldly to the mercy of the sea, and as it
is, many wrecked men accuse the prudence of their lawgivers. But life is
cheap; the population of Japan is probably near thirty million,--and who
should care for a few dozen mariners?

If you please, we will now walk up into Nagasaki, with our phantom
cloaks about us. Being in a region visited by earthquakes, of course we
find the houses of one story lightly built; they are built here of wood
and clay with chopped straw,--coated over, like our town suburban
villas, with cement. Paper, instead of glass, for window panes, Venetian
blinds, and around each house a verandah, we observe at once. But our
attention is attracted from the houses to the people. How very awkwardly
they slip along! With so much energy and vigor in their faces, how is it
that they never thought of putting reasonable shoes upon their feet?
They wear instead of shoes mere soles of wood or matting, held to the
foot each by a peg which runs between the great toe and its neighbor,
through a hole made for that purpose in the sock. These clouts they put
away on entering a house, as we should put away umbrellas, and wear only
socks in-doors. Nevertheless the people here look handsome in their
loose, wide gowns, bound by a girdle round the waist, with long sleeves,
of which, by the bye, you may perceive that the dependent ends are
Japanese coat-pockets. Thence you see yonder gentleman drawing his
nose-paper,--one of the little squares of clean white paper always ready
in the sleeve-pocket to serve the purpose of our handkerchief. That
little square when used is, you see, thrown away; but if the gentleman
were in a house he would return it to his pocket, to be got rid of in a
more convenient place. The women's robes are like those of the men in
form, but richer in material, more various with gold and color. As to
the head equipment, we observe, however, a great difference between the
sexes. The men shave their own heads, leaving hair only at the back part
and upon the temples, which they gather forward, and tie up into a tuft.
The women keep their entire crop of hair standing, and they make the
most of it; they spread it out into a turban, and stick through it not a
few pieces of polished tortoise-shell, as big as office rulers.[M]
Inviting admiration, the young beauty of Japan paints her face red and
white, and puts a purple stain upon her lips; but the remaining touches
are forbidden to a damsel till her heart is lost. The swain who seeks to
marry her, fixes outside her father's house a certain shrub; if this be
taken in-doors by the family, his suit he knows to be accepted; and when
next he gets a peep at his beloved, he watches with a palpitating heart
the movement of her lips, to see whether her teeth be blackened; for by
blackened teeth she manifests the reciprocal affection. Only after
marriage, however, is the lady glorified with a permission not only to
have black teeth, but also to pull out her eyebrows.

Those are not little beggars yonder trotting by that lady who is so
magnificently dressed; they are her children. The children of the
Japanese are all dressed meanly, upon moral grounds. Notice those
gentlemen who bow to one another; the ends of a scarf worn by each of
them exactly meet the ground, yet one bows lower than another, and they
go on walking in the bowed position until each has lost the other from
his sight. Those scarfs are regulated by the law; each man must bow so
that his scarf shall touch the ground, and it is so made long or short,
that he may humble himself more or less profoundly in exact accordance
with his rank.

Of rank there are eight classes after the Mikado and the Ziogoon, whom
we shall come to visit in our travels presently. There are, one, the
princes; two, the nobles, who owe feudal service to the prince, or the
empire; three, the priests; and four, the soldiers; these four form the
higher orders, and enjoy the privilege of wearing two swords and
petticoat trousers. Class five counts as respectable; inferior officials
and doctors constitute this class, and wear one sword with the trousers.
Merchants and respectable tradesmen form class six, whose legs may not
pollute the trousers, though, by entering themselves as domestics to a
man of rank, they may enjoy the privilege of carrying one sword. These
are the only people by whom wealth can be accumulated. Class
seven--artists, artisans, and petty shopkeepers. Class eight--day
laborers and peasants. Tradesmen who work on leather, tanners, &c., are
excluded from classification. They are defiled, and may not even live
with other men; they live in villages of their own, so thoroughly
unrecognized, that Japanese authority, in measuring the miles along a
road, breaks off at the entrance of a currier's village, leaves it
excluded from his measurement, which is resumed upon the other side. So,
if we travel post, we get through leather-sellers' villages for nothing.

These houses in Nagasaki, which at a distance looked so much like
mansions, are the store-rooms wherein tradesmen keep their valuable
stock, and families their valuable furniture. For desolating fires are
common in the towns and cities of Japan; so common, that almost every
house is prudently provided with a fire-proof store-room, having copper
shutters to the windows, and the walls covered a foot thick with clay.
Attached to each is a large vessel of liquid mud, with which the whole
building is smeared on an alarm of fire; and this method of
fire-insurance is exceedingly effective, where there is nothing like a
Sun or Atlas Company to fall upon, and the most abstemious of fires eats
up, at any rate, a street.

That door is open, and there is no horseshoe over it--there's not an
iron horseshoe in Japan,--so two ghosts slip into the house unperceived.
First, here is a portico for palanquins, shoes, and umbrellas; into this
the kitchens open. In the back apartments we shall find the family. We
walk into the drawing-room, and there the master sits. It is most
fortunate that we are now invisible; for, did we visit in the flesh, we
should be teased by the necessities of Japanese civility. That gentleman
would sit upon his heels before us; we should sit on our heels before
him; we should then all bow our heads as low as possible. Then we should
make compliments to one another, the answer to each being "_He, he,
he!_" Then pipes and tea would be brought in; after this we might begin
to talk. Before we left we should receive sweetmeats on a sheet of white
paper, in which it would be our duty to fold up whatever we did not eat,
and put it in our pockets. Eat what you like, and pocket what remains,
is Japanese good-breeding. At a dinner-party the servant of each guest
brings baskets, that he may take away his master's portion of the feast.
This master, however, is unconscious of our shadowy appearance, and
continues busy with his book. It is Laplace, translated into Japanese,
through Dutch. The Japanese are thoroughly alive to the advanced state
of European science, and on those fixed occasions when the Dutchmen from
the factory visit the capital, the Dutch physician is invariably visited
by the native physicians, naturalists, and astronomers, who display on
their own parts wonderful acumen, and most dexterously pump for European
knowledge. Scientific books in the Dutch language they translate and
publish into Japanese. The country has not been shut up out of contempt
for foreigners, and native men of science have so diligently profited by
opportunities afforded from without, that they construct by their own
artificers, barometers, telescopes, make their own almanacks, and
calculate their own eclipses. Hovering about this gentleman, our eyes
detect at once that the impression on his page is taken from a wood-cut
imitation of handwriting; movable types are not yet introduced into
Japan. The writing, like Chinese, is up and down the page, and not
across it. Three or four different characters seem to be used
indiscriminately, and some of them are certainly Chinese. The good folks
of Dai Nippon are indebted to the Chinese for the first strong impulse
to their civilization; not being themselves of Chinese origin, but a
distinct branch of the Mongolian family. Their language is quite
different, and has exceedingly long words, instead of being built up,
like Chinese, of mono-syllables. Japanese written in Chinese character
is understood by any Chinaman; but so would English be, since Chinese
writing represents ideas. So, if a Spaniard writes five, an Englishman
reads it as "five," and understands correctly, yet the Spaniard would
tell you that he wrote not "five," but "cinco."

Hovering still about this gentleman, and beguiled by the strangeness of
all things we see into a curiosity like that of children, we admire his
sword. The hilt is very beautiful, composed of various metals blended
into a fine enamel. This enamel is used in Japan where Europeans would
use jewels, because the art of cutting precious stones is not known to
the Japanese. For the blade of this sword it is not impossible that a
sum has been given not unlike a hundred pounds; the tempering of steel
is carried to perfection in Japan, where gentlemen are connoisseurs in
sword-blades. Young nobles lend their maiden swords to the executioner
(who is always chosen from the defiled leather-selling race) that they
may be tried upon real flesh and blood; as executions in Japan are
generally cruel, and some criminals are hacked to death, rather than
killed outright, the swords on such occasions are refreshed with a fair
taste of blood. The mats upon the floor are the next things we notice. A
thick matting of straw forms a substratum, over which are spread the
fine mats, elegantly fringed. To see that lackered work inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, which we familiarly call Japan, in its perfection, we
must evidently visit it at home. Any thing of the kind so exquisitely
beautiful as this little table, is not to be found in Europe. Whatever
trinkets pass out of these islands into Europe, do so _nayboen_--that
is, with secret connivance--but the first-rate manufactures are in no
way suffered to come to us. Without _nayboen_, life would be
insupportable in a minute wilderness of rules and customs. People even
die _nayboen_--that is, a man lies unburied, and is said to be alive,
when his death otherwise would lead to disagreeable results. Here, as
elsewhere, when rules are made intolerably strict, evasion is habitual.
The amount that cannot be evaded is astonishing enough, as we shall see
ere we return to England. Now we are in the house of this gentleman at
Nagasaki. His wife enters, and by their mutual behavior it is evident
that ladies in Japan are to their husbands very much what ladies are in
England. This lady passes to the garden; the room ends with a projecting
angle open to the garden on each side, a sort of bay, which every house
has; and if there be no more ground than just the supplementary
triangles on each side to complete the square, still there is always
that, and that is always quite enough, for want of more. It is enough to
spend a fortune upon, in dwarf trees and vegetable curiosities. The
Japanese shine like the Chinese in monstrosities. They can dwarf trees
so well, that in a little box four inches square, President Meylan saw
growing a fir, a bamboo, and a plum-tree, in full blossom. Or they
hypertrophy plants if they please, until a radish is produced as large
as a boy six years old. Their gardens, however small, are always laid
out in landscape style, and each is adorned with a temple, not a mere
ornamental summerhouse, but the real shrine of a household god. Into
this garden walks the lady, and returns with a few flowers. She takes
these to an elegant shelf fixed in a recess of the apartment, upon which
a bouquet stands, and is engaged upon her nosegay. An act of taste? O
dear, no; every drawing-room in Japan has such a shelf, with flowers
placed upon it; every lady entering who found her husband there, and
meant to talk with him, would in the first place make the nosegay talk,
and say, "The wife and husband are alone together." If company arrive,
the flowers must be otherwise adjusted; the position of every flower,
and even of green leaves in that bouquet, is fixed by custom, which is
law, to vary with the use to which the room is put. One of the most
difficult and necessary parts of female education in Japan is to acquire
a perfect knowledge of the rules laid down in a large book on the
arrangements of the drawing-room nosegay, in a manner suitable to every
case. It is the Japanese "use of the globes" to ladies' schools. To boys
and girls, after reading and writing, which are taught (hear, England!)
to the meanest Japanese, the most necessary part of education is an
elaborate training in the ceremonial rules of life. Bows proper for
every occasion, elegant kotoos, the whole science and practice of
good-breeding, have to be learned through many tedious years. To boys
there is given special training in the hara-kiri, or the art of ripping
one's self up. Many occasions present themselves on which it as much
concerns the honor of a Japanese to cut himself open, as it concerned an
Englishman some years ago to fire a pistol at his friend. The occasions
are so frequent, that a Japanese boys' school would be incomplete in
which instruction was not given in this art of suicide. Boys practise
all the details in dramatic fashion, and in after life, if a day come
when disgrace, caused often by the deeds of other men, appears
inevitable, he appoints a day, and according to the exigencies of the
case, before his family or his assembled connections, ceremoniously cuts
open his own belly at a solemn dinner. Dying in this way, he is said to
have died in the course of nature; dying before shame came to him, he is
said to have died undisgraced, and so has saved his family from that
participation in his fall which otherwise was imminent. Now we must
leave this house, in which we have spent perhaps a little too much time:
yet in the whole time we did not once hear the squalling of a baby,
though a baby was there certainly. If this should meet the eye of Mr.
Meek, he is informed that in Japan, children, until they are three years
old, are not allowed to wear any thing tight about their persons.

Now we are once more in the streets of Nagasaki, and observe, that for a
gentleman to turn his back upon a friend, is true politeness in this
most original of lands. It signifies that he who so turns is unworthy to
behold the face, &c. A bridal procession passes us; the bride in her
long white veil. There is a touch of poetry connected with that veil--it
literally is the shroud in which she will be buried.

We are out of town, now, and delighting in the open country. Exquisite
views of hill, and dale, and wood, and water, tempt the sight. Rice
fields, of course, we pass; rice is a staple article of diet to the
Japanese, as to so many other millions of the human race. It is the
vegetable food that finds its way into more mouths than any other. There
is wheat also in Japan, used chiefly for making cakes and soy; barley
for feeding cattle. The cattle being used as beasts of draught and
burden, it is thought improper to kill them, or to deprive the young
calves of their milk; the Japanese, therefore, refrain from milk and
beef. They eat great quantities of fish, poultry, and venison. In the
country gardens we see quinces, pears, plums, cherries, peaches,
oranges, and citrons too; bean-fields abound, and farms, of which the
hedges are all tea. Where soil and climate favor, many a hillside in
Japan is cultivated as a tea plantation; but beyond this the tea-plant
is used by the farmers generally as a hedge from which they gather their
own leaves, and dry tea for home use, just as our farmers brew their own
October beer. Now we are flitting under cedar groves, now under firs,
now under mulberry plantations for the silkworm; every good point in the
landscape is occupied by a temple, which is composed of one large
edifice and many little ones. The little ones are used by
pleasure-parties. There is a snake, and there you see in the tree a
long-tailed monkey (_Inuus speciosus_); there is no other kind of monkey
in these islands, and the snakes are all of a species found nowhere
else. The tree frog and the eatable frog live in the north of Nippon.
Here we have squirrels. There are no lions and tigers; there is not a
single animal of the cat tribe known upon these islands; you can meet
with nothing worse than a wild boar. Great pains are taken to destroy
the foxes. Here are pheasants without game-laws, and the peacock yonder
looks as if he felt himself at home. Several palanquins have passed us
on the road, varying much in shape and minor details. The shape of the
palanquin, the length of the poles, their position, the way in which
they are held, and the number of holders, all are fixed so as to accord
precisely with the rank of the good gentleman inside. The number of
attendants in the train, even of an inconsiderable man, is startling;
and as for a prince, he might be setting out to conquer China. The roads
are good, and there is no lack of horsemen, but we have not seen draught
carriages; perhaps these hills are an impediment to travelling by such
conveyance; roads over hills and mountains being simply flights of
steps.

Hollo! What couple scampers by in such a hurry? 'Tis the post: the
greatest princes must get out of its way. One man runs with the letters,
and another keeps pace with him, to supply his place in case of illness
or accident; if both posts fail, the nearest man, whatever be his
dignity, must do their work for them. These posts are never horsed; but
each pair, at the conclusion of a stage, finds the next couple waiting
to catch the important bundle thrown to them, and set off instantly,
before the spent runners have reached the spot where they may halt and
get their wind again. Goods are conveyed on packhorses or oxen over
land, but water transit by lakes, rivers, or canals, is much more
common. The roads are well swept, for the farmers on each side
diligently scrape up all manure; and as men with brooms clear all away
before a traveller of rank, the highway is kept in a very neat
condition. Men selling straw clouts for travellers, and straw shoes for
the horses, which require, of course, frequent renewal, pick up a living
by the roadside, and we pass them frequently. Observe that mighty
camphor-tree, which every traveller has mentioned. To Kæmpfer it was
venerable for its age in the year 1691; still it is healthy, and so
large that fifteen men can stand within its hollow. Hot-springs, of
course, we pass in a volcanic country. There is a coal-mine also here,
though charcoal is the fuel usually burned.

We have now crossed Kiusiu, and reached the seaport of Kokura, where we
find our Phantom Ship in readiness to take us through a sea covered with
islets, to the large island of Nippon. We shall disembark, and travel
very rapidly through Ohosaka to Miyako, where the divine Mikado holds
his court. We pass some strange-looking men covered with matting, each
of whom has in his hand a long wooden spoon. The spoon is their
cockle-shell, for they are pilgrims travelling in the most pious form,
as beggars, to the shrine of their own goddess. This pilgrimage is made
by all good Japanese--the oftener the better, especially as they grow
old, because they get each time full absolution from the priests for
their past sins.

The sun goddess and the Mikado are allied together; and as we now are
journeying towards a seat of government, we can do nothing better than
discuss the Japanese religion. It begins with an Oriental "once upon a
time," of gods who reigned for a few millions of years apiece, above
whom there was, and is, and ever will be, one supreme God, free from
care. The last of seven royal gods said to his wife one day, "There's
earth somewhere, I'm sure!" and so he poked about with his spear in the
water, feeling for it. Drops falling from his spear-point made the
islands of Japan. Then this god made eight millions of other gods, and
also created the ten thousand things. Having ordered matters to his
satisfaction, he made a present of his Japanese earth to his pet
daughter, the sun goddess. The sun goddess reigned only two hundred and
fifty thousand years, and her four successors filled the next two
million; the last of the four, being the great-great-grandson of the sun
goddess, fancied a mortal life, and left a mortal boy, who reigned on
earth, and was the first Mikado: from him all Mikados are descended.
This is the native Japanese religion, called Sintoo; worshipping the sun
goddess, and _Kami_, which are minor gods or saints. The Sintoos bow
before no images, but put as emblems in their temples a sheet of white
paper and a mirror, to denote the soul pure and incapable of stain. The
worshipper kneels, gazes at the mirror, offers sacrifice of fruit or
rice, deposits money, and retires. Upon this creed Buddhism has been
grafted; but the religion of the learned Japanese is Sintoo--a
philosophic moral doctrine which they cherish secretly, while outwardly
observing rites prescribed by custom.

But _revenons à nos Mikados_: the first Mikado, though of fabulous
descent, is an historical person, Zin-mu-teen-woo, and with him Japanese
history begins--at a period from whence we date rational annals in some
other countries, about 660 B.C. We will note those points of history
that are essential to a comprehension of the present government. Mikados
followed each other, sole rulers and powerful, until they fell into a
trick of abdicating in favor of their children, and then doing the duty
without being annoyed by the ceremonies of their office. That had its
inconvenient results, for presently came one Mikado who married the
daughter of a powerful papa; and when the time came for retirement, and
he had abdicated in favor of a son three years old, the powerful papa
thrust him aside into a prison, and usurped the regency. A civil war was
the result of this; Yoritomo leaped up as champion of the imprisoned
man, so recently a king, released him, and restored him to the regency
over his infant son. For this essential service good Yoritomo was made a
sort of field-marshal, or Ziogoon. The ex-Mikado dying, left Yoritomo
the guardian of his son; and so for twenty years the Ziogoon was regent.
Infant Mikados still continuing to be the fashion, regency became
hereditary to the Ziogoons; and these last being men, it eventually came
to pass that the Mikado was stripped of all power, and converted into a
magnificent doll, while the real court was transferred to Jeddo, where
the Ziogoons reside. Retributive justice we shall meet with in a little
while, but we have now reached Miyako, the Mikado's residence, and
nominally still the capital of Nippon.

Poor Mikado, what a miserable honor he must think it is to be divine! He
represents the sun goddess on earth, and is required to sit upon his
throne quite still, and without moving his head for several hours every
day, lest the whole earth should be unsteady. When not sitting, he must
leave his crown upon the throne to keep watch in his absence. Being so
very holy, he is deprived of all use of his legs; earth is not worthy of
his tread. His nails and hair are never cut--for who may mutilate a god?
Every article of dress that he puts on must be brand new; his plates,
and cups, and dishes, every thing he touches at a meal--even the kitchen
utensils used in cooking for him--must not be used twice, and of course
no profane man may employ what has been sanctified by the Mikado's use.
Whatever clothes he puts off are immediately burned; his pots and
vessels are destroyed. This hourly waste being a heavy pull on the
finances of the Ziogoon, the divine victim gets only the coarsest slops
to dress in, and eats off the cheapest crockery. No wonder that he still
keeps up the fashion of resigning. His palace is circumscribed with
palisades, and an officer residing without the gate spies all his
actions, and reports them to the Ziogoon. Still the poor fellow is
divine. The gods, it is believed, all spend a month at his place, during
which month they are not at home in their own temples, and worship is
accordingly suspended. The Mikado grants religious titles, fixes feasts
and fasts, and settles doctrinal disputes. Thus there arose once schism
in Japan about the color of the devil. Four factions respectfully
declared him to be black, white, red, and green. The theologic knot was
given to the Mikado that day to unravel, who, knowing the obstinacy of
theologians well, declared all parties to be right; and so the devil of
Japan remains to this day a four-colored monster. Offices of state in
the Mikado's court--the Dairi it is called--are above all in honor,
objects of ambition even to the Ziogoon. The dwellers in the Dairi with
the holy prisoner, both male and female, are the most refined and
cultivated Japanese. From their ranks are supplied the poets of the
land, who sing the beauties of the rapid Oyewaga, or legends of the
snow-capped Foesi.

Miyako is the classic ground, the Athens of Japan. But we must go on to
the Japanese London, Jeddo, the real capital, a grand metropolis, with
about one million, six hundred thousand inhabitants. Of course there is
a wilderness of suburb; there are endless streets; there is a river
through the town which flows into the bay, from which this capital is
not far distant. There are bridges; there is a vast multitude of people
thronging to and fro; there are shops, signs, inscriptions. We will walk
into a theatre; for here, as in the days of Æschylus, performances take
place by day. There is a pit, and there are tiers of elegant seats,
which answer to our boxes; the scenery and dresses are handsome, only in
scene painting there is no perspective. As in the early European drama,
the subjects illustrated are the deeds of gods and heroes; not more than
two speakers occupy the scene at once; boys act the female characters.
Several pieces are performed, each piece divided into acts, and the plan
is to give after Act I. of the first play, Act I. of the second, and
then to begin the third, before taking the series of second acts. As
each actor in each piece plays also several parts, one might consider
this arrangement to be rather puzzling. Gentlemen go out after the act
of any piece they wish to hear, and attend to other matters till the
next act of the same piece shall come on; but ladies sit with pleasure
through the whole. Dear souls! they steal a march upon our feminine box
ornaments; for they bring with them a collection of dresses to the play,
slip out during each pause to change their clothes, and reappear, to
catch the admiration of beholders, every time in a new costume.

The palace of the Ziogoon covers much ground, being in fact a rural
scene--a palace and a park, locked up within the town. As for the
Ziogoon, he also is locked up within his trenches. To understand how he
is fettered, and, at the same time, how all the people of Japan have
come to be locked up, we must pursue our little thread of history.
Yoritomo established, as we said, the power of the Ziogoons, which
flourished for a long time. Kublah Khan endeavored to make Nippon
subject to him; but without success, winds and waves fighting with the
Japanese. Mongolians were forbidden then to touch Japanese ground, but a
century later friendly relations were restored with China. In 1543, two
Portuguese, Antonio Moto and Francesco Zeimoto, landed in Japan,
exciting great interest among a mercantile people, trading at that time,
it is said, with sixteen foreign nations. The Portuguese taught new
arts, they brought new wares, and they were welcomed eagerly; some of
them settled, and were married in Japan. The Jesuits came, too, with
Christianity, and their preaching was abundantly successful. Now, it so
happened that about the same time, when the Portuguese first arrived, a
civil war was waged between two brothers, for the dignity of Ziogoon.
Both brothers perished in this war, and then the vassal princes fought
over the fallen bone. Nobunaga, the most powerful of these, was aided
by a person of obscure birth, named Hide-yosi. Nobunaga became Ziogoon,
favored the Christians, and invested Hide-yosi with high military rank.
An usurper murdered Nobunaga, was then himself murdered, and left vacant
a seat which Hide-yosi was now strong enough to seize. He took the name
of Tayko, and is the great hero of the annals of Japan. He it was who
continued the robbery of the Mikado's power, and secured himself against
revolt by establishing a system of check over the princes, which
prevails to this day. He left a son bearing the name of Hide-yosi, six
years old, and to secure his power, married him to the daughter of
Jyeyas, a strong papa. Jyeyas played the usurper, of course, and a large
faction supported the young Hide-yosi, whom he had sworn to guard. The
boy was Christian at heart; his cause, also, was just; the Jesuits,
therefore, and the great body of the Christians warmly took his part.
Had he maintained his right successfully, Christianity would have become
the state religion in Japan. Jyeyas conquered, and the Christians,
persecuted, afterwards rebelling, they were rooted out--regarded as a
sect politically hostile. Their rebellion broke loose in the
principality of Arima; the Prince of Arima drove the insurgents, seventy
thousand in number, to the peninsula of Simabara, where they stood at
bay. Since they were not to be dislodged, the Dutch, then settled at
Firato, were desired to aid the government; accordingly they sent a
man-of-war, which fired upon the Christians and sealed their fate. To
this service the Dutch were indebted for their permission to retain one
factory. All other Christians were destroyed or expelled, and since
those days every stranger has been required, exempting the Dutch
factory, to trample on an image of the Saviour, as an evidence of his
not being a Christian interloper.

To finish our history, we must record that Jyeyas, having established
his own usurpation, completed the reduction of the Mikado to a state of
helplessness; completed the fettering of the princes, and the protective
system of espial; and being deified, on death, under the name, of
Gongen, was the founder of the Gongen dynasty of Ziogoons, which still
rules in Japan, and still adheres to the protective system. But in
course of time the power of the Ziogoons has waned; the Ziogoon himself
is now a puppet to his council, which is governed by a president, who by
no means is able to do what he likes.

Let us now see how all the Japanese are tied and bound, and kept in
profound peace. In the first place, nearly half the population are
officials in pay, and the whole empire is sprinkled thickly with spies,
some public and official, who may intrude where they please, others
concealed and not acknowledged, although paid, by government.
Furthermore, every householder is required to watch the actions of his
five intermediate neighbors, and to keep a sharp eye upon movements
opposite. Every prince is assisted in his government by two secretaries,
whom the court appoints, one to reside with him, and the other to reside
at Jeddo. These take every act of government out of his hands. The
secretary, who lives with him, watches him, and acts upon instructions
from the secretary who resides at Jeddo, who again is prompted by the
council. Not only does the prince live surrounded by a mob of unknown
spies, but he is obliged, every alternate year, to leave his
principality and to reside at Jeddo; his wife and family are always kept
at Jeddo in the character of hostages. Furthermore, pains are taken to
prevent a prince from being rich. He is required at Jeddo to impoverish
himself by displays of pomp; and if his purse be long, the Ziogoon
invites himself to dinner with him; an honor great enough to ruin any
noble in Japan. Similar checks are upon all governors of towns and all
officials. Any neglect reported by a spy, any infraction of a rule,
threatens disgrace, and makes it necessary to perform the act of suicide
before described. So it was not without cause that they were taught at
school the hara-kiri. Perhaps you think the council is omnipotent. Far
from it. The council may, indeed, make any law, which will be submitted
by the president for sanction to the Ziogoon. Then, should the Ziogoon
refuse his signature, and differ in opinion from the council, if he
blame the law, the question is submitted to the Ziogoon's three next of
kin, and they are umpires. If these decide against the Ziogoon, he is
deposed immediately; if they decide against the council, then its
president and members must rip themselves up.

Yet still this tyranny of custom, which would seem to be so burdensome
to all, goes on, because all are so bound that none can begin to stir.
The Japanese, as we have partly been able to see, are an acute
race--they have original and thinking minds; with a dash of Asiatic
fierceness, they are generous, joyous, sympathetic. They love picnic
parties and music, with a buffoon; who first encourages them to throw
off restraint, to laugh and riot in good-nature; and, assuming then his
second office, draws himself up demurely, to give all a lesson in
politeness. The buffoons who go for hire to promote mirth with a
pleasure-party, go also as masters of the ceremonies. The treatment of
Golownin, as a prisoner, will also illustrate the nature of the
Japanese. In moving from one prison to another, he walked, bound so
tightly with thin cords that they cut wounds into his flesh. These
wounds the soldiers dressed every evening, but did not slacken any
string; they said that he was fettered in the customary way. Yet these
men willingly would take him on their backs, to carry him, when he was
foot-sore; people in the villages were gladly suffered to show sympathy
by feeding him with pleasant things as he passed through; and when he
had made efforts to escape; which, if successful, would have entailed
hara-kiri on his guards; they still showed no abatement of good-nature.

Under the main bridge of Jeddo lies our Phantom Ship, and from the heart
of that great city of the East we float out to the sea. It does not take
us long to get to Tower Stairs;--and now a Phantom Cab will take you
home.

FOOTNOTES:

[M] Hats are not used by either sex except in rainy weather, but every
Japanese carries a fan; even the beggar yonder holds his fan to that
young lady, whereupon she drops her charitable gift.



From Fraser's Magazine.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

_Continued from page 409._


BOOK V. CONTINUED.--CHAPTER VII.

Leonard had been about six weeks with his uncle, and those weeks were
well spent. Mr. Richard had taken him to his counting-house, and
initiated him into business and the mysteries of double entry; and, in
return for the young man's readiness and zeal in matters which the acute
trader instinctively felt were not exactly to his tastes, Richard
engaged the best master the town afforded to read with his nephew in the
evening. This gentleman was the head-usher of a large school--who had
his hours to himself after eight o'clock--and was pleased to vary the
dull routine of enforced lessons by instructions to a pupil who took
delightedly--even to the Latin grammar. Leonard made rapid strides, and
learned more in those six weeks than many a cleverish boy does in twice
as many months. These hours which Leonard devoted to study Richard
usually spent from home--sometimes at the houses of his grand
acquaintances in the Abbey Gardens, sometimes in the reading-room
appropriated to those aristocrats. If he stayed at home, it was in
company with his head clerk, and for the purpose of checking his account
books, or looking over the names of doubtful electors.

Leonard had naturally wished to communicate his altered prospects to his
old friends, that they in turn might rejoice his mother with such good
tidings. But he had not been two days in the house before Richard had
strictly forbidden all such correspondence.

"Look you," said he, "at present we are on an experiment--we must see if
we like each other. Suppose we don't, you will only have raised
expectations in your mother which must end in bitter disappointment; and
suppose we do, it will be time enough to write when something definite
is settled."

"But my mother will be so anxious--"

"Make your mind easy on that score. I will write regularly to Mr. Dale,
and he can tell her that you are well and thriving. No more words, my
man--when I say a thing, I say it." Then, observing that Leonard looked
blank and dissatisfied, Richard added, with a good-humored smile, "I
have my reasons for all this--you shall know them later. And I tell you
what,--if you do as I bid you, it is my intention to settle something
handsome on your mother; but if you don't, devil a penny she'll get from
me."

With that Richard turned on his heel, and in a few moments his voice was
heard loud in objurgation with some of his people.

About the fourth week of Leonard's residence at Mr. Avenel's, his host
began to evince a certain change of manner. He was no longer quite so
cordial with Leonard, nor did he take the same interest in his progress.
About the same period he was frequently caught by the London butler
before the looking-glass. He had always been a smart man in his dress,
but he was now more particular. He would spoil three white cravats when
he went out of an evening, before he could satisfy himself as to a tie.
He also bought a Peerage, and it became his favorite study at odd
quarters of an hour. All these symptoms proceeded from a cause, and that
cause was--Woman.


CHAPTER VIII.

The first people at Screwstown were indisputably the Pompleys. Colonel
Pompley was grand, but Mrs. Pompley was grander. The colonel was stately
in right of his military rank and his services in India; Mrs. Pompley
was majestic in right of her connections. Indeed, Colonel Pompley
himself would have been crushed under the weight of the dignities which
his lady heaped upon him, if he had not been enabled to prop his
position with "a connection" of his own. He would never have held his
own, nor been permitted to have an independent opinion on matters
aristocratic, but for the well-sounding name of his relations, "the
Digbies." Perhaps on the principle that obscurity increases the natural
size of objects, and is an element of the sublime, the Colonel did not
too accurately define his relations "the Digbies;" he let it be casually
understood that they were the Digbies to be found in Debrett. But if
some indiscreet _Vulgarian_ (a favorite word with both the Pompleys)
asked point-blank if he meant "my Lord Digby," the Colonel, with a lofty
air, answered--"The elder branch, sir." No one at Screwstown had ever
seen these Digbies: they lay amidst the Far--the Recondite--even to the
wife of Colonel Pompley's bosom. Now and then, when the Colonel referred
to the lapse of years, and the uncertainty of human affections, he would
say--"When young Digby and I were boys together," and then add with a
sigh, "but we shall never meet again in this world. His family interest
secured him a valuable appointment in a distant part of the British
dominions." Mrs. Pompley was always rather cowed by the Digbies. She
could not be skeptical as to this connection, for the Colonel's mother
was certainly a Digby, and the Colonel impaled the Digby arms. _En
revanche_, as the French say, for these marital connections, Mrs.
Pompley had her own favorite affinity, which she specially selected from
all others when she most desired to produce effect; nay, even upon
ordinary occasions the name rose spontaneously to her lips--the name of
the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. Was the fashion of a gown or cap
admired, her cousin, Mrs. M'Catchley, had just sent to her the pattern
from Paris. Was it a question whether the Ministry would stand, Mrs.
M'Catchley was in the secret, but Mrs. Pompley had been requested not to
say. Did it freeze, "my cousin, Mrs. M'Catchley, had written word that
the icebergs at the Pole were supposed to be coming this way." Did the
sun glow with more than usual fervor, Mrs. M'Catchley had informed her
"that it was Sir Henry Halford's decided opinion that it was on account
of the cholera." The good people knew all that was doing at London, at
court, in this world--nay, almost in the other--through the medium of
the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. Mrs. M'Catchley was, moreover, the most
elegant of women, the wittiest creature, the dearest. King George the
Fourth had presumed to admire Mrs. M'Catchley, but Mrs. M'Catchley,
though no prude, let him see that she was proof against the corruptions
of a throne. So long had the ears of Mrs. Pompley's friends been filled
with the renown of Mrs. M'Catchley, that at last Mrs. M'Catchley was
secretly supposed to be a myth, a creature of the elements, a poetic
fiction of Mrs. Pompley's. Richard Avenel, however, though by no means a
credulous man, was an implicit believer in Mrs. M'Catchley. He had
learned that she was a widow--an honorable by birth, an honorable by
marriage--living on her handsome jointure, and refusing offers every day
that she so lived. Somehow or other, whenever Richard Avenel thought of
a wife, he thought of the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. Perhaps that
romantic attachment to the fair invisible preserved him heart-whole
amongst the temptations of Screwstown. Suddenly, to the astonishment of
the Abbey Gardens, Mrs. M'Catchley proved her identity, and arrived at
Colonel Pompley's in a handsome travelling-carriage, attended by her
maid and footman. She had come to stay some weeks--a tea-party was given
in her honor. Mr. Avenel and his nephew were invited, Colonel Pompley,
who kept his head clear in the midst of the greatest excitement, had a
desire to get from the corporation a lease of a piece of ground
adjoining his garden, and he no sooner saw Richard Avenel enter, than he
caught him by the button, and drew him into a quiet corner in order to
secure his interest. Leonard, meanwhile, was borne on by the stream,
till his progress was arrested by a sofa table at which sate Mrs.
M'Catchley herself, with Mrs. Pompley by her side. For on this great
occasion the hostess had abandoned her proper post at the entrance, and,
whether to show her respect to Mrs. M'Catchley, or to show Mrs.
M'Catchley her well-bred contempt for the people of Screwstown, remained
in state by her friend, honoring only the _élite_ of the town with
introductions to the illustrious visitor.

Mrs. M'Catchley was a very fine woman--a woman who justified Mrs.
Pompley's pride in her. Her cheekbones were rather high, it is true, but
that proved the purity of her Caledonian descent; for the rest, she had
a brilliant complexion, heightened by a _soupçon_ of rouge--good-eyes
and teeth, a showy figure, and all the ladies of Screwstown pronounced
her dress to be perfect. She might have arrived at that age at which one
intends to stop for the next ten years, but even a Frenchman would not
have called her _passée_--that is, for a widow. For a spinster, it would
have been different.

Looking round her with a glass, which Mrs. Pompley was in the habit of
declaring that "Mrs. M'Catchley used like an angel," this lady suddenly
perceived Leonard Avenel; and his quiet, simple, thoughtful air and
looks so contrasted with the stiff beaux, to whom she had been
presented, that experienced in fashion as so fine a personage must be
supposed to be, she was nevertheless deceived into whispering to Mrs.
Pompley--

"That young man has really an _air distingué_--who is he?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Pompley, in unaffected surprise, "that is the nephew of
the rich Vulgarian I was telling you of this morning."

"Ah! and you say that he is Mr. Arundel's heir?"

"Avenel--not Arundel--my sweet friend."

"Avenel is not a bad name," said Mrs. M'Catchley. "But is the uncle
really so rich?"

"The Colonel was trying this very day to guess what he is worth; but he
says it is impossible to guess it."

"And the young man is his heir."

"It is thought so: and reading for college, I hear. They say he is
clever."

"Present him, my love: I like clever people," said Mrs. M'Catchley,
falling back languidly.

About ten minutes afterwards, Richard Avenel, having effected his escape
from the Colonel, and his gaze being attracted towards the sofa table by
the buzz of the admiring crowd, beheld his nephew in animated
conversation with the long-cherished idol of his dreams. A fierce pang
of jealousy shot through his breast. His nephew never looked so handsome
and so intelligent; in fact, poor Leonard had never before been drawn
out by a woman of the world, who had learned how to make the most of
what little she knew. And, as jealousy operates like a pair of bellows
on incipient flames, so, at first sight of the smile which the fair
widow bestowed upon Leonard, the heart of Mr. Avenel felt in a blaze.

He approached with a step less assured than usual, and, overhearing
Leonard's talk, marvelled much at the boy's audacity. Mrs. M'Catchley
had been speaking of Scotland and the Waverly Novels, about which
Leonard knew nothing. But he knew Burns, and on Burns he grew artlessly
eloquent. Burns the poet and peasant; Leonard might well be eloquent on
_him_. Mrs. M'Catchley was amused and pleased with his freshness and
_naïveté_, so unlike any thing she had ever heard or seen, and she drew
him on and on, till Leonard fell to quoting: And Richard heard, with
less respect for the sentiment than might be supposed, that

    "Rank is but the guinea stamp,
    The man's the gowd for a' that."

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Avenel. "Pretty piece of politeness to tell that
to a lady like the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. You'll excuse him, ma'am."

"Sir!" said Mrs. M'Catchley, startled, and lifting her glass. Leonard,
rather confused, rose, and offered his chair to Richard, who dropped
into it. The lady, without waiting for formal introduction, guessed that
she saw the rich uncle.

"Such a sweet poet--Burns!" said she, dropping her glass. "And it is so
refreshing to find so much youthful enthusiasm," she added, pointing her
fan towards Leonard, who was receding fast among the crowd.

"Well, he is youthful, my nephew--rather green!"

"Don't say green!" said Mrs. M'Catchley. Richard blushed scarlet. He was
afraid he had committed himself to some expression low and shocking. The
lady resumed, "Say unsophisticated."

"A tarnation long word," thought Richard; but he prudently bowed, and
held his tongue.

"Young men nowadays," continued Mrs. M'Catchley, resettling herself on
the sofa, "affect to be so old. They don't dance, and they don't read,
and they don't talk much; and a great many of them wear _toupets_ before
they are two-and-twenty!"

Richard mechanically passed his hand through his thick curls. But he was
still mute; he was still ruefully chewing the cud of the epithet
_green_. What occult horrid meaning did the word convey to ears polite?
Why should he not say "green?"

"A very fine young man your nephew, sir," resumed Mrs. M'Catchley.

Richard grunted.

"And seems full of talent Not yet at the University? Will he go to
Oxford or Cambridge!"

"I have not made up my mind yet, if I shall send him to the University
at all."

"A young man of his expectations!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Catchley, artfully.

"Expectations!" repeated Richard, firing up. "Has the boy been talking
to you of his expectations?"

"No, indeed, sir. But the nephew of the rich Mr. Avenel. Ah, one hears a
great deal, you know, of rich people; it is the penalty of wealth, Mr.
Avenel!"

Richard was very much flattered. His crest rose.

"And they say," continued Mrs. M'Catchley, dropping out her words very
slowly, as she adjusted her blonde scarf, "that Mr. Avenel has resolved
not to marry."

"The devil they do, ma'am!" bolted out Richard, gruffly; and then,
ashamed of his _lapsus linguæ_, screwed up his lips firmly, and glared
on the company with an eye of indignant fire.

Mrs. M'Catchley observed him over her fan. Richard turned abruptly, and
she withdrew her eyes modestly, and raised the fan.

"She's a real beauty," said Richard, between his teeth.

The fan fluttered.

Five minutes afterwards, the widow and the bachelor seemed so much at
their ease that Mrs. Pompley--who had been forced to leave her friend,
in order to receive the Dean's lady--could scarcely believe her eyes
when she returned to the sofa.

Now, it was from that evening that Mr. Richard Avenel exhibited the
change of mood which I have described. And from that evening he
abstained from taking Leonard with him to any of the parties in the
Abbey Gardens.


CHAPTER IX.

Some days after this memorable _soirée_, Colonel Pompley sat alone in
his drawing-room (which opened pleasantly on an old-fashioned garden)
absorbed in the house bills. For Colonel Pompley did not leave that
domestic care to his lady--perhaps she was too grand for it. Colonel
Pompley with his own sonorous voice ordered the joints, and with his own
heroic hand dispensed the stores. In justice to the Colonel, I must
add--at whatever risk of offence to the fair sex--that there was not a
house at Screwstown so well managed as the Pompleys'; none which so
successfully achieved the difficult art of uniting economy with show. I
should despair of conveying to you an idea of the extent to which
Colonel Pompley made his income go. It was but seven hundred a-year; and
many a family contrive to do less upon three thousand. To be sure, the
Pompleys had no children to sponge upon them. What they had, they spent
all on themselves. Neither, if the Pompleys never exceeded their income,
did they pretend to live much within it. The two ends of the year met at
Christmas--just met, and no more.

Colonel Pompley sat at his desk. He was in his well brushed blue
coat--buttoned across his breast--his gray trowsers fitted tight to his
limbs, and fastened under his boots with a link chain. He saved a great
deal of money in straps. No one ever saw Colonel Pompley in
dressing-gown and slippers. He and his house were alike in order--always
fit to be seen--

    "From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve."

The Colonel was a short compact man, inclined to be stout--with a very
red face, that seemed not only shaved, but rasped. He wore his hair
cropped close, except just in front, where it formed what the
hairdresser called a feather; but it seemed a feather of iron, so stiff
and so strong was it. Firmness and precision were emphatically marked
on the Colonel's countenance. There was a resolute strain on his
features, as if he was always employed in making the two ends meet!

So he sat before his house-book, with his steel pen in his hand, and
making crosses here and notes of interrogation there. "Mrs. M'Catchley's
maid," said the Colonel to himself, "must be put upon rations. The tea
that she drinks! Good Heavens!--tea again!"

There was a modest ring at the outer door. "Too early for a visitor!"
thought the Colonel. "Perhaps it is the water rates."

The neat man-servant--never seen, beyond the offices, save in _grande
tenue_, plushed and powdered--entered, and bowed.

"A gentleman, sir, wishes to see you."

"A gentleman," repeated the Colonel, glancing towards the clock. "Are
you sure it is a gentleman?"

The man hesitated. "Why, sir, I ben't exactly sure; but he speaks like a
gentleman. He do say he comes from London to see you, sir."

A long and interesting correspondence was then being held between the
Colonel and one of his wife's trustees touching the investment of Mrs.
Pompley's fortune. It might be the trustee--nay, it must be. The trustee
had talked of running down to see him.

"Let him come in," said the Colonel; "and when I ring--sandwiches and
sherry."

"Beef, sir?"

"Ham."

The Colonel put aside his house-book, and wiped his pen.

In another minute the door opened, and the servant announced

    "MR. DIGBY."

The Colonel's face fell, and he staggered back.

The door closed, and Mr. Digby stood in the middle of the room, leaning
on the great writing-table for support. The poor soldier looked sicklier
and shabbier, and nearer the end of all things in life and fortune, than
when Lord L'Estrange had thrust the pocket-book into his hands. But
still the servant showed knowledge of the world in calling him
gentleman; there was no other word to apply to him.

"Sir," began Colonel Pompley, recovering himself, and with great
solemnity, "I did not expect this pleasure."

The poor visitor stared round him dizzily, and sank into a chair,
breathing hard. The Colonel looked as a man only looks upon a poor
relation, and buttoned up first one trowser-pocket and then the other.

"I thought you were in Canada," said the Colonel at last.

Mr. Digby had now got breath to speak, and he said meekly, "The climate
would have killed my child, and it is two years since I returned."

"You ought to have found a very good place in England, to make it worth
your while to leave Canada."

"She could not have lived through another winter in Canada--the doctor
said so."

"Pooh," quoth the Colonel.

Mr. Digby drew a long breath. "I would not come to you, Colonel Pompley,
while you could think that I came as a beggar for myself."

The Colonel's brow relaxed. "A very honorable sentiment, Mr. Digby."

"No: I have gone through a great deal; but you see, Colonel," added the
poor relation, with a faint smile, "the campaign is wellnigh over, and
peace is at hand."

The Colonel seemed touched.

"Don't talk so, Digby--I don't like it. You are younger than I
am--nothing more disagreeable than these gloomy views of things. You
have got enough to live upon, you say--at least so I understand you. I
am very glad to hear it; and, indeed, I could not assist you, so many
claims on me. So it is all very well, Digby."

"Oh, Colonel Pompley," cried the soldier, clasping his hands, and with
feverish energy, "I am a suppliant, not for myself, but my child! I have
but one--only one--a girl. She has been so good to me. She will cost you
little. Take here when I die; promise her a shelter--a home. I ask no
more. You are my nearest relative. I have no other to look to. You have
no children of your own. She will be a blessing to you, as she has been
all upon earth to me!"

If Colonel Pompley's face was red in ordinary hours, no epithet
sufficiently rubicund or sanguineous can express its color at this
appeal. "The man's mad," he said at last, with a tone of astonishment
that almost concealed his wrath--"stark mad! I take his child!--lodge
and board a great, positive, hungry child! Why, sir, many and many a
time have I said to Mrs. Pompley, ''Tis a mercy we have no children. We
could never live in this style if we had children--never make both ends
meet.' Child--the most expensive, ravenous, ruinous thing in the
world--a child!"

"She has been accustomed to starve," said Mr. Digby, plaintively. "Oh,
Colonel, let me see your wife. _Her_ heart I can touch--she is a woman."

Unlucky father! A more untoward, unseasonable request the Fates could
not have put into his lips.

Mrs. Pompley see the Digbies! Mrs. Pompley learn the condition of the
Colonel's grand connections! The Colonel would never have been his own
man again. At the bare idea, he felt as if he could have sunk into the
earth with shame. In his alarm he made a stride to the door, with the
intention of locking it. Good heavens, if Mrs. Pompley should come in!
And the man, too, had been announced by name. Mrs. Pompley might have
learned already that a Digby was with her husband--she might be actually
dressing to receive him worthily--there was not a moment to lose.

The Colonel exploded. "Sir, I wonder at your impudence. See Mrs.
Pompley! Hush, sir, hush!--hold your tongue. I have disowned your
connection. I will not have my wife--a woman, sir, of the first
family--disgraced by it. Yes; you need not fire up. John Pompley is not
a man to be bullied in his own house. I say disgraced. Did not you run
into debt, and spend your fortune? Did not you marry a low creature--a
vulgarian--a tradesman's daughter?--and your poor father such a
respectable man--a beneficed clergyman! Did not you sell your
commission! Heaven knows what became of the money! Did not you turn (I
shudder to say it) a common stage-player, sir? And then, when you were
on your last legs, did I not give you £200 out of my own purse to go to
Canada? And now here you are again--and ask me, with a coolness
that--that takes away my breath--takes away--my breath, sir--to provide
for the child you have thought proper to have;--a child whose
connections on the mother's side are of the most abject and
discreditable condition. Leave my house, leave it--good heavens, sir,
not that way!--this." And the Colonel opened the glass door that led
into the garden. "I will let you out this way. If Mrs. Pompley should
see you!" And with that thought the Colonel absolutely hooked his arm
into his poor relation's, and hurried him into the garden.

Mr. Digby said not a word, but he struggled ineffectually to escape from
the Colonel's arm; and his color went and came, came and went, with a
quickness that showed that in those shrunken veins there were still some
drops of a soldier's blood.

But the Colonel had now reached a little postern-door in the garden
wall. He opened the latch, and thrust out his poor cousin. Then looking
down the lane, which was long, straight, and narrow, and seeing it was
quite solitary, his eye fell upon the forlorn man, and remorse shot
through his heart. For a moment the hardest of all kinds of avarice,
that of the _genteel_, relaxed its gripe. For a moment the most
intolerant of all forms of pride, that which is based upon false
pretences, hushed its voice, and the Colonel hastily drew out his purse.
"There," said he--"that is all I can do for you. Do leave the town as
quick as you can, and don't mention your name to any one. Your father
was such a respectable man--beneficed clergyman!"

"And paid for your commission, Mr. Pompley. My name!--I am not ashamed
of it. But do not fear I shall claim your relationship. No; I am ashamed
of _you_!"

The poor cousin put aside the purse, still stretched towards him, with a
scornful hand, and walked firmly down the lane.

Colonel Pompley stood irresolute. At that moment a window in his house
was thrown open. He heard the noise, turned round, and saw his wife
looking out.

Colonel Pompley sneaked back through the shrubbery, hiding himself
amongst the trees.


CHAPTER X.

"Ill-luck is a _bêtise_," said the great Cardinal Richelieu; and on the
long run, I fear, his eminence was right. If you could drop Dick Avenel
and Mr. Digby in the middle of Oxford-street--Dick in a fustian jacket,
Digby in a suit of superfine--Dick with five shillings in his pocket,
Digby with a thousand pounds--and if, at the end of ten years, you
looked up your two men, Dick would be on his road to a fortune,
Digby--what we have seen him! Yet Digby had no vice; he did not drink,
nor gamble. What was he, then? Helpless. He had been an only son--a
spoiled child--brought up as a "gentleman;" that is, as a man who was
not expected to be able to turn his hand to any thing. He entered, as we
have seen, a very expensive regiment, wherein he found himself, at his
father's death, with £4000, and the incapacity to say "No." Not
naturally extravagant, but without an idea of the value of money--the
easiest, gentlest, best-tempered man whom example ever led astray. This
part of his career comprised a very common history--the poor man living
on equal terms with the rich. Debt; recourse to usurers; bills signed
sometimes for others, renewed at twenty per cent.; the £4000 melted like
snow; pathetic appeal to relations; relations have children of their
own; small help given grudgingly, eked out by much advice, and coupled
with conditions. Amongst the conditions there was a very proper and
prudent one--exchange into a less expensive regiment. Exchange effected;
peace; obscure country quarters; _ennui_, flute-playing, and idleness.
Mr. Digby had no resources on a rainy day--except flute-playing; pretty
girl of inferior rank; all the officers after her; Digby smitten; pretty
girl very virtuous; Digby forms honorable intentions; excellent
sentiments; imprudent marriage. Digby falls in life; colonel's lady will
not associate with Mrs. Digby; Digby cut by his whole kith and kin; many
disagreeable circumstances in regimental life; Digby sells out; love in
a cottage; execution in ditto. Digby had been much applauded as an
amateur actor; thinks of the stage; genteel comedy--a gentlemanlike
profession. Tries in a provincial town, under another name; unhappily
succeeds; life of an actor; hand-to-mouth life; illness; chest affected;
Digby's voice becomes hoarse and feeble; not aware of it; attributes
failing success to ignorant provincial public; appears in London; is
hissed; returns to provinces; sinks into very small parts; prison;
despair; wife dies; appeal again to relations; a subscription
made to get rid of him; send him out of the country; place in
Canada--superintendent to an estate, £150 a-year; pursued by ill-luck;
never before fit for business, not fit now; honest as the day, but keeps
slovenly accounts; child cannot bear the winter of Canada; Digby wrapped
up in the child; return home; mysterious life for two years; child
patient, thoughtful, loving; has learned to work; manages for father;
often supports him; constitution rapidly breaking; thought of what will
become of this child--worst disease of all. Poor Digby!--Never did a
base, cruel, unkind thing in his life; and here he is, walking down the
lane from Colonel Pompley's house! Now, if Digby had but learned a
little of the world's cunning, I think he would have succeeded even with
Colonel Pompley. Had he spent the £100 received from Lord l'Estrange
with a view to effect--had he bestowed a fitting wardrobe on himself and
his pretty Helen; had he stopped at the last stage, taken thence a smart
chaise and pair, and presented himself at Colonel Pompley's in a way
that would not have discredited the Colonel's connection, and then,
instead of praying for home and shelter, asked the Colonel to become
guardian to his child in case of his death, I have a strong notion that
the Colonel, in spite of his avarice, would have stretched both ends so
as to take in Helen Digby. But our poor friend had no such arts. Indeed,
of the £100 he had already very little left, for before leaving
town he had committed what Sheridan considered the extreme of
extravagance--frittered away his money in paying his debts; and as for
dressing up Helen and himself--if that thought had ever occurred to him,
he would have rejected it as foolish. He would have thought that the
more he showed his poverty, the more he would be pitied--the worst
mistake a poor cousin can commit. According to Theophrastus, the
partridge of Paphlagonia has two hearts; so have most men: it is the
common mistake of the unlucky to knock at the wrong one.


CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Digby entered the room of the inn in which he had left Helen. She
was seated by the window, and looking out wistfully on the narrow
street, perhaps at the children at play. There had never been a playtime
for Helen Digby. She sprang forward as her father came in. His coming
was her holiday.

"We must go back to London," said Mr. Digby, sinking helplessly on the
chair. Then with his sort of sickly smile--for he was bland even to his
child--"Will you kindly inquire when the first coach leaves?"

All the active cares of their careful life devolved upon that quiet
child. She kissed her father, placed before him a cough mixture which he
had brought from London, and went out silently to make the necessary
inquiries, and prepare for the journey back.

At eight o'clock the father and child were seated in the night-coach,
with one other passenger--a man muffled up to the chin. After the first
mile, the man let down one of the windows. Though it was summer, the air
was chill and raw. Digby shivered and coughed.

Helen placed her hand on the window, and, leaning towards the passenger,
whispered softly.

"Eh!" said the passenger, "draw up the windows? You have got your own
window; this is mine. Oxygen, young lady," he added solemnly, "oxygen is
the breath of life. Cott, child!" he continued, with suppressed choler,
and a Welsh pronunciation, "Cott! let us breathe and live."

Helen was frightened, and recoiled.

Her father, who had not heard, or had not heeded, this colloquy,
retreated into the corner, put up the collar of his coat, and coughed
again.

"It is cold, my dear," said he languidly to Helen.

The passenger caught the word, and replied indignantly, but as if
soliloquizing--

"Cold--ugh! I do believe the English are the stuffiest people! Look at
their four-post beds?--all the curtains drawn, shutters closed, board
before the chimney--not a house with a ventilator! Cold--ugh!"

The window next Mr. Digby did not fit well into its frame.

"There is a sad draught," said the invalid.

Helen instantly occupied herself in stopping up the chinks of the window
with her handkerchief. Mr. Digby glanced ruefully at the other window.
The look, which was very eloquent, aroused yet more the traveller's
spleen.

"Pleasant!" said he. "Cott! I suppose you will ask me to go outside
next! But people who travel in a coach should know the law of a coach. I
don't interfere with your window; you have no business to interfere with
mine."

"Sir, I did not speak," said Mr. Digby meekly.

"But Miss here did."

"Ah, sir!" said Helen plaintively, "if you knew how papa suffers!" And
her hand again moved towards the obnoxious window.

"No, my dear: the gentleman is in his right," said Mr. Digby; and,
bowing with his wonted suavity, he added, "Excuse her, sir. She thinks a
great deal too much of me."

The passenger said nothing, and Helen nestled closer to her father, and
strove to screen him from the air.

The passenger moved uneasily. "Well," said he, with a sort of snort,
"air is air, and right is right: but here goes"--and he hastily drew up
the window.

Helen turned her face full towards the passenger with a grateful
expression, visible even in the dim light.

"You are very kind, sir," said poor Mr. Digby; "I am ashamed to"--his
cough choked the rest of the sentence.

The passenger, who was a plethoric, sanguineous man, felt as if he were
stifling. But he took off his wrappers, and resigned the oxygen like a
hero.

Presently he drew nearer to the sufferer, and laid hand on his wrist.

"You are feverish, I fear. I am a medical man. St!--one--two. Cott! you
should not travel; you are not fit for it!"

Mr. Digby shook his head; he was too feeble to reply.

The passenger thrust his hand into his coat-pocket, and drew out what
seemed a cigar-case, but what, in fact, was a leathern repertory,
containing a variety of minute phials. From one of these phials he
extracted two tiny globules. "There," said he; "open your mouth--put
those on the tip of your tongue. They will lower the pulse--check the
fever. Be better presently--but should not travel--want rest--you should
be in bed. Aconite!--Henbane!--hum! Your papa is of fair complexion--a
timid character, I should say--a horror of work, perhaps. Eh, child?"

"Sir!" faltered Helen, astonished and alarmed--Was the man a conjuror?

"A case for _phosphor_!" cried the passenger; "that fool Browne would
have said _arsenic_. Don't be persuaded to take arsenic."

"Arsenic, sir!" echoed the mild Digby. "No; however unfortunate a man
may be, I think, sir, that suicide is--tempting, perhaps, but highly
criminal."

"Suicide," said the passenger tranquilly--"suicide is my hobby! You have
no symptom of that kind, you say?"

"Good heavens! No, sir."

"If ever you feel violently impelled to drown yourself, take
_pulsatilla_. But if you feel a preference towards blowing out your
brains, accompanied with weight in the limbs, loss of appetite, dry
cough, and bad corns--_sulphuret of antimony_. Don't forget."

Though poor Mr. Digby confusedly thought that the gentleman was out of
his mind, yet he tried politely to say "that he was much obliged, and
would be sure to remember;" but his tongue failed him, and his own ideas
grew perplexed. His head fell back heavily, and he sank into a silence
which seemed that of sleep.

The traveller looked hard at Helen, as she gently drew her father's head
on her shoulder, and there pillowed it with a tenderness which was more
that of mother than child.

"Moral affections--soft--compassionate!--a good child and would go well
with--_pulsatilla_."

Helen held up her finger, and glanced from her father to the traveller,
and then to her father again.

"Certainly--_pulsatilla_!" muttered the homoeopathist: and, esconcing
himself in his own corner, he also sought to sleep. But, after vain
efforts, accompanied by restless gestures and movements, he suddenly
started up, and again extracted his phial-book.

"What the deuce are they to me!" he muttered; "morbid sensibility of
character--_coffee_? No!--accompanied by vivacity and violence--_Nux_!"
He brought his book to the window, contrived to read the label on a
pigmy bottle. "_Nux!_ that's it," he said--and he swallowed a globule!

"Now," quoth he, after a pause, "I don't care a straw for the
misfortunes of other people--nay, I have half a mind to let down the
window."

Helen looked up.

"But I won't," he added resolutely; and this time he fell fairly asleep.


CHAPTER XII.

The coach stopped at eleven o'clock, to allow the passengers to sup. The
homoeopathist woke up, got out, gave himself a shake, and inhaled the
fresh air into his vigorous lungs with an evident sensation of delight.
He then turned and looked into the coach.

"Let your father get out, my dear," said he, with a tone more gentle
than usual. "I should like to see him in-doors--perhaps I can do him
good."

But what was Helen's terror when she found that her father did not stir.
He was in a deep swoon, and still quite insensible when they lifted him
from the carriage. When he recovered his senses, his cough returned, and
the effort brought up blood.

It was impossible for him to proceed farther. The homoeopathist
assisted to undress and put him into bed. And having administered
another of his mysterious globules, he inquired of the landlady how far
it was to the nearest doctor--for the inn stood by itself in a small
hamlet. There was the parish apothecary three miles off. But on hearing
that the gentlefolks employed Dr. Dosewell, and it was a good seven
miles to his house, the homoeopathist fetched a deep breath. The coach
only stopped a quarter of an hour.

"Cott!" said he angrily to himself--"the _nux_ was a failure. My
sensibility is chronic. I must go through a long course to get rid of
it. Hallo, guard! get out my carpet-bag. I shan't go on to-night."

And the good man, after a very slight supper, went up stairs again to
the sufferer.

"Shall I send for Dr. Dosewell, sir?" asked the landlady, stopping him
at the door.

"Hum! At what hour to-morrow does the next coach to London pass?"

"Not before eight, sir."

"Well, send for the doctor to be here at seven. That leaves us at least
some hours free from allopathy and murder," grunted the disciple of
Hahnemann, as he entered the room.

Whether it was the globule that the homoeopathist had administered, or
the effect of nature, aided by repose, that checked the effusion of
blood, and restored some temporary strength to the poor sufferer, is
more than it becomes one not of the Faculty to opine. But certainly Mr.
Digby seemed better, and he gradually fell into a profound sleep, but
not till the doctor had put his ear to his chest, tapped it with his
hand, and asked several questions; after which the homoeopathist
retired into a corner of the room, and, leaning his face on his hand,
seemed to meditate. From his thoughts he was disturbed by a gentle
touch. Helen was kneeling at his feet.

"Is he very ill--very?" said she; and her fond wistful eyes were fixed
on the physician's with all the earnestness of despair.

"Your father _is_ very ill," replied the doctor after a short pause. "He
cannot move hence for some days at least. I am going to London--shall I
call on your relations, and tell some of them to join you?"

"No, thank you, sir," answered Helen, coloring. "But do not fear; I can
nurse papa. I think he has been worse before--that is, he has complained
more."

The homoeopathist rose and took two strides across the room, then he
paused by the bed, and listened to the breathing of the sleeping man.

He stole back to the child, who was still kneeling, took her in his arms
and kissed her. "Tamm it," said he angrily, and putting her down, "go to
bed now--you are not wanted any more."

"Please, sir," said Helen, "I cannot leave him so. If he wakes he would
miss me."

The doctor's hand trembled; he had recourse to his globules. "Anxiety,
grief suppressed," muttered he. "Don't you want to cry, my dear?
Cry--do!"

"I can't," murmured Helen.

"_Pulsatilla!_" said the doctor, almost with triumph. "I said so from
the first. Open your mouth--here! Good night. My room is opposite--No.
6; call me if he wakes."


CHAPTER XIII.

At seven o'clock Dr. Dosewell arrived, and was shown into the room of
the homoeopathist, who, already up and dressed, had visited his
patient.

"My name is Morgan," said the homoeopathist; "I am a physician. I
leave in your hands a patient whom, I fear, neither I nor you can
restore. Come and look at him."

The two doctors went into the sick-room. Mr. Digby was very feeble, but
he had recovered his consciousness, and inclined his head courteously.

"I am sorry to cause so much trouble," said he. The homoeopathist drew
away Helen; the allopathist seated himself by the bedside and put his
questions, felt the pulse, sounded the lungs, and looked at the tongue
of the patient. Helen's eye was fixed on the strange doctor, and her
color rose, and her eye sparkled when he got up cheerfully, and said in
a pleasant voice. "You may have a little tea."

"Tea!" growled the homoeopathist--"barbarian!"

"He is better, then, sir?" said Helen, creeping to the allopathist.

"Oh, yes, my dear--certainly; and we shall do very well, I hope."

The two doctors then withdrew.

"Last about a week!" said Dr. Dosewell, smiling pleasantly, and showing
a very white set of teeth.

"I should have said a month; but our systems are different," replied Dr.
Morgan, drily.

_Dr. Dosewell_, (courteously).--"We country doctors bow to our
metropolitan superiors; what would you advise? You would venture,
perhaps, the experiment of bleeding."

_Dr. Morgan_, (spluttering and growing Welsh, which he never did but in
excitement). "Pleed! Cott in heaven! do you think I am a butcher--an
executioner? Pleed! Never."

_Dr. Dosewell._--"I don't find it answer, myself, when both lungs are
gone! But perhaps you are for inhaling."

_Dr. Morgan._--"Fiddledee!"

_Dr. Dosewell_, (with some displeasure).--"What would you advise, then,
in order to prolong our patient's life for a month?"

_Dr. Morgan._--"Stop the hæmoptysis--give him _rhus_!"

_Dr. Dosewell._--"Rhus, sir! _Rhus!_ I don't know that medicine.
_Rhus!_"

_Dr. Morgan._--"_Rhus toxicodendron._"

The length of the last word excited Dr. Dosewell's respect. A word of
five syllables--this was something like! He bowed deferentially, but
still looked puzzled. At last he said, smiling frankly, "You great
London practitioners have so many new medicines; may I ask what Rhus
toxico--toxico--

"Dendron."

"Is?"

"The juice of the Upas--vulgarly called the Poison-Tree."

Dr. Dosewell started.

"Upas--poison-tree--little birds that come under the shade fall down
dead! You give upas juice in hæmoptysis--what's the dose?"

Dr. Morgan grinned maliciously, and produced a globule the size of a
small pin's head.

Dr. Dosewell recoiled in disgust.

"Oh!" said he very coldly, and assuming at once an air of superb
superiority, "I see--a homoeopathist, sir!"

"A homoeopathist!"

"Um!"

"Um!"

"A strange system, Dr. Morgan," said Dr. Dosewell, recovering his
cheerful smile, but with a curl of contempt in it, "and would soon do
for the druggists."

"Serve 'em right. The druggists soon do for the patients."

"Sir!"

"Sir!"

_Dr. Dosewell_, (with dignity.)--"You don't know, perhaps, Dr. Morgan,
that I am an apothecary as well as a surgeon. In fact," he added, with a
certain grand humility, "I have not yet taken a diploma, and am but
Doctor by courtesy."

_Dr. Morgan._--"All one, sir! Doctor signs the death-warrant--'pothecary
does the deed!"

_Dr. Dosewell_, (with a withering sneer.)--"Certainly we don't profess
to keep a dying man alive upon the juice of the deadly upas-tree."

_Dr. Morgan_, (complacently.)--"Of course you don't. There are no
poisons with us. That's just the difference between you and me, Dr.
Dosewell!"

_Dr. Dosewell_, (pointing to the homoeopathist's travelling
pharmacopoeia, and with affected candor.)--"Indeed, I have always said
that if you can do no good, you can do no harm, with your
infinitesimals."

Dr. Morgan, who had been obtuse to the insinuation of poisoning, fires
up violently at the charge of doing no harm.

"You know nothing about it! I could kill quite as many people as you, if
I chose it; but I don't choose."

_Dr. Dosewell_, (shrugging up his shoulders.)--"Sir! 'tis no use
arguing; the thing's against common sense. In short, it is my firm
belief that it is--is a complete--"

_Dr. Morgan._--"A complete what?"

_Dr. Dosewell_, (provoked to the utmost.)--"Humbug!"

_Dr. Morgan._--"Humbug! Cott in heaven! You old--"

_Dr. Dosewell._--"Old what, sir?"

_Dr. Morgan_, (at home in a series of alliteral vowels, which none but a
Cymbrian could have uttered without gasping.)--"Old allopathical
anthropophagite!"

_Dr. Dosewell_, (starting up, seizing by the back the chair on which he
had sate, and bringing it down violently on its four legs)--"Sir!"

_Dr. Morgan_, (imitating the action with his own chair.)--"Sir!"

_Dr. Dosewell._--"You're abusive."

_Dr. Morgan._--"You're impertinent."

_Dr. Dosewell._--"Sir!"

_Dr. Morgan._--"Sir!"

The two rivals fronted each other.

They were both athletic men, and fiery men. Dr. Dosewell was the taller,
but Dr. Morgan was the stouter. Dr. Dosewell on the mother's side was
Irish; but Dr. Morgan on both sides was Welsh. All things considered, I
would have backed Dr. Morgan if it had come to blows. But, luckily for
the honor of science, here the chambermaid knocked at the door, and
said, "The coach is coming, sir."

Dr. Morgan recovered his temper and his manners at that announcement.
"Dr. Dosewell," said he, "I have been too hot--I apologize."

"Dr. Morgan," answered the allopathist, "I forgot myself. Your hand,
sir."

_Dr. Morgan._--"We are both devoted to humanity, though with different
opinions. We should respect each other."

_Dr. Dosewell._--"Where look for liberality, if men of science are
illiberal to their brethren?"

_Dr. Morgan_, (aside.)--"The old hypocrite! He would pound me in a
mortar if the law would let him."

_Dr. Dosewell_, (aside.)--"The wretched charlatan! I should like to
pound him in a mortar."

_Dr. Morgan._--"Good-bye, my esteemed and worthy brother."

_Dr. Dosewell._--"My excellent friend, good-bye."

_Dr. Morgan_, (returning in haste.)--"I forgot. I don't think our poor
patient is very rich. I confide him to your disinterested
benevolence."--(Hurries away.)

_Dr. Dosewell_, (in a rage.)--"Seven miles at six o'clock in the
morning, and perhaps done out of my fee! Quack! Villain!"

Meanwhile, Dr. Morgan had returned to the sick-room.

"I must wish you farewell," said he to poor Mr. Digby, who was languidly
sipping his tea, "But you are in the hands of a--of a--gentleman in the
profession."

"You have been too kind--I am shocked," said Mr. Digby. "Helen, where's
my purse?"

Dr. Morgan paused.

He paused, first, because it must be owned that his practice was
restricted, and a fee gratified the vanity natural to unappreciated
talent, and had the charm of novelty which is sweet to human nature
itself. Secondly, he was a man

    "Who knew his rights, and, knowing, dared maintain."

He had resigned a coach fare--slaved a night--and thought he had
relieved his patient. He had a right to his fee.

On the other hand he paused, because, though he had small practice, he
was tolerably well off, and did not care for money itself, and he
suspected his patient to be no Cresus.

Meanwhile, the purse was in Helen's hand. He took it from her, and saw
but a few sovereigns within the well-worn network. He drew the child a
little aside.

"Answer me, my dear, frankly--is your papa rich?" And he glanced at the
shabby clothes strewed on the chair, and Helen's faded frock.

"Alas, no!" said Helen, hanging her head.

"Is that all you have?"

"All."

"I am ashamed to offer you two guineas," said Mr. Digby's hollow voice
from the bed.

"And I should be still more ashamed to take them. Good-bye, sir. Come
here, my child. Keep your money, and don't waste it on the other doctor
more than you can help. His medicines can do your father no good. But I
suppose you must have some. He's no physician, therefore there's no fee.
He'll send a bill--it can't be much. You understand. And now, God bless
you."

Dr. Morgan was off. But as he paid the landlady his bill, he said
considerately, "The poor people up stairs can pay you, but not that
doctor--and he's of no use. Be kind to the little girl, and get the
doctor to tell his patient (quietly, of course) to write to his
friends--soon--you understand. Somebody must take charge of the poor
child. And stop--hold your hand; take care--these globules for the
little girl when her father dies--(here the Doctor muttered to himself,
'grief;--_aconite_')--and if she cries too much afterwards--these (don't
mistake.) Tears:--_caustic_!"

"Come, sir," cried the coachman.

"Coming;--tears--_caustic_," repeated the homoeopathist, pulling out
his handkerchief and his phial-book together as he got into the coach;
and he hastily swallowed his anti-lachrymal.


CHAPTER XIV.

Richard Avenal was in a state of great nervous excitement. He proposed
to give an entertainment of a kind wholly new to the experience of
Screwstown. Mrs. M'Catchley had described with much eloquence the
_Déjeûnés dansants_ of her fashionable friends residing in the elegant
suburbs of Wimbledon and Fulham. She declared that nothing was so
agreeable. She had even said point-blank to Mr. Avenel, "Why don't you
give a _Déjeûné dansant_?" And, therewith, a _Déjeûné dansant_ Mr.
Avenel resolved to give.

The day was fixed, and Mr. Avenel entered into all the requisite
preparations with the energy of a man and the providence of a woman.

One morning as he stood musing on the lawn, irresolute as to the best
site for the tents, Leonard came up to him with an open letter in his
hand.

"My dear uncle," said he, softly.

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Avenel, with a start. "Ha--well--what now?"

"I have just received a letter from Mr. Dale. He tells me that my poor
mother is very restless and uneasy, because he cannot assure her that he
has heard from me; and his letter requires an answer. Indeed, I shall
seem very ungrateful to him--to all--if I do not write."

Richard Avenel's brows met. He uttered an impatient "pish!" and turned
away. Then coming back, he fixed his clear hawk-like eye on Leonard's
ingenuous countenance, linked his arm in his nephew's, and drew him into
the shrubbery.

"Well, Leonard," said he, after a pause, "it is time that I should give
you some idea of my plans with regard to you. You have seen my manner of
living--some difference from what you ever saw before, I calculate. Now
I have given you, what no one gave me, a lift in the world; and where I
place you, there you must help yourself."

"Such is my duty and my desire," said Leonard, heartily.

"Good. You are a clever lad, and a genteel lad, and will do me credit. I
have had doubts of what is best for you. At one time I thought of
sending you to college. That, I know, is Mr. Dale's wish; perhaps it is
your own. But I have given up that idea; I have something better for
you. You have a clear head for business, and are a capital
arithmetician. I think of bringing you up to superintend my business:
by-and-by I will admit you into partnership; and before you are thirty
you will be a rich man. Come, does that suit you?"

"My dear uncle," said Leonard frankly, but much touched by this
generosity, "it is not for me to have a choice. I should have preferred
going to college, because there I might gain independence for myself,
and cease to be a burden on you. Moreover, my heart moves me to studies
more congenial with the college than the counting-house. But all this is
nothing compared with my wish to be of use to you, and to prove in any
way, however feebly, my gratitude for all your kindness."

"You're a good, grateful, sensible lad," exclaimed Richard heartily;
"and believe me, though I'm a rough diamond, I have your true interest
at heart. You _can_ be of use to me, and in being so you will best serve
yourself. To tell you the truth, I have some idea of changing my
condition. There's a lady of fashion and quality who, I think, may
condescend to become Mrs. Avenel; and if so, I shall probably reside a
great part of the year in London. I don't want to give up my business.
No other investment will yield the same interest. But you can soon learn
to superintend it for me, as some day or other I may retire, and then
you can step in. Once a member of our great commercial class, and with
your talents, you may be any thing--member of parliament, and after
that, minister of state, for what I know. And my wife--hem!--that is to
be--has great connections, and you shall marry well; and--oh, the
Avenels will hold their heads with the highest, after all! Damn the
aristocracy--we clever fellows will be the aristocrats--eh!" Richard
rubbed his hands.

Certainly, as we have seen, Leonard, especially in his earlier steps to
knowledge, had repined at his position in the many degrees of
life--certainly he was still ambitious--certainly he could not now have
returned contentedly to the humble occupation he had left; and woe to
the young man who does not hear with a quickened pulse, and brightening
eye, words that promise independence, and flatter with a hope of
distinction. Still, it was with all the reaction of chill and mournful
disappointment that Leonard, a few hours after this dialogue with his
uncle, found himself alone in the fields, and pondering over the
prospects before him. He had set his heart upon completing his
intellectual education, upon developing those powers within him which
yearned for an arena of literature, and revolted from the routine of
trade. But to his credit be it said that he vigorously resisted this
natural disappointment, and by degrees schooled himself to look
cheerfully on the path imposed on his duty, and sanctioned by the manly
sense that was at the core of his character.

I believe that this self-conquest showed that the boy had true genius.
The false genius would have written sonnets and despaired.

But still Richard Avenel left his nephew sadly perplexed as to the
knotty question from which their talk on the future had diverged--viz.
should he write to the parson; and assure the fears of his mother? How
do so without Richard's consent, when Richard had on a former occasion
so imperiously declared that, if he did, it would lose his mother all
that Richard intended to settle on her. While he was debating this
matter with his conscience, leaning against a stile that interrupted a
path to the town, Leonard Fairfield was startled by an exclamation. He
looked up, and beheld Mr. Sprott the tinker.


CHAPTER XV.

The tinker, blacker and grimmer than ever, stared hard at the altered
person of his old acquaintance, and extended his sable fingers, as if
inclined to convince himself by the sense of touch, that it was Leonard
in the flesh that he beheld, under vestments so marvellously elegant and
preternaturally spruce.

Leonard shrank mechanically from the contact, while in great surprise he
faltered--

"You here, Mr. Sprott! What could bring you so far from home?"

"'Ome!" echoed the tinker, "I 'as no 'ome! or rayther, d'ye see, Muster
Fairfilt, I makes myself at 'ome verever I goes! Lor' love ye I ben't
settled in no parridge. I vanders here and vanders there, and that's my
'ome verever I can mend my kettles, and sell my tracks!"

So saying, the tinker slid his panniers on the ground, gave a grunt of
release and satisfaction, and seated himself with great composure on the
stile, from which Leonard had retreated.

"But, dash my vig," resumed Mr. Sprott, as he once more surveyed
Leonard, "vy, you bees a rale gentleman now, sure_ly_. Vot's the
dodge--eh?"

"Dodge!" repeated Leonard mechanically--"I don't understand you." Then,
thinking that it was neither necessary nor expedient to keep up his
acquaintance with Mr. Sprott, nor prudent to expose himself to the
battery of questions which he foresaw that further parley would bring
upon him, he extended a crown-piece to the tinker; and saying with a
half smile, "You must excuse me for leaving you--I have business in the
town; and do me the favor to accept this trifle," he walked briskly off.

The tinker looked long at the crown-piece, and sliding it into his
pocket, said to himself--

"Ho--'ush-money! No go, my swell cove."

After venting that brief soliloquy he sat silent a little while, till
Leonard was nearly out of sight, then rose, resumed his fardle, and
creeping quick along the hedgerows, followed Leonard towards the town.
Just in the last field, as he looked over the hedge, he saw Leonard
accosted by a gentleman of comely mien and important swagger. That
gentleman soon left the young man, and came, whistling loud, up the
path, and straight towards the tinker. Mr. Sprott looked round, but the
hedge was too neat to allow of a hiding-place, so he put a bold front
on, and stepped forth like a man. But, alas for him! before he got into
the public path, the proprietor of the land, Mr. Richard Avenel, (for
the gentleman was no less a personage) had spied out the trespasser, and
called to him with a "Hillo, fellow," that spoke all the dignity of a
man who owns acres, and all the wrath of a man who beholds those acres
impudently invaded.

The tinker stopped, and Mr. Avenel stalked up to him. "What the devil
are you doing on my property, lurking by my hedge? I suspect you are an
incendiary!"

"I be a tinker," quoth Mr. Sprott, not louting low, (for a sturdy
republican was Mr. Sprott,) but like a lord of humankind,

    "Pride in his port, defiance in his eye."

Mr. Avenel's fingers itched to knock the tinker's villanous hat off his
Jacobinical head, but he repressed the undignified impulse by thrusting
both hands deep into his trowsers' pockets.

"A tinker?" he cried--"that's a vagrant; and I'm a magistrate, and I've
a great mind to send you to the treadmill--that I have. What do you do
here, I say? You have not answered my question?"

"What does I do 'ere?" said Mr. Sprott. "Vy, you had better ax my
crakter of the young gent I saw you talking with just now; he knows me!"

"What! my nephew know you?"

"W--hew," whistled the tinker, "your nephew is it, sir? I have a great
respek for your family. I have known Mrs. Fairfilt, the vasherwoman,
this many a year. I 'umbly ax your pardon." And he took off his hat this
time.

Mr. Avenel turned red and white in a breath. He growled out something
inaudible, turned on his heel, and strode off. The tinker watched him as
he had watched Leonard, and then dogged the uncle as he had dogged the
nephew. I don't presume to say that there was cause and effect in what
happened that night, but it was what is called "a curious coincidence"
that that night one of Richard Avenel's ricks was set on fire; and that
that day he called Mr. Sprott an incendiary. Mr. Sprott was a man of
very high spirit and did not forgive an insult easily. His nature was
inflammatory, and so was that of the lucifers which he always carried
about him, with his tracts and glue-pots. The next morning there was an
inquiry made for the tinker, but he had disappeared from the
neighborhood.


CHAPTER XVI.

It was a fortunate thing that the _déjeûné dansant_ so absorbed Mr.
Richard Avenel's thoughts, that even the conflagration of his rick could
not scare away the graceful and poetic images connected with that
pastoral festivity. He was even loose and careless in the questions he
put to Leonard about the tinker; nor did he set justice in pursuit of
that itinerant trader; for, to say truth, Richard Avenel was a man
accustomed to make enemies amongst the lower orders; and though he
suspected Mr. Sprott of destroying his rick, yet, when he once set about
suspecting, he found that he had quite as good cause to suspect fifty
other persons. How on earth could a man puzzle himself about ricks and
tinkers, when all his cares and energies were devoted to a _déjeûné
dansant_? It was a maxim of Richard Avenel's, as it ought to be of
every clever man, "to do one thing at a time;" and therefore he
postponed all other considerations till the _déjeûné dansant_ was fairly
done with. Amongst these considerations was the letter which Leonard
wished to write to the parson. "Wait a bit, and we will _both_ write!"
said Richard good-humoredly, "the moment the _déjeûné dansant_ is over!"

It must be owned that this fête was no ordinary provincial ceremonial.
Richard Avenel was a man to do a thing well when he set about it--

    "He soused the cabbage with a bounteous heart."

By little and little his first notions had expanded, till what had been
meant to be only neat and elegant now embraced the costly and
magnificent. Artificers accustomed to _déjeûné dansants_ came all the
way from London to assist, to direct, to create. Hungarian singers, and
Tyrolese singers, and Swiss peasant-women who were to chant the _Ranz
des Vaches_, and milk cows or make syllabubs, were engaged. The great
marquee was decorated as a Gothic banquet hall; the breakfast itself was
to consist of "all the delicacies of the season." In short, as Richard
Avenel said to himself, "It is a thing once in a way; a thing on which I
don't object to spend money, provided that the thing _is_--the thing!"

It had been a matter of grave meditation how to make the society worthy
of the revel; for Richard Avenel was not contented with the mere
aristocracy of the town--his ambition had grown with his expenses.
"Since it will cost so much," said he, "I may as well come it strong,
and get in the county."

True, that he was personally acquainted with very few of what are called
county families. But still, when a man makes himself of mark in a large
town, and can return one of the members whom that town sends to
parliament; and when, moreover, that man proposes to give some superb
and original entertainment, in which the old can eat and the young can
dance, there is no county in the island that has not families enow who
will be delighted by an invitation from THAT MAN. And so Richard,
finding that, as the thing got talked of, the Dean's lady, and Mrs.
Pompley, and various other great personages, took the liberty to suggest
that Squire this, and Sir Somebody that, would be _so_ pleased if they
were asked, fairly took the bull by the horns, and sent out his cards to
the Park, Hall, and Rectory, within a circumference of twelve miles. He
met with but few refusals, and he now counted upon five hundred guests.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," said Mr. Richard Avenel. "I wonder
what Mrs. M'Catchley _will_ say?" Indeed, if the whole truth must be
known, Mr. Richard Avenel not only gave that _déjeûné dansant_ in honor
of Mrs. M'Catchley, but he had fixed in his heart of hearts upon that
occasion, (when surrounded by all his splendor, and assisted by the
seductive arts of Terpsichore and Bacchus,) to whisper to Mrs.
M'Catchley those soft words which--but why not here let Mr. Richard
Avenel use his own idiomatic and unsophisticated expression? "Please the
pigs, then," said Mr. Avenel to himself, "I shall pop the question."


CHAPTER XVII.

The Great Day arrived at last; and Mr. Richard Avenel, from his
dressing-room window, looked on the scene below as Hannibal or Napoleon
looked from the Alps on Italy. It was a scene to gratify the thought of
conquest, and reward the labors of ambition. Placed on a little eminence
stood the singers from the mountains of the Tyrol, their high-crowned
hats and filagree buttons and gay sashes gleaming in the sun. Just seen
from his place of watch, though concealed from the casual eye, the
Hungarian musicians lay in ambush amidst a little belt of laurels and
American shrubs. Far to the right lay what had once been called
(_horresco referens_) the duckpond, where--_Dulce sonant tenui gutture
carmen aves_. But the ruthless ingenuity of the head artificer had
converted the duckpond into a Swiss lake, despite grievous wrong and
sorrow to the _assuetum innocuumque genus_--the familiar and harmless
habitants, who had been all expatriated and banished from their native
waves. Large poles twisted with fir branches, stuck thickly around the
lake, gave to the waters the becoming Helvetian gloom. And here, beside
three cows all bedecked with ribbons, stood the Swiss maidens destined
to startle the shades with the _Ranz des Vaches_. To the left, full upon
the sward, which it almost entirely covered, stretched the great Gothic
marquee, divided into two grand sections--one for the _dancing_, one for
the _déjeûné_.

The day was propitious--not a cloud in the sky. The musicians were
already tuning their instruments; figures of waiters--hired of
Gunter--trim and decorous, in black trowsers and white waistcoats,
passed to and fro the space between the house and the marquee. Richard
looked and looked; and as he looked he drew mechanically his razor
across the strop; and when he had looked his fill, he turned reluctantly
to the glass and shaved! All that blessed morning he had been too busy,
till then, to think of shaving.

There is a vast deal of character in the way that a man performs that
operation of shaving! You should have seen Richard Avenel shave! You
could have judged at once how he would shave his neighbors, when you saw
the celerity, the completeness with which he shaved himself--a
forestroke and a backstroke, and _tondenti barba cadebat_! Cheek and
chin were as smooth as glass. You would have buttoned up your pockets
instinctively if you had seen him. But the rest of Mr. Avenel's toilet
was not completed with correspondent dispatch. On his bed, and on his
chairs, and on his sofa, and on his drawers, lay trowsers and vests, and
cravats, enough to distract the choice of a Stoic. And first one pair of
trowsers was tried on, and then another--and one waistcoat, and then a
second, and then a third. Gradually that _chef d'oeuvre_ of
civilization--a _man dressed_--grew into development and form; and,
finally. Mr. Richard Avenel emerged into the light of day. He had been
lucky in his costume--he felt it. It might not suit every one in color
or cut, but it suited him. And this was his garb. On such occasions,
what epic poet would not describe the robe and tunic of a hero?

His surtout--in modern phrase, his frock-coat--was blue, a rich blue, a
blue that the royal brothers of George the Fourth were wont to favor.
And the surtout, single-breasted, was thrown open gallantly; and in the
second button-hole thereof was a moss rose. The vest was white, and the
trowsers a pearl-gray, with what tailors style "a handsome fall over the
boot." A blue and white silk cravat, tied loose and debonair; an ample
field of shirt front, with plain gold studs; a pair of lemon-colored kid
gloves, and a white hat, placed somewhat too knowingly on one side,
complete the description, and "give the world assurance of the man."
And, with his light, firm, well-shaped figure, his clear complexion, his
keen bright eye, and features that bespoke the courage, precision, and
alertness of his character--that is to say, features bold, not large,
well-defined and regular--you might walk long through town or country
before you would see a handsomer specimen of humanity than our friend
Richard Avenel.

Handsome, and feeling that he was handsome; rich, and feeling that he
was rich; lord of the fête, and feeling that he was lord of the fête,
Richard Avenel stepped out upon his lawn.

And now the dust began to rise along the road, and carriages, and gigs,
and chaises, and flies, might be seen at near intervals and in quick
procession. People came pretty much about the same time--as they do in
the country--heaven reward them for it!

Richard Avenel was not quite at his ease at first in receiving his
guests, especially those whom he did not know by sight. But when the
dancing began, and he had secured the fair hand of Mrs. M'Catchley for
the initiatory quadrille, his courage and presence of mind returned to
him; and, seeing that many people whom he had not received at all seemed
to enjoy themselves very much, he gave up the attempt to receive those
who came after,--and that was a great relief to all parties.

Meanwhile Leonard looked on the animated scene with a silent melancholy,
which he in vain endeavored to shake off--a melancholy more common
amongst very young men in such scenes than we are apt to suppose.
Somehow or other the pleasure was not congenial to him; he had no Mrs.
M'Catchley to endear it--he knew very few people--he was shy--he felt
his position with his uncle was equivocal--he had not the habit of
society--he heard incidentally many an ill-natured remark upon his uncle
and the entertainment--he felt indignant and mortified. He had been a
great deal happier eating his radishes, and reading his book, by the
little fountain in Riccabocca's garden. He retired to a quiet part of
the grounds, seated himself under a tree, leant his cheek on his hand,
and mused. He was soon far away;--happy age, when, whatever the present,
the future seems so fair and so infinite!

But now the _déjeûné_ had succeeded the earlier dances; and, as
champagne flowed royally, it is astonishing how the entertainment
brightened.

The sun was beginning to slope towards the west, when, during a
temporary cessation of the dance, all the guests had assembled in such
space as the tent left on the lawn, or thickly filled the walks
immediately adjoining it. The gay dresses of the ladies, the joyous
laughter heard every where, and the brilliant sun light over all,
conveyed even to Leonard the notion, not of mere hypocritical pleasure,
but actual healthful happiness. He was attracted from his reverie, and
timidly mingled with the groups. But Richard Avenel, with the fair Mrs.
M'Catchley--her complexion more vivid, and her eyes more dazzling, and
her step more elastic than usual, had turned from the gayety just as
Leonard had turned towards it, and was now on the very spot (remote,
obscure, shaded by the few trees above five years old Mr. Avenel's
property boasted) which the dreamer had deserted.

And then! Ah! then! moment so meet for the sweet question of questions,
place so appropriate for the delicate, bashful, murmured popping
thereof!--suddenly from the sward before, from the groups beyond, there
floated to the ears of Richard Avenel an indescribable mingled ominous
sound--a sound as of a general titter--a horrid, malignant, but low
cachination. And Mrs. M'Catchley, stretching forth her parasol,
exclaimed, "Dear me, Mr. Avenel, what can they be all crowding there
for?"

There are certain sounds and certain sights--the one indistinct, the
other vaguely conjecturable--which, nevertheless, we know by an
instinct, bode some diabolical agency at work in our affairs. And if any
man gives an entertainment, and hears afar a general ill-suppressed
derisive titter, and sees all his guests hurrying towards one spot, I
defy him to remain unmoved and uninquisitive. I defy him still more to
take that precise occasion (however much he may have before designed it)
to drop gracefully on his right knee before the handsomest Mrs.
M'Catchley in the universe, and--pop the question! Richard Avenel
blurted out something very like an oath; and, half guessing that
something must have happened that it would not be pleasing to bring
immediately under the notice of Mrs. M'Catchley, he said, hastily,
"Excuse me! I'll just go and see what is the matter--pray, stay till I
come back." With that he sprang forth; in a minute he was in the midst
of the group, that parted aside with the most obliging complacency to
make way for him.

"But what's the matter?" he asked, impatiently, yet fearfully. Not a
voice answered. He strode on, and beheld his nephew in the arms of a
woman!

"God bless my soul!" said Richard Avenel.


CHAPTER XVIII.

And such a woman!

She had on a cotton gown--very neat, I dare say--for an under housemaid:
and _such_ thick shoes! She had on a little black straw bonnet; and a
kerchief, that might have cost tenpence, pinned across her waist instead
of a shawl; and she looked altogether--respectable, no doubt, but
exceedingly dusty! And she was hanging upon Leonard's neck, and
scolding, and caressing, and crying very loud. "God bless my soul!" said
Mr. Richard Avenel.

And as he uttered that innocent self-benediction, the woman hastily
turned round, and, darting from Leonard, threw herself right upon
Richard Avenel--burying under her embrace blue-coat, moss-rose, white
waistcoat and all--with a vehement sob and a loud exclamation!

"Oh! brother Dick!--dear, dear brother Dick! and I lives to see thee
agin!" And then came two such kisses--you might have heard them a mile
off! The situation of brother Dick was appalling! and the crowd, that
had before only tittered politely, could not now resist the effect of
this sudden embrace. There was a general explosion!--it was a roar! That
roar would have killed a weak man; but it sounded to the strong heart of
Richard Avenel like the defiance of a foe, and it plucked forth in an
instant from all conventional let and barrier the native spirit of the
Anglo-Saxon.

He lifted abruptly his handsome masculine head, looked round the ring of
his ill-bred visitors with a haughty stare of rebuke and surprise.

"Ladies and gentlemen," then said he, very coolly, "I don't see what
there is to laugh at! A brother and sister meet after many years'
separation, and the sister cries, poor thing! For my part, I think it
very natural that _she_ should cry; but not that you should laugh!" In
an instant the whole shame was removed from Richard Avenel, and rested
in full weight upon the bystanders. It is impossible to say how foolish
and sheepish they all looked, nor how slinkingly each tried to creep
off.

Richard Avenel seized his advantage with the promptitude of a man who
had got on in America, and was therefore accustomed to make the best of
things. He drew Mrs. Fairfield's arm in his, and led her into the house;
but when he had got her safe into his parlor--Leonard following all the
time--and the door was closed upon those three, _then_ Richard Avenel's
ire burst forth.

"You impudent, ungrateful, audacious drab!"

Yes, drab was the word. I am shocked to say it, but the duties of a
historian are stern; and the word _was_ drab.

"Drab!" faltered poor Jane Fairfield; and she clutched hold of Leonard
to save herself from falling.

"Sir!" cried Leonard fiercely.

You might as well have cried "sir" to a torrent. Richard hurried on,
furious.

"You nasty, dirty, dusty dowdy! How dare you come here to disgrace me in
my own house and premises, after my sending you fifty pounds? To take
the very time, too, when--when"--

Richard gasped for breath; and the laugh of his guests rang in his ears,
and got into his chest, and choked him. Jane Fairfield drew herself up,
and her tears were dried.

"I did not come to disgrace you; I came to see my boy, and"--

"Ha!" interrupted Richard, "to see _him_."

He turned to Leonard: "You have written to this woman, then?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"I believe you lie."

"He does not lie; and he is as good as yourself, and better, Richard
Avenel," exclaimed Mrs. Fairfield; "and I won't stand here and hear him
insulted--that's what I won't. And as for your fifty pounds, there are
forty-five of it; and I'll work my fingers to the bone till I pay back
the other five. And don't be afeared I shall disgrace you, for I'll
never look on your face agin; and you're a wicked bad man--that's what
you are."

The poor woman's voice was so raised and so shrill, that any other and
more remorseful feeling which Richard might have conceived, was drowned
in his apprehension that she would be overheard by his servants--a
masculine apprehension, with which females rarely sympathize; which, on
the contrary, they are inclined to consider a mean and cowardly terror
on the part of their male oppressors.

"Hush! hold your infernal squall--do!" said Mr. Avenel in a tone that he
meant to be soothing. "There--sit down--and don't stir till I come back
again, and can talk to you calmly. Leonard, follow me, and help to
explain things to our guests."

He stood still, but shook his head slightly.

"What do you mean, sir?" said Richard Avenel, in a very portentous
growl. "Shaking your head at me? Do you intend to disobey me? You had
better take care!"

Leonard's front rose; he drew one arm round his mother, and thus he
spoke:

"Sir, you have been kind to me and generous, and that thought alone
silenced my indignation when I heard you address such language to my
mother: for I felt that, if I spoke, I should say too much. Now I speak,
and it is to say shortly that"--

"Hush, boy," said poor Mrs. Fairfield frightened; "don't mind me. I did
not come to make mischief, and ruin your prospex. I'll go!"

"Will you ask her pardon, Mr. Avenel?" said Leonard, firmly; and he
advanced towards his uncle.

Richard, naturally hot and intolerant of contradiction, was then
excited, not only by the angry emotions which, it must be owned, a man
so mortified, and in the very flush of triumph, might well experience,
but by much more wine than he was in the habit of drinking; and when
Leonard approached him, he misinterpreted the movement into one of
menace and aggression. He lifted his arm: "Come a step nearer," said he
between his teeth, "and I'll knock you down." Leonard advanced that
forbidden step; but as Richard caught his eye, there was something in
that eye--not defying, not threatening, but bold and dauntless--which he
recognized and respected, for that something spoke the freeman. The
uncle's arm mechanically fell to his side.

"You cannot strike me, Mr. Avenel," said Leonard, "for you are aware
that I could not strike again my mother's brother. As her son, I once
more say to you,--ask her pardon."

"Ten thousand devils! Are you mad? or do you want to drive me mad? you
insolent beggar, fed and clothed by my charity. Ask her pardon!--what
for? That she has made me the object of jeer and ridicule with that
d----d cotton gown, and those double-d----d thick shoes? I vow and
protest they've got nails in them! Hark ye, sir, I've been insulted by
her, but I'm not to be bullied by you. Come with me instantly, or I
discard you; not a shilling of mine shall you have as long as I live.
Take your choice,--be a peasant, a laborer, or"--

"A base renegade to natural affection, a degraded beggar indeed!" cried
Leonard, his breast heaving, and his cheeks in a glow. "Mother, mother,
come away. Never fear,--I have strength and youth, and we will work
together as before."

But poor Mrs. Fairfield, overcome by her excitement, had sunk down into
Richard's own handsome morocco leather easy-chair, and could neither
speak nor stir.

"Confound you both!" muttered Richard. "You can't be seen creeping out
of my house now. Keep her here, you young viper, you; keep her till I
come back; and then if you choose to go, go and be"--

Not finishing his sentence, Mr. Avenel hurried out of the room, and
locked the door, putting the key into his pocket. He paused for a moment
in the hall, in order to collect his thoughts, drew three or four deep
breaths, gave himself a great shake, and, resolved to be faithful to his
principle of doing one thing at a time, shook off in that shake all
disturbing recollection of his mutinous captives. Stern as Achilles when
he appeared to the Trojans, Richard Avenel stalked back to his lawn.


CHAPTER XIX.

Brief as had been his absence, the host could see that, in the interval,
a great and notable change had come over the spirit of his company. Some
of those who lived in the town were evidently preparing to return home
on foot; those who lived at a distance, and whose carriages (having been
sent away, and ordered to return at a fixed hour), had not yet arrived,
were gathered together in small knots and groups; all looked sullen and
displeased, and all instinctively turned from their host as he passed
them by. They felt they had been lectured, and they were more put out
than Richard himself. They did not know if they might not be lectured
again. This vulgar man, of what might he not be capable?

Richard's shrewd sense comprehended in an instant all the difficulties
of his position; but he walked on deliberately and directly towards Mrs.
M'Catchley, who was standing near the grand marquee with the Pompleys
and the Dean's lady. As these personages saw him make thus boldly
towards them, there was a flutter. "Hang the fellow!" said the Colonel,
intrenching himself in his stock, "he is coming here. Low and
shocking,--what shall we do? Let us stroll on."

But Richard threw himself in the way of the retreat. "Mrs. M'Catchley,"
said he very gravely, and offering her his arm, "allow me three words
with you."

The poor widow looked very much discomposed. Mrs. Pompley pulled her by
the sleeve. Richard still stood gazing into her face, with his arm
extended. She hesitated a minute, and then took the arm.

"Monstrous impudent!" cried the Colonel.

"Let Mrs. M'Catchley alone, my dear," responded Mrs. Pompley; "_she_
will know how to give him a lesson!"

"Madam," said Richard, as soon as he and his companion were out of
hearing, "I rely on you to do me a favor."

"On me?"

"On you, and you alone. You have influence with all those people, and a
word from you will effect what I desire. Mrs. M'Catchley," added
Richard, with a solemnity that was actually imposing, "I flatter myself
that you have some friendship for me, which is more than I can say of
any other in these grounds--will you do me this favor, ay or no?"

"What is it, Mr. Avenel?" asked Mrs. M'Catchley, much disturbed, and
somewhat softened--for she was by no means a woman without feeling;
indeed, she considered herself nervous.

"Get all your friends--all the company in short--to come back into the
tent for refreshments--for any thing. I want to say a few words to
them."

"Bless me! Mr. Avenel--a few words!" cried the widow, "but that's just
what they are all afraid of! You must pardon me, but you really can't
ask people to a _déjeûné dansant_, and then--scold 'em!"

"I'm not going to scold them," said Mr. Avenel, very seriously--"upon my
honor, I'm not! I'm going to make all right, and I even hope afterwards
that the dancing may go on--and that you will honor me again with your
hand. I leave you to your task; and, believe me, I'm not an ungrateful
man," He spoke, and bowed--not without some dignity--and vanished within
the breakfast division of the marquee. There he busied himself in
re-collecting the waiters, and directing them to rearrange the mangled
remains of the table as they best could. Mrs. M'Catchley, whose
curiosity and interest were aroused, executed her commission with all
the ability and tact of a woman of the world, and in less than a quarter
of an hour the marquee was filled--the corks flew--the champagne bounced
and sparkled--people drank in silence, munched fruits and cakes, kept up
their courage with the conscious sense of numbers, and felt a great
desire to know what was coming. Mr. Avenel, at the head of the table,
suddenly rose--

"Ladies and Gentlemen," said he, "I have taken the liberty to invite you
once more into this tent, in order to ask you to sympathize with me,
upon an occasion which took us all a little by surprise to-day.

"Of course, you all know I am a new man--the maker of my own fortunes."

A great many heads bowed involuntarily. The words were said manfully,
and there was a general feeling of respect.

"Probably, too," resumed Mr. Avenel, "you may know that I am the son of
very honest tradespeople. I say honest, and they are not ashamed of
me--I say tradespeople, and I'm not ashamed of them. My sister married
and settled at a distance. I took her son to educate and bring up. But I
did not tell her where he was, nor even that I had returned from
America--I wished to choose my own time for that, when I could give her
the surprise, not only of a rich brother, but of a son whom I intended
to make a gentleman, so far as manners and education can make one. Well,
the poor dear woman has found me out sooner than I expected, and turned
the tables on me by giving me a surprise of her own invention. Pray,
forgive the confusion this little family scene has created: and though I
own it was very laughable at the moment, and I was wrong to say
otherwise, yet I am sure I don't judge ill of your good hearts when I
ask you to think what brother and sister must feel who parted from each
other when they were boy and girl. To me (and Richard gave a great
gulp--for he felt that a great gulp alone could swallow the abominable
lie he was about to utter)--to me this has been _a very happy occasion_!
I'm a plain man: no one can take ill what I've said. And, wishing that
you may be all as happy in your family as I am in mine--humble though it
be--I beg to drink your very good healths!"

There was an universal applause when Richard sat down--and so well in
his plain way had he looked the thing, and done the thing, that at least
half of those present--who till then had certainly disliked and half
despised him--suddenly felt that they were proud of his acquaintance.
For however aristocratic this country of ours may be, and however
especially aristocratic be the genteeler classes in provincial towns and
coteries--there is nothing which English folks, from the highest to the
lowest, in their hearts so respect as a man who has risen from nothing,
and owns it frankly! Sir Compton Delaval, an old baronet, with a
pedigree as long as a Welshman's, who had been reluctantly decoyed to
the feast by his three unmarried daughters--not one of whom, however,
had hitherto condescended even to bow to the host--now rose. It was his
right: he was the first person there in rank and station.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," quoth Sir Compton Delaval, "I am sure that I
express the feelings of all present when I say that we have heard with
great delight and admiration the words addressed to us by our excellent
host. (Applause.) And if any of us, in what Mr. Avenel describes justly
as the surprise of the moment, were betrayed into an unseemly merriment
at--at--(the Dean's lady whispered 'some of the')--some of the--some of
the"--repeated Sir Compton, puzzled, and coming to a dead
lock--('holiest sentiments,' whispered the Dean's lady)--"ay, some of
the holiest sentiments in our nature--I beg him to accept our sincerest
apologies. I can only say, for my part, that I am proud to rank Mr.
Avenel amongst the gentlemen of the county, (here Sir Compton gave a
sounding thump on the table,) and to thank him for one of the most
brilliant entertainments it has ever been my lot to witness. If he won
his fortune honestly, he knows how to spend it nobly!"

Whiz went a fresh bottle of champagne.

"I am not accustomed to public speaking, but I could not repress my
sentiments. And I've now only to propose to you the health of our host,
Richard Avenel, Esquire; and to couple with that the health of his--very
interesting sister, and long life to them both!"

The sentence was half drowned in enthusiastic plaudits, and in three
cheers for Richard Avenel, Esquire, and his very interesting sister.

"I'm a cursed humbug," thought Richard Avenel, as he wiped his forehead;
"but the world _is_ such a humbug!" Then he glanced towards Mrs.
M'Catchley, and to his great satisfaction, saw Mrs. M'Catchley wiping
her eyes.

Now, though the fair widow might certainly have contemplated the
probability of accepting Mr. Avenel as a husband, she had never before
felt the least bit in love with him; and now she did. There is something
in courage and candor--at a word, in manliness--that all women, the most
worldly, do admire in men; and Richard Avenel, humbug though his
conscience said he was, seemed to her like a hero.

The host saw his triumph, "Now for another dance!" said he gaily; and he
was about to offer his hand to Mrs. M'Catchley, when Sir Compton Delaval
seizing it, and giving it a hearty shake, cried, "You have not yet
danced with my eldest daughter; so, if you won't ask her, why, I must
offer her to you as your partner. Here--Sarah."

Miss Sarah Delaval, who was five feet eight, and as stately as she was
tall, bowed her head graciously; and Mr. Avenel, before he knew where he
was, found her leaning on his arm. But as he passed into the next
division of the tent, he had to run the gauntlet of all the gentlemen,
who thronged round to shake hands with him. Their warm English hearts
could not be satisfied till they had so repaired the sin of their
previous haughtiness and mockery. Richard Avenel might then have safely
introduced his sister--gown, kerchief, thick shoes and all--to the
crowd; but he had no such thought. He thanked heaven devoutly that she
was safely under lock and key.

It was not till the third dance that he could secure Mrs. M'Catchley's
hand, and then it was twilight. The carriages were at the door, but no
one yet thought of going. People were really enjoying themselves. Mr.
Avenel had had time, in the interim, to mature all his plans for
completing and consummating that triumph which his tact and pluck had
drawn from his momentary disgrace. Excited as he was with wine and
suppressed passion, he had yet the sense to feel that, when all the halo
that now surrounded him had evaporated, and Mrs. M'Catchley was
redelivered up to the Pompleys, whom he felt to be the last persons his
interest could desire for her advisers--the thought of his low relations
would return with calm reflection. Now was the time. The iron was
hot--now was the time to strike it, and forge the enduring chain. As he
led Mrs. M'Catchley after the dance, into the lawn, he therefore said
tenderly: "How shall I thank you for the favor you have done me?"

"Oh!" said Mrs. M'Catchley warmly, "it was no favor--and I am so glad--"
She stopped.

"You're not ashamed of me, then, in spite of what has happened?"

"Ashamed of you! Why, I should be so proud of you, if I were--"

"Finish the sentence, and say--'your wife!'--there it is out. My dear
madam, I am rich, as you know; I love you very heartily. With your help,
I think I can make a figure in a larger world than this; and that
whatever my father, my grandson at least will be--But it is time enough
to speak of _him_. What say you?--you turn away. I'll not tease you--it
is not my way. I said before, ay or no; and your kindness so emboldens
me that I say it again--ay or no?"

"But you take me so unawares--so--so--Lord, my dear Mr. Avenel; you are
so hasty--I--I--." And the widow actually blushed, and was genuinely
bashful.

"Those horrid Pompleys!" thought Richard, as he saw the Colonel bustling
up with Mrs. M'Catchley's cloak on his arm.

"I press for your answer," continued the suitor, speaking very fast. "I
shall leave this place to-morrow, if you will not give it."

"Leave this place--leave me?"

"Then you will be mine?"

"Ah, Mr. Avenel!" said the widow, languidly, and leaving her hand in
his; "who can resist you?" Up came Colonel Pompley: Richard took the
shawl: "No hurry for that now, Colonel--Mrs. M'Catchley feels already at
home here."

Ten minutes afterwards. Richard Avenel so contrived that it was known by
the whole company that their host was accepted by the Honorable Mrs.
M'Catchley. And every one said, "He is a very clever man, and a very
good fellow," except the Pompleys--and the Pompleys were frantic. Mr.
Richard Avenel had forced his way into the aristocracy of the country.
The husband of an Honorable--connected with peers!

"He will stand for our city--Vulgarian!" cried the Colonel.

"And his wife will walk out before me," cried the Colonel's lady--"nasty
woman!" And she burst into tears.

The guests were gone; and Richard had now leisure to consider what
course to pursue with regard to his sister and her son.

His victory over his guests had in much softened his heart towards his
relations; but he still felt bitterly aggrieved at Mrs. Fairfield's
unseasonable intrusion, and his pride was greatly chafed by the boldness
of Leonard. He had no idea of any man whom he had served, or meant to
serve, having a will of his own--having a single thought in opposition
to his pleasure. He began, too, to feel that words had passed between
him and Leonard which could not be well forgotten by either, and would
render their close connection less pleasant than heretofore. He, the
great Richard Avenel, beg pardon of Mrs. Fairfield, the washerwoman! No;
she and Leonard must beg his. "That must be the first step," said
Richard Avenel; "and I suppose they have come to their senses." With
that expectation, he unlocked the door of his parlor, and found himself
in complete solitude. The moon, lately risen, shone full into the room,
and lit up every corner. He stared round, bewildered--the birds had
flown. "Did they go through the key-hole?" said Mr. Avenel. "Ha! I
see!--the window is open!" The window reached to the ground. Mr. Avenel,
in his excitement, had forgotten that easy mode of egress.

"Well," said he, throwing himself into his easy-chair, "I suppose I
shall soon hear from them; they'll be wanting my money fast enough, I
fancy." His eye caught sight of a letter, unsealed, lying on the table.
He opened it, and saw bank-notes to the amount of £50--the widow's
forty-five country notes, and a new note, Bank of England, that he had
lately given to Leonard. With the money were these lines, written in
Leonard's bold, clear writing, though a word or two here and there
showed that the hand had trembled--

     "I thank you for all you have done to one whom you regarded
     as the object of charity. My mother and I forgive what has
     passed. I depart with her. You bade me make my choice, and I
     have made it. LEONARD FAIRFIELD."

The paper dropped from Richard's hand, and he remained mute and
remorseful for a moment. He soon felt, however, that he had no help for
it but working himself up into a rage. "Of all creatures in the world,"
cried Richard, stamping his foot on the floor, "there are none so
disagreeable, insolent, and ungrateful as poor relations. I wash my
hands of them!"



Historical Review of the Month


THE UNITED STATES.

Both political parties are already moving with reference to the choice
of a Presidential candidate for the coming campaign of 1852. The
demonstrations thus far, however, have been principally local, and give
no clue whatever to the probable choice of the National Conventions of
the parties. In Boston, a paper nominating the Hon. Daniel Webster for
the Presidency, on the ground of his devotion to the Union and
Constitution, has been circulated for signatures. The Democrats of New
Hampshire have declared their preference for the Hon. Levi Woodbury. The
Whigs of Pennsylvania manifest a strong predilection for taking up Gen.
Scott. A considerable class, who advocate the freedom of the Public
Lands to actual settlers, have formally adopted the Hon. Isaac P.
Walker, of Wisconsin, for their candidate.

The President and Cabinet reached Buffalo on Friday afternoon, the 17th
of May. Here they were received by an immense concourse of people, and
publicly welcomed by the city authorities. On the following day the
President went to Aurora, to visit his father's family, and Secretaries
Graham and Crittenden took the opportunity to visit Niagara. The
distinguished guests left Buffalo on the following Tuesday morning,
dined at Rochester, where a public reception was given to them, and were
greeted at Syracuse, where they arrived at midnight, with a torchlight
procession.

The next day they visited Rome, Oneida and Utica, where they remained
all night, and were received in Albany on Thursday afternoon, the 23d,
with a grand military and civic reception. From Albany they returned
directly to Washington, making no stop at any intermediate point. Mr.
Webster, who had been detained at Dunkirk by the illness of his son,
remained at Buffalo a few days after the departure of the Presidential
party. On Wednesday evening, the 21st, he was complimented with a dinner
from the citizens, at which he made a familiar speech of some length.
The following day he addressed the citizens of Buffalo. His speech was
an explanation and defence of his course with regard to the Compromise
measures, and the questions which have recently agitated the country. It
is regarded as one of the most able and effective addresses he has made
for some time past. On his return to Washington, Mr. Webster delivered
another speech at Albany on the 29th.

The Government has received information from Chihuahua, that claims to
the amount of twenty millions of dollars, for damages done to Mexican
property by the Indians from the American side of the Rio Grande, have
been filed with the Mexican authorities for presentation to our
Government under the Treaty which provides that this country shall
prevent Indian depredations. Much damage has unquestionably been
committed since the Treaty, but the amount has been enormously
exaggerated.

The Postmaster General has announced an arrangement, to take effect
after the 1st of this month, by which letters to the West India Islands,
ports in the Gulf of Mexico and on the Atlantic Coast of South America,
can be sent through the United States Post Office, on prepayment of the
American postage to any of the British ports, with the addition of the
British postage, when destined for ports belonging to other Governments.

M. de Sartiges, the newly appointed French Minister to this country,
presented his credentials to the President on the 29th of May. Mr.
Paine, who claims to have invented a process for manufacturing gas from
water, is in Washington endeavoring to procure a contract from
Washington for the illumination of light-houses. The pendulum
experiment, exhibiting the rotation of the earth, has been tried in the
Capitol, with the most satisfactory result.

The projected expedition for the invasion of Cuba, has, it is believed,
been completely broken up. The Steamer Gaston, after searching the
coasts and rivers, returned to Baltimore with twenty-five men under
arrest. A camp of three hundred men, near Jacksonville, had been broken
up just before the arrival of the Steamer. Upwards of fifteen hundred
persons had visited the place since the invasion was projected, but
after squandering their funds, they again dispersed. The U.S. revenue
cutter Fancy went on a similar cruise, a week after the Gaston, and
succeeded in discovering an encampment on a branch of the St. John's
river. The three officers and leaders of the company were arrested and
taken to Savannah; the men were ordered to return to their homes.

There has been considerable stir in State politics and legislation
during the past month. In the Virginia Reform Convention, the violent
debate on the question of representation, on which the members of the
eastern and western parts of the State were arrayed against each other,
has been settled by the adoption of a compromise. The difficulty was in
relation to slave representation. The committee to whom the subject was
referred, reported a plan providing that the House of Delegates shall
consist of 150 members, eighty-two to be chosen from the West and
sixty-eight from the East, making a Western majority of fourteen; the
Senate to consist of fifty members, thirty from the East and twenty from
the West, making an Eastern majority of ten. It is also made the duty of
the General Assembly, in the year 1865, to re-apportion the
representation in both Houses. The people of Maryland have adopted the
new State Constitution by a large majority. Its prominent features
are--the ineligibility of clergymen to seats in the Legislature; the
disqualification of persons engaged in duels as principals or seconds,
from holding office; the extension of the Governor's term to four years,
at a salary of $2,600 per annum; the election of judges by the people;
the abolition of lotteries and of imprisonment for debt, and the
exemption of the homestead, to the value of $500, from legal process.

The Massachusetts Legislature adjourned on the 24th of May, after a
session of nearly five months. A bill for the aid of the proposed
European and North American Halifax Railroad, was debated at
considerable length, but was finally referred to the next Legislature.
The message of the Governor of Maine, which was delivered to the
Legislature on the 19th of May, contains a strong complaint against
Massachusetts for her policy in regard to her claims in Maine lands, and
especially for refusing her aid in the construction of the Aroostook
Road, which passes through the territory claimed by Massachusetts. The
election in Texas for Governor and Members of the Legislature, is
exciting great interest. Unusual importance is attached to the election,
as the disposition of the Ten Millions received from the United States
will be in the hands of the successful candidates. Mr. Foote, U.S.
Senator from Mississippi, has been nominated by the Union Convention of
that State as candidate for Governor, which nomination he has accepted.

The secession excitement is on the decline in South Carolina, and no
further action on the subject is anticipated. In Georgia, the
secessionists held a State Convention at Milledgeville, on the 28th of
May. A series of resolutions was adopted, declaring that the rights of
the South had been violated, and advocating the extension of the line of
36° 30', as the limit of slavery, to the Pacific Ocean. The Union
Convention of the same State met on the 3d of June, and after
re-adopting the resolutions of the Georgia Convention, nominated the
Hon. Howell Cobb, late Speaker of Congress, as candidate for Governor.

An important law-suit, which, has some resemblance to the late agitation
on the Slavery question, has been pending in the United States Circuit
Court, in New-York. The suit was commenced at the instance of the
Southern Methodist Conference against the Trustees of the Methodist Book
Concern, in New-York, for the establishment of a claim to a large amount
of property now in the hands of the Trustees. A division of the American
Methodist Church took place in 1845, on account of a difference in
relation to the ownership of slaves by the ministry of the Church. The
Southern members formed a separate organization, called the Methodist
Episcopal Church, South, and have since then claimed a division of the
funds of the Book Concern. The Northern Church, in their defence,
maintained that the separation was a secession on the part of the South,
and therefore that the Church was not entitled to any share in the
establishment. As the property of the concern is valued at nearly a
million of dollars, the case assumed an important aspect, and the ablest
counsel were employed on both sides. Daniel Webster and Reverdy Johnson
were engaged by the plaintiffs, and Thomas Ewing and Rufus Choate for
the defence. The case has not yet been decided, but in the mean time
proposals for arbitration and compromise have been made, which may prove
successful.

The elections in New-York to supply the vacancies in the State Senate,
created by the resignation of twelve senators, for the purpose of
defeating the bill for the enlargement of the Erie Canal, by leaving
that body without a quorum, took place on the 27th of May. Six of the
former senators were returned, and five others, favorable to the
enlargement, in place of those who had resigned: the vote in the 26th
District was a tie. The special session of the Legislature met on the
10th of June. The election secured to the Senate a quorum of the friends
of the Canal Bill, and therefore insures its passage.

The Seventh Census of the United States has been published. The total
population amounts to 23,267,408, including 3,179,470 slaves. The whole
number of Representatives to Congress based on this population is 233.

An attack of "gold excitement," on a small scale, has appeared in Maine.
It is reported and generally believed that the precious metal has been
found in the Northern part of the State, in the streams which flow into
the west branch of the Penobscot and into Moose River. The country is a
high plateau, near the Canadian boundary, where, also, the tributaries
of the Chaudiere take their rise. On the latter streams, it is said, the
Provincial Government of Canada has been quietly carrying on mining
operations for two years past. Several companies of adventurers from the
towns of Maine and New Hampshire have started for the Northern Eldorado.

Several of the Western States have been visited by violent and
destructive tornadoes. In the city of St. Louis, upwards of one hundred
buildings were injured. The regions about Louisville, Ky., and
Pittsburg, also suffered severely. During the last week in May an
immense amount of rain fell in the Northern part of Illinois; occasional
great freshets in all the rivers. The flood was greater than had been
known for many years; the mill-dams and mills were swept away, and a
great amount of property damaged. Two viaducts on the Indiana Canal were
entirely destroyed. The grain crops of the Middle and Western States
promise an abundant harvest. The cotton crop in South Carolina, the
northern part of Georgia and the Tennessee Valley, has been considerably
injured by the coldness of the season.

A serious riot occurred at Hoboken, near New-York, on Monday, the 26th
of May. It was the holiday of Pentecost, and the German residents of the
city, to the number of near ten thousand, crossed the Hudson to
celebrate the day according to their national customs. They were beset
in the afternoon by a company of rowdies, between whom and a German
society of gymnasts an altercation arose, resulting in a general fight,
in the course of which the Germans were grossly injured by their
antagonists. Two persons were killed, and forty or fifty badly wounded.
The rowdies all escaped, and of fifty Germans who were arrested, only
ten were found to have participated in the affray. The riot, after
lasting till 9 o'clock at night, was finally quelled by calling out the
military. The inhabitants of Hoboken have organized a company for the
prevention of disorder in future.

During the month of May Jenny Lind gave fourteen concerts in New-York,
without any diminution of her wonderful success, the last concert
realizing upwards of $18,000. At the close, the termination of her
contract with Mr. Barnum, at the hundredth concert, was announced. On
giving her first concert at Philadelphia, however, a new agreement was
made, by which the contract was at once broken off, Miss Lind having
then sung ninety-three times, on condition of her forfeiting the sum of
$25,000. The concerts in Philadelphia, given on her own account, were
very successful.

Several large defalcations in public officers have lately come to light.
The Postmaster of Macon, Ga., failed for the sum of $50,000, part of
which was the Post-office funds. He escaped by flight. The late City
Collector of Baltimore is charged with a deficiency of $30,000 in the
accounts of the Custom House, but has surrendered his property in trust,
and expresses his desire to have the subject investigated. A man named
Brown was recently taken to Washington by the Marshal of Michigan, on a
charge of forging Land Warrants. A company of Mormons, under the
government of a man named Strang, on Beaver Island, in Huron River, have
got into difficulty with the authorities and the American citizens. They
recently attacked two men by the name of Bennett, who were known to be
hostile to their claims: killed one, and dangerously wounded the other.
Strang and some of his companions voluntarily delivered themselves into
the hands of the authorities, and are awaiting their trial.

In the Lake Superior region business of all kinds has become very
active. The steamboats on the Lake are crowded with passengers and
freight, and the country about the mines is improving rapidly. Lands are
being cleared, roads laid out, houses built, and the region rapidly
assuming the appearance of a permanent settlement. Several new mines of
unusual richness have been discovered, and all the old shafts deepened
and extended, with the most successful results. The prospects of the
mines on the Ontmagon are equally favorable. Hostilities have again
broken out between the Sioux and Chippewa Indians. Several of the latter
tribe were murdered by the former, who formed into war parties, and
marched against their enemies.

The first Centennial Celebration of the Pennsylvania Hospital took place
on the 3d of June, in Philadelphia.--The cholera still appears at
intervals along the Western rivers. There were 13 deaths in New Orleans
during the week ending May 31st.--In the case of Scott, indicted at
Boston for the rescue of the fugitive slave Shadrach, the jury were
unable to agree upon a verdict. Although agreeing as to the
constitutionality of the Fugitive Slave Law, they stood equally divided
on the question of convicting the prisoner. A new trial has been
ordered.

A personal combat took place in the streets of Lynchburg, Va., on the
5th of June, between Mr. Saunders, a member of the State Convention, and
Mr. Terry, Editor of the Lynchburg "Virginian." Five shots were
exchanged, and both parties so severely wounded that they died shortly
afterwards.

The emigration across the plains has commenced, but will be much smaller
than that of last year. It is calculated that 300 wagons will cross
during the Summer, three-fourths of which will go to the Salt Lake and
Oregon, and the remainder to California. Grass is abundant on the
plains, but the snow is reported to be very deep in the mountains beyond
Fort Laramie.

Advices from Texas give accounts of the rapid improvement of the lands
on the Brazos River. The troubles with the Indians still continue. A
battle between a small company of Texan militia and a band of Indians,
took place near the head waters of the Lema River, on the 24th of May:
Six Indians were killed, and the remainder driven off. An expedition has
been ordered by Gen. Harney, to aid the Indian agents in their demand
for the release of white prisoners in captivity. A train, composed of
170 wagons, with a large escort, left San Antonio for El Paso on the 7th
of May. A company of Americans, while crossing the Rio Grande to attend
a ball at Rima, were fired upon by a party of Mexican soldiers. Two of
the American soldiers were severely wounded, and the Mexicans apologized
for the act on the ground of its being a mistake.

News from Santa Fe to the 1st of May has arrived. On the 2d of April,
Governor Calhoun consummated a treaty with Francisco Chacon, principal
chief of the Apaches east of the Rio Grande. The savages agreed to give
up what stolen property had been in their possession for the previous
eight months, and to settle in towns, provided teachers and implements
of husbandry were furnished them. As might have been expected, this
treaty was broken within three weeks of its adoption, although Chacon
bound himself to maintain the peace, on penalty of forfeiting his head.
Fifteen companies of the U.S. troops were to leave Santa Fe on the 10th
of May, upon a campaign against the Navajo Indians. This movement was
considered necessary, on account of the serious injury which the health
of the soldiers had sustained from the inactivity of their mode of life.

Governor Calhoun issued a proclamation on the 23d of April, appointing
the 19th of May for the election of members of the Legislative Assembly.
The first session of the Legislature was to commence at Santa Fe on the
2d of June. The Mexicans were well pleased with the new Government,
since it removed the power from the hands of the military. Business was
very brisk at Santa Fe, and a number of mills were in the course of
erection in the neighborhood. The census of the territory, taken by
direction of the Governor, shows a population of 56,984, in addition to
the Indians. The Boundary Commissioners were on the Rio Grande, near
Dona Ana, and had decided to place the corner-stone six or seven miles
below that place.

The news of the formation of a Territorial Government for Utah, and the
appointment of Brigham Young as Governor, was first received at the Salt
Lake, by way of California. The General Assembly of the Church for the
State of Deseret, have transferred all their powers to the Territorial
Government, and adjourned. The "Quorum of Seventies" had agreed to erect
an extensive rotunda in the Salt Lake City, to be called the "Seventies'
Hall of Science." The Mormons have established a colony in Iron County,
about 250 miles nearly south of the Salt Lake City. Several families,
with 130 men and supplies of all kinds, under charge of Elder Geo. A.
Smith, left on the 7th of December, and when last heard from, they had
1600 acres cleared, and 400 sown with grain. Elders Lyman and Rich left
early in March with 150 wagons, to form another settlement on the
Colorado, on the Californian line. The Mormons design establishing a
continuous line of stations on the Pacific on this route.

The steamers which left San Francisco on the 15th of April and the 1st
of May, carried away $3,000,000 in gold dust, nearly all of which was
shipped to the Atlantic States. The news from all parts of the gold
region is unusually favorable. The rains which came on towards the end
of March continued for two weeks, and furnished an abundant supply of
water for the dry diggings. The piles of earth which had been heaped up
during the winter, were yielding excellent returns. In the higher ranges
of the mountains there had been heavy falls of snow, which had cut off
the supplies of some of the remote diggings, and several persons were
frozen to death near the head waters of Feather River. The rich placers
discovered in this region have attracted many thousands of miners; and
the trail through the snows was lined with the carcases of mules which
had perished from the cold. On account of the scarcity of supplies,
board had risen to $56 per week.

Important discoveries have been made in Shaste Valley, in the northern
part of the State. One thousand acres were tested, and found to yield
ten cents to the panful of earth. The first discoverers averaged $80
apiece daily. The diggings differ from all others in the circumstance of
all the earth containing gold down to the bottom rock, which is struck
at a depth of four feet. The gold is found in coarse grams, interspersed
with large lumps. An extensive emigration had already set towards the
new placer. The Volcano diggings continue to give large returns; while
there is no diminution in the yield of the old localities on the
American Fork, the Stanislaus and the Mariposa. The quartz veins on the
latter river and in the neighborhood of Nevada City, give proof of
astonishing richness; but the gold is generally found in such fine
particles, that not more than half of it can be collected by any
machinery which has yet been brought into use. Veins of silver ore,
which promise to be very rich, have been discovered on Carson's Creek.

The Californian Legislature adjourned on the last day of April, after a
session of four months. Among its last acts was the passage of a law,
exempting homesteads and other property from forced sale in certain
cases. It also passed a Usury Law, fixing interest at ten per cent., and
allowing eighteen per cent. by special agreement. Party politics have
attained a height scarcely known in the older States at present. The
City election in San Francisco was very hotly contested, but finally
resulted in the choice of all the Whig candidates, except two. Both
parties are marshalling their forces for the coming State election. The
prominent candidates for Governor, are Major Roman, the present State
Treasurer, with the Democrats, and Major Pearson B. Redding with the
Whigs.

A body of Indians have been committing depredations on the Salinas
Plains, near Monterey. They have killed three persons near the town of
San Luis Obispo, robbed all the ranches, and driven away the horses from
San Antonio to San Miguel. According to the treaty made with the Nevada
Indians by the U. S. Commissioners, six tribes, numbering in all 1500
persons, have been removed to a tract of land twelve miles square,
between the Merced and Tuolomne Rivers, which is secured to them for
ever. In the vicinity of Los Angeles, the tribes still continue their
depredations. Lynch law still remains in force in all the mining
districts. A band of five Mexicans, who had been detected stealing
cattle on the San Joaquin River, were tried in a summary manner, and all
executed.

A project has been started to supply San Francisco with water from a
lake called "Mountain Lake," a few miles from the city. It is described
as a body of pure water, a mile in circumference, and 153 feet above the
sea. A line seventy-five feet long, was dropped into the centre without
finding bottom. It is estimated to furnish twenty-five millions of
gallons of pure water daily. In the neighborhood of San Francisco, San
José, Sacramento City, Sonoma and Bodega, large tracts of land have been
brought under cultivation: and the harvest of grain and vegetables will
this year go far towards supplying the wants of California. Nearly all
kinds of vegetables attain a size and flavor which are not equalled in
any other part of the world.

It is rumored that an expedition is about being raised in the southern
part of California, for the purpose of invading the Mexican province of
Lower California. A certain Gen. Morehead is said to have left with a
force of two hundred men, well armed and provisioned. There is also talk
of similar movement, having reference to the State of Sonora.

The Pacific Mail Steamship Company have made their depot in Oregon at
Pacific City, on Baker's Bay. The coast region of Oregon, from the mouth
of the Umpqua to Vancouver's Island, is rapidly filling up with
emigrants. Another steamer, of 100 tons burden, has been placed on the
Williamette, to run from Oregon City to the mouth of the Columbia. Gen.
Lane, the ex-governor of the Territory, has been nominated by a
convention of the people, irrespective of party, as a candidate for
Congress.


EUROPE.

The main topic of interest in ENGLAND is still the Great Exhibition.
Even the uncertainties of the Ministerial existence, the Papal
Aggression Bill, the Ceylon Question, and other measures, sink into
insignificance beside the imposing display of the products of all
nations, opened in Hyde Park. The continued support and encouragement
given by the Queen, who has visited it almost daily since the opening,
has contributed greatly to the success of the undertaking. The receipts
for the first two or three weeks were from $10,000 to $15,000 per day.
After the price of admission was reduced to one shilling, the receipts
decreased considerably; but in the last accounts, from fifty to sixty
thousand persons visited the building daily. The entire amount received
from the sale is already more than £50,000; and it is expected that the
proceeds will be sufficient, with the amount subscribed, to defray the
whole expense of the building. The limit for the admission of articles
has been extended to the 1st of September. Thirty juries have been
appointed, to decide on the merits of the different classes of
contributions, and adjudge the medals, which will be distributed to the
value of £20,000.

The Ministry of Lord John Russell holds its position with better success
than was anticipated. The Malt Tax, one of its measures, was carried by
a majority of 136. The debate on the Ceylon Government question, where a
defeat was again anticipated, resulted in sustaining the Ministers by a
majority of 80. As this was the main question before the House, Lord
John Russell's place is secure for the rest of the session. The two
great parties have agreed not to make the Papal Aggression Bill a point
of political difference. In consequence of this, the Government carried
every question on the bill by a large majority. Mr. W. G. Fox made an
unsuccessful attempt to introduce a bill for Free Schools in England and
Wales. A riot occurred at Tamworth, the residence of the late Sir Robt.
Peel, on account of a Protectionist banquet having been held there. A
mob broke into the hall, and dispersed the company, who armed themselves
and engaged in a regular fight. The quarrel was only subdued by the
intervention of the military. The Collins' steamer Pacific, having made
the trip from New-York to Liverpool in nine days and nineteen hours, the
English papers admit the defeat of the Cunard line.

The recent political movements in FRANCE contain no salient points of
interest. The subject of the revision of the Constitution is still
agitated among all parties, and there seems a slow and gradual
preparation for a severe struggle. The Legitimatists are strongly in
favor of the measure. The debate thereupon will come on about the 1st of
July, and will probably last about a month. Next to this in importance
is the subject of the next general election, which will take place in
May, 1852. All parties are mingling their intrigues in the general
preparation. Among the different plans is that of the fusion of the two
branches of the Bourbon family into a single monarchical party, to which
Guizot and the Duke de Nemours are said to be favorable. The friends of
Louis Napoleon are in favor of a revision of the Constitution for the
purpose of prolonging his term. The _Constitutionnel_, the organ of the
middle class in Paris, advocates the repeal of the law limiting the
suffrage. Emile de Girardin, editor of the _Presse_, has made a violent
attack upon Generals Cavaignac and Changarnier, charging the latter with
having formed a design of invading England, while Ledru-Rollin was
minister of the Interior. To this attack neither of the generals has
responded.

In GERMANY, the Dresden Conferences have closed. The King of Prussia and
the Emperor of Austria have visited Warsaw as the guests of the Emperor
Nicholas. The meeting, however, is considered as something more than a
mere visit of courtesy. At the latest dates the three potentates were
still at Warsaw, but nothing had transpired indicative of the nature of
their conferences. The Prussian General Assembly had adjourned. During
the recent session upwards of eleven and a half millions of thalers were
voted for the expenses of the late useless campaign.

Austria is making desperate efforts to relieve herself from her
embarrassing financial position. Baron Rothschild, one of the principal
creditors of the empire, has been summoned to assist at the
consultation; the prospect is said to be better than had been
anticipated. A change has taken place in the Austrian Ministry,
Baumgarten having been made Minister of Commerce in place of Brück. The
Countess Teleki, and her companion Madame Eardly, have been arrested in
Hungary, on charge of conveying letters from the political refugees in
London to their partisans in Asia Minor and Hungary. They are to be
tried by a court martial.

ITALY is in a most unfortunate condition. The reaction continues to
increase in power, while the discontent of the Republican party still
ferments in all quarters. The condition of the country is very analogous
to what it was previous to the Revolution. The Government of Tuscany is
entirely under the control of Austria; while that of Naples, grown bold
in tyranny, is more actively oppressive than ever. The death of the King
of Naples was reported; but it turns out that instead of this being the
case, he is more vigorous and tyrannical than ever. In Rome, the rule of
the French soldiery is almost insupportable. Persons are daily arrested
for the cut of their beards, or the color of their garments. In addition
to this, there is a bitter hostility between the French and Roman
troops, and several sanguinary quarrels have occurred. At Nice there has
been a threatening meeting, claiming the revocation of certain fiscal
regulations of the Government. There has been no league of Sardinia with
any other of the Italian States.

The insurrection of the Duke de Saldanha, in PORTUGAL, was entirely
successful; and the Queen has been obliged to name him President of the
Council, after an attempt to appoint the Viscount de Castro and the Duke
of Terecira, friends of the fallen Minister, Count de Thomar. The latter
gentleman was dismissed from his situation as Minister to Madrid, and
has taken up his residence in England. Saldanha remained some time in
Oporto, administering the Government in the name of the Queen, but
afterwards proceeded to Lisbon. He has not yet announced the course he
will pursue. In the mean time, large bodies of Reformers are calling
upon the Queen to abdicate.

The negotiations in relation to the release of Kossuth, Count Bathyani,
and the other Hungarian leaders, have taken an unfavorable turn; and it
is now almost certain that the Sublime Porte will consent to retain the
unfortunate exiles as prisoners for some time to come. The Governments
of Austria and Russia protest against their release, and their influence
will probably prevent the acceptance of the liberal offer made by the
United States in behalf of the Hungarians.


BRITISH AMERICA.

The Canadian Parliament met at Toronto on the 20th of May, by Lord
Elgin, the Governor-General, who read the Royal speech in English and
French. The most important topic it contained was a project for
increasing the representation. It was also stated that the change in the
Navigation Laws had increased foreign shipping in the Canadian ports;
that the new Postage Law will soon yield an equal revenue with the
former exorbitant system; that a measure will be introduced for reducing
the civil list and withdrawing the troops. The Government refers to the
Halifax and Quebec Railroad in a manner favorable to the adoption of the
conditions on which the Imperial Government offer to guaranty a loan.
The Government has since introduced a measure to abolish the law of
primogeniture in Upper Canada. The question of a reciprocity of trade
with the United States, has given rise to a long discussion in the
Legislature; but the Governor refused to produce the correspondence on
the subject with the Government of the United States. The Minister of
Finance insisted on measures of retaliation, and proposed to close the
canals against American vessels. The question was finally postponed for
a fortnight, in order to await the result of negotiations with the
American Government. The Governor-General sent to the Assembly a
detailed account of the public debt of the Canadas, which, on the 31st
of January last, amounted to $18,049,875, paying an annual interest of
$877,674.

The Annexation feeling is said to be on the decrease in Canada, and the
idea of an independent Northern Republic, consisting of the British
Provinces and the territory now held by the Hudson's Bay Company, has
arisen in its stead! The Episcopal Church is making great efforts to
prevent the secularization of the Clergy Reserves, and a general
Convention of both the clergy and laity has been held at Toronto, in
opposition to the measure. A large and enthusiastic meeting has been
held at Halifax, and Earl Grey's proposition in regard to the Halifax
and Quebec Railway, was unanimously accepted. The propeller Franklin,
running between St. John's, Newfoundland, and Halifax, was wrecked on
the 17th of May; the passengers and mails were saved.


MEXICO--CENTRAL AMERICA.

The Mexican Government is in a state of great perplexity, on account of
the desperate state of its finances. All projects for the adjustment of
the revenues, or the consolidation of the Interior Debt, have thus far
entirely failed. Señor Esteva, the Minister of Finance, resigned early
in May, on account of the difficulties he encountered in attempting to
carry out the imperfect provisions of the law. Señor Yañez, the Minister
of Foreign Affairs, was appointed in his place. He proposed a plan of
increasing the revenue by reducing the expenses of the public offices,
imposing a tax on manufactures, and levying contributions on the
States,--a course which was strongly opposed by the friends of the
Administration. Congress adjourned on the 22d of May, without making any
provision for the emergency: and a special session has been called, to
meet on the 2d of June. The Tehuantepec grant to Garay was annulled in
both Houses by a large majority.

Ex-President Pedraza died in the capital on the 13th of April. The
commercial house of Rondero, in the city of Mexico, has failed in the
amount of $600,000. The police in the city is very deficient, and many
of the streets in the suburbs are almost deserted, on account of the
hordes of robbers which roam and plunder at large. The Northern States
of Mexico are in great distress, from an unprecedented drought. No rain
has fallen since last August; provisions are enormously dear, and a
general famine was apprehended.

In Yucatan, the Indian war is drawing to a close. Gen. La Vega, who had
arrived at Campeachy to take command of the forces, was received with
great enthusiasm. The Indians have recently sustained several bloody
defeats, and are evidently very much discouraged. In their endeavor to
take by assault the town of Bacalar, they were received with such a
heavy fire by the garrison, that they were utterly routed, and the river
was choked up by their dead bodies, while the whites suffered only a
trifling loss.

There is little news of interest from Central America. A mule-track, or
transit-road as it is called, has been made from Rivas de Nicaragua to
the Gulf of San Juan del Sur: and the line from New-York to San
Francisco is expected to be completed by the 17th of July. The subject
of a new Constitution is engaging public attention in Honduras. A
violent earthquake was experienced in the State of Costa Rica, on the
morning of the 18th of March. A great amount of property was destroyed
in the cities of San José, Heredia, and Barba.


WEST INDIES.

In Cuba, the fears of an invasion, with which the island has been
agitated for three months past, appear to have subsided. A number of
arrests have been made, but no revolutionary preparations have been
discovered. Several prisoners have been convicted of disaffection to the
Government, and are to be sent to Spain for safekeeping. Mr. Christopher
Madan, who voluntarily delivered himself up to the authorities, has been
banished to Spain, and condemned to pay his share of the damages done by
Lopez at Cardenas.

The Jamaica House of Assembly was prorogued by the Governor on the 23d
of May; the Governor made a long speech on the occasion. The cholera
still lingers in the island, and appears in several localities which
have been hitherto exempt.

The island of Hayti is tranquil for the present. The proposition of the
U.S. Commissioner. Mr. Walsh, in connection with the French and English
Consuls, for a ten years' truce with the Dominicans, was rejected by the
Haytian Government. The Emperor has since addressed a proclamation to
the former Government, proposing the appointment of delegates on both
sides, to negotiate terms of peace. Prince Bobo, who, in consequence of
having been engaged in a conspiracy against the Emperor, had fled to the
mountains with a few adherents, has not been captured.


SOUTH AMERICA.

An insurrection broke out in Santiago, the capital of Chili, on the 20th
of April. It was occasioned by excited political feeling, growing out of
the approaching Presidential election. About twenty persons were killed,
and fifty wounded. The province was immediately placed under martial
law: and as the Government possesses much power, no further trouble was
anticipated. About seven o'clock, on the morning of the 2d of April,
Valparaiso was visited by a terrible earthquake. The earth continued to
heave violently for a minute, throwing down a large number of buildings,
and cracking and damaging others. The population assembled in the
squares in the utmost terror and distress. Soon afterwards a heavy rain
set in, which, on account of the shattered roofs, did immense damage to
property. The entire loss is estimated at $1,500,000.

The Government of Brazil is adopting stringent measures for the
suppression of the Slave Trade. Several of the most prominent dealers
have been fined or forced to leave the country.

The hostility to Rosas in Brazil, Paraguay, Entre-Rios and the Oriental
States, became so great, that, seeing no way of extricating himself from
the difficulty, he offered his resignation to the Legislature of Buenos
Ayres. This, however, was considered as merely a trick to shift the
responsibility from his own shoulders. Five of the Argentine Provinces
have passed resolutions refusing to accept his resignation, and
restoring to him all his former powers. The city of Montevideo is still
besieged by the forces of Gen. Oribe.


POLYNESIA.

In the month of March another difficulty occurred between the French
officials at the Sandwich Islands and the Hawaiian Government. The
French demanded a repeal of the duty on wines and brandies, the election
of a Frenchman to the Cabinet of King Kamehameha, and the adoption of
the French language as the official tongue! In case of refusal, they
threatened to blockade Honolulu, and take possession of the island. A
compromise was effected, however, in which the King agreed to refer the
disputed subjects to the Legislature, and to receive documents from
French subjects in the French language.



RECENT DEATHS.


DR. SAMUEL GEORGE MORTON, one of the most eminent of our men of science,
died suddenly in Philadelphia on the 15th of May. Mr. E. G. Squier, in
announcing the occurrence to the Ethnological Society, said: "The name
of Dr. Morton is best known to the world through those splendid
monuments of scientific research, '_Crania Americana_,' and '_Crania
Egyptiaca_', which attest alike his industry and zeal!--his patient
analytical and comprehensive generalizing abilities, and his sound and
impartial judgment. Besides these works, he was the author of numerous
papers in scientific journals of this country and of Europe, as also of
a number of pamphlets on various subjects connected with the studies in
which he was engaged. Among these the 'Inquiry into the Distinctive
Characteristics of the Aboriginal Race of America,' published in 1844,
deserves to be specially mentioned as a comprehensive _résumé_ of the
general results of his inquiries. Dr. Morton had a wide practice in his
profession, of which he was a distinguished member--a profession
peculiarly subject to those interruptions and contingencies so
unfavorable to philosophical investigation. Yet in the intervals of
leisure which were afforded to him during hours snatched from sleep, he
made those arduous researches of which we have the leading results in
the works which I have enumerated. The facts and data upon which these
researches were based, were collected with almost incredible labor, and
at an expense which few students could afford, or affording, would have
consented to incur. Dr. MORTON'S museum of Crania, presented by him to
the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia, of which he was a
principal supporter and most active officer, comprised not less than 900
human skulls, and 600 of the inferior animals. These were collected from
every quarter of the globe, and afford types of every race, and almost
every family of men. The correspondence and general and special
exertions, which the collection of such a museum involves, must have
been immense; and we can but admire the untiring zeal and patient
industry of the man who undertook and accomplished it. It is a brilliant
example of what men may do if animated by a true spirit; and must afford
encouragement to those engaged in cognate researches in a country like
our own, where public aid is rarely extended to objects of this nature.
As Americans we may take just pride in the reflection, that an American
physician, by his individual exertions, with the aid of a few personal
friends, made a Craniological Museum surpassing extent the united
collections of half of Europe, and one which must now be consulted by
every scholar before he can undertake to write upon the great questions
involved in the natural history of man. In March last the Government of
the United States placed in the hands of Dr. MORTON the Crania collected
by the American Exploring Expedition, with a view to their careful
investigation at his hands; but the interesting results which we had
every reason to expect from such investigation, have been cut short by
his untimely death, which has also suddenly terminated a wide series of
inquiries, instituted by the same active mind, looking to a work more
comprehensive, if not more interesting and valuable than any which he
had published before. Dr. MORTON was essentially a man of no theories;
he brought to the service of science an earnest love of truth in its
simplest and severest form, and was always ready to yield his opinions
to the rigid requirements of facts. Possessed of a high intellect and a
generous disposition, he always assumed that those who differed most
widely from him in their views, were animated by the same desire to
arrive at truth, and dealt with questions of science as matters to be
kept superior to all personal considerations and influences. He had, in
short, a true appreciation of the dignity and aims of philosophy. In
private life, and in his personal intercourse with men, Dr. MORTON added
lustre to his high character as a scholar and philosopher. Mild and
courteous in his demeanor, devoted in his friendships, generous,
upright, and true; as a husband, father, friend and citizen, he was a
man in the noblest acceptation of the word--one whom, none knew but to
esteem, and whose whole life as a model of virtue and excellence."

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. SHEIL, one of the most brilliant rhetoricians of the age in which he
lived, has prematurely closed his remarkable career in a foreign land,
and in a manner so sudden that the surprise which the event must
occasion will be only exceeded by the deep affliction of his friends and
the regret of the public. The Right Hon. Richard Lalor Sheil was a
native of Dublin, born in the year 1793. His father, imitating the
example of many Irish Roman Catholics of good family, sought in other
countries that independence and those means of advancement which the
penal laws, then in force, denied them in the land of their nativity. He
resided for many years at Cadiz, and engaged in mercantile pursuits with
more than ordinary success. Having amassed a competence, he returned to
the county of Waterford, purchased an estate, and built a mansion.
Unfortunately, he was again led into commercial speculation, which
proved of a disastrous character, and he eventually died unable to
bequeath to his son more than the means of acquiring a liberal
education. That education, commenced at Stoneyhurst, was continued at
Trinity College, Dublin, where the young Mr. Sheil, then remarkable for
the precocity of his talents, graduated with much distinction, and at
the age of twenty-one, in the year 1814, he was called to the Irish bar.
In the profession of the law, though he attained the rank of Queen's
counsel, he never enjoyed a lucrative practice. On remarkable occasions
he held briefs and made showy speeches, but the attorneys had no
confidence in his legal acquirements, and though the judges regarded
affectionately his personal character and greatly admired his genius,
yet his arguments were listened to with comparatively little attention.
It was said, however, that he determined, if possible, to get on in the
more arduous walks of the profession, and hoped for especial favor in
the Rolls' Court, having married at an early age Miss O'Halloran, niece
to Sir William MacMahon, (who then presided in that court), and niece
also to Sir John MacMahon, who at that time was private secretary to the
Prince Regent. But all this gossip of the "Four Courts" ended in
nothing. Mr. Sheil, instead of an eminent lawyer, became a political
agitator, and in the Roman Catholic Association reached a position
second only to that of Mr. O'Connell. His speeches at public meetings in
Dublin, the first of which was delivered by him at the early age of
eighteen, attracted the admiration of all classes; his passionate tone
delighted the vulgar, his wit and exquisite fancy charmed the most
cultivated minds, while his perfect amiability of character, his high
and generous nature, secured the friendship of every one who enjoyed the
advantage of his acquaintance. With all this celebrity, however, he was
not making a fortune, and when literature offered to him some of its
rewards, he gladly contributed to the monthly periodicals of that day,
producing at the same time the tragedy of _Evadne_, and many other
dramatic works.

The Roman Catholic Relief Bill of 1829, when it became a law, opened to
Mr. Sheil a new and more extended sphere of action; he was returned to
Parliament for Lord Anglesey's borough of Milbourne Port, and soon
became one of the favorite orators of the House. At first, there was
some disposition to laugh at his shrill tones and vehement
gesticulation, but Parliament soon recognized him as one of its
ornaments. His great earnestness and apparent sincerity, his unrivalled
felicity of illustration, his extraordinary power of pushing the meaning
of words to the utmost extent, and wringing from them a force beyond the
range of ordinary expression, much more than the force of his reasoning
or the range of his political knowledge, obtained for him in Parliament
marked attention, and, for the most part, unqualified applause. When he
rose to speak, members took their places, and the hum of private
conversation was hushed, in order that the House might enjoy the
performances of an accomplished artist--not that they should receive the
lessons of a statesmanlike adviser, or follow the lead of a commanding
politician. Still, for twenty years, he held a prominent place in the
House of Commons, though throughout a great portion of that period he
represented very insignificant constituencies. Mr. Sheil was returned
for Milbourne Port in 1830, having been an unsuccessful candidate for
the county of Louth. In 1831, however, he got in for Louth; in 1832 was
returned for Tipperary, without contest, and again in 1835; but in 1837
there was an opposition, against which he prevailed. His principal
influence in that county, exclusive of the weight of his public
character, is understood to have been derived from his second marriage
with the widow of Mr. Edmund Power, of Gurteen, which took place in
1830. It will be remembered that the eldest son of that gentleman fell
very recently by his own hand; and during his minority, whatever
influence he might possess as a landlord was in a great degree at the
command of Mr. Sheil, who continued to sit for Tipperary till 1841,
though he encountered some opposition on accepting office in 1838. From,
the general election in 1841 till the time of his departure for Florence
in 1850, he represented, through the influence of the Duke of
Devonshire, the small borough of Dungarvon, always of course supporting
the most liberal section of the Whigs. Amongst his first appointments
was that of Vice-President of the Board of Trade, in the last Melbourne
Ministry, and then he became Judge Advocate General, which office he
held only from June to September, 1841. On the return of the present
Ministers he was appointed Master of the Mint, and in 1850, went out as
British Minister to Florence. For many years past, his health had been
declining, his fits of gout grew more frequent and severe, his speeches
in Parliament, never very numerous, came at length to be few and far
between; though his political friends regarded him with infinite favor,
they began to think he might be just as useful to them in Florence as in
London, especially as the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill was soon to be
brought in; and although that appointment amounted to shelving for life
a man not yet 60 years of age, though it was nothing less than an
expatriation of the individual and an extinction of what might have been
a growing fame, yet he submitted not merely with a philosophical
indifference, but almost in a joyous spirit, feeling, or seeming to
feel, that it was great promotion and a dignified retirement. He was old
in constitution, if not in years, with powers better suited to the
development of general principles than to that successful administration
of details which a practical age demands. With Grattan, Flood, and
Curran, he would have well co-operated from 1782 to 1800, but amongst
the public men of England in the middle of this century he appeared
grievously out of place, and he therefore was perhaps quite sincere in
the expressions of delight with which he escaped from Downing-street to
enjoy the fine vintages and bright sunshine of the south. He is stated
to have expired at Florence on the 26th ult., owing to an attack of gout
in the stomach.--_London Times, June 3._

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. RICHARD PHILLIPS, the well-known chemist, died suddenly in London on
the tenth of May. He was in his seventy-fifth year, and at least fifty
years of his life had been devoted to science. He was one of the
founders of the Geological Society, a very old member of the Royal
Society, and for many years a member of its Council. In the
_Transactions_ of that body will be found numerous papers by him on
chemical subjects, and many of his discoveries were of great importance
to the analytical chemist. He was editor of the _Annals of Philosophy_
from 1812, and one of the editors of the _Philosophical Magazine_. He
was appointed Lecturer on Chemistry at the London Hospital in 1817, and
for many years was Lecturer on Chemistry at St. Thomas's Hospital, to
which office he was appointed in 1832; and was among the earliest
chemists to the Museum of Practical Geology.

His attention to Pharmaceutical Chemistry was very great; and the
regular improvement which has marked during the period of more than
twenty years the _London Pharmacopoeia_ has been largely due to his
suggestions and criticisms. His first translation was published in 1824.
He had been during the last twelve months busily engaged for the College
of Physicians on the new edition of the _Pharmacopoeia_,--and
considerable progress had been made in the new translation. For many
years Mr. Phillips had been in the habit of furnishing to the faculty
and the druggists of the United Kingdom a translation of the
_Pharmacopoeia_, with appended notes, the value of which has been
fully appreciated by those for whom it was intended. He was for the last
two years the President of the Chemical Society--by all the members of
which he was regarded with the highest consideration. In his "History of
Chemistry," Dr. Thompson says--"Of modern British analytical chemists,
undoubtedly the first is Mr. Richard Phillips, to whom we are indebted
for not a few analyses conducted with great skill and performed with
great accuracy." All the chemical articles in the _Penny Cyclopoedia_
were by Mr. Phillips:--and scattered through the various scientific
journals will be found papers on various chemical subjects and reviews
of scientific works from his pen.

       *       *       *       *       *

"OLD DOWTON," the celebrated comedian, is dead. He was born at Exeter in
1763, and consequently was in his eighty-eighth year. At sixteen he was
apprenticed to an architect, but having performed successfully the part
of Carlos, in "The Revenge," at a private theatre, he was induced to
join a travelling company, and after completing a circuit, was engaged
by Mr. Hughes, manager of the Plymouth theatre. His first appearance at
Drury-lane was on the tenth of October, 1796, in the difficult character
of Sheva, in Cumberland's comedy of _The Jew_. This had long been a
favorite part of Bannister's--Elliston had also marked it for his own.
Mr. Dowton stepped into the field, and, without taking the laurel from
either, honorably shared it with both. His first appearance at
Drury-lane was on the tenth of October, 1796, in this difficult
character. He was hailed as a genuine actor, and crowned with applause.
In 1805 he was engaged at the Haymarket, and on the fifteenth of August
in that year revived for his benefit the warm-weather tragedy of the
_Tailors_, which produced a memorable fracas. The principal _roles_ in
the burlesque were sustained by Dowton, Mathews, Liston, and Mrs. Gibbs,
as _Francisco_, _Abrahamides_, _Zachariades_, and _Tittilinda_. The
great success of _Tom Thumb_, in which Dowton played _King Arthur_ very
humorously, stimulated him to this attempt. His two principal
Shakspearian characters were _Sir John Falstaff_ and _Dogberry_. As _Dr.
Cantwell_ in the _Hypocrite_ he was inimitable. His other best parts
were _Sir Anthony Absolute_ and _Major Sturgeon_. With the proceeds of
his farewell benefit at Her Majesty's Theatre a few years since, an
annuity was purchased, on which he has lived to a fine green old age,
happy in the bosom of his family and a large circle of professional and
private friends.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADMIRAL SIR EDWARD CODRINGTON died recently in London. He entered the
naval service in 1783, and bore a part in some distinguished affairs. He
was lieutenant of the Queen Charlotte in Howe's victory of the 1st of
June, 1794, and captain of the Babet in Bridport's action, July, 1795.
At the memorable victory of Trafalgar, he was captain of the Orion. He
commanded on the Walcheren expedition; was afterwards employed at the
defence of Cadiz, and commanded a squadron co-operating with the Spanish
patriots on the coast of Catalonia. He was also captain of the fleet in
the Chesapeake, and at New Orleans in 1814. In October, 1827, with the
combined fleet, he destroyed the Turkish fleet in the harbor of
Navarino. He was gazetted on five occasions, viz., in 1805, 1809, 1811,
1814, 1815. For some period he commanded on the Mediterranean station.
He has also held other naval appointments. He represented Devonport in
Parliament from 1832 to 1840. In politics he was a "liberal."

       *       *       *       *       *

The death of EARL COTTENHAM, late Lord Chancellor, took place at the
small town of Pietra Santa, in the duchy of Mucca, on the twenty-ninth
of April. Charles Christopher Pepys was born in Great-Russell street,
Bloomsbury, in 1781. The family was originally of Diss, in Norfolk, but
early in the sixteenth century it removed to Cottenham, in
Cambridgeshire, from which place the deceased derived his title. Amongst
his ancestors may be mentioned Samuel Pepys, author of the _Diary_, and
Secretary of the Admiralty in the time of Charles the Second; and
Richard Pepys, Lord Chief Justice of Ireland in 1664. William Weller
Pepys, the father of the late Lord Chancellor, who held the office of a
Master in Chancery, was created a baronet in the year 1801. Lord
Cottenham was in the seventy-first year of his age, having been born in
1781. He was graduated LL.B. at Trinity College, Cambridge, 1803; was
called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn, 1804; appointed a king's counsel,
1826; Solicitor General to Queen Adelaide, 1830; solicitor-general to
the king, February, 1834; master of the rolls, September, 1834; first
commissioner when the great seal was in commission, in 1835; lord
chancellor from 1836 to September, 1841, and again appointed to that
office in August, 1846; was appointed a commissioner to consider the
state of the bishoprics, 1847. Represented the borough of Malton in
Parliament from 1832 to 1836; had previously sat for Higham Ferrars.
Under his second appointment he held the great seal until the Easter
term, 1850, when ill health compelled him to retire.



Record of Scientific Discovery.


Professor S. F. B. MORSE has written an interesting letter to the
_National Intelligencer_ respecting the _Hillotype_, an improvement upon
the daguerreotype which appears to be genuine and very important. The
improvement by Baird exhibited lately in London, is spoken of as a great
advance upon the silvered plate, as it cannot but be: it is making a
surface of porcelain susceptible to the sun's rays. And now, in the very
depths of our forests, a discovery has been perfected which leaves
nothing to be desired by daguerreotypists. France, England, and America,
have thus each contributed to the perfection of the photogenic art, our
country supplying the crowning improvement:

"You perhaps have seen it announced," says Mr. Morse, "that a Mr. Hill,
of this state, formerly a Baptist clergyman, was under the necessity,
from ill health, of abandoning the ministry, and for a support practised
the daguerreotype art, and has made the discovery of photographing in
colors, or chromotography. The magnificence of this discovery is as
remarkable as the original discovery of photography by Daguerre. Many
affect to doubt the fact of this discovery by Mr. Hill, but I have every
reason to believe it strictly true. A week or two since I received a
most interesting letter from him, in consequence of his learning that I
had expressed a hope that he would not think of attempting to secure his
property in his discovery by a _patent_. I determined to visit him, and
save him, if possible, from the evils I had experienced. So last week I
went up to Kingston, and, hiring a gig, I set forth in a northwesterly
direction in search of Westkill, in Greene county, some thirty-six miles
in the interior, and after seven hours' drive through a wild region of
the Western Catskill mountains, passing into the very outskirts of
civilization, through a deep gorge of mountain precipices that rose on
each side of the road more than a thousand feet, at an angle of
forty-five degrees, I at length found the little village of some three
hundred inhabitants of which I was in search, embosomed in the deep
valley of the Westkill creek. I had no difficulty in finding Mr. Hill.
He is unquestionably a man of genius, intelligence, and piety, retiring
and sensitive; and his simple description of the effect upon him when
the result of his discovery stood revealed before him, was true to
nature, and, among other things, demonstrated to me that his discovery
was a fact. I have not time to give you the details of the conversation;
but I succeeded in dissuading him from thinking of a patent as a
security, and in this I am rejoiced. He shall not be plagued by
lawsuits, have his life shortened and made miserable, and his just right
in the property of his discovery snatched from him, if I can prevent it.
His discovery, fortunately for him, is one that can be kept secret, and
his case furnishes a capital example of the reality and nature of
property in invention or discovery. It can be seen at a glance in this
stage of the matter that Mr. Hill now has that property absolutely in
his own possession, and no one has a right to demand it of him, nor
request it, without paying him such a price as he may affix to his
property. I have a plan which pleased him, and which I think, will
secure the object aimed at, to wit, ample remuneration to him, and in
such a shape as to leave him the use of his powers the remainder of his
life (unlike my own case) for further research and scientific pursuits,
without fear of fraud, of attacks on his character, and endless
litigation. More of this another time. I must now stop, simply remarking
on the strangeness of the circumstances of this discovery as contrasted
with Daguerre's discovery; the latter surrounded by every facility for
experiment in the metropolis of refinement and science, the former
surrounded by no facilities whatever for experiment, excepting such as
were transported by him at great trouble and comparative expense, with
limited pecuniary means, into the primeval forest, with scarcely an
individual to consult with except his wife, and literally surrounded by
wild beasts--the deer, the bears, the wolves, the wild-cats, and the
panthers too, still inhabiting the wild mountain forests that inclose
the village."

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR BLUME, of Leyden, has been elected a member of the French
Academy, to fill a vacancy in the section of botany. Among the
candidates were Professor John Torrey, of New-York, and Professor Gray
of Harvard College. Professor Blume presented on the occasion his
splendid new work on botany: a Flora, in four volumes, folio, of the
peninsula of India, the islands of the Sonde, and of the Indian
Archipelago; the title is _Rumphia_, the contents being collected from
the seven folios of the botanist Everard Rumph, published in the middle
of the last century. Professor Blume resided many years in Batavia, and
added the results of his own scientific and extensive research
throughout Java and the Archipelago. On the 24th ult. M. de Juissen
submitted to the Academy an interesting report on the work, in which he
says, "A poisonous tree, the _Upas-Antiar_, has been the subject of
numerous fictions, by which it has acquired great celebrity. It has
therefore attracted the attention of many travellers, who have
dissipated the stories, as Mr. Blume does, with piquant details." He
explains a part of the terrible reputation of the tree, by the fact that
the volcanic soil emits, on different spots, deleterious gases, which
have a fatal effect on animal life--an effect erroneously imputed to the
adjacent trees. Their juice, indeed, possesses highly energetic
properties. The birds often take refuge on their elevated tops, without
the least injury. [A specimen of the Upas tree has been recently brought
to the United States by an officer of the navy, and it is alleged that
while it does not poison the atmosphere, its sap is quite as fatal to
life as its effluvia has been represented to be.] The natives poison
their arms with the juice of another Upas, _Strychnos tieute_. Mr. Blume
visited a mangrove tree--_ficus India_--of gigantic dimensions and
remote antiquity, which is regarded and preserved as a sort of religious
monument. The branches spread a shade over a vast area, and form
themselves for the parasite growth of a multitude of other plants on
their surface. The professor obtained license to herborize on the top.
He collected thirty-seven species, without reckoning lichens and mosses,
but being restricted as to time, did not inspect half of the display.
The plants were fully developed, with rich foliage and graceful and
brilliant flowers.

[Illustration]



Ladies' Summer Fashions.


The changes for the season are not in general very striking. There is
said to be an unusual prevalence of sombre colors, with artistically
agreeing brighter ones. Striped silks, taffetas, and barèges, are all in
vogue.

For BONNETS the materials employed are very numerous. Paille de riz,
fine Florence straw, gauze, tulle, crape, and crêpe lisse, are all
fashionable; silk, also, but it is not much in request. The stripes are
round, very open at the sides, but not standing out so much as they were
last season over the forehead; the crowns are also very low, and the
curtains full, and always short enough to be becoming. Among the most
elegant rice straw bonnets are those lined with white tulle and
ornamented with tufts of violets and snowdrops, the exterior decorated
with a wreath of the same flowers. Others have exteriors trimmed with a
light panache, composed of fuschias, heliotropes, and sprigs of
eglantine, mingled with long blades of grass (this ornament droops over
the brim on one side), the interior trimmed with small tufts of fruit
blossoms. Rice and Florence straw bonnets are trimmed with a petite
couronne of rose and white marabout tips, forming a tuft on each side;
the interior is lined with rose and white tulle bouillonnée, and tufts
of narrow blonde intermingled with small tips of rose marabouts.
Bouquets of white roses and flowers of the double-blossomed peach are
also in great request for these bonnets. The majority of gauze, tulle,
crape, and crêpe bonnets, are trimmed in a light style with flowers or
marabouts. French chip, trimmed with broad lace, promises to be
considerably worn. Plain straw is always respectable, but it is less
worn this season than heretofore.

In PROMENADE AND CARRIAGE DRESSES the redingote form is adopted in plain
silks of a quiet kind, or striped, that are not showy, for the
promenade. Redingotes for carriage dress are much trimmed, some with
passementerie, lace, or ribbon; lace is much in vogue; ribbon is more
so; it admits of a great variety of forms; one of the most novel is a
cockle-shell wreath arranged in two rows of festoons up each side of
the front of the dress. Fashionable as flounces are for in-door and
carriage-dress, they are, comparatively speaking, little seen in the
promenade; the extreme width of the skirts, which does not seem at all
likely to diminish, accounts in some degree for this.

In EVENING DRESSES silks predominate for robes, but always the new
spring silks, the heavy ones being quite laid aside; the bodies are cut
low, but moderately so; they are of the Louis Quinze, and la Grecque
styles; the latter have the draperies attached by knots of ribbon, or
brilliant ornaments, as the dress is rich or otherwise. A deep fall of
lace, placed under the last drapery, is looped with it in the centre,
and also on the shoulder; it turns round the back, and falls, _en
mancheron_, over the sleeve, which is always very short if the corsage
is _à la Grecque_. The Louis Quinze has the lace disposed in a full fall
_à l'enfant_; or also a berthe, either round or pointed; the latter is
_en coeur_, very voluminous at the top, but with the lace narrowing to
a point at the waist; the skirts, if trimmed, are flounced, but many are
made without garnitures. Several white dresses, trimmed, with black
lace, have lately appeared; this fashion gains ground, but it is not yet
a decided one.

The majority of evening dresses combine richness of effect with the
light textures adapted to summer, ball, and dinner costume. Dresses of
white crape have been made with double jupes, or with three flounces,
the latter edged with pink-ruches, or with four or five rows of narrow
ribbon. The berthe is of the shawl form, and should be trimmed to
correspond with the flounces, either with ruches or rows of ribbon. A
bouquet of flowers may be worn in the centre of the corsage. New barège
dresses are made with three flounces, scalloped, and trimmed at the edge
with a quilling of ribbon. The corsages of some of these dresses are
made close to the figure, and with basques; the latter, like the
flounces, having a scalloped or vandyked edge, trimmed with a quilling
of ribbon. Other dresses of the same material have drawn corsagas, and
then the top flounce is set on at the lower end of the waist, and by
that means serves as a basque. The flounce may be open or not in front.
Sleeves are almost universally worn open at the ends, whether the dress
be plain or of a superior kind. The under-sleeves worn in dressed
costume are also open at the ends, in the pagoda form, and are trimmed
with fontanges or frills of lace, or richly worked muslin. Dresses
intended for walking or négligé costume have muslin under-sleeves
fastened at the wrist with turned-up cuffs. For sleeves reaching to the
wrist, and not open at the ends, cuffs of various patterns are worn.
Those generally adopted have two or three buillonnées, with a row of
lace between each; or a single buillonnée, edged by a lace frill,
falling over the hand.

MANTELETS are likely to supersede pardessus in a great degree; there is
a variety in their forms, and they are made of silk, muslin, and lace.
The Medicis, the Violetta, and the Victoria, are the most remarkable of
the new shapes. The first is of deep violet taffetas, small, and the
hind part of an oval form--the garniture composed of three flounces, cut
in dents, and encircled with a deep fringe, surmounted by a light
embroidery; a narrow flounce in the same style goes round the throat.
Being set on full it has something of a ruff.

BLACK VELVET COLLARS date from the earliest days of Louis XV., for the
_beau monde_, who adopted them from the peasantry, with whom they had
been long in vogue. They are now revived, and likely to become general.
The collar is a black velvet ribbon, never very broad, crossed on the
throat, and fastened by an ornament of jewelry or gold, according to the
fancy or the fortune of the wearer; the ends descend upon the neck, and
some are bordered with seed pearl or diamond fringe. These collars can
be becoming only to blonde belles.

There is no probability of any radical change in the costume of women of
the better classes.

[Illustration]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 4, July, 1851" ***

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