Harper’s

New Monthly Magazine

No. V.—October, 1850.—Vol. I.

Contents

[pg 577]


Wordsworth—His Character
And Genius.

Illustration: Wordsworth.

In a late article on Southey, we alluded to
the solitary position of Wordsworth in that
lake country where he once shone the brightest
star in a large galaxy. Since then, the star of
Jove, so beautiful and large, has gone out in
darkness—the greatest laureate of England has
expired—the intensest, most unique, and most
pure-minded of our poets, with the single exceptions
of Milton and Cowper, is departed.
And it were lesemajesty against his mighty
shade not to pay it our tribute while yet his
memory, and the grass of his grave, are green.

It is singular, that only a few months have
elapsed since the great antagonist of his literary
fame—Lord Jeffrey (who, we understand, persisted
to the last in his ungenerous and unjust
estimate), left the bench of human, to appear
at the bar of Divine justice. Seldom has the
death of a celebrated man produced a more
powerful impression in his own city and circle,
and a less powerful impression on the wide
horizon of the world. In truth, he had outlived
himself. It had been very different had he
passed away thirty years ago, when the “Edinburgh
Review” was in the plenitude of its influence.
As it was, he disappeared like a star at
midnight, whose descent is almost unnoticed
while the whole heavens are white with glory,
not like a sun going down, that night may come
over the earth. One of the acutest, most accomplished,
most warm-hearted, and generous
of men, Jeffrey wanted that stamp of universality,
[pg 578]
that highest order of genius, that depth
of insight, and that simple directness of purpose,
not to speak of that moral and religious consecration,
which “give the world assurance of a
man.” He was the idol of Edinburgh, and the
pride of Scotland, because he condensed in himself
those qualities which the modern Athens
has long been accustomed to covet and admire—taste
and talent rather than genius—subtlety
of appreciation rather than power of origination—the
logical understanding rather than the inventive
insight—and because his name had sounded
out to the ends of the earth. But nature and
man, not Edinburgh Castle, or the Grampian
Hills merely, might be summoned to mourn in
Wordsworth’s departure the loss of one of their
truest high-priests, who had gazed into some
of the deepest secrets of the one, and echoed
some of the loftiest aspirations of the other.

To soften such grief, however, there comes
in the reflection, that the task of this great poet
had been nobly discharged. He had given the
world assurance, full, and heaped, and running
over, of what he meant, and of what was meant
by him. While the premature departure of a
Schiller, a Byron, or a Keats, gives us emotions
similar to those wherewith we would behold
the crescent moon, snatched away as by some
“insatiate archer,” up into the Infinite, ere it
grew into its full glory—Wordsworth, like Scott,
Goethe, and Southey, was permitted to fill his
full and broad sphere.

What Wordsworth’s mission was, may be,
perhaps, understood through some previous remarks
upon his great mistress—Nature, as a
poetical personage.

There are three methods of contemplating
nature. These are the material, the shadowy,
and the mediatorial. The materialist looks upon
it as the great and only reality. It is a vast
solid fact, for ever burning and rolling around,
below and above him. The idealist, on the
contrary, regards it as a shadow—a mode of
mind—the infinite projection of his own thought.
The man who stands between the two extremes,
looks on nature as a great, but not ultimate or
everlasting scheme of mediation, or compromise,
between pure and absolute spirit and humanity—adumbrating
God to man, and bringing man
near to God. To the materialist, there is an
altar, star-lighted heaven-high, but no God.
To the idealist, there is a God, but no altar.
He who holds the theory of mediation, has the
Great Spirit as his God, and the universe as the
altar on which he presents the gift of his poetical
(we do not speak at present so much of his
theological) adoration.

It must be obvious, at once, which of those
three views of nature is the most poetical. It
is surely that which keeps the two principles of
spirit and matter distinct and unconfounded—preserves
in their proper relations—the soul and
the body of things—God within, and without the
garment by which, in Goethe’s grand thought,
“we see him by.” While one party deify, and
another destroy matter, the third impregnate,
without identifying it with the Divine presence.

The notions suggested by this view, which is
that of Scripture, are exceedingly comprehensive
and magnificent. Nature becomes to the
poet’s eye “a great sheet let down from God out
of heaven,” and in which there is no object
“common or unclean.” The purpose and the
Being above cast such a grandeur over the pettiest
or barest objects, as did the fiery pillar
upon the sand, or the shrubs of the howling
desert of its march. Every thing becomes valuable
when looked upon as a communication
from God, imperfect only from the nature of the
material used. What otherwise might have
been concluded discords, now appear only stammerings
or whisperings in the Divine voice;
thorns and thistles spring above the primeval
curse, the “meanest flower that blows” gives

“Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”

The creation is neither unduly exalted nor contemptuously
trampled under-foot, but maintains
its dignified position, as an embassador from
the Divine King. The glory of something far
beyond association—that of a divine and perpetual
presence—is shed over the landscape,
and its golden-drops are spilled upon the stars.
Objects the most diverse—the cradle of the
child, the wet hole of the centipede, the bed of
the corpse, and the lair of the earthquake, the
nest of the lark, and the crag on which sits,
half asleep, the dark vulture, digesting blood—are
all clothed in a light the same in kind,
though varying in degree—

“A light which never was on sea or shore.”

In the poetry of the Hebrews, accordingly,
the locusts are God’s “great army;”—the
winds are his messengers, the thunder his voice,
the lightning a “fiery stream going before him,”
the moon his witness in the heavens, the sun a
strong man rejoicing to run his race—all creation
is roused and startled into life through him—its
every beautiful, or dire, or strange shape in
the earth or the sky, is God’s movable tent; the
place where, for a season, his honor, his beauty,
his strength, and his justice dwell—the tenant
not degraded, and inconceivable dignity being
added to the abode.

His mere “tent,” however—for while the
great and the infinite are thus connected with
the little and the finite, the subordination of the
latter to the former is always maintained. The
most magnificent objects in nature are but the
mirrors to God’s face—the scaffolding to his future
purposes; and, like mirrors, are to wax dim;
and, like scaffolding, to be removed. The great
sheet is to be received up again into heaven.
The heavens and the earth are to pass away,
and to be succeeded, if not by a purely mental
economy, yet by one of a more spiritual materialism,
compared to which the former shall no
more be remembered, neither come into mind.
Those frightful and fantastic forms of animated
life, through which God’s glory seems to shine
[pg 579]
with a struggle, and but faintly, shall disappear—nay,
the worlds which bore, and sheltered
them in their rugged dens and eaves, shall flee
from the face of the regenerator. “A milder
day” is to dawn on the universe—the refinement
of matter is to keep pace with the elevation
of mind. Evil and sin are to be eternally
banished to some Siberia of space. The word
of the poet is to be fulfilled,

“And one eternal spring encircles all!”

The mediatorial purpose of creation, fully subserved,
is to be abandoned, that we may see
“eye to eye,” and that God may be “all in all.”

That such views of matter—its present ministry—the
source of its beauty and glory—and
its future destiny, transferred from the pages of
both Testaments to those of our great moral
and religious poets, have deepened some of their
profoundest, and swelled some of their highest
strains, is unquestionable. Such prospects as
were in Milton’s eye, when he sung,

“Thy Saviour and thy Lord
Last in the clouds from heaven to be revealed,
In glory of the Father to dissolve
Satan with his perverted world; then raise
From the conflagrant mass, purged and refined,
New heavens, new earth, ages of endless date,”

may be found in Thomson, in his closing Hymn
to the Seasons, in Coleridge’s “Religious Musings,”
(in Shelley’s “Prometheus” even, but
perverted and disguised), in Bailey’s “Festus”
(cumbered and entangled with his religious
theory); and more rootedly, although less theologically,
than in all the rest, in the poetry of
Wordsworth.

The secret of Wordsworth’s profound and
peculiar love for Nature, even in her meaner
and minuter forms, may lie, perhaps, here.
De Quincey seeks for it in a peculiar conformation
of the eye, as if he actually did see more in
the object than other men—in the rose a richer
red, in the sky a deeper azure, in the broom a
yellower gold, in the sun a more dazzling ray,
in the sea a finer foam, and in the star a more
sparkling splendor, than even Nature’s own
“sweet and cunning” hand put on; but the
critic has not sought to explain the rationale of
this peculiarity. Mere acuteness of vision it
can not have been, else the eagle might have
felt, though not written, “The Excursion”—else
the fact is not accountable why many of
weak sight, such as Burke, have been rapturous
admirers of Nature; and so, till we learn that
Mr. De Quincey has looked through Wordsworth’s
eyes, we must call this a mere fancy.
Hazlitt again, and others since, have accounted
for the phenomenon by association—but this
fails, we suspect, fully to explain the deep,
native, and brooding passion in question—a
passion which, instead of being swelled by the
associations of after life, rose to lull stature in
youth, as “Tintern Abbey” testifies. One
word of his own, perhaps, better solves the
mystery—it is the one word “consecration”—

“The consecration and the poet’s dream.”

His eye had been anointed with eye-salve, and
he saw, as his poet-predecessors had done, the
temple in which he was standing, heard in every
breeze and ocean billow the sound of a temple-service,
and felt that the grandeur of the ritual,
and of its recipient, threw the shadow of their
greatness upon every stone in the corners of the
edifice, and upon every eft crawling along its
floors. Reversing the miracle, he saw “trees
as men walking”—heard the speechless sins,
and, in the beautiful thought of “the Roman,”
caught on his ear the fragments of a “divine
soliloquy,” filling up the pauses in a universal
anthem. Hence the tumultuous, yet awful joy
of his youthful feelings to Nature. Hence his
estimation of its lowliest features; for does not
every bush and tree appear to him a “pillar in
the temple of his God?” The leaping fish
pleases him, because its “cheer” in the lonely
tarn is of praise. The dropping of the earth on
the coffin lid, is a slow and solemn psalm, mingling
in austere sympathy with the raven’s
croak, and in his “Power of sound” he proceeds
elaborately to condense all those varied voices,
high or low, soft or harsh, united or discordant,
into one crushing chorus, like the choruses of
Haydn, or of heaven. Nature undergoes no
outward change to his eye, but undergoes a far
deeper transfiguration to his spirit—as she
stands up in the white robes, and with the
sounding psalmodies of her mediatorial office,
between him and the Infinite i am.

Never must this feeling be confounded with
Pantheism. All does not seem to him to be
God, nor even (strictly speaking) divine; but
all seems to be immediately from God—rushing
out from him in being, to rush instantly back to
him in service and praise. Again the natal
dew of the first morning is seen lying on bud
and blade, and the low voice of the first evening’s
song becomes audible again. Although
Coleridge in his youth was a Spinozist, Wordsworth
seems at once, and forever, to have recoiled
from even his friend’s eloquent version
of that creedless creed, that baseless foundation,
that system, through the phenomenon of which
look not the bright eyes of Supreme Intelligence,
but the blind face of irresponsible and infinite
necessity. Shelley himself—with all the power
his critics attribute to him of painting night,
animating Atheism, and giving strange loveliness
to annihilation—has failed in redeeming
Spinoza’s theory from the reproach of being as
hateful as it is false; and there is no axiom we
hold more strongly than this—that the theory
which can not be rendered poetical, can not be
true. “Beauty is truth, and truth is beauty,”
said poor Keats, to whom time, however, was
not granted to come down from the first glowing
generalization of his heart, to the particular
creeds which his ripened intellect would have,
according to it, rejected or received.

Nor, although Wordsworth is a devoted lover
of Nature, down to what many consider the
very blots—or, at least, dashes and commas in
her page, is he blind to the fact of her transient
[pg 580]
character. The power he worships has his
“dwelling in the light of setting suns,” but
that dwelling is not his everlasting abode. For
earth, and the universe, a “milder day” (words
certifying their truth by their simple beauty) is
in store when “the monuments” of human
weakness, folly, and evil, shall “all be over-grown.”
He sees afar off the great spectacle
of Nature retiring before God; the embassador
giving place to the King; the bright toys of
this nursery—sun, moon, earth, and stars—put
away, like childish things; the symbols of the
Infinite lost in the Infinite itself; and though he
could, on the Saturday evening, bow before the
midnight mountains, and midnight heavens, he
could also, on the Sabbath morn, in Rydal
church, bow as profoundly before the apostolic
word, “All these things shall be dissolved.”

With Wordsworth, as with all great poets,
his poetical creed passes into his religious. It
is the same tune with variations. But we confess
that, in his case, we do not think the variations
equal. The mediation of Nature he understands,
and has beautifully represented in his
poetry; but that higher mediation of the Divine
Man between man and the Father, does not lie
fully or conspicuously on his page. A believer
in the mystery of godliness he unquestionably
was; but he seldom preached it. Christopher
North, many years ago, in “Blackwood,”
doubted if there were so much as a Bible in
poor Margaret’s cottage (Excursion). We
doubt so, too, and have not found much of the
“true cross” among all his trees. The theologians
divide prayer into four parts—adoration,
thanksgiving, confession, and petition. Wordsworth
stops at the second. No where do
we find more solemn, sustained, habitual, and
worthy adoration, than in his writings. The
tone, too, of all his poems, is a calm thanksgiving,
like that of a long blue, cloudless sky,
coloring, at evening, into the hues of more fiery
praise. But he does not weep like a penitent,
nor supplicate like a child. Such feelings seem
suppressed and folded up as far-off storms, and
the traces of past tempests are succinctly inclosed
in the algebra of the silent evening air. And
hence, like Milton’s, his poetry has rather tended
to foster the glow of devotion in the loftier
spirits of the race—previously taught to adore—than
like that of Cowper and Montgomery, to
send prodigals back to their forsaken homes;
Davids, to cry, “Against thee only have I
sinned;” and Peters, to shriek in agony, “Lord,
save us, we perish.”

To pass from the essential poetic element in
a writer of genius, to his artistic skill, is a felt,
yet necessary descent—like the painter compelled,
after sketching the man’s countenance,
to draw his dress. And yet, as of some men
and women, the very dress, by its simplicity,
elegance, and unity, seems fitted rather to garb
the soul than the body—seems the soul made
visible—so is it with the style and manner of
many great poets. Their speech and music
without are as inevitable as their genius, or as
the song forever sounding within their souls.
And why? The whole ever tends to beget a
whole—the large substance to cast its deep, yet
delicate shadow—the divine to be like itself in
the human, on which its seal is set. So it is
with Wordsworth. That profound simplicity—that
clear obscurity—that night-like noon—that
noon-like night—that one atmosphere of overhanging
Deity, seen weighing upon ocean and
pool, mountain and mole-hill, forest and flower—that
pellucid depth—that entireness of purpose
and fullness of power, connected with fragmentary,
willful, or even weak execution—that
humble, yet proud, precipitation of himself,
Antæus-like, upon the bosom of simple scenes
and simple sentiments, to regain primeval vigor—that
obscure, yet lofty isolation, like a tarn,
little in size, but elevated in site, with few visitors,
but with many stars—that Tory-Radicalism,
Popish-Protestantism, philosophical Christianity,
which have rendered him a glorious
riddle, and made Shelley, in despair of finding it
out, exclaim,

“No Deist, and no Christian he,
No Whig, no Tory.
He got so subtle, that to be
Nothing was all his glory,”—

all such apparent contradictions, but real unities,
in his poetical and moral creed and character,
are fully expressed in his lowly but aspiring
language, and the simple, elaborate architecture
of his verse—every stone of which is lifted up
by the strain of strong logic, and yet laid to
music; and, above all, in the choice of his subjects,
which range, with a free and easy motion,
up from a garden spade and a village drum, to
the “celestial visages” which darkened at the
tidings of man’s fall, and to the “organ of eternity,”
which sung pæans over his recovery.

We sum up what we have further to say of
Wordsworth, under the items of his works, his
life and character, his death; and shall close by
inquiring, Who is worthy to be his successor?

His works, covering a large space, and
abounding in every variety of excellence and
style, assume, after all, a fragmentary aspect.
They are true, simple, scattered, and strong, as
blocks torn from the crags of Helvellyn, and
lying there “low, but mighty still.” Few even
of his ballads are wholes. They leave too
much untold. They are far too suggestive to
satisfy. From each poem, however rounded,
there streams off a long train of thought: like
the tail of a comet, which, while testifying its
power, mars its aspect of oneness. The “Excursion,”
avowedly a fragment, seems the splinter
of a larger splinter; like a piece of Pallas,
itself a piece of some split planet. Of all his
poems, perhaps, his sonnets, his “Laodamia,”
his “Intimations of Immortality,” and his verses
on the “Eclipse in Italy,” are the most complete
in execution, as certainly they are the
most classical in design. Dramatic power he
has none, nor does he regret the want. “I
hate,” he was wont to say to Hazlitt, “those
interlocutions between Caius and Lucius.” He
[pg 581]
sees, as “from a tower, the end of all.” The
waving lights and shadows, the varied loopholes
of view, the shiftings and fluctuations of feeling,
the growing, broadening interest of the drama,
have no charm for him. His mind, from its
gigantic size, contracts a gigantic stiffness. It
“moveth altogether, if it move at all.” Hence,
some of his smaller poems remind you of the
dancing of an elephant, or of the “hills leaping
like lambs.” Many of the little poems which
he wrote upon a system, are exceedingly tame
and feeble. Yet often, even in his narrow bleak
vales, we find one “meek streamlet—only one”—beautifying
the desolation; and feel how
painful it is for him to become poor, and that,
when he sinks, it is with “compulsion and laborious
flight.” But, having subtracted such
faults, how much remains—of truth—of tenderness—of
sober, eve-like grandeur—of purged
beauties, white and clean as the lilies of Eden—of
calm, deep reflection, contained in lines
and sentences which have become proverbs—of
mild enthusiasm—of minute knowledge of
nature—of strong, yet unostentatious sympathy
with man—and of devout and breathless communion
with the Great Author of all! Apart
altogether from their intellectual pretensions
Wordsworth’s poems possess a moral clearness,
beauty, transparency, and harmony, which connect
them immediately with those of Milton:
and beside the more popular poetry of the past
age—such as Byron’s, and Moore’s—they remind
us of that unplanted garden, where the
shadow of God united all trees of fruitfulness,
and all flowers of beauty, into one; where the
“large river,” which watered the whole, “ran
[pg 582]
south,” toward the sun of heaven—when compared
with the gardens of the Hesperides,
where a dragon was the presiding deity, or
with those of Vauxhall or White Conduit-house,
where Comus and his rabble rout celebrate
their undisguised orgies of miscalled and miserable
pleasure.

Illustration.

Wordsworth’s Home at Rydal Mount.

To write a great poem demands years—to
write a great undying example, demands a lifetime.
Such a life, too, becomes a poem—higher
far than pen can inscribe, or metre make
musical. Such a life it was granted to Wordsworth
to live in severe harmony with his verse—as
it lowly, and as it aspiring, to live, too,
amid opposition, obloquy, and abuse—to live,
too, amid the glare of that watchful observation,
which has become to public men far more
keen and far more capacious in its powers and
opportunities, than in Milton’s days. It was
not, unquestionably, a perfect life, even as a
man’s, far less as a poet’s. He did feel and
resent, more than beseemed a great man, the
pursuit and persecution of the hounds, whether
“gray” and swift-footed, or whether curs of
low degree, who dogged his steps. His voice
from his woods sounded at times rather like the
moan of wounded weakness, than the bellow
of masculine wrath. He should, simply, in reply
to his opponents, have written on at his
poems, and let his prefaces alone. “If they
receive your first book ill,” wrote Thomas Carlyle
to a new author, “write the second better—so
much better as to shame them.” When
will authors learn that to answer an unjust
attack, is, merely to give it a keener edge, and
that all injustice carries the seed of oblivion and
exposure in itself? To use the language of
the masculine spirit just quoted, “it is really a
truth, one never knows whether praise be really
good for one—or whether it be not, in very
fact, the worst poison that could be administered.
Blame, or even vituperation, I have
always found a safer article. In the long run,
a man has, and is, just what
he is and has—the
world’s notion of him has not altered him at all,
except, indeed, if it have poisoned him with self-conceit,
and made a caput mortuum of him.”

The sensitiveness of authors—were it not
such a sore subject—might admit of some
curious reflections. One would sometimes fancy
that Apollo, in an angry hour, had done to his
sons, what fable records him to have done
to Marsyas—flayed them alive. Nothing has
brought more contempt upon authors than this—implying,
as it does, a lack of common courage
and manhood. The true son of genius
ought to rush before the public as the warrior
into battle, resolved to hack and hew his way to
eminence and power, not to whimper like a
schoolboy at every scratch—to acknowledge
only home thrusts—large, life-letting-out blows—determined
either to conquer or to die, and,
feeling that battles should be lost in the same
spirit in which they are won. If Wordsworth
did not fully answer this ideal, others have sunk
far more disgracefully and habitually below it.

In private, Wordsworth, we understand, was
pure, mild, simple, and majestic—perhaps somewhat
austere in his judgments of the erring,
and, perhaps, somewhat narrow in his own
economics. In accordance, we suppose, with
that part of his poetic system, which magnified
mole-heaps to mountains, pennies assumed the
importance of pounds. It is ludicrous, yet
characteristic, to think of the great author of the
“Recluse,” squabbling with a porter about the
price of a parcel, or bidding down an old book
at a stall. He was one of the few poets who
were ever guilty of the crime of worldly prudence—that
ever could have fulfilled the old
parodox, “A poet has built a house.” In his
young days, according to Hazlitt, he said little
in society—sat generally lost in thought—threw
out a bold or an indifferent remark occasionally—and
relapsed into reverie again. In
latter years, he became more talkative and
oracular. His health and habits were always
regular, his temperament happy, and his heart
sound and pure.

We have said that his life, as a poet, was far
from perfect. Our meaning is, that he did not
sufficiently, owing to temperament, or position,
or habits, sympathize with the on-goings of
society, the fullness of modern life, and the
varied passions, unbeliefs, sins, and miseries of
modern human nature. His soul dwelt apart.
He came, like the Baptist, “neither eating nor
drinking,” and men said, “he hath a demon.”
He saw at morning, from London bridge, “all
its mighty heart” lying still; but he did not at
noon plunge artistically into the thick of its
throbbing life; far less sound the depths of its
wild midnight heavings of revel and wretchedness,
of hopes and fears, of stifled fury and
eloquent despair. Nor, although he sung the
“mighty stream of tendency” of this wondrous
age, did he ever launch his poetic craft upon it,
nor seem to see the witherward of its swift and
awful stress. He has, on the whole, stood
aside from his time—not on a peak of the past—not
on an anticipated Alp of the future, but
on his own Cumberland highlands—hearing the
tumult and remaining still, lifting up his life as
a far-seen beacon-fire, studying the manners of
the humble dwellers in the vales below—“piping
a simple song to thinking hearts,” and
striving to waft to brother spirits, the fine infection
of his own enthusiasm, faith, hope, and
devotion. Perhaps, had he been less strict and
consistent in creed and in character, he might
have attained greater breadth, blood-warmth, and
wide-spread power, have presented on his page
a fuller reflection of our present state, and
drawn from his poetry a yet stronger moral, and
become the Shakspeare, instead of the Milton,
of the age. For himself, he did undoubtedly
choose the “better part;” nor do we mean to
insinuate that any man ought to contaminate
himself for the sake of his art, but that the poet
of a period will necessarily come so near to its
peculiar sins, sufferings, follies, and mistakes,
as to understand them, and even to feel the
[pg 583]
force of their temptations, and though he should
never yield to, yet must have a “fellow-feeling”
of its prevailing infirmities.

The death of this eminent man took few by
surprise. Many anxious eyes have for a while
been turned toward Rydal mount, where this
hermit stream was nearly sinking into the ocean
of the Infinite. And now, to use his own grand
word, used at the death of Scott, a “trouble”
hangs upon Helvellyn’s brow, and over the
waters of Windermere. The last of the Lakers
has departed. That glorious country has become
a tomb for its more glorious children.
No more is Southey’s tall form seen at his library
window, confronting Skiddaw—with a port as
stately as its own. No more does Coleridge’s
dim eye look down into the dim tarn, heavy laden,
too, under the advancing thunder-storm. And
no more is Wordsworth’s pale and lofty front
shaded into divine twilight, as he plunges at
noon-day amidst the quiet woods. A stiller,
sterner power than poetry has folded into its
strict, yet tender and yearning embrace, those

“Serene creators of immortal things.”

Alas! for the pride and the glory even of the
purest products of this strange world! Sin and
science, pleasure and poetry, the lowest vices,
and the highest aspirations, are equally unable
to rescue their votaries from the swift ruin
which is in chase of us all.

“Golden lads and girls all must
Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.”

But Wordsworth has left for himself an epitaph
almost superfluously rich—in the memory of his
private virtues—of the impulse he gave to our
declining poetry—of the sympathies he discovered
in all his strains with the poor, the neglected,
and the despised—of the version he furnished
of Nature, true and beautiful as if it
were Nature describing herself—of his lofty and
enacted ideal of his art and the artist—of the
“thoughts, too deep for tears,” he has given to
meditative and lonely hearts—and, above all, of
the support he has lent to the cause of the
“primal duties” and eldest instincts of man—to
his hope of immortality, and his fear of God.
And now we bid him farewell, in his own
words—

“Blessings be with him, and eternal praise,
The poet, who on earth has made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight, by heavenly lays.”

Although, as already remarked, not the poet of
the age—it has, in our view, been, on the
whole, fortunate for poetry and society, that for
seven years William Wordsworth has been
poet-laureate. We live in a transition state in
respect to both. The march and the music are
both changing—nor are they yet fully attuned
to each other—and, meanwhile, it was desirable
that a poet should preside, whose strains formed
a fine “musical confusion,” like that of old in
the “wood of Crete”—of the old and the new—of
the Conservative and the Democratic—of
the golden age, supposed by many to have existed
in the past, and of the millennium, expected
by more in the future—a compromise of the
two poetical styles besides—the one, which
clung to the hoary tradition of the elders, and
the other, which accepted innovation because it
was new, and boldness because it was daring,
and mysticism because it was dark—not truth,
though new; beauty, though bold; and insight,
though shadowy and shy. Nay, we heartily
wish, had it been for nothing else than this, that
his reign had lasted for many years longer, till,
perchance, the discordant elements in our creeds
and literature, had been somewhat harmonized.
As it is, there must now be great difficulty
in choosing his successor to the laureateship;
nor is there, we think, a single name in our
poetry whose elevation to the office would give
universal, or even general, satisfaction.

Milman is a fine poet, but not a great one.
Croly is, or ought to have been, a great poet;
but is not sufficiently known, nor en rapport
with the spirit of the time. Bowles is dead—Moore
dying. Lockhart and Macaulay have
written clever ballads; but no shapely, continuous,
and masterly poem. John Wilson, alias
Christopher North, has more poetry in his eye,
brow, head, hair, figure, voice, talk, and the
prose of his “Noetes,” than any man living;
but his verse, on the whole, is mawkish—and
his being a Scotchman will be a stumbling-block
to many, though not to us; for, had
Campbell been alive, we should have said at
once, let him be laureate—if manly grace, classic
power, and genuine popularity, form qualifications
for the office. Tennyson, considering
all he has done, has received his full meed
already. Let him and Leigh Hunt repose under
the shadow of their pensions. Our gifted
friends, Bailey, of “Festus,” and Yendys, of the
“Roman,” are yet in blossom—though it is a
glorious blossom. Henry Taylor is rather in
the sere and yellow leaf—nor was his leaf ever,
in our judgment, very fresh or ample: a masterly
builder he is, certainly, but the materials
he brings are not highly poetical. When Dickens
is promoted to Scott’s wizard throne, let
Browning succeed Wordsworth on the forked
Helvellyn! Landor is a vast monumental
name; but, while he has overawed the higher
intellects of the time, he has never touched the
general heart, nor told the world much, except
his great opinion of himself, the low opinion he
has of almost every body else, and the very
learned reasons and sufficient grounds he has
for supporting those twin opinions. Never was
such power so wasted and thrown away. The
proposition of a lady laureate is simply absurd,
without being witty. Why not as soon have
proposed the Infant Sappho? In short, if we
ask again, Where is the poet worthy to wear
the crown which has dropped from the solemn
brow of “old Pan,” “sole king of rocky
Cumberland?”—Echo, from Glaramara, or
the Langdale Pikes, might well answer,
“Where?”

[pg 584]

We have, however, a notion of our own,
which we mean, as a close to the article, to
indicate. The laureateship was too long a sop
for parasites, whose politics and poetry were
equally tame. It seems now to have become
the late reward of veteran merit—the Popedom
of poetry. Why not, rather, hang it up as a
crown, to be won by our rising bards—either
as the reward of some special poem on an
appointed subject, or of general merit? Why
not delay for a season the bestowal of the
laurel, and give thus a national importance to
its decision?


Sidney Smith. By George Gilfillan.

Illustration.

Sidney Smith.

It is melancholy to observe how speedily, successively,
nay, almost simultaneously, our
literary luminaries are disappearing from the
sky. Every year another and another member
of the bright clusters which arose about the
close of the last, or at the beginning of this
century, is fading from our view. Within nineteen
years, what havoc, by the “insatiate archer,”
among the ruling spirits of the time! Since
1831, Robert Hall, Andrew Thomson, Goethe,
Cuvier, Mackintosh, Crabbe, Foster, Coleridge,
Edward Irving, Sir Walter Scott, Charles Lamb,
Southey, Thomas Campbell, &c., have entered
on the “silent land;” and latterly has dropped
down one of the wittiest and shrewdest of them
all—the projector of the “Edinburgh Review”—the
author of “Peter Plymley’s Letters”—the
preacher—the politician—the brilliant converser—the
“mad-wag”—Sidney Smith.

It was the praise of Dryden that he was the
best reasoner in verse who ever wrote; let it
be the encomium of our departed Sidney that,
he was one of the best reasoners in wit of whom
our country can boast. His intellect—strong,
sharp, clear, and decided—wrought and moved
in a rich medium of humor. Each thought, as
it came forth from his brain, issued as “in dance,”
and amid a flood of inextinguishable laughter.
The march of his mind through his subject
resembled the procession of Bacchus from the
conquest of India—joyous, splendid, straggling—to
the sound of flutes and hautboys—rather a
victory than a march—rather a revel than a
contest. His logic seemed always hurrying
into the arms of his wit. Some men argue in
mathematical formulæ; others, like Burke, in
the figures and flights of poetry; others in the
fire and fury of passion; Sidney Smith in exuberant
and riotous fun. And yet the matter of
his reasoning was solid, and its inner spirit earnest
and true. But though his steel was strong
and sharp, his hand steady, and his aim clear,
the management of the motions of his weapon
was always fantastic. He piled, indeed, like a
Titan, his Pelion on Ossa, but at the oddest of
angles; he lifted and carried his load bravely,
and like a man, but laughed as he did so; and
so carried it that beholders forgot the strength
of the arm in the strangeness of the attitude.
He thus sometimes disarmed anger; for his
adversaries could scarcely believe that they had
received a deadly wound while their foe was
roaring in their face. He thus did far greater
execution; for the flourishes of his weapon might
distract his opponents, but never himself, from
the direct and terrible line of the blow. His
laughter sometimes stunned, like the cachination
of the Cyclops, shaking the sides of his cave.
In this mood—and it was his common one—what
scorn was he wont to pour upon the opponents
of Catholic emancipation—upon the enemies
of all change in legislation—upon any
individual or party who sought to obstruct
measures which, in his judgment, were likely
to benefit the country. Under such, he could
at any moment spring a mine of laughter; and
what neither the fierce invective of Brougham,
nor the light and subtle raillery of Jeffrey could
do, his contemptuous explosion effected, and,
himself crying with mirth, saw them hoisted
toward heaven in ten thousand comical splinters.
Comparing him with other humorists of a similar
class, we might say, that while Swift’s ridicule
resembles something between a sneer and
a spasm (half a sneer of mirth, half a spasm
of misery)—while Cobbett’s is a grin—Fonblanque’s
a light but deep and most significant
smile—Jeffrey’s a sneer, just perceptible on his
fastidious lip—Wilson’s a strong, healthy, hearty
laugh—Carlyle’s a wild unearthly sound, like
the neighing of a homeless steed—Sidney Smith’s
is a genuine guffaw, given forth with his whole
heart, and soul, and mind, and strength. Apart
from his matchless humor, strong, rough, instinctive,
and knotty sense was the leading feature of
his mind. Every thing like mystification, sophistry,
and humbug, fled before the first glance
of his piercing eye; every thing in the shape of
affectation excited in him a disgust “as implacable”
as even a Cowper could feel. If possible,
[pg 585]
with still deeper aversion did his manly nature
regard cant in its various forms and disguises;
and his motto in reference to it was, “spare no
arrows.” But the mean, the low, the paltry,
the dishonorable, in nations or in individuals,
moved all the fountains of his bile, and awakened
all the energy of his invective. Always
lively, generally witty, he is never eloquent,
except when emptying out his vials of indignation
upon baseness in all its shapes. His is the
ire of a genuine “English gentleman, all of the
olden time.” It was in this spirit that he recently
explained, in his own way, the old distinctions
of Meum and Tuum to Brother Jonathan,
when the latter was lamentably inclined to forget
them. It was the same sting of generous
indignation which, in the midst of his character
of Mackintosh, prompted the memorable picture
of that extraordinary being who, by his transcendent
talents and his tortuous movements—his
head of gold, and his feet of miry clay—has
become the glory, the riddle, and the regret
of his country, his age, and his species.

As a writer, Smith is little more than a very
clever, witty, and ingenious pamphleteer. He
has effected no permanent chef d’oeuvre; he has
founded no school; he has left little behind him
that the “world will not willingly let die;” he
has never drawn a tear from a human eye, nor
excited a thrill of grandeur in a human bosom.
His reviews are not preserved by the salt of
original genius, nor are they pregnant with
profound and comprehensive principle; they have
no resemblance to the sibylline leaves which
Burke tore out from the vast volume of his mind,
and scattered with imperial indifference among
the nations; they are not the illuminated indices
of universal history, like the papers of Macaulay;
they are not specimens of pure and perfect English,
set with modest but magnificent ornaments,
like the criticism of Jeffrey or of Hall; nor are
they the excerpts, rugged and rent away by
violence, from the dark and iron tablet of an
obscure and original mind, like the reviews of
Foster; but they are exquisite jeux d’esprit,
admirable occasional pamphlets, which, though
now they look to us like spent arrows, yet
assuredly have done execution, and have not
been spent in vain. And as, after the lapse of
a century and more, we can still read with
pleasure Addison’s “Old Whig and Freeholder,”
for the sake of the exquisite humor and inimitable
style in which forgotten feuds and dead
logomachies are embalmed, so may it be, a century
still, with the articles on Bentham’s Fallacies
and on the Game Laws, and with the letters
of the witty and ingenious Peter Plymley. There
is much at least in those singular productions—in
their clear and manly sense—in their broad
native fun—in their rapid, careless, energetic
style—and in their bold, honest, liberal, and thoroughly
English spirit—to interest several succeeding
generations, if not to secure the “rare
and regal” palm of immortality.

Sidney Smith was a writer of sermons as well
as of political squibs. Is not their memory
eternized in one of John Foster’s most ponderous
pieces of sarcasm? In an evil hour the
dexterous and witty critic came forth from behind
the fastnesses of the Edinburgh Review,
whence, in perfect security he had shot his
quick glancing shafts at Methodists and Missions,
at Christian Observers and Eclectic Reviews,
at Owens and Styles, and (what the more
wary Jeffrey, in the day of his power, always
avoided) became himself an author, and, mirabile
dictu, an author of sermons. It was as if
he wished to give his opponents their revenge,
and no sooner did his head peep forth from beneath
the protection of its shell than the elephantine
foot of Foster was prepared to crush it in
the dust. It was the precise position of Saladin
with the Knight of the Leopard, in their memorable
contest near the Diamond of the Desert.
In the skirmish Smith had it all his own way;
but when it came to close quarters, and when
the heavy and mailed hand of the sturdy Baptist
had confirmed its grasp on his opponent,
the disparity was prodigious, and the discomfiture
of the light horseman complete. But
why recall the memory of an obsolete quarrel
and a forgotten field? The sermons—the
causa belli—clever but dry, destitute of
earnestness and unction—are long since dead and
buried; and their review remains their only
monument.

Even when, within his own stronghold, our
author intermeddled with theological topics, it
was seldom with felicity or credit to himself.
His onset on missions was a sad mistake; and
in attacking the Methodists, and poor, pompous
John Styles, he becomes as filthy and foul-mouthed
as Swift himself. His wit forsakes
him, and a rabid invective ill supplies its place;
instead of laughing, he raves and foams at the
mouth. Indeed, although an eloquent and popular
preacher, and in many respects an ornament
to his cloth, there was one radical evil
about Smith; he had mistaken his profession.
He was intended for a barrister, or a literary
man, or a member of parliament, or some occupation
into which he could have flung his whole
soul and strength. As it was, but half his heart
was in a profession which, of all others, would
require the whole. He became consequently a
rather awkward medley of buffoon, politician,
preacher, literateur, divine, and diner-out. Let
us grant, however, that the ordeal was severe,
and that, if a very few have weathered it better,
many more have ignominiously broken down.
No one coincides more fully than we do with
Coleridge in thinking that every literary man
should have a profession; but in the name of
common sense let it be one fitted for him, and
for which he is fitted—one suited to his tastes
as well as to his talents—to his habits as well
as to his powers—to his heart as well as to his
head.

As a conversationist, Sidney Smith stood high
among the highest—a Saul among a tribe of
Titans. His jokes were not rare and refined,
like those of Rogers and Jekyll; they wanted
[pg 586]
the slyness of Theodore Hook’s inimitable equivoque;
they were not poured forth with the
prodigal profusion of Hood’s breathless and
bickering puns; they were rich, fat, unctuous,
always bordering on farce, but always avoiding
it by a hair’s-breadth. No finer cream, certes,
ever mantled at the feasts of Holland House
than his fertile brain supplied; and, to quote
himself, it would require a “forty-parson power”
of lungs and language to do justice to his convivial
merits. An acquaintance of ours sometimes
met him in the company of Jeffrey and
Macaulay—a fine concord of first-rate performers,
content, generally, to keep each within his
own part, except when, now and then, the
author of the “Lays” burst out irresistibly, and
changed the concert into a fine solo.

Altogether “we could have better spared a
better man.” Did not his death “eclipse the
gayety of nations?” Did not a Fourth Estate
of Fun expire from the midst of us? Did not
even Brother Jonathan drop a tear when he
thought that the scourge that so mercilessly
lashed him was broken? And shall not now
all his admirers unite with us in inscribing upon
his grave—“Alas! poor Yorick!”


Thomas Carlyle. By George Gilfillan.

Illustration.

Thomas Carlyle.

Thomas Carlyle was born at Ecclefechan,
Annandale. His parents were “good
farmer people,” his father an elder in the Secession
church there, and a man of strong native
sense, whose words were said to “nail a subject
to the wall.” His excellent mother still lives,
and we had the pleasure of meeting her lately
in the company of her illustrious son; and beautiful
it was to see his profound and tender regard,
and her motherly and yearning reverence—to
hear her fine old covenanting accents, concerting
with his transcendental tones. He studied
in Edinburgh. Previous to this, he had become
intimate with Edward Irving, an intimacy which
continued unimpaired to the close of the latter’s
eccentric career. Like most Scottish students,
he had many struggles to encounter in the course
of his education; and had, we believe, to support
himself by private tuition, translations for
the booksellers, &c. The day star of German
literature arose early in his soul, and has been
his guide and genius ever since. He entered
into a correspondence with Goethe, which lasted,
at intervals, till the latter’s death. Yet he has
never, we understand, visited Germany. He
was, originally, destined for the church. At
one period he taught an academy in Dysart, at
the same time that Irving was teaching in Kirkaldy.
After his marriage, he resided partly at
Comely Bank, Edinburgh; and, for a year or
two in Craigenputtock, a wild and solitary
farm-house in the upper part of Dumfriesshire.
Here, however, far from society, save that, of
the “great dumb monsters of mountains,” he
wearied out his very heart. A ludicrous story
is told of Lord Jeffrey visiting him in this out-of-the-way
region, when they were unapprized
of his coming—had nothing in the house fit for
the palate of the critic, and had, in dire haste
and pother, to send off for the wherewithal to
a market town about fifteen miles off. Here,
[pg 587]
too, as we may see hereafter, Emerson, on his
way home from Italy, dropped in like a spirit,
spent precisely twenty-four hours, and then
“forth uprose that lone, wayfaring man,” to return
to his native woods. He has, for several
years of late, resided in Chelsea, London, where
he lives in a plain, simple fashion; occasionally,
but seldom, appearing at the splendid soirées of
Lady Blessington, but listened to, when he goes,
as an oracle; receiving, at his tea-table, visitors
from every part of the world; forming an amicable
centre for men of the most opposite opinions
and professions, Poets and Preachers, Pantheists
and Puritans, Tennysons and Scotts,
Cavanaighs and Erskines, Sterlings and Robertsons,
smoking his perpetual pipe, and pouring
out, in copious stream, his rich and quaint philosophy.
His appearance is fine, without being
ostentatiously singular—his hair dark—his brow
marked, though neither very broad nor very
lofty—his cheek tinged with a healthy red—his
eye, the truest index of his genius, flashing out,
at times, a wild and mystic fire from its dark
and quiet surface. He is above the middle size,
stoops slightly, dresses carefully, but without
any approach to foppery. His address, somewhat
high and distant at first, softens into simplicity
and cordial kindness. His conversation
is abundant, inartificial, flowing on, and warbling
as it flows, more practical than you would
expect from the cast of his writings—picturesque
and graphic in a high measure—full of the results
of extensive and minute observation—often
terribly direct and strong, garnished with French
and German phrase, rendered racy by the accompaniment
of the purest Annandale accent,
and coming to its climaxes, ever and anon, in
long, deep, chest-shaking bursts of laughter.

Altogether, in an age of singularities, Thomas
Carlyle stands peculiarly alone. Generally known,
and warmly appreciated, he has of late become—popular,
in the strict sense, he is not, and may
never be. His works may never climb the family
library, nor his name become a household word;
but while the Thomsons and the Campbells shed
their gentle genius, like light, into the hall and
the hovel—the shop of the artisan and the sheiling
of the shepherd, Carlyle, like the Landors
and Lambs of this age, and the Brownes and
Burtons of a past, will exert a more limited but
profounder power—cast a dimmer but more
gorgeous radiance—attract fewer but more devoted
admirers, and obtain an equal, and perhaps
more enviable immortality.

To the foregoing sketch of Carlyle, which is
from the eloquent critical description of Gilfillan,
we append the following, which is from a letter
recently published in the Dumfries and Galloway
Courier. The writer, after remarking at some
length upon the “Latter Day Pamphlets,” which
are Carlyle’s latest productions, proceeds to give
this graphic and interesting sketch of his personal
appearance and conversation:

“Passing from the political phase of these
productions (the ‘Latter Day Pamphlets’), which
is not my vocation to discuss, I found for myself
one very peculiar charm in the perusal of
them—they seemed such perfect transcripts of
the conversation of Thomas Carlyle. With
something more of set continuity—of composition—but
essentially the same thing, the Latter
Day Pamphlets’ are in their own way a
‘Boswell’s Life’ of Carlyle. As I read and
read, I was gradually transported from my club-room,
with its newspaper-clad tables, and my
dozing fellow-loungers, only kept half awake by
periodical titillations of snuff, and carried in
spirit to the grave and quiet sanctum in Chelsea,
where Carlyle dispenses wisdom and hospitality
with equally unstinted hand. The long, tall,
spare figure is before me—wiry, though, and
elastic, and quite capable of taking a long,
tough spell through the moors of Ecclefechan,
or elsewhere—stretched at careless, homely
ease in his elbow-chair, yet ever with strong
natural motions and starts, as the inward spirit
stirs. The face, too, is before me—long and
thin, with a certain tinge of paleness, but no
sickness or attenuation, form muscular and vigorously
marked, and not wanting some glow of
former rustic color—pensive, almost solemn, yet
open, and cordial, and tender, very tender. The
eye, as generally happens, is the chief outward
index of the soul—an eye is not easy to describe,
but felt ever after one has looked thereon and
therein. It is dark and full, shadowed over by
a compact, prominent forehead. But the depth,
the expression, the far inner play of it—who
could transfer that even to the eloquent canvas,
far less to this very in-eloquent paper? It is
not brightness, it is not flash, it is not power
even—something beyond all these. The expression
is, so to speak, heavy laden—as if be-tokening
untold burdens of thought, and long,
long fiery struggles, resolutely endured—endured
until they had been in some practical
manner overcome; to adopt his own fond epithet,
and it comes nearest to the thing, his is the
heroic eye, but of a hero who has done hard
battle against Paynim hosts. This is no dream
of mine—I have often heard this peculiarity
remarked. The whole form and expression
of the face remind me of Dante—it wants the
classic element, and the mature and matchless
harmony which distinguish the countenance
of the great Florentine; but something in the
cast and in the look, especially the heavy laden,
but dauntless eye, is very much alike. But he
speaks to me. The tongue has the sough of
Annandale—an echo of the Solway, with its compliments
to old Father Thames. A keen, sharp,
ringing voice, in the genuine Border key, but
tranquil and sedate withal—neighborly and
frank, and always in unison with what is uttered.
Thus does the presence of Thomas Carlyle
rise before me—a ‘true man’ in all his
bearings and in all his sayings. And in this
same guise do I seem to hear from him all those
‘Latter Day Pamphlets.’ Even such in his
conversation—he sees the very thing he speaks
of; it breathes and moves palpable to him, and
hence his words form a picture. When you
[pg 588]
come from him, the impression is like having
seen a great brilliant panorama; every thing
had been made visible and naked to your sight.
But more and better far than that; you bear
home with you an indelible feeling of love for
the man—deep at the heart, long as life. No
man has ever inspired more of this personal
affection. Not to love Carlyle when you know
him is something unnatural, as if one should say
they did not love the breeze that fans their
cheek, or the vine-tree which has refreshed them
both with its leafy shade and its exuberant
juices. He abounds, himself, in love and in
good works. His life, not only as a ‘writer of
books,’ but as a man among his fellows, has
been a continued shower of benefits. The young
men, more especially, to whom he has been the
good Samaritan, pouring oil upon their wounds,
and binding up their bruised limbs, and putting
them on the way of recovery of health and useful
energy—the number of such can scarcely
be told, and will never be known till the great
day of accounts. One of these, who in his orisons
will ever remember him, has just read to
me, with tears of grateful attachment in his
eyes, portions of a letter of counsel and encouragement
which he received from him in
the hour of darkness, and which was but the
prelude to a thousand acts of substantial kindness
and of graceful attention. As the letter
contains no secret, and may fall as a fructifying
seed into some youthful bosom that may be entering
upon its trials and struggles, a quotation
from it will form an appropriate finale at this
time. He thus writes: ‘It will be good news,
in all times coming, to learn that such a life as
yours unfolds itself according to its promise,
and becomes in some tolerable degree what it is
capable of being. The problem is your own, to
make or to mar—a great problem for you, as
the like is for every man born into this world.
You have my entire sympathy in your denunciation
of the “explosive” character. It is frequent
in these times, and deplorable wherever
met with. Explosions are ever wasteful, woeful;
central fire should not explode itself, but
lie silent, far down at the centre; and make all
good fruits grow! We can not too often repeat
to ourselves, “Strength is seen, not in spasms,
but in stout bearing of burdens.” You can take
comfort in the meanwhile, if you need it, by the
experience of all wise men, that a right heavy
burden is precisely the thing wanted for a young
strong man. Grievous to be borne; but bear
it well, you will find it one day to have been
verily blessed. “I would not, for any money,”
says the brave Jean Paul, in his quaint way.
“I would not, for any money, have had money
in my youth!” He speaks a truth there, singular
as it may seem to many. These young
obscure years ought to be incessantly employed
in gaining knowledge of things worth knowing,
especially of heroic human souls worth knowing.
And you may believe me, the obscurer such
years are, it is apt to be the better. Books are
needful; but yet not many books; a few well
read. An open, true, patient, and valiant soul
is needed; that is the one thing needful.’ ”


The Gentleman Beggar. An Attorney’s Story.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

One morning, about five years ago, I called
by appointment on Mr. John Balance, the
fashionable pawnbroker, to accompany him to
Liverpool, in pursuit for a Levanting customer—for
Balance, in addition to pawning, does
a little business in the sixty per cent. line. It
rained in torrents when the cab stopped at the
passage which leads past the pawning boxes to
his private door. The cabman rang twice, and
at length Balance appeared, looming through
the mist and rain in the entry, illuminated by
his perpetual cigar. As I eyed him rather impatiently,
remembering that trains wait for no
man, something like a hairy dog, or a bundle
of rags, rose up at his feet, and barred his passage
for a moment. Then Balance cried out
with an exclamation, in answer apparently to a
something I could not hear, “What, man alive!—slept
in the passage!—there, take that, and
get some breakfast, for Heaven’s sake!” So
saying, he jumped into the “Hansom,” and we
bowled away at ten miles an hour, just catching
the Express as the doors of the station were
closing. My curiosity was full set—for although
Balance can be free with his money, it is not
exactly to beggars that his generosity is usually
displayed; so when comfortably ensconced in a
coupé, I finished with—

“You are liberal with your money this morning:
pray, how often do you give silver to street
cadgers?—because I shall know now what walk
to take when flats and sharps leave off buying
law.”

Balance, who would have made an excellent
parson if he had not been bred to a case-hardening
trade, and has still a soft bit left in his heart
that is always fighting with his hard head, did
not smile at all, but looked as grim as if squeezing
a lemon into his Saturday night’s punch.
He answered slowly, “A cadger—yes; a beggar—a
miserable wretch, he is now; but let me
tell you, Master David, that that miserable bundle
of rags was born and bred a gentleman; the
son of a nobleman, the husband of an heiress,
and has sat and dined at tables where you and
I, Master David, are only allowed to view the
plate by favor of the butler. I have lent him
thousands, and been well paid. The last thing
I had from him was his court suit; and I hold
now his bill for one hundred pounds that will be
paid, I expect, when he dies.”

“Why, what nonsense you are talking! you
must be dreaming this morning. However, we
are alone, I’ll light a weed, in defiance of Railway
law, you shall spin that yarn; for, true
or untrue, it will fill up the time to Liverpool.”

“As for yarn,” replied Balance, “the whole
story is short enough; and as for truth, that you
[pg 589]
may easily find out if you like to take the trouble.
I thought the poor wretch was dead, and I own
it put me out meeting him this morning, for I
had a curious dream last night.”

“Oh, hang your dreams! Tell us about this
gentleman beggar that bleeds you of half-crowns—that
melts the heart even of a pawnbroker!”

“Well, then, that beggar is the illegitimate
son of the late Marquis of Hoopborough by a
Spanish lady of rank. He received a first-rate
education, and was brought up in his father’s
house. At a very early age he obtained an
appointment in a public office, was presented
by the marquis at court, and received into the
first society, where his handsome person and
agreeable manners made him a great favorite.
Soon after coming of age, he married the
daughter of Sir E. Bumper, who brought him a
very handsome fortune, which was strictly settled
on herself. They lived in splendid style, kept
several carriages, a house in town, and a place
in the country. For some reason or other,
idleness, or to please his lady’s pride, he resigned
his appointment. His father died and
left him nothing; indeed, he seemed at that
time very handsomely provided for.

“Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy
began to disagree. She was cold, correct—he
was hot and random. He was quite dependent
on her, and she made him feel it. When he
began to get into debt, he came to me. At
length some shocking quarrel occurred; some
case of jealousy on the wife’s side, not without
reason, I believe; and the end of it was, Mr.
Fitz-Roy was turned out of doors. The house
was his wife’s, the furniture was his wife’s,
and the fortune was his wife’s—he was, in fact,
her pensioner. He left with a few hundred
pounds ready money, and some personal jewelry,
and went to an hotel. On these and credit he
lived. Being illegitimate, he had no relations;
being a fool, when he spent his money he lost
his friends. The world took his wife’s part,
when they found she had the fortune, and the
only parties who interfered were her relatives,
who did their best to make the quarrel incurable.
To crown all, one night he was run over
by a cab, was carried to a hospital, and lay there
for months, and was during several weeks of
the time unconscious. A message to the wife,
by the hands of one of his debauched companions,
sent by a humane surgeon, obtained an
intimation that ‘if he died, Mr. Croak, the undertaker
to the family, had orders to see to the
funeral,’ and that Mrs. Molinos was on the point
of starting for the Continent, not to return for
some years. When Fitz-Roy was discharged,
he came to me limping on two sticks, to pawn
his court suit, and told me his story. I was
really sorry for the fellow, such a handsome,
thoroughbred-looking man. He was going then
into the west somewhere, to try to hunt out a
friend. ‘What to do, Balance,’ he said, ‘I don’t
know. I can’t dig, and unless somebody will
make me their gamekeeper, I must starve, or
beg, as my Jezebel bade me when we parted!’

“I lost sight of Molinos for a long time, and
when I next came upon him it was in the Rookery
of Westminster, in a low lodging-house,
where I was searching with an officer for stolen
goods. He was pointed out to me as the ‘gentleman
cadger,’ because he was so free with his
money when ‘in luck.’ He recognized me, but
turned away then. I have since seen him, and
relieved him more than once, although he never
asks for any thing. How he lives, Heaven
knows. Without money, without friends, without
useful education of any kind, he tramps the
country, as you saw him, perhaps doing a little
hop-picking or hay-making, in season, only happy
when he obtains the means to get drunk. I
have heard through the kitchen whispers, that
you know come to me, that he is entitled to
some property; and I expect if he were to die
his wife would pay the hundred pound bill I
hold; at any rate, what I have told you I know
to be true, and the bundle of rags I relieved
just now is known in every thieves’ lodging in
England as the ‘gentleman cadger.’ ”

This story produced an impression on me—I
am fond of speculation, and like the excitement
of a legal hunt as much as some do a fox-chase:
A gentleman a beggar, a wife rolling in wealth,
rumors of unknown property due to the husband:
it seemed as if there were pickings for
me amidst this carrion of pauperism.

Before returning from Liverpool, I had purchased
the gentleman beggar’s acceptance from
Balance. I then inserted in the “Times” the
following advertisement: “Horatio Molinos Fitz-Roy.—If
this gentleman will apply to David Discount,
Esq., Solicitor, St. James’s, he will hear
of something to his advantage. Any person
furnishing Mr. F.’s correct address, shall receive
1£. 1s. reward. He was last seen,” &c. Within
twenty-four hours I had ample proof of the
wide circulation of the “Times.” My office
was besieged with beggars of every degree,
men and women, lame and blind, Irish, Scotch,
and English, some on crutches, some in bowls,
some in go-carts. They all knew him as the
“gentleman,” and I must do the regular fraternity
of tramps the justice to say, that not one
would answer a question until he made certain
that I meant the “gentleman” no harm.

One evening, about three weeks after the
appearance of the advertisement, my clerk announced
“another beggar.” There came in
an old man leaning upon a staff, clad in a soldier’s
great coat all patched and torn, with a
battered hat, from under which a mass of tangled
hair fell over his shoulders and half concealed
his face. The beggar, in a weak,
wheezy, hesitating tone, said, “You have advertised
for Molinos Fitz-Roy. I hope you
don’t mean him any harm; he is sunk, I think,
too low for enmity now; and surely no one
would sport with such misery as his.” These
last words were uttered in a sort of piteous
whisper.

[pg 590]

I answered quickly, “Heaven forbid I should
sport with misery: I mean and hope to do him
good, as well as myself.”

“Then, sir, I am Molinos Fitz-Roy!”

While we were conversing candles had been
brought in. I have not very tender nerves—my
head would not agree with them—but I
own I started and shuddered when I saw and
knew that the wretched creature before me was
under thirty years of age and once a gentleman.
Sharp, aquiline features, reduced to literal skin
and bone, were begrimed and covered with dry
fair hair; the white teeth of the half-open mouth
shattered with eagerness, and made more hideous
the foul pallor of the rest of the countenance.
As he stood leaning on a staff half bent, his
long, yellow bony fingers clasped over the
crutch-head of his stick, he was indeed a picture
of misery, famine, squalor, and premature
age, too horrible to dwell upon. I made him
sit down, and sent for some refreshment which
he devoured like a ghoul, and set to work to
unravel his story. It was difficult to keep him
to the point; but with pains I learned what
convinced me that he was entitled to some
property, whether great or small there was no
evidence. On parting, I said, “Now, Mr. F.,
you must stay in town while I make proper
inquiries. What allowance will be enough to
keep you comfortably?”

He answered humbly, after much pressing,
“Would you think ten shillings too much?”

I don’t like, if I do those things at all, to do
them shabbily, so I said, “Come every Saturday
and you shall have a pound.” He was profuse
in thanks, of course, as all such men are as long
as distress lasts.

I had previously learned that my ragged
client’s wife was in England, living in a splendid
house in Hyde Park Gardens, under her
maiden name. On the following day the Earl
of Owing called upon me, wanting five thousand
pounds by five o’clock the same evening. It
was a case of life or death with him, so I made
my terms, and took advantage of his pressure to
execute a coup de main. I proposed that he
should drive me home to receive the money,
calling at Mrs. Molinos in Hyde Park Gardens,
on our way. I knew that the coronet and liveries
of his father, the marquis, would insure me
an audience with Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy.

My scheme answered. I was introduced into
the lady’s presence. She was, and probably is,
a very stately, handsome woman, with a pale
complexion, high solid forehead, regular features,
thin, pinched, self-satisfied mouth. My
interview was very short, I plunged into the
middle of the affair, but had scarcely mentioned
the word husband, when she interrupted me
with, “I presume you have lent this profligate
person money, and want me to pay you.” She
paused, and then said, “He shall not have a
farthing.” As she spoke, her white face became
scarlet.

“But, madam, the man is starving. I have
strong reasons for believing he is entitled to
property, and if you refuse any assistance, I
must take other measures.” She rang the bell,
wrote something rapidly on a card; and, as the
footman appeared, pushed it toward me across
the table, with the air of touching a toad, saying,
“There, sir, is the address of my solicitors;
apply to them if you think you have any claim.
Robert, show the person out, and take care he
is not admitted again.”

So far I had effected nothing; and, to tell the
truth, felt rather crest-fallen under the influence
of that grand manner peculiar to certain great
ladies and to all great actresses.

My next visit was to the attorneys, Messrs.
Leasem and Fashun, of Lincoln’s Inn Square,
and there I was at home. I had had dealings
with the firm before. They are agents for half
the aristocracy, who always run in crowds like
sheep after the same wine-merchants, the same
architects, the same horse-dealers, and the same
law-agents. It may be doubted whether the
quality of law and land management they get
on this principle is quite equal to their wine
and horses. At any rate, my friends of Lincoln’s
Inn, like others of the same class, are
distinguished by their courteous manners, deliberate
proceedings, innocence of legal technicalities,
long credit, and heavy charges. Leasem,
the elder partner, wears powder and a huge
bunch of seals, lives in Queen-square, drives a
brougham, gives the dinners and does the cordial
department. He is so strict in performing
the latter duty, that he once addressed a poacher
who had shot a duke’s keeper, as “my dear
creature,” although he afterward hung him.

Fashun has chambers in St. James-street,
drives a cab, wears a tip, and does the grand
haha style.

My business lay with Leasem. The interviews
and letters passing were numerous. However,
it came at last to the following dialogue:

“Well, my dear Mr. Discount,” began Mr.
Leasem, who hates me like poison. “I’m
really very sorry for that poor dear Molinos—knew
his father well; a great man, a perfect
gentleman; but you know what women are,
eh, Mr. Discount? My client won’t advance a
shilling; she knows it would only be wasted in
low dissipation. Now, don’t you think (this
was said very insinuatingly)—don’t you think
he had better be sent to the workhouse; very
comfortable accommodations there, I can assure
you—meat twice a week, and excellent soup;
and then, Mr. D., we might consider about
allowing you something for that bill.”

“Mr. Leasem, can you reconcile it to your
conscience to make such an arrangement?
Here’s a wife rolling in luxury, and a husband
starving!”

“No, Mr. Discount, not starving; there is
the workhouse, as I observed before; besides,
allow me to suggest that these appeals to feeling
are quite unprofessional—quite unprofessional.”

“But, Mr. Leasem, touching this property
which the poor man is entitled to.”

[pg 591]

“Why, there again, Mr. D., you must excuse
me; you really must. I don’t say he is; I don’t
say he is not. If you know he is entitled to
property, I am sure you know how to proceed;
the law is open to you, Mr. Discount—the law
is open; and a man of your talent will know
how to use it.”

“Then, Mr. Leasem, you mean that I must,
in order to right this starving man, file a bill of
discovery, to extract from you the particulars
of his rights. You have the marriage settlement,
and all the information, and you decline
to allow a pension, or afford any information;
the man is to starve, or go to the workhouse.”

“Why, Mr. D., you are so quick and violent,
it really is not professional; but you see (here
a subdued smile of triumph), it has been decided
that a solicitor is not bound to afford such information
as you ask, to the injury of his client.”

“Then you mean that this poor Molinos may
rot and starve, while you keep secret from him,
at his wife’s request, his title to an income, and
that the Court of Chancery will back you in this
iniquity?”

I kept repeating the word “starve,” because
I saw it made my respectable opponent wince.

“Well, then, just listen to me. I know that
in the happy state of your equity law, chancery
can’t help my client; but I have another plan:
I shall go hence to my office, issue a writ, and
take your client’s husband in execution—as
soon as he is lodged in jail, I shall file his
schedule in the Insolvent Court, and when he
comes up for his discharge, I shall put you in
the witness-box, and examine you on oath,
‘touching any property of which you know the
insolvent to be possessed,’ and where will be
your privileged communications then?”

The respectable Leasem’s face lengthened in
a twinkling, his comfortable confident air vanished,
he ceased twiddling his gold chain, and,
at length, he muttered,

“Suppose we pay the debt?”

“Why, then, I’ll arrest him the day after for
another.”

“But, my dear Mr. Discount, surely such
conduct would not be quite respectable.”

“That’s my business; my client has been
wronged, I am determined to right him, and
when the aristocratic firm, of Leasem and
Fashun takes refuge according to the custom of
respectable repudiators, in the cool arbors of
the Court of Chancery, why, a mere bill-discounting
attorney like David Discount need not
hesitate about cutting a bludgeon out of the
Insolvent Court.”

“Well, well, Mr. D., you are so warm—so
fiery; we must deliberate—we must consult.
You will give me until the day after to-morrow,
and then we’ll write you our final determination;
in the meantime, send us a copy
of your authority to act for Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy.”

Of course, I lost no time in getting the gentleman
beggar to sign a proper letter.

On the appointed day came a communication
with the L. and F. seal, which I opened, not
without unprofessional eagerness. It was as
follows:

“In re Molinos Fitz-Roy and Another.

“Sir—In answer to your application on behalf
of Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy, we beg to inform
you that under the administration of a paternal
aunt who died intestate, your client is entitled
to two thousand five hundred pounds eight shillings
and sixpence, Three per Cents.; one thousand
five hundred pounds nineteen shillings and
fourpence, Three per Cents. Reduced; one
thousand pounds, Long Annuities; five hundred
pounds, Bank Stock; three thousand five hundred
pounds, India Stock; besides other securities,
making up about ten thousand pounds,
which we are prepared to transfer over to Mr.
Molinos Fitz-Roy’s direction forthwith.”

Here was a windfall! It quite took away
my breath.

At dusk came my gentleman beggar, and
what puzzled me was, how to break the news
to him. Being very much overwhelmed with
business that day, I had not much time for consideration.
He came in rather better dressed
than when I first saw him, with only a week’s
beard on his chin; but, as usual, not quite
sober. Six weeks had elapsed since our first
interview. He was still the humble, trembling,
low-voiced creature, I first knew him.

After a prelude, I said, “I find, Mr. F., you
are entitled to something; pray, what do you
mean to give me in addition to my bill, for obtaining
it?” He answered rapidly, “Oh, take
half; if there is one hundred pounds, take
half; if there is five hundred pounds, take
half.”

“No, no; Mr. F., I don’t do business in that
way, I shall be satisfied with ten per cent.”

It was so settled. I then led him out into
the street, impelled to tell him the news, yet
dreading the effect; not daring to make the
revelation in my office, for fear of a scene.

I began hesitatingly, “Mr. Fitz-Roy, I am
happy to say, that I find you are entitled to
…..ten thousand pounds!”

“Ten thousand pounds!” he echoed. “Ten
thousand pounds!” he shrieked. “Ten thousand
pounds!” he yelled, seizing my arm violently.
“You are a brick. Here, cab! cab!”
Several drove up—the shout might have been
heard a mile off. He jumped in the first.

“Where to?” said the driver.

“To a tailor’s, you rascal!”

“Ten thousand pounds! ha, ha, ha!” he
repeated hysterically, when in the cab; and
every moment grasping my arm. Presently he
subsided, looked me straight in the face, and
muttered with agonizing fervor,

“What a jolly brick you are!”

The tailor, the hosier, the bootmaker, the
hair-dresser, were in turn visited by this poor
pagan of externals. As, by degrees, under
their hands, he emerged from the beggar to the
[pg 592]
gentleman, his spirits rose; his eyes brightened;
he walked erect, but always nervously grasping
my arm; fearing, apparently, to lose sight of
me for a moment, lest his fortune should vanish
with me. The impatient pride with which he
gave his orders to the astonished tradesmen for
the finest and best of every thing, and the
amazed air of the fashionable hairdresser when
he presented his matted locks and stubble chin,
to be “cut and shaved,” may be acted—it can
not be described.

By the time the external transformation was
complete, and I sat down in a Café in the
Haymarket, opposite a haggard but handsome,
thoroughbred-looking man, whose air, with the
exception of the wild eyes and deeply browned
face, did not differ from the stereotyped men
about town sitting around us, Mr. Molinos Fitz-Roy
had already almost forgotten the past; he
bullied the waiter, and criticised the wine, as if
he had done nothing else but dine and drink and
scold there all the days of his life.

Once he wished to drink my health, and
would have proclaimed his whole story to the
coffee-room assembly, in a raving style. When
I left he almost wept in terror at the idea of
losing sight of me. But, allowing for these
ebullitions—the natural result of such a whirl
of events—he was wonderfully calm and self-possessed.

The next day, his first care was to distribute
fifty pounds among his friends the cadgers, at a
house of call in Westminster, and formally to
dissolve his connection with them; those present
undertaking for the “fraternity,” that, for the
future, he should never be noticed by them in
public or private.

I can not follow his career much further.
Adversity had taught him nothing. He was
soon again surrounded by the well-bred vampires
who had forgotten him when penniless;
but they amused him, and that was enough.
The ten thousand pounds were rapidly melting
when he invited me to a grand dinner at Richmond,
which included a dozen of the most
agreeable, good-looking, well-dressed dandies
of London, interspersed with a display of pretty
butterfly bonnets. We dined deliciously, and
drank as men do of iced wines in the dog-days—looking
down from Richmond Hill.

One of the pink bonnets crowned Fitz-Roy
with a wreath of flowers; he looked—less the
intellect—as handsome as Alcibiades. Intensely
excited and flushed, he rose with a champagne
glass in his hand to propose my health.

The oratorical powers of his father had not
descended on him. Jerking out sentences by
spasms, at length he said, “I was a beggar—I
am a gentleman—thanks to this—”

Here he leaned on my shoulder heavily a
moment, and then fell back. We raised him,
loosened his neckcloth—

“Fainted!” said the ladies.

“Drunk!” said the gentlemen.

He was dead!


Singular Proceedings Of The
Sand Wasp. (From Howitt’s Country Year-Book.)

In all my observations of the habits of living
things, I have never seen any thing more curious
than the doings of one species of these ammophilæ—lovers
of sand. I have watched them day
after day, and hour after hour, in my garden,
and also on the sandy banks on the wastes
about Esher, in Surrey, and always with unabated
wonder. They are about an inch long,
with orange-colored bodies, and black heads and
wings. They are slender and most active.
You see them on the warm borders of your garden,
or on warm, dry banks, in summer, when
the sun shines hotly. They are incessantly
and most actively hunting about. They are in
pursuit of a particular gray spider with a large
abdomen. For these they pursue their chase
with a fiery quickness and avidity. The spiders
are on the watch to seize flies; but here we
have the tables turned, and these are flies on
the watch to discover and kill the spiders.
These singular insects seem all velocity and
fire. They come flying at a most rapid rate,
light down on the dry soil, and commence an
active search. The spiders lie under the leaves
of plants, and in little dens under the dry little
clods. Into all these places the sand-wasp pops
his head. He bustles along here and there,
flirting his wings, and his whole body all life
and fire. And now he moves off to a distance,
hunts about there, then back to his first place,
beats the old ground carefully over, as a pointer
beats a field. He searches carefully round every
little knob of earth, and pops his head into every
crevice. Ever and anon, he crouches close
among the little clods as a tiger would crouch
for his prey. He seems to be listening, or
smelling down into the earth, as if to discover
his prey by every sense which he possesses,
He goes round every stalk, and descends into
every hollow about them. When he finds the
spider, he dispatches him in a moment, and
seizing him by the centre of his chest, commences
dragging him off backward.

He conveys his prey to a place of safety.
Frequently he carries it up some inches into a
plant, and lodges it among the green leaves.
Seeing him do this, I poked his spider down
with a stick after he had left it; but he speedily
returned, and finding it fallen down, he immediately
carried it up again to the same place.

Having thus secured his spider, he selects a
particular spot of earth, the most sunny and
warm, and begins to dig a pit. He works with
all his might, digging up the earth with his
formidable mandibles, and throwing it out with
his feet, as a dog throws out the earth when
scratching after a rabbit. Every few seconds
he ascends, tail first, out of his hole, clears
away the earth about its mouth with his legs,
and spreads it to a distance on the surface.
When he has dug the hole, perhaps two inches
deep, he comes forth eagerly, goes off for his
[pg 593]
spider, drags it down from its lodgment, and
brings it to the mouth of his hole. He now lets
himself down the hole, tail first, and then, putting
forth his head, takes the spider, and turns
it into the most suitable position for dragging it
in.

It must be observed that this hole is made
carefully of only about the width of his body,
and therefore the spider can not be got into it
except lengthwise, and then by stout pulling.
Well, he turns it lengthwise, and seizing it,
commences dragging it in. At first, you would
imagine this impossible; but the sand-wasp is
strong, and the body of the spider is pliable.
You soon see it disappear. Down into the cylindrical
hole it goes, and anon you perceive the
sand-wasp pushing up its black head beside it;
and having made his way out he again sets to
work, and pushes the spider with all his force
to the bottom of the den.

And what is all this for? Is the spider laid
up in his larder for himself? No; it is food
for his children? It is their birth-place, and
their supply of provision while they are in the
larva state.

We have been all along calling this creature
he, for it has a most masculine look; but it is in
reality a she; it is the female sand-wasp, and
all this preparation is for the purpose of laying
her eggs. For this she has sought and killed
the spider, and buried it here. She has done it
all wittingly. She has chosen one particular
spider, and that only, for that is the one peculiarly
adapted to nourish her young.

So here it is safely stored away in her den;
and she now descends, tail first, and piercing
the pulpy abdomen of the spider, she deposits
her egg or eggs. That being done, she carefully
begins filling in the hole with earth. She
rakes it up with her legs and mandibles, and fills
in the hole, every now and then turning round
and going backward into the hole to stamp down
the earth with her feet, and to ram it down
with her body as a rammer. When the hole is
filled, it is curious to observe with what care
she levels the surface, and removes the surrounding
lumps of earth, laying some first over
the tomb of the spider, and others about, so as
to make that place look as much as possible
like the surface all round. And before she has
done with it—and she works often for ten minutes
at this leveling and disguising before she is
perfectly satisfied—she makes the place so exactly
like all the rest of the surface, that it will
require good eyes and close observation to recognize
it.

She has now done her part, and Nature must
do the rest. She has deposited her eggs in the
body of the spider, and laid that body in the
earth in the most sunny spot she can find. She
has laid it so near the surface that the sun will
act on it powerfully, yet deep enough to conceal
it from view. She has, with great art and
anxiety, destroyed all traces of the hole, and
the effect will soon commence. The heat of
the sun will hatch the egg. The larva, or
young grub of the sand-wasp, will become
alive, and begin to feed on the pulpy body of
the spider in which it is enveloped. This food
will suffice it till it is ready to emerge to daylight,
and pass through the different stages of
its existence. Like the ostrich, the sand-wasp
thus leaves her egg in the sand till the sun
hatches it, and having once buried it, most
probably never knows herself where it is deposited.
It is left to Nature and Providence


What Horses Think Of Men.
From The Raven In The Happy Family.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

I suppose you thought I was dead? No such
thing. Don’t flatter yourselves that I haven’t
got my eye upon you. I am wide awake, and
you give me plenty to look at.

I have begun my great work about you, I
have been collecting materials from the Horse,
to begin with. You are glad to hear it, ain’t
you? Very likely. Oh, he gives you a nice
character! He makes you out a charming set
of fellows.

He informs me by-the-by, that he is a distant
relation of the pony that was taken up in a balloon
a few weeks ago; and that the pony’s
account of your going to see him at Vauxhall
Gardens, is an amazing thing. The pony says
that when he looked round on the assembled
crowd, come to see the realization of the wood-cut
in the bill, he found it impossible to discover
which was the real Mister Green—there
were so many Mister Greens—and they were
all so very green!

But that’s the way with you. You know it
is. Don’t tell me! You’d go to see any thing
that other people went to see. And don’t flatter
yourselves that I am referring to “the vulgar
curiosity,” as you choose to call it, when
you mean some curiosity in which you don’t
participate yourselves. The polite curiosity in
this country is as vulgar as any curiosity in the
world.

Of course you’ll tell me, no it isn’t; but I
say, yes it is. What have you got to say for
yourselves about the Nepaulese princes, I should
like to know? Why, there has been more
crowding, and pressing, and pushing, and jostling,
and struggling, and striving, in genteel
houses this last season, on account of those Nepaulese
princes, than would have taken place in
vulgar Cremorne Gardens and Greenwich Park,
at Easter time and Whitsuntide! And what
for? Do you know any thing about ’em?
Have you any idea why they came here? Can
you put your finger on their country in the
map? Have you ever asked yourselves a dozen
common questions about its climate, natural
history, government, productions, customs, religion,
manners? Not you! Here are a couple
of swarthy princes very much out of their
element, walking about in wide muslin trowsers,
and sprinkled all over with gems (like the clockwork
figure on the old round platform in the
[pg 594]
street, grown-up), and they’re fashionable outlandish
monsters, and it’s a new excitement for
you to get a stare at ’em. As to asking ’em
to dinner, and seeing ’em sit at table without
eating in your company (unclean animals as
you are!), you fall into raptures at that. Quite
delicious, isn’t it? Ugh, you dunder-headed
boobies!

I wonder what there is, new and strange,
that you wouldn’t lionize, as you call it. Can
you suggest any thing! It’s not a hippopotamus,
I suppose. I hear from my brother-in-law
in the Zoological Gardens, that you are
always pelting away into the Regent’s Park,
by thousands, to see the hippopotamus. Oh,
you’re very fond of hippopotami, ain’t you?
You study one attentively, when you do see
one, don’t you? You come away so much
wiser than when you went, reflecting so profoundly
on the wonders of the creation—eh?

Bah! You follow one another like wild
geese; but you are not so good to eat!

These, however, are not the observations of
my friend the Horse. He takes you, in another
point of view. Would you like to read his contribution
to my Natural History of you? No?
You shall then.

He is a cab-horse now. He wasn’t always,
but he is now, and his usual stand is close to
our proprietor’s usual stand. That’s the way
we have come into communication, we “dumb
animals.” Ha, ha! Dumb, too! Oh, the conceit
of you men, because you can bother the
community out of their five wits, by making
speeches!

Well. I mentioned to this Horse that I
should be glad to have his opinions and experiences
of you. Here they are:

“At the request of my honorable friend the
Raven, I proceed to offer a few remarks in
reference to the animal called Man. I have
had varied experience of this strange creature
for fifteen years, and am now driven by a Man,
in the hackney cabriolet, number twelve thousand
four hundred and fifty-two.

“The sense Man entertains of his own inferiority
to the nobler animals—and I am now
more particularly referring to the Horse—has
impressed me forcibly, in the course of my
career. If a man knows a horse well, he is
prouder of it than of any knowledge of himself,
within the range of his limited capacity. He
regards it as the sum of all human acquisition.
If he is learned in a horse, he has nothing else
to learn. And the same remark applies, with
some little abatement, to his acquaintance with
dogs. I have seen a good deal of man in my time,
but I think I have never met a man who didn’t
feel it necessary to his reputation to pretend, on
occasion, that he knew something of horses and
dogs, though he really knew nothing. As to
making us a subject of conversation, my opinion
is that we are more talked about than history,
philosophy, literature, art, and science, all put
together. I have encountered innumerable gentlemen
in the country, who were totally incapable
of interest in any thing but horses and dogs—except
cattle. And I have always been given
to understand that they were the flower of the
civilized world.

“It is very doubtful to me, whether there is,
upon the whole, any thing man is so ambitious
to imitate as an ostler, jockey, a stage coachman,
a horse-dealer, or dog-fancier. There
may be some other character which I do not
immediately remember, that fires him with emulation;
but if there be, I am sure it is connected
with horses or dogs, or both. This is
an unconscious compliment, on the part of the
tyrant, to the nobler animals, which I consider
to be very remarkable. I have known lords
and baronets, and members of parliament, out
of number, who have deserted every other calling
to become but indifferent stablemen or kennelmen,
and be cheated on all hands, by the real
aristocracy of those pursuits who were regularly
born to the business.

“All this, I say, is a tribute to our superiority,
which I consider to be very remarkable.
Yet, still I can’t quite understand it. Man can
hardly devote himself to us, in admiration of
our virtues, because he never imitates them.
We horses are as honest, though I say it, as
animals can be. If, under the pressure of circumstances,
we submit to act at a circus, for
instance, we always show that we are acting.
We never deceive any body. We would scorn
to do it. If we are called upon to do any thing
in earnest, we do our best. If we are required
to run a race falsely, and to lose when we could
win, we are not to be relied upon to commit a
fraud; man must come in at that point, and
force us to it. And the extraordinary circumstance
to me is, that man (whom I take to be a
powerful species of monkey) is always making
us nobler animals the instruments of his meanness
and cupidity. The very name of our kind
has become a byword for all sorts of trickery
and cheating. We are as innocent as counters
at a game—and yet this creature will play
falsely with us!

“Man’s opinion, good or bad, is not worth
much, as any rational horse knows. But justice
is justice; and what I complain of is, that mankind
talks of us as if we had something to do
with all this. They say that such a man was
‘ruined by horses.’ Ruined by horses! They
can’t be open, even in that, and say he was
ruined by men; but they lay it at our stable-door!
As if we ever ruined any body, or were
ever doing any thing but being ruined ourselves,
in our generous desire to fulfill the useful purposes
of our existence!

“In the same way, we get a bad name, as if
we were profligate company. ‘So and so got
among horses, and it was all up with him.’
Why, we would have reclaimed him—we would
have made him temperate, industrious, punctual,
steady, sensible—what harm would he
ever have got from us, I should wish to ask?

“Upon the whole, speaking of him as I have
[pg 595]
found him, I should describe man as an unmeaning
and conceited creature, very seldom to
be trusted, and not likely to make advances
toward the honesty of the nobler animals. I
should say that his power of warping the nobler
animals to bad purposes, and damaging their
reputation by his companionship, is, next to the
art of growing oats, hay, carrots, and clover,
one of his principal attributes. He is very unintelligible
in his caprices; seldom expressing
with distinctness what he wants of us; and relying
greatly on our better judgment to find out.
He is cruel, and fond of blood—particularly at
a steeple-chase—and is very ungrateful.

“And yet, so far as I can understand, he
worships us, too. He sets up images of us
(not particularly like, but meant to be) in the
streets and calls upon his fellows to admire
them, and believe in them. As well as I can
make out, it is not of the least importance what
images of men are put astride upon these images
of horses, for I don’t find any famous personage
among them—except one, and his image seems
to have been contracted for by the gross. The
jockeys who ride our statues are very queer
jockeys, it appears to me, but it is something
to find man even posthumously sensible of what
he owes to us. I believe that when he has
done any great wrong to any very distinguished
horse, deceased, he gets up a subscription to
have an awkward likeness of him made, and
erects it in a public place, to be generally venerated.
I can find no other reason for the
statues of us that abound.

“It must be regarded as a part of the inconsistency
of man, that he erects no statues to
the donkeys—who, though far inferior animals
to ourselves, have great claims upon him. I
should think a donkey opposite the horse at
Hyde Park, another in Trafalgar-square, and a
group of donkeys, in brass, outside the Guild-hall
of the city of London (for I believe the
common-council chamber is inside that building)
would be pleasant and appropriate memorials.

“I am not aware that I can suggest any
thing more to my honorable friend the Raven,
which will not already have occurred to his
fine intellect. Like myself, he is the victim of
brute force, and must bear it until the present
state of things is changed—as it possibly may
be in the good time which I understand is coming,
if I wait a little longer.”

There! How do you like that? That’s the
Horse! You shall have another animal’s
sentiments, soon. I have communicated with
plenty of ’em, and they are all down upon you.
It’s not I alone who have found you out. You
are generally detected, I am happy to say, and
shall be covered with confusion.

Talking about the horse, are you going to
set up any more horses? Eh? Think a bit.
Come! You haven’t got horses enough yet,
surely? Couldn’t you put somebody else on
horseback, and stick him up, at the cost of a
few thousands? You have already statues to
most of the “benefactors of mankind” (see
Advertisement) in your principal cities. You
walk through groves of great inventors, instructors,
discoverers, assuagers of pain, preventers
of disease, suggesters of purifying
thoughts, doers of noble deeds. Finish the list.
Come!

Whom will you hoist into the saddle? Let’s
have a cardinal virtue! Shall it be Faith?
Hope? Charity? Ay, Charity’s the virtue to
ride on horseback! Let’s have Charity!

How shall we represent it? Eh? What
do you think? Royal? Certainly. Duke?
Of course. Charity always was typified in that
way, from the time of a certain widow downward.
And there’s nothing less left to put up;
all the commoners who were “benefactors of
mankind” having had their statues in the public
places, long ago.

How shall we dress it? Rags? Low. Drapery?
Commonplace. Field-Marshal’s uniform?
The very thing! Charity in a Field-Marshal’s
uniform (none the worse for wear)
with thirty thousand pounds a year, public
money, in its pocket, and fifteen thousand more,
public money, up behind, will be a piece of plain,
uncompromising truth in the highways, and an
honor to the country and the time.

Ha, ha, ha! You can’t leave the memory of
an unassuming, honest, good-natured, amiable
old duke alone, without bespattering it with
your flunkeyism, can’t you? That’s right—and
like you! Here are three brass buttons in
my crop. I’ll subscribe ’em all. One, to the
statue of Charity; one, to a statue of Hope;
one, to a statue of Faith. For Faith, we’ll
have the Nepaulese Embassador on horseback—being
a prince. And for Hope, we’ll put the
Hippopotamus on horseback, and so make a
group.

Let’s have a meeting about it!


The Quakers During The American
War. (From Howitt’s Country Year-Book.)

George Dilwyn was an American, a
remarkable preacher among the Quakers.
About fifty years ago he came over to this
country, on what we have already said is termed
a “Religious Visit,” and being in Cornwall, when
I was there, and at George Fox’s, in Falmouth—our
aged relative still narrates—soon became
an object of great attraction, not only from his
powerful preaching, but from his extraordinary
gift in conversation, which he made singularly
interesting from the introduction of curious passages
in his own life and experience.

His company was so much sought after, that
a general invitation was given, by his hospitable
and wealthy entertainer, to all the Friends of
the town and neighborhood to come, and hear,
and see him; and evening by evening, their
rooms were crowded by visitors, who sat on
seats, side by side, as in a public lecture-room.

Among other things, he related, that during
[pg 596]
the time of the revolutionary war, one of the
armies passing through a district in which a
great number of Friends resided, food was demanded
from the inhabitants, which was given
to them. The following day the adverse army
came up in pursuit, and stripped them of every
kind of provision that remained; and so great
was the strait to which they were reduced, that
absolute famine was before them. Their sufferings
were extreme, as day after day went
on, and no prospect of relief was afforded them.
Death seemed to stare them in the face, and
many a one was ready to despair. The forests
around them were in possession of the soldiers,
and the game, which otherwise might have
yielded them subsistence, was killed or driven
away.

After several days of great distress, they retired
at night, still without hope or prospect of
succor. How great, then, was their surprise
and cause of thankfulness when, on the following
morning, immense herds of wild deer were
seen standing around their inclosures, as if driven
there for their benefit! From whence they
came none could tell, nor the cause of their
coming, but they suffered themselves to be taken
without resistance; and thus the whole people
were saved, and had great store of provisions
laid up for many weeks.

Again, a similar circumstance occurred near
the sea-shore, when the flying and pursuing
armies had stripped the inhabitants, and when,
apparently to add to their distress, the wind set
in with such unusual violence, and the sea drove
the tide so far inland, that the people near the
shore were obliged to abandon their houses, and
those in the town retreat to their upper rooms.
This also being during the night, greatly added
to their distress; and, like the others, they were
ready to despair. Next morning, however, they
found that God had not been unmindful of them;
for the tide had brought up with it a most extraordinary
shoal of mackerel, so that every place
was filled with them, where they remained ready
taken, without net or skill of man—a bountiful
provision for the wants of the people, till other
relief could be obtained.

Another incident he related, which occurred
in one of the back settlements, when the Indians
had been employed to burn the dwellings of the
settlers, and cruelly to murder the people. One
of these solitary habitations was in the possession
of a Friend’s family. They lived in such secure
simplicity, that they had hitherto had no apprehension
of danger, and used neither bar nor bolt
to their door, having no other means of securing
their dwelling from intrusion than by drawing
in the leathern thong by which the wooden
latch inside was lifted from without.

The Indians had committed frightful ravages
all around, burning and murdering without mercy.
Every evening brought forth tidings of horror,
and every night the unhappy settlers surrounded
themselves with such defenses as they could
muster—even then, for dread, scarcely being
able to sleep. The Friend and his family, who
had hitherto put no trust in the arm of flesh,
but had left all in the keeping of God, believing
that man often ran in his own strength to his
own injury, had used so little precaution, that
they slept without even withdrawing the string,
and were as yet uninjured. Alarmed, however,
at length, by the fears of others, and by the
dreadful rumors that surrounded them, they
yielded to their fears on one particular night,
and, before retiring to rest, drew in the string,
and thus secured themselves as well as they
were able.

In the dead of the night, the Friend, who had
not been able to sleep, asked his wife if she
slept; and she replied that she could not, for
her mind was uneasy. Upon this, he confessed
that the same was his case, and that he believed
it would be the safest for him to rise and put
out the string of the latch as usual. On her
approving of this, it was done, and the two lay
down again, commending themselves to the
keeping of God.

This had not occurred above ten minutes,
when the dismal sound of the war-whoop echoed
through the forest, filling every heart with dread,
and almost immediately afterward, they counted
the footsteps of seven men pass the window of
their chamber, which was on the ground-floor,
and the next moment the door-string was pulled,
the latch lifted, and the door opened. A debate
of a few minutes took place, the purport of
which, as it was spoken in the Indian language,
was unintelligible to the inhabitants; but that
it was favorable to them was proved by the door
being again closed, and the Indians retiring
without having crossed the threshold.

The next morning they saw the smoke rising
from burning habitations all around them; parents
were weeping for their children who were carried
off, and children lamenting over their parents
who had been cruelly slain.

Some years afterward, when peace was
restored, and the colonists had occasion to hold
conferences with the Indians, this Friend was
appointed as one for that purpose, and speaking
in favor of the Indians, he related the above
incident; in reply to which, an Indian observed,
that, by the simple circumstance of putting out
the latch-string, which proved confidence rather
than fear, their lives and their property had
been saved; for that he himself was one of that
marauding party, and that, on finding the door
open, it was said—“These people shall live;
they will do us no harm, for they put their trust
in the Great Spirit.”

During the whole American revolution,
indeed, the Indians, though incited by the
whites to kill and scalp the enemy, never
molested the Friends, as the people of Father
Onas, or William Penn, and as the avowed
opponents of all violence. Through the whole
war, there were but two instances to the contrary,
and they were occasioned by the two
Friends themselves. The one was a young
man, a tanner, who went to his tan-yard and
back daily unmolested, while devastation spread
[pg 597]
on all sides; but at length, thoughtlessly carrying
a gun to shoot some birds, the Indians, in
ambush, believed that he had deserted his principles,
and shot him. The other was a woman,
who, when the dwellings of her neighbors were
nightly fired, and the people themselves murdered,
was importuned by the officers of a
neighboring fort to take refuge there till the
danger was over. For some time she refused,
and remained unharmed amid general destruction;
but, at length, letting in fear, she went
for one night to the fort, but was so uneasy,
that the next morning she quitted it to return
to her home. The Indians, however, believed
that she too had abandoned her principles, and
joined the fighting part of the community, and
before she reached home she was shot by them.


A Shilling’s Worth Of Science.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

Dr. Paris has already shown, in a charming
little book treating scientifically of children’s
toys, how easy even “philosophy in sport can
be made science in earnest.” An earlier genius
cut out the whole alphabet into the figures of
uncouth animals, and inclosed them in a toy-box
representing Noah’s Ark, for the purpose
of teaching children their letters. Europe,
Asia, Africa, and America, have been decimated;
“yea, the great globe itself,” has been
parceled into little wooden sections, that their
readjustment into a continuous map might teach
the infant conqueror of the world the relative
positions of distant countries. Archimedes
might have discovered the principle of the lever
and the fundamental principles of gravity upon
a rocking-horse. In like manner he might have
ascertained the laws of hydrostatics, by observing
the impetus of many natural and artificial
fountains, which must occasionally have come
beneath his eye. So also the principles of
acoustics might even now be taught by the aid
of a penny whistle, and there is no knowing
how much children’s nursery games may yet be
rendered subservient to the advancement of
science. The famous Dr. Cornelius Scriblerus
had excellent notions on these subjects. He
determined that his son Martinus should be the
most learned and universally well-informed man
of his age, and had recourse to all sorts of devices
in order to inspire him even unthinkingly
with knowledge. He determined that every
thing should contribute to the improvement of
his mind—even his very dress. He therefore,
his biographer informs us, invented for him a
geographical suit of clothes, which might give
him some hints of that science, and also of the
commerce of different nations. His son’s disposition
to mathematics—for he was a remarkable
child—was discovered very early by his
drawing parallel lines on his bread and butter,
and intersecting them at equal angles, so as to
form the whole superficies into squares. His
father also wisely resolved that he should acquire
the learned languages, especially Greek—and
remarking, curiously enough, that young
Martinus Scriblerus was remarkably fond of
gingerbread, the happy idea came into his
parental head that his pieces of gingerbread
should be stamped with the letters of the Greek
alphabet; and such was the child’s avidity for
knowledge, that the very first day he eat down
to iota.

When Sir Isaac Newton changed his residence
and went to live in Leicester-place, his
next door neighbor was a widow lady, who was
much puzzled by the little she observed of the
habits of the philosopher. One of the Fellows
of the Royal Society called upon her one day,
when, among other domestic news, she mentioned
that some one had come to reside in the
adjoining house, who she felt certain was a
poor mad gentleman. “And why so?” asked
her friend. “Because,” said she, “he diverts
himself in the oddest way imaginable. Every
morning when the sun shines so brightly that
we are obliged to draw down the window-blinds,
he takes his seat on a little stool before a tub of
soap-suds, and occupies himself for hours blowing
soap-bubbles through a common clay-pipe,
which he intently watches floating about until
they burst. He is doubtless,” she added, “now
at his favorite diversion, for it is a fine day; do
come and look at him.” The gentleman smiled;
and they went up-stairs, when after looking
through the stair-case window into the adjoining
court-yard, he turned round and said, “My
dear lady, the person whom you suppose to be
a poor lunatic, is no other than the great Sir
Isaac Newton studying the refraction of light
upon thin plates, a phenomenon which is beautifully
exhibited upon the surface of a common
soap-bubble.”

The principle, illustrated by the examples we
have given, has been efficiently followed by the
Directors of the Royal Polytechnic Institution
in Regent-street, London. Even the simplest
models and objects they exhibit in their extensive
halls and galleries, expound—like Sir Isaac
Newton’s soap-bubble—some important principle
of Science or Art.

On entering the Hall of Manufactures (as we
did the other day) it was impossible not to be
impressed with the conviction that we are in an
utilitarian age in which the science of Mechanics
advances with marvelous rapidity. Here we
observed steam-engines, hand-looms, and machines
in active operation, surrounding us with
that peculiar din which makes the air

“Murmur, as with the sound of summer-flies.”

Passing into the “Gallery in the Great Hall,”
we did not fail to derive a momentary amusement,
from observing the very different objects
which seemed most to excite the attention, and
interest of the different sight-seers. Here, stood
obviously a country farmer examining the model
of a steam-plow; there, a Manchester or Birmingham
manufacturer looking into a curious
and complicated weaving machine; here, we
noticed a group of ladies admiring specimens of
[pg 598]
elaborate carving in ivory, and personal ornaments
esteemed highly fashionable at the antipodes;
and there, the smiling faces of youth
watching with eager eyes the little boats and
steamers paddling along the Water Reservoir
in the central counter. But we had scarcely
looked around us, when a bell rang to announce
a lecture on Voltaic Electricity by Dr. Bachhoffner;
and moving with a stream of people
up a short stair-case, we soon found ourselves
in a very commodious and well-arranged theatre.
There are many universities and public
institutions that have not better lecture rooms
than this theatre in the Royal Polytechnic Institution.
The lecture was elementary and exceedingly
instructive, pointing out and showing
by experiments, the identity between Magnetism
and Electricity—light and heat; but notwithstanding
the extreme perspicuity of the Professor,
it was our fate to sit next two old ladies
who seemed to be very incredulous about the
whole business.

“If heat and light are the same thing,”
asked one, “why don’t a flame come out at the
spout of a boiling tea-kettle?”

“The steam,” answered the other, “may
account for that.”

“Hush!” cried somebody behind them; and
the ladies were silent: but it was plain they
thought Voltaic Electricity had something to do
with conjuring, and that the lecturer might be
a professor of Magic. The lecture over, we
returned to the Gallery, where we found the
Diving Bell just about to be put in operation.
It is made of cast iron, and weighs three tons;
the interior being provided with seats, and
lighted by openings in the crown, upon which a
plate of thick glass is secured. The weighty
instrument suspended by a massive chain to a
large swing crane, was soon in motion, when
we observed our skeptical lady-friends join a
party and enter, in order, we presume, to make
themselves more sure of the truth of the diving-bell
than they could do of the identity between
light and heat. The bell was soon swung round
and lowered into a tank, which holds nearly ten
thousand gallons of water; but we confess our
fears for the safety of its inmates were greatly
appeased, when we learned that the whole of
this reservoir of water could be emptied in less
than one minute. Slowly and steadily was the
bell drawn up again, and we had the satisfaction
of seeing the enterprising ladies and their companions
alight on terra firma, nothing injured
excepting that they were greatly flushed in the
face. A man, clad in a water-tight dress and
surmounted with a diving-helmet, next performed
a variety of sub-aqueous feats, much to the
amusement and astonishment of the younger
part of the audience, one of whom shouted as
he came up above the surface of the water,
“Oh! ma’a! Don’t he look like an Ogre!”
and certainly the shining brass helmet and staring
large plate-glass eyes fairly warranted such
a suggestion. The principles of the diving-bell
and of the diving-helmet are too well known to
require explanation: but the practical utility of
these machines is daily proved. Even while
we now write, it has been ascertained that the
foundations of Blackfriars Bridge are giving
way. The bed of the river, owing to the constant
ebb and flow of its waters, has sunk some
six or seven feet below its level since the bridge
was built, thus undermining its foundation; and
this effect, it is presumed, has been greatly
augmented by the removal of the old London
Bridge, the works surrounding which operated
as a dam in checking the force of the current.
These machines, also, are constantly used in
repairing the bottom of docks, landing-piers,
and in the construction of breakwater works,
such as those which are at present being raised
at Dover Harbor.

Among other remarkable objects in the museum
of natural history we recognized, swimming
upon his shingly bed under a glass case,
our old friend the Gymnotus Electricus, or
Electrical Eel. Truly, he is a marvelous fish.
The power which animals of every description
possess in adapting themselves to external and
adventitious circumstances, is here marvelously
illustrated, for, notwithstanding this creature is
surrounded by the greatest possible amount of
artificial circumstances, inasmuch as instead of
sporting in his own pellucid and sparkling
waters of the river Amazon, he is here confined
in a glass prison, in water artificially heated;
instead of his natural food, he is here supplied
with fish not indigenous to his native country,
and denied access to fresh air, with sunlight
sparkling upon the surface of the waves—he is
here surrounded by an impure and obscure atmosphere,
with crowds of people constantly
moving to and fro and gazing upon him; yet,
notwithstanding all these disadvantageous circumstances,
he has continued to thrive; nay,
since we saw him ten years ago, he has increased
in size and is apparently very healthy,
notwithstanding that he is obviously quite blind.

This specimen of the Gymnotus Electricus
was caught in the river Amazon, and was
brought over to this country by Mr. Potter,
where it arrived on the 12th of August, 1838,
when he displayed it to the proprietors of the
Adelaide Gallery. In the first instance, there
was some difficulty in keeping him alive, for,
whether from sickness, or sulkiness, he refused
food of every description, and is said to have
eaten nothing from the day he was taken, in
March, 1838, to the 19th of the following October.
He was confided upon his arrival to the
care of Mr. Bradley, who placed him in an
apartment the temperature of which could be
maintained at about seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit,
and acting upon the suggestions of
Baron Humboldt, he endeavored to feed him
with bits of boiled meat, worms, frogs, fish, and
bread, which were all tried in succession. But
the animal would not touch these. The plan
adopted by the London fishmongers for fattening
the common eel was then had recourse to; a
quantity of bullock’s blood was put into the
[pg 599]
water, care being taken that it should be changed
daily, and this was attended with some beneficial
effects, as the animal gradually improved in
health. In the month of October it occurred
to Mr. Bradley to tempt him with some small
fish, and the first gudgeon thrown into the
water he darted at and swallowed with avidity.
From that period the same diet has been continued,
and he is now fed three times a day,
and upon each occasion is given two or three
carp, or perch, or gudgeon, each weighing from
two to three ounces. In watching his movements
we observed, that in swimming about he
seems to delight in rubbing himself against the
gravel which forms the bed above which he
floats, and the water immediately becomes
clouded with the mucus from which he thus
relieves the surface of his body.

When this species of fish was first discovered,
marvelous accounts respecting them were transmitted
to the Royal Society: it was even said
that in the river Surinam, in the western province
of Guiana, some existed twenty feet long.
The present specimen is forty inches in length;
and measures eighteen inches round the body;
and his physiognomy justifies the description
given by one of the early narrators, who remarked,
that the Gymnotus “resembles one of
our common eels, except that its head is flat,
and its mouth wide, like that of a cat-fish, without
teeth.” It is certainly ugly enough. On
its first arrival in England, the proprietors offered
Professor Faraday (to whom this country
may possibly discover, within the next five
hundred years, that it owes something) the
privilege of experimenting upon him for scientific
purposes, and the result of a great number
of experiments, ingeniously devised, and executed
with great nicety, clearly proved the
identity between the electricity of the fish and
the common electricity. The shock, the circuit,
the spark, were distinctly obtained: the
galvanometer was sensibly affected; chemical
decompositions were obtained; an annealed
steel needle became magnetic, and the direction
of its polarity indicated a current from the anterior
to the posterior parts of the fish, through
the conductors used. The force with which
the electric discharge is made is also very considerable,
for this philosopher tells us we may
conclude that a single medium discharge of the
fish is at least equal to the electricity of a
Leyden Battery of fifteen jars, containing three
thousand five hundred square inches of glass,
coated upon both sides, charged to its highest
degree. But great as is the force of a single
discharge, the Gymnotus will sometimes give a
double, and even a triple shock, with scarcely
any interval. Nor is this all. The instinctive
action it has recourse to in order to augment
the force of the shock, is very remarkable.

The professor one day dropped a live fish,
five inches long, into the tub; upon which the
Gymnotus turned round in such a manner as to
form a coil inclosing the fish, the latter representing
a diameter across it, and the fish
was struck motionless, as if lightning had
passed through the water. The Gymnotus then
made a turn to look for his prey, which having
found, he bolted it, and then went about seeking
for more. A second smaller fish was then
given him, which being hurt, showed little signs
of life; and this he swallowed apparently without
“shocking it.” We are informed by Dr.
Williamson, in a paper he communicated some
years ago to the Royal Society, that a fish already
struck motionless gave signs of returning
animation, which the Gymnotus observing, he
instantly discharged another shock, which killed
it. Another curious circumstance was observed
by Professor Faraday—the Gymnotus appeared
conscious of the difference of giving a shock to
an animate and an inanimate body, and would
not be provoked to discharge its powers upon
the latter. When tormented by a glass rod,
the creature in the first instance threw out a
shock, but as if he perceived his mistake, he
could not be stimulated afterward to repeat it,
although the moment the professor touched him
with his hands, he discharged shock after shock.
He refused, in like manner, to gratify the curiosity
of the philosophers, when they touched
him with metallic conductors, which he permitted
them to do with indifference. It is
worthy of observation, that this is the only specimen
of the Gymnotus Electricus ever brought
over alive into this country. The great secret
of preserving his life would appear to consist in
keeping the water at an even temperature—summer
and winter—of seventy-five degrees of
Fahrenheit. After having been subjected to a
great variety of experiments, the creature is
now permitted to enjoy the remainder of its days
in honorable peace, and the only occasion upon
which he is now disturbed, is when it is found
necessary to take him out of his shallow reservoir
to have it cleaned, when he discharges
angrily enough shock after shock, which the
attendants describe to be very smart, even
though he be held in several thick and well
wetted cloths, for they do not at all relish the
job.

The Gymnotus Electricus is not the only
animal endowed with this very singular power;
there are other fish, especially the Torpedo and
Silurus, which are equally remarkable, and
equally well known. The peculiar structure
which enters into the formation of their electrical
organs, was first examined by the eminent
anatomist John Hunter, in the Torpedo; and,
very recently, Rudolphi has described their
structure with great exactness in the Gymnotus
Electricus.

Without entering into minute details, the
peculiarity of the organic apparatus of the
Electrical Eel seems to consist in this, that
it is composed of numerous laminæ or thin
tendinous partitions, between which exists an
infinite number of small cells filled with a thickish
gelatinous fluid. These strata and cells are
supplied with nerves of unusual size, and the
intensity of the electrical power is presumed to
[pg 600]
depend on the amount of nervous energy accumulated
in these cells, whence it can be
voluntarily discharged, just as a muscle may be
voluntarily contracted. Furthermore, there are,
it would appear, good reasons to believe that
nervous power (in whatever it may consist) and
electricity are identical. The progress of science
has already shown the identity between heat,
electricity, and magnetism; that heat may be
concentrated into electricity, and this electricity
reconverted into heat; that electric force may
be converted into magnetic force, and Professor
Faraday himself discovered how, by reacting
back again, the magnetic force can be reconverted
into the electric force, and vice versâ;
and should the identity between electricity and
nervous power be as clearly established, one of
the most important and interesting problems in
physiology will be solved.

Every new discovery in science, and all improvements
in industrial art, the principles of
which are capable of being rendered in the
least degree interesting, are in this Exhibition
forthwith popularized, and become, as it were,
public property. Every individual of the great
public can at the very small cost of one shilling,
claim his or her share in the property thus attractively
collected, and a small amount of previous
knowledge or natural intelligence will put
the visitor in actual possession of treasures which
previously “he wot not of,” in so amusing a
manner that they will be beguiled rather than
bored into his mind.


A Tuscan Vintage.

All Tuscany had been busy with the vintage.
The vintage! Is there a word more rich
to the untraveled Englishman in picturesque
significance and poetical associations? All that
the bright south has of glowing coloring, harmonious
forms, teeming abundance, and Saturnian
facility, mixed up in the imagination with
certain vague visions of bright black eyes and
bewitching ankles—all this, and more, goes to
the making up of the Englishman’s notion of the
vintage. Alas! that it should be needful to
dissipate such charming illusions. And yet it
is well to warn those who cherish these couleur-de-rose
imaginings, and who would fain shun a
disagreeable désenchantement, that they will do
wisely in continuing to receive their impressions
of Italian ruralities from the presentations of our
theatres, and the description of Mrs. Radcliffe.
To those inquirers, however, of sterner mould,
who would find truth, be it ever so disagreeable
when found, it must be told that a Devonshire
harvesting is twice as pretty, and a Kentish
hop-picking thrice as pretty a scene as any
“vindemia” that the vineyards of Italy can show.
The vine, indeed, as grown in Italy—especially
when the fruit is ripe, and the leaves begin to
be tinted with crimson and yellow—is an exceedingly
pretty object, rich in coloring, and
elegant in its forms. Nothing but the most
obsolete and backward agriculture, however,
preserves these beauties. If good wine and not
pretty crops be the object in view, the vine
should be grown as in France—a low dwarf
plant closely pruned, and raised only two or
three feet from the ground; and than such a
vineyard nothing can be more ugly. Classic
Italy, however, still cultivates her vines as she
did when the Georgics were written; “marries”
them most becomingly and picturesquely
to elms or mulberries, &c, and makes of them
lovely festoons and very acrid wine. Again, it
must be admitted that a yoke of huge dove-colored
oxen, with their heavy unwieldy tumbril,
is a more picturesque object than an English
wagon and a team of horses. Occasionally, too,
may be seen bearing not ungracefully a blushing
burden of huge bunches, a figure, male or female,
who might have sat for a model to Leopold
Robert. But despite all this, the process of
gathering the vintage is any thing but a pleasing
sight. In one of the heavy tumbrils I have mentioned,
are placed some twelve or fifteen large
pails, some three feet deep, and a foot or so in
diameter. Into these are thrown pell-mell the
bunches of fruit, ripe and unripe, clean and dirty,
stalks and all, white and red indiscriminately.
The cart thus laden, the fifteen pails of unsightly,
dirty-looking slush, are driven to the “fattoria,”
there to be emptied into vats, which appear,
both to nose and eye, never to have been cleansed
since they were made. In performing this operation
much is of course spilt over the men employed,
over the cart, over the ground; and
nothing can look less agreeable than the effect
thus produced. Sometimes one large tub occupies
the whole tumbril, the contents of which,
on reaching the “fattoria,” have to be ladled
out with buckets. Often the contents of the
vat, trodden in one place—a most unsightly
process—have to be transported in huge barrels,
like water-carts, to another place to undergo
fermentation. And then the thick muddy stream,
laden with filth and impurities of all sorts, which
is seen when these barrels discharge their cargo,
is as little calculated to give one a pleasing idea
of the “ruby wine” which is to be the result of
all this filthy squash, as can well be imagined.
Add to this an exceedingly unpleasant smell in
and about all the buildings in which any part
of the wine-making process takes place, and the
constant recurrence of rotting heaps of the refuse
matter of the pressed grape under every wall
and hedge in the neighborhood of each “fattoria”—and
the notions connected with the so be-poetized
vintage, will be easily understood to be none
of the pleasantest in the minds of those acquainted
with its sights and smells.—Trollope’s Impressions
of a Wanderer.

[pg 601]


How To Make Home Unhealthy.
By Harriet Martineau.

Emperor Yao (very many years B.C.)
established a certain custom, which was
followed, we are told, by his successors on the
throne of China. The custom was this. Outside
the hall-door of his palace, he suspended a
tablet and a gong; and if one among his subjects
felt himself able to suggest a good idea to his
ruler, or wished to admonish him of any error
in his ways, the critic paid a visit to the palace,
wrote what he had to say upon the tablet, battered
at the gong, and ran away. The Emperor
came out; and then, unless it happened that
some scapegrace of a schoolboy had annoyed
him by superadding a fly-away knock to a contemptuous
hieroglyphic, he gravely profited by
any hint the tablets might convey. Not unlike
honest, patriarchal Yao is our British Public. It
is summoned out to read inscriptions at its door,
left there by all who have advice to give or
faults to deprecate. The successors of Yao,
finding upon their score so many conflicting
tales, soon substituted for the gong five instruments
of music. It was required, then, that
the monitor should distinguish, by the instrument
upon which he performed his summons, what
particular department of imperial duties it might
be to which he desired to call attention. Now
not five but fifty voices summon our royal public.
One man courts attention with a dulcet strain,
one brays, one harps upon a string, another
drums. And among those who have of late been
busiest in pointing errors out, and drumming at
the public’s door to have them rectified, are they
who profess concern about the Public Health.

For the writer who now proposes to address
to you, O excellent Public, through these pages,
a Series of Practical Hints as to How to make
Home Unhealthy, we would not have you
think that he means to be in any respect so
troublesome as those Sanitary Instructors. The
lion on your knocker gives him confidence; he
will leave no disconcerting messages; he will
seek to come into your parlor as a friend. A
friend he is; for, with a polite sincerity, he will
maintain in all his arguments that what you do
is what ought always to be done. He knows
well that you are not foolish, and perceives,
therefore, what end you have in view. He sees
that you are impressed deeply with a conviction
of the vanity of life; that you desire, accordingly,
to prove your wisdom by exhibiting contempt
for that which philosopher after philosopher forbids
a thoughtful man to cherish. You would
be proud to have Unhealthy Homes. Lusty
carcases, they are for coarse folk and for the
heathen; civilization forbids us to promote animal
development. How can a man look spiritual,
if he be not sickly? How can a woman—Is
not Paris the mode? Go, weigh an elegant
Parisienne against a peasant girl from Normandy.
It is here proposed, therefore, to honor
your discretion by demonstrating publicly how
right you are. Some of the many methods by
which one may succeed in making Home Unhealthy
will be here detailed to you, in order
that, as we go on, you may congratulate yourself
on feeling how extremely clever you already
are in your arrangements. Here is a plain purpose.
If any citizen, listening to such lessons,
think himself wise, and yet is one who, like good
M. Jourdain in the comedy, n’applaudit qu’à
contresens—to such a citizen it is enough to say.
May much good come of his perversity!

I. Hints To Hang Up In The Nursery.

In laying a foundation of ill health, it is a
great point to be able to begin at the beginning.
You have the future man at excellent advantage
when he is between your fingers as a baby.
One of Hoffman’s heroines, a clever housewife,
discarded and abhorred her lover from the moment
of his cutting a yeast dumpling. There
are some little enormities of that kind which
really can not be forgiven, and one such is, to
miss the opportunity of physicking a baby. Now
I will tell you how to treat the future pale-face
at his first entrance into life.

A little while before the birth of any child,
have a little something ready in a spoon; and,
after birth, be ready at the first opportunity, to
thrust this down his throat. Let his first gift
from his fellow-creatures be a dose of physic—honey
and calomel, or something of that kind:
but you had better ask the nurse for a prescription.
Have ready also, before birth, an abundant
stock of pins; for it is a great point, in
putting the first dress upon the little naked body,
to contrive that it shall contain as many pins as
possible. The prick of a sly pin is excellent
for making children cry; and since it may lead
nurses, mothers, now and then even doctors, to
administer physic for the cure of imaginary gripings
in the bowels, it may be twice blessed.
Sanitary enthusiasts are apt to say that strings,
not pins, are the right fastening for infants’
clothes. Be not misled. Is not the pincushion
an ancient institution? What is to say, “Welcome,
little stranger,” if pins cease to do so?
Resist this innovation. It is the small end of
the wedge. The next thing that a child would
do, if let alone, would be to sleep. I would not
suffer that. The poor thing must want feeding;
therefore waken it and make it eat a sop, for
that will be a pleasant joke at the expense of
nature. It will be like wakening a gentleman
after midnight to put into his mouth some pickled
herring; only the baby can not thank you for
your kindness as the gentleman might do.

This is a golden rule concerning babies: to
procure sickly growth, let the child always suckle.
Attempt no regularity in nursing. It is true
that if an infant be fed at the breast every four
hours, it will fall into the habit of desiring food
only so often, and will sleep very tranquilly
during the interval. This may save trouble,
but it is a device for rearing healthy children:
we discard it. Our infants shall be nursed in
no new-fangled way. As for the child’s crying,
[pg 602]
quiet costs eighteen-pence a bottle; so that argument
is very soon disposed of.

Never be without a flask of Godfrey’s Cordial,
or Daffy, in the nursery; but the fact is, that
you ought to keep a medicine-chest. A good
deal of curious information may be obtained by
watching the effects of various medicines upon
your children.

Never be guided by the child’s teeth in weaning
it. Wean it before the first teeth are cut,
or after they have learned to bite. Wean all at
once, with bitter aloes or some similar devices;
and change the diet suddenly. It is a foolish
thing to ask a medical attendant how to regulate
the food of children; he is sure to be over-run
with bookish prejudices; but nurses are
practical women, who understand thoroughly
matters of this kind.

Do not use a cot for infants, or presume beyond
the time-honored institution of the cradle.
Active rocking sends a child to sleep by causing
giddiness. Giddiness is a disturbance of the
blood’s usual way of circulation; obviously,
therefore, it is a thing to aim at in our nurseries.
For elder children, swinging is an excellent
amusement, if they become giddy on the swing.

In your nursery, a maid and two or three
children may conveniently be quartered for the
night, by all means carefully secured from
draughts. Never omit to use at night a chimney
board. The nursery window ought not to
be much opened; and the door should be kept
always shut, in order that the clamor of the
children may not annoy others in your house.

When the children walk out for an airing, of
course they are to be little ladies and gentlemen.
They are not to scamper to and fro; a little
gentle amble with a hoop ought to be their
severest exercise. In sending them to walk
abroad, it is a good thing to let their legs be
bare. The gentleman papa, probably, would
find bare legs rather cold walking in the streets
of London; but the gentleman son, of course,
has quite another constitution. Besides, how
can a boy, not predisposed that way, hope to
grow up consumptive, if some pains are not
taken with him in his childhood?

It is said that of old time children in the
Balearic Islands were not allowed to eat their
dinner, until, by adroitness in the shooting of
stones out of a sling, they had dislodged it from
a rafter in the house. Children in the British
Islands should be better treated. Let them not
only have their meals unfailingly, but let them
be at all other times tempted and bribed to eat.
Cakes and sweetmeats of alluring shape and
color, fruits, and palatable messes, should, without
any regularity, be added to the diet of a
child. The stomach, we know, requires three
or four hours to digest a meal, expects a moderate
routine of tasks, and between each task
looks for a little period of rest. Now, as we
hope to create a weak digestion, what is more
obvious than that we must use artifice to circumvent
the stomach? In one hour we must
come upon it unexpectedly with a dose of fruit
and sugar; then, if the regular dinner have
been taken, astonish the digestion, while at work
upon it, with the appearance of an extra lump
of cake, and presently some gooseberries. In
this way we soon triumph over Nature, who, to
speak truth, does not permit to us an easy victory,
and does try to accommodate her working
to our whims. We triumph, and obtain our
reward in children pale and polite, children with
appetites already formed, that will become our
good allies against their health in after life.

Principiis obsta. Let us subdue mere nature
at her first start, and make her civilized in her
beginnings. Let us wipe the rose-tint out of
the child’s cheek, in good hope that the man
will not be able to recover it. White, yellow,
and purple—let us make them to be his future
tricolor.

II. The Londoner’s Garden.

Brick walls do not secrete air. It comes in
through your doors and windows, from the streets
and alleys in your neighborhood; it comes in
without scraping its feet, and goes down your
throat, unwashed, with small respect for your
gentility. You must look abroad, therefore, for
some elements of an unwholesome home: and
when, sitting at home, you do so, it is a good
thing if you can see a burial-ground—one of
“God’s gardens,” which our city cherishes.

Now, do not look up with a dolorous face,
saying, “Alas! these gardens are to be taken
from us!” Let agitators write and let Commissioners
report, let Government nod its good-will,
and although all the world may think that
our London burial-grounds are about to be incontinently
jacketed in asphalte, and that we
ourselves, when dead, are to be steamed off to
Erith—we are content: at present this is only
gossip.1 On one of the lowest terraces of hell,
says Dante, he found a Cordelier, who had been
dragged thither by a logical demon, in defiance
of the expostulations of St. Francis. The sin
of that monk was a sentence of advice for which
absolution had been received before he gave it:
“Promise much, and perform little.” In the
hair of any Minister’s head, and of every Commissioner’s
head, we know not what “black
cherubim” may have entwined their claws.
There is hope, while there is life, for the old
cause. But if those who have authority to do
so really have determined to abolish intramural
burial, let us call upon them solemnly to reconsider
their verdict. Let them ponder what follows.

Two or three years ago, a book, promulgating
notions upon spiritual life, was published in
London by the Chancellor of a certain place
across the Channel. It was a clever book; and,
among other matter, broached a theory. “Our
souls,” the Rev. Chancellor informed us, “consist
of the essence, extract, or gas contained in
the human body;” and, that he might not be
[pg 603]
vague, he made special application to a chemist,
who “added some important observations of his
own respecting the corpse after death.” But
we must decorate a great speculation with the
ornamental words of its propounder.

“The gases into which the animal body is
resolved by putrefaction are ammonia, carbonic
acid, carbonic oxide, cyanogen, and sulphureted,
phosphureted, and carbureted hydrogen. The
first, and the two last-named gases, are most
abundant.” We omit here some details as to
the time a body takes in rotting. “From which
it appears, that these noble elements and rich
essences of humanity are too subtle and volatile
to continue long with the corpse; but soon disengage
themselves, and escape from it. After
which nothing remains but the foul refuse in the
vat; the mere caput mortuum in the crucible;
the vile dust and ashes of the tomb. Nor does
inhumation, however deep in the ground, nor
drowning in the lowest depths and darkest caverns
of the fathomless abyss, prevent those subtle
essences, rare attenuate spirits, or gases, from
escaping; or chain down to dust those better,
nobler elements of the human body. No bars
can imprison them; no vessels detain them from
their kindred element, confine them from their
native home.”

We are all of us familiar with the more noticeable
of these “essences,” by smell, if not by
name. Metaphysicians tell us that perceptions
and ideas will follow in a train: perhaps that
may account for the sudden recollection of an
old-fashioned story—may the moderns pardon it.
A young Cambridge student, airing his wisdom
at a dinner-party, was ingenious upon the Theory
of Winds. He was most eloquent concerning
heat and cold; radiation, rarefaction; polar and
equatorial currents; he had brought his peroration
to a close, when he turned round upon a
grave Professor of his College, saying, “And
what, sir, do you believe to be the cause of
wind?” The learned man replied, “Pea-soup—pea-soup!”
In the group of friends around
a social soup-tureen, must we in future recognize

“The feast of reason, and—the flow of soul!”

How gladly shall we fight the fight of life, hoping
that, after death, we shall meet in a world
of sulphureted hydrogen and other gases! And
where do the Sanitary Reformers suppose that,
after death, their gases will go—they who, in
life, with asphalte and paving-stones, would have
restrained the souls of their own fathers from
ascending into upper air?

Against us let there be no such reproach.
Freely let us breathe into our bosoms some portion
of the spirit of the dead. If we live near
no church-yard, let us visit one—Mesmerically,
if you please. Now we are on the way. We
see narrow streets and many people; most of
the faces that we meet are pale. Here is a
walking funeral; we follow with it to the church-yard.
A corner is turned, and there is another
funeral to be perceived at no great distance in
advance. Our walkers trot. The other party,
finding itself almost overtaken, sets off with a
decent run. Our party runs. There is a race
for prior attention when they reach the ground.
We become interested. We perceive that one
undertaker wears gaiters, and the other straps.
We trot behind them, betting with each other,
you on Gaiters, I on Straps. I win; a Deus ex
machinâ saves me, or I should have lost. An
over-goaded ox rushes bewildered round a
corner, charges and overthrows the foremost
coffin; it is broken, and the body is exposed—its
white shroud flaps upon the mud. This has
occurred once, I know; and how much oftener,
I know not. So Gaiters pioneers his party to
the nearest undertaker for repairs, and we follow
the triumphant procession to the church-yard.
The minister there meets it, holding his
white handkerchief most closely to his nose: the
mourners imitate him, sick and sorrowful. Your
toe sticks in a bit of carrion, as we pass near the
grave and seek the sexton. He is a pimpled man,
who moralizes much; but his morality is maudlin.
He is drunk. He is accustomed to antagonize
the “spirits” of the dead with spirits from the
“Pig and Whistle.” Here let the séance end.

At home again, let us remark upon a striking
fact. Those poor creatures whom we saw in sorrow
by the grave, believed that they were sowing
flesh to immortality—and so they were.
They did not know that they were also sowing
coffee. By a trustworthy informant, I am taught
that of the old coffin-wood dug up out of the
crowded church-yards, a large quantity that
is not burned, is dried and ground; and that
ground coffee is therewith adulterated in a
wholesale manner. It communicates to cheap
coffee a good color; and puts Body into it, there
can be no doubt of that. It will be a severe
blow to the trade in British coffees if intramural
interment be forbidden. We shall be driven to
depend upon distant planters for what now can
be produced in any quantity at home.

Remember the largeness of the interests involved.
Within the last thirty years, a million
and a half of corpses have been hidden under
ground, in patches, here and there, among the
streets of London. This pasturage we have
enjoyed from our youth up, and it is threatened
now to put us off our feed.

I say no more, for better arguments than these
can not be urged on behalf of the maintenance
of City grave-yards. Possibly these may not
prevail. Yet never droop. Nevertheless, without
despairing, take a house in the vicinity of
such a garden of the dead. If our lawgivers
should fear the becoming neighborly with Dante’s
Cordelier, and therefore absolutely interdict more
burials in London, still you are safe. They shall
not trample on the graves that are. We can
agitate, and we will agitate successfully against
their asphalte. Let the City be mindful of its old
renown; let Vestries rally round Sir Peter Laurie,
and there may be yet secured to you, for
seven years to come, an atmosphere which shall
assist in making Home Unhealthy.

[pg 604]

III. Spending A Very Pleasant Evening.

By the consent of antiquity, it is determined
that Pain shall be doorkeeper to the house of
Pleasure. In Europe Purgatory led to Paradise;
and, had St. Symeon lived among us now, he
would have earned heaven, if the police permitted,
by praying for it, during thirty years, upon
the summit of a lamp-post. In India the Fakir
was beatified by standing on his head, under a
hot sun, beset with roasting bonfires. In Greenland
the soul expected to reach bliss by sliding
for five days down a rugged rock, wounding
itself, and shivering with cold. The American
Indians sought happiness through castigation,
and considered vomits the most expeditious
mode of enforcing self-denial on the stomach.
Some tribes of Africans believe, that on the
way to heaven every man’s head is knocked
against a wall. By consent of mankind, therefore,
it is granted that we must pass Pain on
the way to Pleasure.

What Pleasure is, when reached, none but
the dogmatical can venture to determine. To
Greenlanders, a spacious fish-kettle, forever simmering,
in which boiled seals forever swim, is
the delight of heaven. And remember that, in
the opinion of M. Bailly, Adam and Eve gardened
in Nova Zembla.

You will not be surprised, therefore, if I call
upon you to prepare for your domestic pleasures
with a little suffering; nor, when I tell you what
such pleasures are, must you exclaim against
them as absurd. Having the sanction of our
forefathers, they are what is fashionable now,
and consequently they are what is fit.

I propose, then, that you should give, for the
entertainment of your friends, an Evening Party;
and as this is a scene in which young ladies prominently
figure, I will, if you please, on this occasion,
pay particular attention to your daughter.

O mystery of preparation!—Pardon, sir. You
err if you suppose me to insinuate that ladies
are more careful over personal adornment than
the gentlemen. When men made a display of
manhood, wearing beards, it is recorded that
they packed them, when they went to bed, in
pasteboard cases, lest they might be tumbled in
the night. Man at his grimmest is as vain as
woman, even when he stalks about bearded and
battle-axed. This is the mystery of preparation
in your daughter’s case: How does she breathe?
You have prepared her from childhood for the
part she is to play to-night, by training her form
into the only shape which can be looked at with
complacency in any ball-room. A machine, called
stays, introduced long since into England
by the Normans, has had her in its grip from
early girlhood. She has become pale, and—only
the least bit—liable to be blue about the
nose and fingers.

Stays are an excellent contrivance; they give
a material support to the old cause, Unhealthiness
at Home. This is the secret of their excellence.
A woman’s ribs are narrow at the
top, and as they approach the waist they widen,
to allow room for the lungs to play within them.
If you can prevent the ribs from widening, you
can prevent the lungs from playing, which they
have no right to do, and make them work. This
you accomplish by the agency of stays. It fortunately
happens that these lungs have work to
do—the putting of the breath of life into the
blood—which they are unable to do properly
when cramped for space; it becomes about as
difficult to them as it would be to you to play
the trombone in a china closet. By this compression
of the chest, ladies are made nervous,
and become unfit for much exertion; they do
not, however, allow us to suppose that they have
lost flesh. There is a fiction of attire which
would induce, in a speculative critic, the belief
that some internal flame had caused their waists
to gutter, and that the ribs had all run down
into a lump which protrudes behind under the
waistband. This appearance is, I think, a fiction;
and for my opinion I have newspaper
authority. In the papers it was written, one
day last year, that the hump alluded to was
tested with a pin, upon the person of a lady,
coming from the Isle of Man, and it was found
not to be sensitive. Brandy exuded from the
wound; for in that case the projection was a
bladder, in which the prudent housewife was
smuggling comfort in a quiet way. The touch
of a pin changed all into discomfort, when she
found that she was converted into a peripatetic
watering-can—brandying-can, I should have said.

Your daughter comes down stairs dressed, with
a bouquet, at a time when the dull seeker of
Health and Strength would have her to go up
stairs with a bed-candlestick. Your guests arrive.
Young ladies, thinly clad and packed in
carriages, emerge, half-stifled; put a cold foot,
protected by a filmy shoe, upon the pavement,
and run, shivering, into your house. Well, sir,
we’ll warm them presently. But suffer me to
leave you now, while you receive your guests.

I know a Phyllis, fresh from the country, who
gets up at six and goes to bed at ten; who knows
no perfume but a flower-garden, and has worn
no bandage to her waist except a sash. She is
now in London, and desires to do as others do.
She is invited to your party, but is not yet come;
it may be well for me to call upon her. Why,
in the name of Newgate, what is going on?
She is shrieking “Murder!” on the second floor.
Up to the rescue! A judicious maid directs me
to the drawing-room: “It’s only miss a-trying
on her stays.”

Here we are, sir; Phyllis and I. You find
the room oppressive—’tis with perfume, Phyllis.
With foul air? ah, your nice country nose detects
it; yes, there is foul air: not nasty, of
course, my dear, mixed, as it here is, with eau-de-Cologne
and patchouli. Pills are not nasty,
sugared. A grain or two of arsenic in each
might be not quite exactly neutralized by sugar,
but there is nothing like faith in a good digestion.
Why do the gentlemen cuddle the ladies, and
spin about the room with them, like tee-totums?
[pg 605]
Oh, Phyllis! Phyllis! let me waltz with you.
There, do you not see how it is? Faint, are
you—giddy—will you fall? An ice will refresh
you. Spasms next! Phyllis, let me take
you home.

Now then, sir, Phyllis has been put to bed;
allow me to dance a polka with your daughter.
Frail, elegant creature that she is! A glass of
wine—a macaroon: good. Sontag, yes; and
that dear novel. That was a delightful dance;
now let us promenade. The room is close; a
glass of wine, an ice, and let us get to the delicious
draught in the conservatory, or by that door.
Is it not beautiful? The next quadrille—I look
slily at my watch, and Auber’s grim chorus
rumbles within me, “Voici minuit! voici minuit!”
Another dance. How fond she seems
to be of macaroons! Supper. My dear sir, I
will take good care of your daughter. One
sandwich. Champagne. Blanc-mange. Tipsey-cake.
Brandy cherries. Glass of wine. A
macaroon. Trifle. Jelly. Champagne. Custard.
Macaroon. The ladies are being taken
care of—Yes, now in their absence we will
drink their health, and wink at each other:
their and our Bad Healths. This is the happiest
moment of our lives; at two in the morning,
with a dose of indigestion in the stomach,
and three hours more to come before we
get to bed. You, my dear sir, hope that on
many occasions like the present you may see
your friends around you, looking as glassy-eyed
as you have made them to look now. We will
rejoin the ladies.

Nothing but Champagne could have enabled
us to keep up the evening so well. We were
getting weary before supper—but we have had
some wine, have dug the spur into our sides,
and on we go again. At length, even the bottle
stimulates our worn-out company no more;
and then we separate. Good-night, dear sir;
we have spent a Very Pleasant Evening under
your roof.

To-morrow, when you depart from a late
breakfast, having seen your daughter’s face, and
her boiled-mackerel eye, knowing that your
wife is bilious, and that your son has just gone
out for soda-water, you will feel yourself to be
a Briton who has done his duty, a man who has
paid something on account of his great debt to
civilized society.

IV. The Light Nuisance.

Tieck tells us, in his “History of the Schildbürger,”
that the town council of that spirited
community was very wise. It had been noticed
that many worthy aldermen and common-councilors
were in the habit of looking out of window
when they ought to be attending to their duties.
A vote was therefore, on one occasion, passed
by a large majority, to this effect, namely—Whereas
the windows of the Town-hall are a
great impediment to the dispatch of public business,
it is ordered that before the next day of
meeting they be all bricked up. When the
next day of meeting came, the worthy representatives
of Schildbürg were surprised to find
themselves assembling in the dark. Presently,
accepting the unlooked-for fact, they settled
down into an edifying discussion of the question,
whether darkness was not more convenient for
their purposes than daylight. Had you and I
been there, my friend, our votes in the division
would have been, like the vote in our own
House of Commons a few days ago, for keeping
out the Light Nuisance as much as possible.
Darkness is better than daylight, certainly.

Now this admits of proof. For, let me ask,
where do you find the best part of a lettuce?—not
in the outside leaves. Which are the choice
parts of celery?—of course, the white shoots in
the middle. Why, sir? Because light has
never come to them. They become white and
luxurious by tying up, by earthing up, by any
contrivance which has kept the sun at bay. It
is the same with man: while we obstruct the
light by putting brick and board where glass
suggests itself, and mock the light by picturing
impracticable windows on our outside walls—so
that our houses stare about like blind men with
glass eyes—while this is done, we sit at home
and blanch, we become in our dim apartments
pale and delicate, we grow to look refined, as
gentlemen and ladies ought to look. Let the
sanitary doctor, at whose head we have thrown
lettuces, go to the botanist and ask him, How,
is this? Let him come back and tell us, Oh,
gentlemen, in these vegetables the natural juices
are not formed when you exclude the light. The
natural juices in the lettuce or in celery are flavored
much more strongly than our tastes would
relish, and therefore we induce in these plants
an imperfect development, in order to make them
eatable. Very well. The natural juices in a
man are stronger than good taste can tolerate.
Man requires horticulture to be fit to come to
table. To rear the finer sorts of human kind,
one great operation necessary is to banish light
as much as possible.

Ladies know that. To keep their faces pale,
they pull the blinds down in their drawing-rooms,
they put a vail between their countenances
and the sun when they go out, and carry, like
good soldiers, a great shield on high, by name
a Parasol, to ward his darts off. They know
better than to let the old god kiss them into
color, as he does the peaches. They choose to
remain green fruit: and we all know that to be
a delicacy.

Yet there are men among us daring to propose
that there shall no longer be protection
against light; men who would tax a house by
its capaciousness, and let the sun shine into it unhindered.
The so-called sanitary people really
seem to look upon their fellow-creatures as so
many cucumbers. But we have not yet fallen
so far back in our development. Disease is a
privilege. Those only who know the tender
touch of a wife’s hand, the quiet kiss, the soothing
whisper, can appreciate its worth. All who
are not dead to the tenderest emotions will lament
[pg 606]
the day when light is turned on without
limit in our houses. We have no wish to be
blazed upon. Frequently pestilence itself avoids
the sunny side of any street, and prefers walking
in the shade. Nay, even in one building, as in
the case of a great barrack at St. Petersburg,
there will be three calls made by disease upon
the shady side of the establishment for every
one visit that it pays to the side brightened by
the sun; and this is known to happen uniformly,
for a series of years. Let us be warned, then.
There must be no increase of windows in our
houses; let us curtain those we have, and keep
our blinds well down. Let morning sun or
afternoon sun fire no volleys in upon us. Faded
curtains, faded carpets, all ye blinds forbid! But
faded faces are desirable. It is a cheering spectacle
on summer afternoons to see the bright
rays beating on a row of windows, all the way
down a street, and failing to find entrance any
where. Who wants more windows? Is it not
obvious that, when daylight really comes, every
window we possess is counted one too many?
If we could send up a large balloon into the sky,
with Mr. Braidwood and a fire-engine, to get the
flames of the sun under, just a little bit, that
would be something rational. More light, indeed!
More water next, no doubt! As if it
were not perfectly notorious that in the articles
of light, water, and air, Nature outran the constable.
We have to keep out light with blinds
and vails, and various machinery, as we would
keep out cockroaches with wafers; we keep out
air with pads and curtains; and still there are
impertinent reformers clamoring to increase our
difficulty, by giving us more windows to protect
against the inroads of those household nuisances.

I call upon consistent Englishmen to make a
stand against these innovators. There is need
of all our vigor. In 1848, the repeal of the
window-tax was scouted from the Commons by
a sensible majority of ninety-four. In 1850, the
good cause has triumphed only by a precarious
majority of three. The exertions of right-thinking
men will not be wanting, when the
value and importance of a little energetic labor
is once clearly perceived.

What is it that the sanitary agitators want?
To tan and freckle all their countrywomen, and
to make Britons apple-faced? The Persian
hero, Rustum, when a baby, exhausted seven
nurses, and was weaned upon seven sheep a
day, when he was of age for spoon-meat. Are
English babies to be Rustums? When Rustum’s
mother, Roubadah, from a high tower
first saw and admired her future husband Zal,
she let her ringlets fall, and they were long,
and reached unto the ground; and Zal climbed
up by them, and knelt down at her feet, and
asked to marry her. Are British ladies to be
strengthened into Roubadahs, with hair like a
ship’s cable, up which husbands may clamber?
In the present state of the mania for public
health, it is quite time that every patriotic man
should put these questions seriously to his conscience.

One topic more. Let it clearly be understood,
that against artificial light we can make
no objection. Between sun and candle there
are more contrasts than the mere difference in
brilliancy. The light which comes down from
the sky not only eats no air out of our mouths,
but it comes charged with mysterious and subtle
principles which have a purifying, vivifying
power. It is a powerful ally of health, and we
make war against it. But artificial light contains
no sanitary marvels. When the gas
streams through half a dozen jets into your
room, and burns there and gives light; when
candles become shorter and shorter, until they
are “burnt out” and seen no more; you know
what happens. Nothing in Nature ceases to
exist. Your camphine has left the lamp, but it
has not vanished out of being. Nor has it
been converted into light. Light is a visible
action; and candles are no more converted into
light when they are burning, than breath is converted
into speech when you are talking. The
breath, having produced speech, mixes with the
atmosphere; gas, camphine, candles, having
produced light, do the same. If you saw fifty
wax-lights shrink to their sockets last week in
an unventilated ball-room, yet, though invisible,
they had not left you; for their elements were
in the room, and you were breathing them.
Their light had been a sign that they were
combining chemically with the air; in so combining
they were changed, but they became a
poison. Every artificial light is, of necessity, a
little workshop for the conversion of gas, oil,
spirit, or candle into respirable poison. Let no
sanitary tongue persuade you that the more we
have of such a process, the more need we have
of ventilation. Ventilation is a catchword for
the use of agitators, in which it does not become
any person of refinement to exhibit interest.

The following hint will be received thankfully
by gentlemen who would be glad to merit
spectacles. To make your eyes weak, use a
fluctuating light; nothing can be better adapted
for your purpose than what are called “mould”
candles. The joke of them consists in this,
they begin with giving you sufficient light; but,
as the wick grows, the radiance lessens, and
your eye gradually accommodates itself to the
decrease: suddenly they are snuffed, and your
eye leaps back to its original adjustment, there
begins another slide, and then leaps back again.
Much practice of this kind serves very well as
a familiar introduction to the use of glasses.

V. Passing The Bottle.

A brass button from the coat of Saint Peter,
was at one time shown to visitors among the
treasures of a certain church in Nassau; possibly
some traveler of more experience may have
met with a false collar from the wardrobe of
Saint Paul. The intellect displayed of old by
holy saints and martyrs, we may reasonably
believe to have surpassed the measure of a
bishop’s understanding in the present day; for
[pg 607]
we have the authority of eyesight and tradition
in asserting that the meanest of those ancient
worthies possessed not less than three skulls,
and that a great saint must have had so very
many heads, that it would have built the fortune
of a man to be his hatter. Perhaps some of
these relics are fictitious; nevertheless, they
are the boast of their possessors; they are exhibited
as genuine, and thoroughly believed to
be so. Sir, did your stomach never suggest to
you that doctored elder-berry of a recent brew
had been uncorked with veneration at some
dinner-table as a bottle of old port? Have you
experience of any festive friend, who can commit
himself to doubt about the age and genuineness
of his wine? The cellar is the social
relic-chamber; every bin rejoices in a most
veracious legend; and, whether it be over wine
or over relics that we wonder, equal difficulties
start up to obstruct our faith.

Our prejudices, for example, run so much in
favor of one-headed men, that we can scarcely
entertain the notion of a saint who had six
night-caps to put on when he went to bed, and
when he got up in the morning had six beards
to shave. Knowing that the Russians, by
themselves, drink more Champagne than France
exports, and that it must rain grapes at Hockheim
before that place can yield all the wine we
English label Hock, and haunted as we are by
the same difficulty when we look to other kinds
of foreign wine, we feel a justified suspicion that
the same glass of “genuine old port” can not
be indulged in simultaneously by ten people.
If only one man of the number drinks it, what
is that eidolon which delights the other nine?

When George the Fourth was Regent, he
possessed a small store of the choicest wine, and
never called for it. There were some gentlemen
in his establishment acquainted with its
merits; these took upon themselves to rescue
it from undeserved neglect. Then the prince
talked about his treasure—when little remained
thereof except the bottles; and it was to be produced
at a forthcoming dinner-party. The gentlemen,
who knew its flavor, visited the vaults
of an extensive wine-merchant, and there they
vainly sought to look upon its like again. “In
those dim solitudes and awful cells” they,
groaning in spirit, made a confessor of the merchant,
who, for a fee, engaged to save them from
the wrath to come. As an artist in wine, having
obtained a sample of the stuff required, this
dealer undertook to furnish a successful imitation.
So he did; for, having filled those bottles
with a wondrous compound, he sent them to the
palace just before the fateful dinner-hour, exhorting
the conspirators to take heed how they
suffered any to be left. The compound would
become a tell-tale after twelve hours’ keeping.
The prince that evening enjoyed his wine.

The ordinary manufacture of choice wine for
people who are not princes, requires the following
ingredients: for the original fluid, cider, or
Common cape, raisin, grape, parsnip, or elder
wine; a wine made of rhubarb (for Champagne);
to these may be added water. A fit stock having
been chosen, strength, color, and flavor may
be grafted on it. Use is made of these materials:
for color-burnt sugar, logwood, cochineal,
red sanders wood, or elder-berries. Plain
spirit or brandy for strength. For nutty flavor,
bitter almonds. For fruitiness, Dantzic spruce.
For fullness or smoothness, honey. For port-wine
flavor, tincture of the seeds of raisins. For
bouquet, orris root or ambergris. For roughness
or dryness, alum, oak sawdust, rhatany or
kino. It is not necessary that an imitation
should contain one drop of the wine whose name
it bears; but a skillful combination of the true
and false is desirable, if price permit. Every
pint of the pure wine thus added to a mixture
is, of course, so much abstracted from the stock
of unadulterated juice.

You will perceive, therefore, that a free use
of wine, not highly priced, is likely to assist us
very much in our endeavors to establish an unhealthy
home. Fill your cellar with bargains;
be a genuine John Bull; invite your friends,
and pass the bottle.

There is hope for us also in the recollection,
that if chance force upon us a small stock of
wine that has not been, in England, under the
doctor’s hands, we know not what may have
been done to it abroad. The botanist, Robert
Fortune, was in China when the Americans
deluged the Chinese market with their orders
for Young Hyson tea. The Chinese very
promptly met the whole demand; and Fortune
in his “Wanderings” has told us how. He
found his way to a Young Hyson manufactory,
where coarse old Congou leaves were being
chopped, and carefully manipulated by those
ingenious merchants the Chinese. But it is in
human nature for other folks than the Chinese
to be ingenious in such matters. We may,
therefore, make up our minds that, since the
demand for wine from certain celebrated vineyards,
largely exceeds all possibility of genuine
supply, since, also, every man who asks is satisfied,
it is inevitable that the great majority of
wine-drinkers are satisfied with a factitious
article. The chances are against our very often
meeting with a glass of port that has not taken
physic. So, let us never drink dear wine, nor
ask a chemist what is in our bottles. Enough
that they contain for us delightful poison.

That name for wine, “delightful poison,” is
not new. It is as old as the foundation of Persepolis.
Jemsheed was fond of grapes, Ferdusi
tells, and once, when grapes went out of season,
stored up for himself some jars of grape-juice.
After a while he went to seek for a refreshing
draught; then fermentation was in progress;
and he found his juice abominably nasty. A
severe stomach-ache induced him to believe that
the liquor had acquired, in some way, dangerous
qualities, and, therefore, to avoid accidents, he
labeled each jar, “Poison.” More time elapsed,
and then one of his wives, in trouble of soul,
weary of life, resolved to put an end to her existence.
Poison was handy: but a draught
[pg 608]
transformed her trouble into joy; more of it
stupefied, but did not kill her. That woman
kept a secret: she alone exhausted all the jars.
Jemsheed then found them to be empty. Explanations
followed. The experiment was tried
once more, and wine, being so discovered, was
thereafter entitled “the delightful poison.”
What Jemsheed would have said to a bottle of
port out of our friend Hoggin’s cellar—but I
tread on sacred ground.

Of good wine health requires none, though it
will tolerate a little. Our prospect, therefore,
when the bottle passes briskly, is encouraging.
Is the wine good, we may expect some indigestion;
is it bad, who can tell what disorders we
may not expect? Hoggins, I know, drinks
more than a quart without disordering his
stomach. He has long been a supporter of the
cause we are now advocating, and therein finds
one of his rewards. It is not safe to pinch a
tiger’s tail; yet, when the animal is sick, perhaps
he will not bite although you tread upon
it heavily. Healthy men and healthy stomachs
tolerate no oppression.

London is full now; elsewhere country folks
come out of doors, invited by fine weather.
Walk where you will, in country or in town,
and look at all the faces that you meet. Traverse
the Strand, and Regent-street, and Holborn,
and Cheapside; get into a boat at London
bridge, steam to Gravesend, and look at your
fellow-passengers: examine where you will,
the stamp of our civilization, sickliness, is upon
nine people in any ten. There are good reasons
why this should be so, and so let it continue.
We have excluded sanitary calculations from
our social life; we have had hitherto unhealthy
homes, and we will keep them. Bede tells of a
Mercian noble on his death-bed, to whom a
ghost exhibited a scrap of paper, upon which
were written his good deeds; then the door
opened, and an interminable file of ghosts
brought in a mile or two of scroll, whereon his
misdeeds were all registered, and made him
read them. Our wars against brute health are
glorious, and we rejoice to feel that of such sins
we have no scanty catalogue; we are content
with our few items of mere sanitary virtue.
As for sanitary reformers, they are a company
of Danaids; they may get some of us into their
sieve, but we shall soon slip out again. When
a traveler proposed, at Ghadames in the Sahara,
to put up a lantern here and there of nights
among the pitch-dark streets, the people said
his notion might be good, but that, as such
things never had been tried before, it would be
presumptuous to make the trial of them now.
The traveler, a Briton, must have felt quite at
home when he heard that objection. Amen,
then; with the Ghadamese, we say, Let us
have no New Lights.

VI. Art Against Appetite.

The object of food is, to support the body in
its natural development that it may reach a
reasonable age without becoming too robust.
Civilization can instruct us so to manage, that
a gentle dissolution tread upon the heels of
growth, that, as Metastasio hath it,

—“dalle fasce,
Si comincia a morir quando si nasce.”2

An infant’s appetite is all for milk; but art
suggests a few additions to that lamentably
simple diet. A lady not long since complacently
informed her medical attendant that, for
the use of a baby, then about eight months old
she had spent nine pounds in “Infant’s Preservative.”
Of this, or of some like preparation,
the advertisements tells us that it compels Nature
to be orderly, and that all infants take it with
greediness. So we have even justice to the child.
Pet drinks Preservative; papa drinks Port.

Then there is “farinaceous food.” Here,
for a purpose, we must interpolate a bit of
science. There is a division of food into two
great classes, nourishment and fuel. Nourishment
is said to exist chiefly in animal flesh and
blood, and in vegetable compounds which exactly
correspond thereto, called vegetable fibrine,
albumen, and caseine. Fuel exists in whatever
contains much carbon: fat and starchy vegetables,
potatoes, gum, sugar, alcoholic liquors. If
a person take more nourishment than he wants,
it is said to be wasted; if he take more fuel than
he wants, part of it is wasted, and part of it the
body stacks away as fat. These men of science
furthermore assert, that the correct diet of a
healthy man must contain eight parts of fuel
food to one of nourishment. This preserves
equilibrium, they say—suits, therefore, an adult;
the child which has to become bigger as it lives
has use for an excess of nourishment. And so
one of the doctors, Dr. R.D. Thomson, gives
this table; it has been often copied. The proportion
of nourishment to fuel is in

Milk (food for a growing animal)1 to 2.
Beans1 to 2-1/2.
Oatmeal1 to 5.
Barley1 to 7.
Wheat flour (food for an animal at rest)1 to 8.
Potatoes1 to 9.
Rice1 to 10.
Turnips1 to 11.
Arrow-root, tapioca, sago1 to 26.
Starch1 to 40.

Very well, gentlemen, we take your facts.
As ægritudinary men, we know what use to
make of them. We will give infants farinaceous
food; arrow-root, tapioca, and the like; quite
ready to be taught by you that so we give one
particle of nourishment in twenty-six. Tell us,
this diet is like putting leeches on a child. We
are content. Leeches give a delicate whiteness
that we are thankful to be able to obtain with
out the biting or the bloodshed.

Sanitary people will allow a child, up to its
seventh year, nothing beyond bread, milk, water,
sugar, light meat broth, without fat, and fresh
[pg 609]
meat for its dinner—when it is old enough to
bite it—with a little well-cooked vegetable.
They confine a child, poor creature, to this
miserable fare; permitting, in due season, only
a pittance of the ripest fruit.

They would give children, while they are
growing, oatmeal and milk for breakfast, made
into a porridge. They would deny them beer.
You know how strengthening that is, and yet
these people say that there is not an ounce of
meat in a whole bucketful. They would deny
them comfits, cakes, wine, pastry, and grudge
them nuts; but our boys shall rebel against all
this. We will teach them to regard cake as
bliss, and wine as glory; we will educate them
to a love of tarts. Once let our art secure over
the stomach its ascendency, and the civilized
organ acquires new desires. Vitiated cravings,
let the sanitary doctors call them; let them say
that children will eat garbage, as young women
will eat chalk and coals, not because it is their
nature so to do, but because it is a symptom of
disordered function. We know nothing about
function. Art against Appetite has won the day,
and the pale face of civilization is established.

Plain sugar, it is a good thing to forbid our
children; there is something healthy in their
love of it. Suppose we tell them that it spoils
the teeth. They know no better; we do. We
know that the negroes, who in a great measure
live upon sugar, are quite famous for their sound
white teeth; and Mr. Richardson tells us of
tribes among the Arabs of Sahara, whose beautiful
teeth he lauds, that they are in the habit
of keeping about them a stick of sugar in a
leathern case, which they bring out from time
to time for a suck, as we bring out the snuff-box
for a pinch. But we will tell our children
that plain sugar spoils the teeth; sugar mixed
with chalk or verdigris, or any other mess—that
is to say, civilized sugar—they are welcome to.

And for ourselves, we will eat any thing.
The more our cooks, with spice, with druggery
and pastry, raise our wonder up, the more we
will approve their handicraft. We will excite
the stomach with a peppered soup; we will
make fish indigestible with melted butter, and
correct the butter with cayenne. We will take
sauces, we will drink wine, we will drink beer,
we will eat pie-crust, we will eat indescribable
productions—we will take celery, and cheese,
and ale—we will take liqueur—we will take
wine and olives and more wine, and oranges
and almonds, and any thing else that may present
itself, and we will call all that our dinner,
and for such the stomach shall accept it. We
will eat more than we need, but will compel an
appetite. Art against Appetite forever.

Sanitary people bear ill-will to pie-crust; they
teach that butter, after being baked therein, becomes
a compound hateful to the stomach. We
will eat pies, we will eat pastry, we will eat—we
would eat M. Soyer himself in a tart, if it
were possible.

We will uphold London milk. Mr. Rugg says
that it is apt to contain chalk, the brains of sheep,
oxen, and cows, flour, starch, treacle, whiting,
sugar of lead, arnotto, size, etc. Who cares for
Mr. Rugg? London milk is better than country
milk, for London cows are town cows. They
live in a city, in close sheds, in our own dear
alleys—are consumptive—they are delightful
cows; only their milk is too strong, it requires
watering and doctoring, and then it is delicious
milk.

Tea we are not quite sure about. Some
people say that because tea took so sudden a
hold upon the human appetite, because it spread
so widely in so short a time, that therefore it
supplies a want: its use is natural. Liebig
suggests that it supplies a constituent of bile.
I think rather that its use has become general
because it causes innocent intoxication. Few
men are not glad to be made cheerful harmlessly.
For this reason I think it is that the use of
tea and coffee has become popular; and since
whatever sustains cheerfulness advances health—the
body working with good will under a
pleasant master—tea does our service little
good. In excess, no doubt, it can be rendered
hurtful (so can bread and butter); but the best
way of pressing it into employment, as an ægritudinary
aid, is by the practice of taking it extremely
hot. A few observations upon the
temperature at which food is refused by all the
lower animals, will soon convince you that in
man—not as regards tea only, but in a great
many respects—Art has established her own
rule, and that the Appetite of Nature has been
conquered.

We have a great respect for alcoholic liquors.
It has been seen that the excess of these makes
fat; they, therefore, who have least need of fat,
according to our rules, are those who have most
need of wine and beer.

Of ordinary meats there is not much to say,
We have read of Dr. Beaumont’s servant, who
had an open musket-hole leading into his stomach,
through which the doctor made experiments.
Many experiments were made, and tables drawn
of no great value on the digestibility of divers
kinds of meat. Climate and habit are, on such
points, paramount. Pig is pollution to the
children of the Sun, the Jew, and Mussulman;
but children of winter, the Scandinavians, could
not imagine Paradise complete without it.
Schrimner, the sacred hog, cut up daily and
eaten by the tenants of Walhalla, collected his
fragments in the night, and was in his sty again
ready for slaughter the next morning. These
things concern us little, for it is not with plain
meat that we have here to do, but with the noble
art of Cookery. That art, which once obeyed
and now commands our appetite, which is become
the teacher where it was the taught, we
duly reverence. When ægritudinary science
shall obtain its college, and when each Unhealthy
Course shall have its eminent professor
to teach Theory and Practice—then we shall
have a Court of Aldermen for Patrons, a Gravedigger
for Principal, and a Cook shall be Dean
of Faculty.

[pg 610]

VII. The Water Party.

Water rains from heaven, and leaps out of
the earth; it rolls about the land in rivers, it
accumulates in lakes; three-fourths of the whole
surface of the globe is water; yet there are
men unable to be clean. “God loveth the
clean,” said Mahomet. He was a sanitary
reformer; he was a notorious impostor; and it
is our duty to resist any insidious attempt to
introduce his doctrines.

There are in London districts of filth which
speak to us—through the nose—in an emphatic
manner. Their foul air is an atmosphere of
charity; for we pass through it pitying the
poor. Burke said of a certain miser to whom
an estate was left, “that now, it was to be
hoped, he would set up a pocket-handkerchief.”
We hope, of the miserable, that when they come
into their property they may be able to afford
themselves a little lavender and musk. We
might be willing to subscribe for the correction
now and then, with aromatic cachou, of the
town’s bad breath; but water is a vulgar sort
of thing, and of vulgarity the less we have the
better.

In truth, we have not much of it. We are
told that in a great city Water is maid of all
work; has to assist our manufactures, to supply
daily our saucepans and our tea-kettles; has to
cleanse our clothes, our persons, and our houses;
to provide baths, to wash our streets, and to
flood away the daily refuse of the people, with
their slaughter-houses, markets, hospitals, &c.
Our dozen reservoirs in London yield a supply
daily averaging thirty gallons to each head—which
goes partly to make swamps, partly to
waste, partly to rot, as it is used in tubs or cisterns.
Rome in her pride used once to supply
water at the rate of more than three hundred
gallons daily to each citizen. That was excess.
In London half a million of people get no water
at all into their houses; but as those people
live in the back settlements, and keep out of
our sight, their dirt is no great matter of concern.
We, for our own parts, have enough
to cook with, have whereof to drink, wherewith
to wash our feet sometimes, to wet our fingers
and the corner of a towel—we inquire no further.
Drainage and all such topics involve details
positively nasty, and we blush for any of
our fellow-citizens who take delight in chattering
about them.

We are told to regard the habits of an infant
world. London, the brain of a vast empire, is
advised now to forget her civilization, and to go
back some thousand years. We are to look at
Persian aqueducts, attributed to Noah’s great-grandson—at
Carthaginians, Etruscans, Mexicans—at
what Rome did. It frets us when
we are thus driven to an obvious reply. Man
in an unripe and half-civilized condition, has not
found out the vulgarity of water; for his brutish
instinct is not overcome. All savages believe
that water is essential to their life and desire it
in unlimited abundance. Cultivation teaches
us another life, in which our animal existence
neither gets nor merits much attention. As for
the Romans, so perpetually quoted, it was a
freak of theirs to do things massively. While
they were yet almost barbarians, they built that
Cloaca through which afterward Agrippa sailed
down to the Tiber in a boat. Who wishes to
see His Worship the Lord Mayor of London
emerging in his state barge from a London
sewer?

Now here is inconsistency. Thirty million
gallons of corruption are added daily by our
London sewers to the Thames: that is one
object of complaint, good in itself, because we
drink Thames water. But in the next breath
it is complained that a good many million gallons
more should be poured out; that there are
three hundred thousand cesspools more to be
washed up; that as much filth as would make
a lake six feet in depth, a mile long, and a
thousand feet across, lies under London stagnant;
and they would wish this also to be
swept into the river. I heard lately of a gentleman
who is tormented with the constant fancy
that he has a scorpion down his back. He asks
every neighbor to put in his hand and fetch it
out, but no amount of fetching out ever relieves
him. That is a national delusion. Our enlightened
public is much troubled with such
scorpions. Sanitary writers are infested with
them.

They also say, That in one-half of London
people drink Thames water; and in the other
half, get water from the Chadwell spring and
River Lea. That the River Lea, for twenty
miles, flows through a densely-peopled district.
and is, in its passage, drenched with refuse
matter from the population on its banks. That
there is added to Thames water the waste of
two hundred and twenty cities, towns, and villages;
and that between Richmond and Waterloo-bridge
more than two hundred sewers discharge
into it their fetid matter. That the
washing to and fro of tide secures the arrival
of a large portion of filth from below Westminster,
at Hammersmith; effects a perfect mixture,
which is still farther facilitated by the splashing
of the steamboats. Mr. Hassal has published
engravings of the microscopic aspect of water
taken from companies which suck the river
up at widely-separated stages of its course
through town—so tested, one drop differs little
from another in the degree of its impurity. They
tell us that two companies—the Lambeth and
West Middlesex—supply Thames Mixture to
subscribers as it comes to them; but that others
filter more or less. They say that filtering can
expurge nothing but mechanical impurities,
while the dissolved pollution which no filter
can extract is that part which communicates
disease. We know this; well, and what then?
There are absurdities so lifted above ridicule,
that Momus himself would spoil part of the fun
if he attempted to trangress beyond a naked
statement of them. What do the members of
[pg 611]
this Water Party want? I’ll tell you what I
verily believe they are insane enough to look
for.

They would, if possible, forsake Thames water,
calling it dirty, saying it is hard. So hard
they say it is, that it requires three spoonfuls
of tea instead of two in every man’s pot, two
pounds of soap for one in every man’s kitchen.
So they would fetch soft water from a Gathering
Ground in Surrey, adopting an example set
in Lancashire; from rain-fall on the heaths between
Bagshot and Farnham, and from tributaries
of the River Wey, they would collect
water in covered reservoirs, and bring it by A
covered Aqueduct to London. In London,
they would totally abolish cisterns, and all intermittence
of supply. Water in London they
would have to be, as at Nottingham, accessible
in all rooms at all times. They would have
water, at high pressure, climbing about every
house in every court and alley. They would
place water, so to speak, at the finger’s end,
limiting no household as to quantity. They
would enable every man to bathe. They would
revolutionize the sewer-system, and have the
town washed daily, like a good Mahometan,
clean to the finger-nails. They hint that all
this might not even be expensive; that the cost
of disease and degradation is so much greater
than the cost of health and self-respect, as to
pay back, possibly, our outlay, and then yield a
profit to the nation. They say that, even if it
were a money loss, it would be moral gain;
and they ask whether we have not spent millions,
ere now, upon less harmless commodities
than water?

An ingenious fellow had a fiddle—all, he said,
made out of his own head; and wood enough
was left to make another. He must have been
a sanitary man; his fiddle was a crotchet. Still
farther to illustrate their own capacity of fiddle-making,
these good but misguided people have
been rooting up some horrible statistics of the
filth and wretchedness which our back-windows
overlook, with strange facts anent fever, pestilence,
and the communication of disease. All
this I purposely suppress; it is peculiarly disagreeable.
Delicate health we like, and will
learn gladly how to obtain it; but results we
are content with, and can spare the details,
when those details bring us into contact, even
upon paper, with the squalid classes.

If these outcries of the Water Party move
the public to a thirst for change, it would be
prudent for us ægritudinary men not rashly to
swim against the current. Let us adopt a middle
course, a patronizing tone. It is in our
favor that a large number of the facts which
these our foes have to produce, are, by a great
deal too startling to get easy credit. A single
Pooh! has in it more semblance of reason than
a page of facts, when revelations of neglected
hygiene are on the carpet. If the case of the
Sanitary Reformers had been only half as well
made out, it would be twice as well supported.

VIII. Filling The Grave.

M. Boutigny has published an account of
some experiments which go to prove that we
may dip our fingers into liquid metal with impunity.
Professor Plücker, of Bonn, has amply
confirmed Boutigny’s results, and in his report
hints a conclusion that henceforth “certain minor
operations in surgery may be performed
with least pain by placing the foot in a bath of
red-hot iron.” Would you not like to see Professor
Plücker, with his trowsers duly tucked
up, washing his feet in a pailful of this very
soothing fluid? And would it not be a fit martyrdom
for sanitary doctors, if we could compel
them also to sacrifice their legs in a cause, kin
to their own, of theory and innovation? As
Alderman Lawrence shrewdly remarked the
other day, from his place in the Guildhall, the
sanitary reform cry is “got up.” That is the
reason why, in his case, it does not go down.
He, for his own part, did not disapprove the
flavor of a church-yard, and appeared to see no
reason why it should be cheated of its due.
The sanitary partisans, he said, were paid for
making certain statements. It would be well
if we could cut off their supply of halfpence, and
so silence them. Liwang, an ancient Emperor
of China, fearing insurrection, forbade all conversation,
even whispering, in his dominions.
It would be well for us if Liwang lived now as
our Secretary for the Home Department. There
is too much talking—is there not, Mr. Carlyle?
We want Liwang among us. However, as
matters stand, it is bad enough for the sanitary
reformers. “They drop their arms and tremble
when they hear,” they are despised by Alderman
Lawrence.3

Let us uphold our city grave-yards; on that
[pg 612]
point we have already spoken out. Let us not
cheat them of their pasturage; if any man fall
sick, when, so to speak, his grave is dug, let us
not lift him out of it by misdirected care. That
topic now engages our attention.

There is a report among the hear-say stories
of Herodotus, touching some tribe of Scythians,
that when one of them gets out of health, or
passes forty years of age, his friends proceed to
slaughter him, lest he become diseased, tough,
or unfit for table. These people took their ancestors
into their stomachs, we take ours into
our lungs—and herein we adopt the better plan,
because it is the more unwholesome. We are
content, also, now and then to let our friends
grow old, although we may repress the tendency
to age as much as possible. We do not absolutely
kill our neighbors when they sicken; yet
by judicious nursing we may frequently keep
down a too great buoyancy of health, and check
recovery. How to produce this last effect I will
now tell you. Gentle mourners, do not chide
me as irreverent—

“Auch ich war in Arkadien geboren,”

bear with me, then, and let me give my hints
concerning ægritudinary sick-room discipline.

Of the professional nurse I will say nothing.
You, of course, have put down Mrs. Gamp’s
address.

A sick-room should, in the first place, be
made dark. Light, I have said before, is, in
most cases, curative. It is a direct swindling
of the doctor when we allow blinds to be pulled
up, and so admit into the patient’s room medicine
for which nobody (except the tax-gatherer)
is paid.

A sick-room should, in the next place, be
made sad, obtrusively sad. A smile upon the
landing must become a sigh when it has passed
the patient’s door. Our hope is to depress, to
dispirit invalids. Cheerful words and gentle
laughter, more especially where there is admitted
sunshine also, are a moral food much too
nutritious for the sick.

The sick-room, in its furniture as well, must
have an ominous appearance. The drawers, or
a table should be decked with physic bottles.
Some have a way of thrusting all the medicine
into a cupboard, out of sight, leaving a glass of
gayly-colored flowers for the wearied eyes to
rest upon: this has arisen obviously from a sanitary
crotchet, and is, on no account, to be
adopted.

Then we must have the sick-room to be hot,
and keep it close. A scentless air, at summer
temperature, sanitary people want; a hot, close
atmosphere is better suited to our view. Slops
and all messes are to be left standing in the
room—only put out of sight—and cleared away
occasionally; they are not to be removed at
once. The chamber also is to be made tidy
once a day, and once a week well cleaned: it
is not to be kept in order by incessant care, by
hourly tidiness, permitting no dirt to collect.

There is an absurd sanitary dictum, which I
will but name. It is, that a patient ought to
have, if possible, two beds, one for the day, and
one for night use; or else two sets of sheets,
that, each set being used one day and aired the
next, the bed may be kept fresh and wholesome.
Suppose our friend were to catch cold in consequence
of all this freshness!

No, we do better to avoid fresh air; nor
should we vex our patient with much washing.
We will not learn to feed the sick, but send
their food away when they are unable to understand
our clumsiness.

Yet, while we follow our own humor in this
code of chamber practice, we will pay tithes of
mint and cummin to the men of science. We
will ask Monsieur Purgon how many grains of
salt go to an egg; and if our patient require
twelve turns up and down the room, we will
inquire with Argan, whether they are to be
measured by its length or breadth.

When we have added to our course some
doses of religious horror, we shall have done as
much as conscience can demand of us toward
filling the grave.

I may append here the remark, that if ever
we do resolve to eat our ancestors, there is the
plan of a distinguished horticulturist apt for our
purpose. Mr. Loudon, I believe it was, who
proposed, some years ago, the conversion of the
dead into rotation crops—that our grandfathers
and grandmothers should be converted into corn
and mangel-wurzel. His suggestion was to
combine burial with farming operations. A
field was to be, during forty years, a place of
interment: then the field adjacent was to be
taken for that purpose; and so on with others
in rotation. A due time having been allowed
for the manure in each field to rot, the dead
were to be well worked up and gradually disinterred
in the form of wheat, or carrots, or potatoes.

Nothing appears odd to which we are accustomed.
We look abroad and wonder, but we
look at home and are content. The Esquimaux
believe that men dying in windy weather are
unfortunate, because their souls, as they escape,
risk being blown away. Some Negroes do not
bury in the rainy season, for they believe that
then the gods, being all busy up above, can not
attend to any ceremonies. Dr. Hooker writes
home from the Himalaya mountains, that about
Lake Yarou the Lamas’ bodies are exposed, and
kites are summoned to devour them by the
sound of a gong and of a trumpet made out of a
human thigh-bone. Such notions from abroad
arrest our notice, but we see nothing when we
look at home. We might see how we fill our
sick-rooms with a fatal gloom, and keep our
dead five or six days within our houses, to bury
them, side by side and one over another, thousands
together, in the middle of our cities.
However, when we do succeed in getting at a
view of our own life ab extra, it is a pleasant
thing to find that sanitary heresies at any rate
have not struck deep root in the British soil.
In an old book of emblems there is a picture of
Cupid whipping a tortoise, to the motto that
[pg 613]
Love hates delay. If lovers of reform in sanitary
matters hate delay, it is a pity; for our
good old tortoise has a famous shell, and is not
stimulated easily.

IX. The Fire And The Dressing-Room.

Against the weather all men are Protectionists—all
men account it matter of offense.
What say the people of the north? A Highland
preacher, one December Sunday, in the fourth
hour of his sermon—For be it known to Englishmen
who nod at church, that in the Highlands,
after four good hours of prayer and
psalm, there follow four good hours of sermon.
And, nota bene, may it not be that the shade of
our King Henry I. does penance among Highland
chapels now, for having, in his lifetime,
made one Roger a bishop because he was expert
in scrambling through the services?—A
Highland pastor saw his congregation shivering.
“Ah!” he shouted, “maybe ye think this a
cauld place; but, let me tell ye, hell’s far
caulder!” An English hearer afterward reproached
this minister for his perversion of the
current faith. “Hout, man,” said he, “ye
dinna ken the Hielanders. If I were to tell
them hell was a hot place, they’d all be laboring
to go there.” And that was true philosophy.
Mythologies invented in the north, imagined
their own climate into future torture. Above,
in the northern lights, they saw a chase of miserable
souls, half starved, and hunted to and fro
by ravens; below, they imagined Nastrond with
its frosts and serpents. Warmth is delightful,
certainly. No doubt but sunburnt nations picture
future punishment as fire. Yes, naturally,
for it is in the middle region only that we are
not wearied with extremes. What region shall
we take? Our own? When is it not too hot,
too cold, too dry, too wet, or too uncertain?
Italy? There the sun breeds idle maggots.
As for the poet’s paradise, Cashmere, botanists
tell us that, although, no doubt, fruits grow luxuriantly
there, they are extremely flavourless.
Then it is obvious that to abuse, antagonise,
defy the weather, is one of the established rights
of man. Upon our method of defying it, our
health, in some measure, depends. How is our
right to be maintained unhealthily?

Not by blind obedience to nature. We are
correcting her, and must not let her guide us.
Nature considers all men savages—and savages
they would be, if they followed her. What is
barbarism? Man in a state of nature. Nature,
I say, treats us almost as if we were unable to
light fires, or stich for ourselves breeches.
Nature places near the hand of man in each
climate a certain food, and tyrannizes over his
stomach with a certain craving. Whales and
seals delight the Esquimaux; he eats his blubber
and defies the frost. So fed, the Esquimaux
woman can stand out of doors, suckling her infant
at an open breast, with the thermometer
40° below zero. As we go south, we pass the
lands of bread and beef, to reach the sultry
region wherein nature provides dates, and so
forth. Even in our own range of the seasons,
nature seeks to bind us to her own routine; in
winter gives an appetite for flesh and fat, in
summer takes a part of it away. We are not
puppets, and we will not be dictated to; so we
stimulate the stomach, and allow no brute instinct
to tamper with our social dietary. We
do here, on a small scale, what is done, on a
large scale, by our friends in India, who pepper
themselves into appetite, that they may eat, and
drink, and die. We drink exciting beverage in
summer, because we are hot; we drink it in
winter, because we are cold. The fact is, we
are driven to such practices; for if we did not
interfere to take the guidance of our diet out of
nature’s hands, she would make food do a large
portion of the service which civilization asks of
fire and clothing. We should walk about warm
in the winter, cool in the summer, having the
warmth and coolness in ourselves. Now, it is
obvious that this would never do. We must be
civilized, or we must not. Is Mr. Sangster to
sell tomahawks instead of canes? Clearly, he
is not. We must so manage our homes as to
create unhealthy bodies. If we do not, society
is ruined; if we do—and in proportion as we
do so—we become more and more unfit to meet
vicissitudes of weather. Then we acquire a
social craving after fires, and coats, and cloaks,
and wrappers, and umbrellas, and cork soles,
and muffetees, and patent hareskins, and all the
blessings of this life, upon which our preservation
must depend. These prove that we have
stepped beyond the brute. You never saw a
lion with cork soles and muffetees. The tiger
never comes out, of nights, in a great coat.
The eagle never soars up from his nest with an
umbrella. Man alone comprehends these luxuries;
and it is when he is least healthy that he
loves them best.

In winter, then, it is not diet, and it is not
exercise, that shall excite in us a vital warmth.
We will depend on artificial means; we will be
warmed, not from within, but from without.
We will set ourselves about a fire, like pies, and
bake; heating the outside first. Where the
fire fails, we will depend upon the dressing-room.

If we have healthy chests, we will encase
ourselves in flannel; but if we happen to have
chest complaint, we will use nothing of the sort.
When we go out, we will empanoply our persons,
so that we may warm ourselves by shutting
in all exhalation from our bodies, and by
husbanding what little heat we permit nature to
provide for us.

In summer we will eat rich dinners and drink
wine, will cast off three-fourths of the thickness
of our winter clothing, and still be oppressed by
heat. Iced drinks shall take the place of fire.

Civilized people can not endure being much
wetted. Contact of water, during exercise,
will do no harm to healthy bodies, but will
spoil good clothes. We will get damp only
when we walk out in bad weather; then, when
[pg 614]
we come home, we need no change. Evaporation
from damp clothes—the act of drying—while
the body cools down, resting, and perhaps
fatigued, that is what damages the health;
against that we have no objection.

Hem! No doubt it is taking a great liberty
with a Briton to look over his wardrobe. I will
not trespass so far, but, my dear sir, your Hat!
If we are to have a column on our heads, let it
be one in which we can feel pride; a miniature
monument; and we might put a statue on the
top. Hats, as they are now worn, would not
fitly support more than a bust. Is not this
mean? On ægritudinary grounds we will uphold
a hat. To keep the edifice from taking
flight before a puff of wind, it must be fitted
pretty tightly round the head, must press over
the forehead and the occiput. How much it
presses, a red ring upon our flesh will often
testify. Heads are not made of putty; pressure
implies impediment to certain processes within;
one of these processes is called the circulation
of the blood. The brain lies underneath our
hats. Well, that is as it should be. Ladies do
not wear hats, and never will, the bonnet is so
artful a contrivance for encompassing the face
with ornament; roses and lilies and daffidowndillies,
which would have sent Flora into fits,
and killed her long ago, had such a goddess
ever been.

I said that there was brain under the hat;
this is not always obvious, but there is generally
hair. Once upon a time, not very long ago,
hair was constructed with great labor into a
huge tower upon every lady’s head, pomatum
being used by way of mortar, and this tower
was repaired every three weeks. The British
matron then looked like a “mop-headed Papuan.”
The two were much alike, except in
this, that while our countrywoman triumphed
in her art, the Papuan was discontented with
his nature. The ladies here, whose hair was
naturally made to fall around the shoulders,
reared it up on end; but in New Guinea,
fashionables born with hair that grew of its
own will into an upright bush, preferred to cut
it off, and re-arrange it in a wig directed downwards.
Sometimes they do no more than crop
it close; and then, since it is characteristic of
the hair in this race to grow, not in an expanse,
but in tufts, the head is said by sailors to remind
them of a worn-out shoe-brush. So, at the
Antipodes as well as here, Art is an enemy to
Nature. Hair upon the head was meant originally
to preserve in all seasons an equable temperature
above the brain. Emptying grease-pots
into it, and matting it together, we convert
it into an unwholesome skull-cap.

The neck? Here sanitary people say, How
satisfactory it is that Englishmen keep their
necks covered with a close cravat, and do not
Byronize in opposition to the climate. That is
very good; but English women, who account
themselves more delicate, don’t cover their
necks, indeed they do not at all times cover
their shoulders. So traveling from top to toe,
if Englishmen wear thick shoes to protect the
feet, our English women scorn the weakness,
and go, except a little fancy covering, bare-footed.

From this point I digress, to note of other
garments that the English dress, as now established,
does on the whole fair credit to society.
To the good gentlemen who poetize concerning
grace and the antique, who sigh for togas, stolas,
and paludaments, I say, Go to. The drapery
you sigh for was the baby-linen of the human
race. Now we are out of long-clothes. The
present European dress is that which offers least
impediment to action. It shows what a Man is
like, and that is more than any stranger from
another world could have detected under the
upholstery to which our sculptors cling. The
merest hint of a man—shaped as God shaped
him—is better than ten miles of folded blanket.
Artists cry down our costume; forgetting that
if they have not folds of drapery to paint, that
is because they have in each man every limb to
which they may assign its posture. If they can
put no mind into a statue by the mastery of
attitude, all the sheets in Guy’s Hospital will
not twist into a fold that shall be worth their
chiseling.

With women it is different. They have both
moral and æsthetic right to drapery; and for the
fashion of it, we must leave that to themselves.
They are all licensed to deal in stuffs, colors,
frippery, and flounce. And to wear rings in
their ears. If ladies have good taste they can
not vex us; and that any of them can have bad
taste, who shall hint? Their stays they will
abide by, as they love hysterics; them I have
mentioned. I have before also gone out of my
way to speak of certain humps carried by
women on their backs, which are not healthy
or unhealthy—who shall say what they are?
Are these humps allegorical? Our wives and
daughters perhaps wish to hint that they resemble
camels in their patience; camels who
bear their burden through a desert world,
which we, poor folk, should find it quite impossible
to travel through without them.

X. Fresh Air.

Philosophers tell us that the breath of man is
poisonous; that when collected in a jar it will
kill mice, but when accumulated in a room it
will kill men. Of this there are a thousand and
one tales. I decline alluding to the Black Hole
of Calcutta, but will take a specimen dug up by
some sanitary gardener from Horace Walpole’s
letters. In 1742 a set of jolly Dogberries, virtuous
in their cups, resolved that every woman
out after dark ought to be locked up in the
round-house. They captured twenty-six unfortunates,
and shut them in with doors and
windows fastened. The prisoners exhausted
breath in screaming. One poor girl said she
was worth eighteenpence, and cried that she
would give it gladly for a cup of water. Dogberry
was deaf. In the morning four were
[pg 615]
brought out dead, two dying, and twelve in a
dangerous condition. This is an argument in
favor of the new police. I don’t believe in
ventilation; and will undertake here, in a few
paragraphs, to prove it nonsense.

At the very outset, let us take the ventilation-mongers
on their own ground. People of this
class are always referring us to nature. Very
well, we will be natural. Do you believe, sir,
that the words of that dear lady, when she said
she loved you everlastingly, were poisonous air
rendered sonorous by the action of a larynx,
tongue, teeth, palate, and lips? No, indeed;
ladies, at any rate, although they claim a double
share of what the cherubs want—and, possibly,
these humps, now three times spoken of,
are the concealed and missing portions of the
cherubim torn from them by the fair sex in
some ancient struggle. There, now, I am again
shipwrecked on the wondrous mountains. I
was about to say, that ladies, who, in some
things, surpass the cherubs, equal them in
others; like them, are vocal with ethereal
tones; their breath is “the sweet south, stealing
across a bed of violets,” and that’s not
poisonous, I fancy. Well, I believe the chemists
have, as yet, not detected any difference
between a man’s breath, and a woman’s; therefore,
neither of them can be hurtful. But let us
grant the whole position. Breath is poisonous,
but nature made it so; nature intended it to be
so. Nature made man a social animal, and,
therefore, designed that many breaths should be
commingled. Why do you, lovers of the natural,
object to that arrangement?

Now let us glance at the means adopted to
get rid of this our breath, this breath of which
our words are made, libeled as poisonous.
Ventilation is of two kinds, mechanical and
physical. I will say something about each.

Mechanical ventilation is that which machinery
produces. One of the first recorded
ventilators of this kind, was not much more
extravagant in its charges upon house-room,
than some of which we hear in 1850. In
1663, H. Schmitz published the scheme of a
great fanner, which, descending through the
ceiling, moved to and fro pendulum-wise, within
a mighty slit. The movement of the fanner
was established by a piece of clockwork more
simple than compact: it occupied a complete
chamber overhead, and was set in noisy motion
by a heavy weight. The weight ran slowly
down, pulling its rope until it reached the parlor
floor; so that a gentleman incautiously falling
asleep under it after his dinner, might
awake to find himself a pancake. Since that
time we have had no lack of ingenuity at work
on forcing pumps, and sucking-pumps, and
screws. The screws are admirable, on account
of the unusually startling nature, now and then,
of their results. Not long ago, a couple of fine
screws were adapted to a public building; one
was to take air out, the other was to turn air in.
The first screw, unexpectedly perverse, wheeled
its air inward; so did the second, but instead of
directing its draught upward, it blew down
with a great gust of contempt upon the horrified
experimentalist. There is something of a
screw principle in those queer little wheels
fastened occasionally in our windows, and on
footmen’s hats—query, are those the ventilating
hats?—the rooms are as much ventilated by
these little tins as they would be by an air from
“Don Giovanni.” I will say nothing about
pumps; nor, indeed, need we devote more
space to mechanical contrivances, since it is
from other modes of ventilation that our cause
has most to fear. Only one quaint speculation
may be mentioned. It is quite certain that in
the heats of India, air is not cooled by fanning,
nor is it cooled judiciously by damping it. Professor
Piazzi Smyth last year suggested this
idea: Compress air by a forcing-pump into a
close vessel, by so doing you increase its heat,
then suddenly allow it to escape into a room, it
will expand so much as to be cold, and, mixing
with the other air in the apartment, cool the
whole mass. This is the last new theory,
which has not yet, I think, been tried in practice.

Now, physical ventilation—that which affects
to imitate the processes of nature—is a more
dangerously specious business. Its chief agent
is heat. In nature, it is said, the sun is Lord
High Ventilator. He rarefies the air in one
place by his heat, elsewhere permits cold, and
lets the air be dense; the thin air rises, and the
dense air rushes to supply its place; so we have
endless winds and currents—nature’s ventilating
works. It is incredible that sane men should
have thought this system fit for imitation. It
is a failure. Look at the hot department,
where a traveler sometimes has to record that
he lay gasping for two hours upon his back,
until some one could find some water for him
somewhere. Let us call that Africa, and who
can say that he enjoys the squalls of wind rushing
toward the desert? Let us think of the
Persian and the Punic wars, when fleets which
had not learned to play bo-peep with ventilating
processes, strewed Mediterranean sands with
wrecks and corpses. Some day we shall have
these mimics of Dame Nature content with
nothing smaller than a drawing-room typhoon
to carry off the foul air of an evening party;
dowagers’ caps, young ladies’ scarfs, cards,
pocket-handkerchiefs, will whirl upon their blast,
and then they will be happy. Now their demands
are modest, but they mean hurricanes rely
upon it; we must not let ourselves be
lulled into a false security.

A fire, they say, is in English houses necessary
during a large part of the year, is constant
during that season when we are most closely
shut up in our rooms. The fire, they say, is
our most handy and most efficacious ventilator.
Oh, yes, we know something about that: we
know too well that the fire makes an ascending
current, and that the cold air rushes from our
doors and windows to the chimney, as from surrounding
countries to the burning desert. We
[pg 616]
know that very well, because every such current
is a draught; one cuts into our legs, one gnaws
about our necks, and all our backs are cold.
We are in the condition of a pious man in Fox’s
“Martyrs,” about whom I used to read with
childish reverence: that after a great deal of
frying, during which he had not been turned by
the Inquisition-Soyer, he lifted up his voice in
verse:

“This side enough is toasted;
Then turn me, tyrant, and eat,
And see whether raw or roasted
I make the better meat.”

We, all of us, over our Christmas fires, present
this choice of raw or roast, and we don’t thank
your principles of ventilation for it. Then say
these pertinacious people, that they also disapprove
of draughts; but they don’t seem to mind
boring holes in a gentleman’s floor, or knocking
through the sacred walls of home. This is
their plan. They say, that you should have, if
possible, a pipe connected with the air without,
passing behind the cheeks of your stove, and
opening under your fire, about, on, or close
before your hearth. They say, that from this
source the fire will be supplied so well, that it
will no longer suck in draughts over your
shoulders, and between your legs, from remote
corners of the room. They say, moreover, that
if this aperture be large enough, it will supply
all the fresh air needed in your room, to replace
that which has ascended and passed out, through
a hole which you are to make in your chimney
near the ceiling. They say, that an up-draught
will clear this air away so quietly that you will
not need even a valve; though you may have
one fitted and made ornamental at a trifling
cost. They would recommend you to make
another hole in the wall opposite your chimney,
near the ceiling also, to establish a more effectual
current in the upper air. Then, they say,
you will have a fresh air, and no draughts.
Fresh air, yes, at the expense of a hole in the
floor, and two holes in the wall. We might get
fresh air, gentlemen, on a much larger scale by
pulling the house down. They say, you should
not mind the holes. Windows are not architectural
beauties, yet we like them for admitting
light; and some day it may strike us that the
want of ventilators is a neighbor folly to the
want of windows.

This they suggest as the best method of
adapting our old houses to their new ideas.
New houses they would have so built as to
include this system of ventilation in their first
construction, and so include it as to make it
more effectual. But really, if people want to
know how to build what are called well-ventilated
houses, they must not expect me to tell
them; let them buy Mr. Hosking’s book on “The
proper Regulation of Buildings in Towns.”

Up to this date, as I am glad to know, few
architects have heard of ventilation. Under
church galleries we doze through the most
lively sermons, in public meetings we pant
after air, but we have architecture; perhaps an
airy style sometimes attempts to comfort us.
These circumstances are, possibly, unpleasant
at the time, but they assist the cause of general
unhealthiness. Long may our architects believe
that human lungs are instruments of brass; and
let us hope that, when they get a ventilating fit,
they will prefer strange machines, pumping,
screwing, steaming apparatus. May they dispense
then, doctored air, in draughts and mixtures.4

Fresh air in certain favored places—as in
Smithfield, for example—is undoubtedly an object
of desire. It is exceedingly to be regretted,
if the rumors be correct, that the result of
a Commission of Inquiry threatens, by removing
Smithfield, to destroy the only sound lung this
metropolis possesses. The wholesome nature
of the smell of cows is quite notorious. Humboldt
tells of a sailor who was dying of fever
in the close hold of a ship. His end being
in sight, some comrades brought him out to die.
What Humboldt calls “the fresh air” fell upon
him, and, instead of dying, he revived, eventually
getting well. I have no doubt that there was
a cow on board, and the man smelt her. Now,
if so great an effect was produced by the proximity
of one cow, how great must be the advantage
to the sick in London of a central crowded
cattle-market!

XI. Exercise.

There is a little tell-tale muscle in the inner
corner of the eye, which, if you question it,
will deliver a report into your looking-glass
touching the state of the whole muscular system
which lies elsewhere hidden in your body.
When it is pale, it praises you. Muscular development
is, by all means, to be kept down.
Some means of holding it in check we have
already dwelt upon. Muscular power, like all
other power, will increase with exercise. We
desire to hold the flesh in strict subjection to the
spirit. Bodily exercise, therefore, must be
added to the number of those forces which, by
strengthening the animal, do damage to the
spiritual man.

We must take great pains to choke the
energy of children. Their active little limbs
must be tied down by a well-woven system of
politeness. They run, they jump, turn heels
over head, they climb up trees, if they attempt
stillness they are ever on the move, because
nature demands that while the body grows, it
shall be freely worked in all its parts, in order
that it may develop into a frame-work vigorous
and well proportioned. Nature really is more
obstinate than usual on this point. So restless
a delight in bodily exertion is implanted in the
child, that our patience is considerably tried
when we attempt to keep it still. Children,
however, can be tamed and civilized. By
[pg 617]
sending them unhealthy from the nursery, we
can deliver many of them spiritless at school,
there to be properly subdued. The most unwholesome
plan is to send boys to one school,
girls to another; both physically and morally,
this method gives good hope of sickliness.
Nature, who never is on our side, will allow
children of each sex to be born into one family,
to play together, and be educated at one
mother’s knee. There ought to be—if nature
had the slightest sense of decency—girls only
born in one house, boys only in another. However,
we can sort the children at an early age,
and send them off to school—girls east, boys
west.

A girl should be allowed, on no account, to
climb a tree, or be unladylike. She shall
regard a boy as a strange, curious monster; be
forced into flirtation; and prefer the solace of a
darling friend to any thing that verges on a
scamper. She shall learn English grammar:
that is to mean, Lindley Murray’s notion of it;
geography, or the names of capital towns,
rivers, and mountain ranges; French enough
for a lady; music, ornamental needlework, and
the “use of the globes.” By-the-by, what a
marvel it is that every lady has learned in her
girlhood the use of the globes, and yet you
never see a lady using them. All these subjects
she shall study from a female point of view.
Her greatest bodily fatigue shall be the learning
of a polka, or the Indian sceptre exercise. Now
and then, she shall have an iron down her back,
and put her feet in stocks. The young lady
shall return from school, able to cover ottomans
with worsted birds; and to stitch a purse for
the expected lover about whom she has been
thinking for the last five years. She is quite
aware that St. Petersburg is the capital of
Ireland, and that a noun is a verb-substantive,
which signifies to be, to do, to suffer.

The boy children shall be sent to school, where
they may sit during three hours consecutively,
and during eight or nine hours in the day, forcing
their bodies to be tranquil. They shall entertain
their minds by stuttering the eloquence
of Cicero, which would be dull work to them in
English, and is not enlivened by the Latin.
They shall get much into their mouths of what
they can not comprehend, and little or nothing
into their hearts, out of the wide stores of information
for which children really thirst. They
shall be taught little or nothing of the world
they live in, and shall know its Maker only as
an answer to some question in a catechism.
They shall talk of girls as beings of another
nature; and shall come home from their school-life,
pale, subdued, having unwholesome thoughts,
awkward in using limbs, which they have not
been suffered freely to develop; and shamefaced
in the society from which, during their schoolboy
life, they have been banished.

The older girl shall ape the lady, and the
older boy shall ape the gentleman; so we may
speak next of adults.

No lady ought to walk when she can ride.
The carriages of many kinds which throng our
streets, all prove us civilized; prove us, and
make us weak. The lady should be tired after
a four-mile walk; her walk ought to be, in the
utmost possible degree, weeded of energy. It
should be slow; and when her legs are moved,
her arms must be restrained from that synchronous
movement which perverse Nature calls
upon them to perform. Ladies do well to walk
out with their arms quite still, and with their
hands folded before them. Thus they prevent
their delicacy from being preyed upon by a too
wholesome exercise, and, what is to us more
pleasant, they betray their great humility. They
dare only to walk among us lords of the creation
with their arms folded before them, that by
such humble guise they may acknowledge the
inferiority of their position. An Australian native,
visiting London, might almost be tempted,
in sheer pride of heart, to knock some of our
ladies two or three times about the head with
that small instrument which he employs for
such correction of his women, that so he might
derive the more enjoyment from their manifest
submissiveness.

The well-bred gentleman ought to be weary
after six miles of walking, and haughtily stare
down the man who talks about sixteen. The
saddle, the gig, the carriage, or the cab, and
omnibus, must protect at once his delicacy and
his shoes. The student should confine himself
to study, grudging time; believing nobody who
tells him that the time he gives to wholesome
exercise, he may receive back in the shape of
increased value for his hours of thought—that
even his life of study may be lengthened by it.
Let the tradesman be well-rooted in his shop if
he desire to flourish. Let the mechanic sit at
labor on the week-days, and on Sundays let him
sit at church, or else stop decently at home.
Let us have no Sunday recreations. It is quite
shocking to hear sanitary people lecture on this
topic. Profanely they profess to wonder why
the weary, toiling family of Christians should
not be carried from the town, and from that
hum of society which is not to them very refreshing
on the day of rest. Why they should
not go out and wander in the woods, and ask
their hearts who taught the dragon-fly his dancing;
who made the blue-bells cluster lovingly
together, looking so modest; and ask from
whose Opera the birds are singing their delicious
music? Why should not the rugged man’s
face soften, and the care-worn woman’s face be
melted into tenderness, and man and wife and
children cluster as closely as the blue-bells in
the peaceful wood? What if they there become
so very conscious of their mutual love,
and of the love of God, as to feel glad that they
are not in any other “place of worship,” where
they may hear Roman Catholics denounced, or
Churchmen scorned, or the Dissenters pounded?
What if they then come home refreshed in mind
and body, and begin the week with larger, gentler
thoughts of God and man? By such means
may they not easily be led, if they were at any
[pg 618]
unwilling, to give praise to God, and learn
to join—not as a superstitious rite, but as a
humble duty—in His public worship? So talk
the sanitary men—here, as in all their doctrines,
showing themselves little better than materialists.
The negro notion of a Sabbath is, that
nobody may fish: our notion is, that nobody may
stay away from church.

In these remarks on exercise among adults, I
have confined myself to the plain exercise of
walking. It may be taken for granted that no
grown-up person will be so childish as to leap,
to row, to swim. A few Young Englanders
may put on, now and then, their white kid
gloves to patronize a cricket-match; but we
can laugh at them. In a gentleman it is undignified
to run; and even walking, at the best,
is vulgar.

Indeed there is an obvious vulgarity in the
whole doctrine which would call upon us to
assist our brute development by the mere exercising
of ourselves as animals. Such counsel
offers to degrade us to the low position of the
race-horse who is trotted to and fro, the poodle
who is sent out for an airing. As spiritual
people, we look down with much contempt upon
the man who would in any thing compare us
with the lower animals. His mind is mean,
and must be quite beneath our indignation. I
will say no more. Why thrash a pickpocket
with thunder?

XII. A Bedroom Paper.

If you wish to have a thoroughly unhealthy
bedroom, these are the precautions you should
take.

Fasten a chimney-board against the fireplace,
so as to prevent foul air from escaping in the
night. You will, of course, have no hole through
the wall into the chimney; and no sane man, in
the night season, would have a door or window
open. Use no perforated zinc in paneling;
especially avoid it in small bedrooms. So you
will get a room full of bad air. But in the
same room there is bad, worse, and worst: your
object is to have the worst air possible. Suffocating
machines are made by every upholsterer;
attach one to your bed; it is an apparatus
of poles, rings, and curtains. By drawing your
curtains around you before you sleep, you insure
to yourself a condensed body of foul air over
your person. This poison vapor-bath you will
find to be most efficient when it is made of any
thick material.

There being transpiration through the skin, it
would not be a bad idea to see whether this can
not be in some way hindered. The popular
method will do very well: smother the flesh as
much as possible in feathers. A wandering
princess, in some fairy tale, came to a king’s
house. The king’s wife, with the curiosity and
acuteness proper to her sex, desired to know
whether their guest was truly born a princess,
and discovered how to solve the question. She
put three peas on the young lady’s paillasse,
and over them a large feather-bed, and then
another, then another—in fact, fifteen feather-beds.
Next morning the princess looked pale,
and, in answer to inquiries how she had passed
the night, said that she had been unable to sleep
at all, because the bed had lumps in it. The
king’s wife knew then that their guest showed
her good breeding. Take this high-born lady
for a model. The feathers retain all heat about
your body, and stifle the skin so far effectually,
that you awake in the morning pervaded by a
sense of languor, which must be very agreeable
to a person who has it in his mind to be unhealthy.
In order to keep a check upon exhalation
about your head (which otherwise
might have too much the way of Nature), put
on a stout, closely-woven night-cap. People
who are at the height of cleverness in this respect
sleep with their heads under the bed-clothes.
Take no rest on a hair-mattress; it is
elastic and pleasant, certainly, but it does not
encase the body; and therefore you run a risk
of not awaking languid.

Never wash when you go to bed; you are
not going to see any body, and therefore there
can be no use in washing. In the morning,
wet no more skin than you absolutely must—that
is to say, no more than your neighbors will
see during the day—the face and hands. So
much you may do with a tolerably good will,
since it is the other part of the surface of the
body, more covered and more impeded in the
full discharge of its functions, which has rather
the more need of ablution; it is therefore fortunate
that you can leave that other part unwashed.
Five minutes of sponging and rubbing
over the whole body in the morning would tend
to invigorate the system, and would send you
with a cheerful glow to the day’s business or
pleasure. Avoid it by all means, if you desire
to be unhealthy. Let me note here, that in
speaking of the poor, we should abstain from
ceding to them an exclusive title, as “the
Great Unwashed.” Will you, Mr. N. or M.,
retire into your room and strip? Examine your
body; is it clean—was it sponged this morning—is
there no dirt upon it any where? If it be
not clean, if it was not sponged, if water would
look rather black after you had enjoyed a
thorough scrub in it, then is it not obvious that
you yourself take rank among the Great Unwashed?
By way of preserving a distinction
between them and us, I even think it would be
no bad thing were we to advocate the washing
of the poor.

Do not forget that, although you must unfortunately
apply water to your face you can
find warrant in custom to excuse you from annoying
it with soap; and for the water again,
you are at liberty to take vengeance by obtaining
compensation damages out of that part of
your head which the hair covers. Never wash
it; soil it; clog it with oil or lard—either of
which will answer your purpose, as either will
keep out air as well as water, and promote the
growth of a thick morion of scurf. Lard in the
[pg 619]
bedroom is called bear’s grease. In connection
with its virtues in promoting growth of hair,
there is a tale which I believe to be no fiction;
not the old and profane jest of the man who
rubbed a deal box with it over-night, and found
a hair-trunk in the morning. It is said that the
first adventurer who advertised bear’s grease for
sale, appended to the laudation of its efficacy a
Nota Bene, that gentlemen, after applying it,
should wash the palms of their hands, otherwise
the hair would sprout thence also. I admire
that speculator, grimly satiric at the expense
both of himself and of his customers. He jested
at his own pretensions; and declared, by an
oblique hint, that he did not look for friends
among the scrupulously clean.

Tooth-powder is necessary in the bedroom.
Healthy stomachs will make healthy teeth, and
then a tooth-brush and a little water may suffice
to keep them clean. But healthy stomachs also
make coarse constitutions. It is vexatious that
our teeth rot when we vitiate the fluid that
surrounds them. As gentlemen and ladies we
desire good teeth; they must be scoured and
hearth-stoned.

Of course, as you do not cleanse your body
daily, so you will not show favor to your feet.
Keep up a due distinction between the upper
and lower members. When a German prince
was told confidentially that he had dirty hands,
he replied, with the liveliness of conscious triumph,

“Ach, do you call dat dirty? You should
see my toes!”

Some people wash them once in every month;
that will do very well; or once a year, it matters
little which. In what washing you find
yourself unable to omit, use only the finest
towels, those which inflict least friction on the
skin.

Having made these arrangements for yourself,
take care that they are adhered to, as far
is may be convenient, throughout your household.

Here and there, put numerous sleepers into a
single room; this is a good thing for children,
if you require to blanch them. By a little perseverance,
also, in this way, when you have too
large a family, you can reduce it easily. By
all means, let a baby have foul air, not only by
the use of suffocative apparatus, but by causing
it to sleep where there are four or five others in
a well-closed room. So much is due to the
maintenance of our orthodox rate of infant mortality.

Let us admire, lastly, the economy of time in
great men who have allowed themselves only
four, five, or six hours, for sleep. It may be
true that they would have lived longer had they
always paid themselves a fair night’s quiet for
a fair day’s work; they would have lived longer,
but they would not have lived so fast. It is essential
to live fast in this busy world. Moreover,
there is a superstitious reverence for early
rising, as a virtue by itself, which we shall do
well to acquire. Let sanitary men say, “Roost
with the lark, if you propose to rise with her.”
Nonsense. No civilized man can go to bed
much earlier than midnight; but every man of
business must be up betimes. Idle, happy
people, on the other hand, they to whom life is
useless, prudently remain for nine, ten, or a
dozen hours in bed. Snug in their corner, they
are in the way of nobody, except the housemaid.

“Now wotte we nat, ne can na see
What manir ende that there shall be.”

Birth, sickness, burial. Eating, drinking,
clothing, sleeping. Exercise, and social pleasure.
Air, water, and light. These are the
topics upon which we have already touched. A
finished painting of good ægritudinary discipline
was not designed upon the present canvas: no
man who knows the great extent and varied
surface of the scene which such a picture should
embrace, will think that there is here even an
outline finished.

We might have recommended early marriages;
and marriage with first cousins. We
might have urged all men with heritable maladies
to shun celibacy. We might have praised
tobacco, which, by acting on the mucous membrane
of the mouth, acts on the same membrane
in the stomach also (precisely as disorder
of the stomach will communicate disorder to the
mouth), and so helps in establishing a civilized
digestion and a pallid face.

“But we woll stint of this matere
For it is wondir long to here.”

It is inherent in man to be perverse. A drawing-room
critic, in one of Gait’s novels, takes up
a picture of a cow, holds it inverted, and enjoys
it as a castellated mansion with four corner
towers. And so, since “all that moveth doth
mutation love,” after a like fashion, many people,
it appears, have looked upon these papers.
There is a story to the point in Lucian. Passus
received commission from a connoisseur to draw
a horse with his legs upward. He drew it in the
usual way. His customer came unannounced,
saw what had been done, and grumbled fearfully.
Passus, however, turned his picture up-side
down, and then the connoisseur was satisfied.
These papers have been treated like the horse of
Passus.

“Stimatissimo Signor Boswell” says, in his
book on Corsica, that he rode out one day on
Paoli’s charger, gay with gold and scarlet, and
surrounded by the chieftain’s officers. For a
while, he says, he thought he was a hero.
Thus, like a goose on horseback, has our present
writer visited some few of the chief ægritudinary
outposts. Why not so? They say there is no
way impossible. Wherefore an old emblem-book
has represented Cupid crossing a stream
which parts him from an altar, seated at ease
upon his quiver, for a boat, and rowing with a
pair of arrows. So has the writer floated over
on a barrel of his folly, and possibly may touch,
O reader, at the Altar of your Household Gods.

[pg 627]


Sorrows And Joys.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

Bury thy sorrows, and they shall rise
As souls to the immortal skies,
And then look down like mothers’ eyes.
But let thy joys be fresh as flowers,
That suck the honey of the showers,
And bloom alike on huts and towers.
So shall thy days be sweet and bright—
Solemn and sweet thy starry night—
Conscious of love each change of light.
The stars will watch the flowers asleep,
The flowers will feel the soft stars weep,
And both will mix sensations deep.
With these below, with those above,
Sits evermore the brooding Dove,
Uniting both in bonds of love.
Children of Earth are these; and those
The spirits of intense repose—
Death radiant o’er all human woes.
For both by nature are akin;
Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin,
And joy, the juice of life within.
O, make thy sorrows holy—wise—
So shall their buried memories rise,
Celestial, e’en in mortal skies.
O, think what then had been their doom,
If all unshriven—without a tomb—
They had been left to haunt the gloom!
O, think again what they will be
Beneath God’s bright serenity,
When thou art in eternity!
For they, in their salvation, know
No vestige of their former woe,
While thro’ them all the Heavens do flow.
Thus art thou wedded to the skies,
And watched by ever-loving eyes,
And warned by yearning sympathies.

Maurice Tiernay, The Soldier Of Fortune.
(From the Dublin University Magazine)

(Continued from Page 499.)

Chapter XII. “A Glance At Staff-Duty.”

Although the passage of the Rhine was
but the prelude to the attack on the fortress,
that exploit being accomplished, Kehl was
carried at the point of the bayonet, the French
troops entering the outworks pell-mell with the
retreating enemy, and in less than two hours
after the landing of our first detachments, the
“tri-color” waved over the walls of the fortress.

Lost amid the greater and more important
successes which since that time have immortalized
the glory of the French arms, it is almost
impossible to credit the celebrity attached at
that time to this brilliant achievement, whose
highest merits probably were rapidity and resolution.
Moreau had long been jealous of the
fame of his great rival, Bonaparte, whose tactics,
rejecting the colder dictates of prudent
strategy, and the slow progress of scientific
manoeuvres, seemed to place all his confidence
in the sudden inspirations of his genius, and
the indomitable bravery of his troops. It was
necessary, then, to raise the morale of the army
of the Rhine, to accomplish some great feat
similar in boldness and heroism to the wonderful
achievements of the Italian army. Such
was the passage of the Rhine at Strasbourg,
effected in the face of a great enemy, advantageously
posted, and supported by one of the
strongest of all the frontier fortresses.

The morning broke upon us in all the exultation
of our triumph, and as our cheers rose high
over the field of the late struggle, each heart
beat proudly with the thought of how that news
would be received in Paris.

“You’ll see how the bulletin will spoil all,”
said a young officer of the army of Italy, as he
was getting his wound dressed on the field.
“There will be such a long narrative of irrelevant
matter—such details of this, that, and
t’other—that the public will scarce know
whether the placard announces a defeat or a
victory.”

“Parbleu!” replied an old veteran of the
Rhine army, “what would you have? You’d
not desire to omit the military facts of such an
exploit?”

“To be sure I would,” rejoined the other.
“Give me one of our young general’s bulletins,
short, stirring, and effective—‘Soldiers! you
have crossed the Rhine against an army double
your own in numbers and munitions of war.
You have carried a fortress, believed impregnable,
at the bayonet. Already the great flag of
our nation waves over the citadel you have won.
Forward, then, and cease not till it float over
the cities of conquered Germany, and let the
[pg 628]
name of France be that of Empire over the
continent of Europe.’ ”

“Ha! I like that,” cried I, enthusiastically;
“that’s the bulletin to my fancy. Repeat it
once more, mon lieutenant, that I may write it
in my note-book.”

“What! hast thou a note-book?” cried an
old staff-officer, who was preparing to mount
his horse; “let’s see it, lad.”

With a burning cheek and trembling hand, I
drew my little journal from the breast of my
jacket, and gave it to him.

“Sacre bleu!” exclaimed he, in a burst of
laughter, “what have we here? Why, this is
a portrait of old General Morieier, and, although
a caricature, a perfect likeness. And
here comes a plan for ‘manoeuvring a squadron
by threes from the left.’ This is better—it is
a receipt for an ‘Omelette à la Hussard;’ and
here we have a love-song, and a mustache-paste,
with some hints about devotion, and diseased
frog in horses. Most versatile genius,
certainly!” And so he went on, occasionally
laughing at my rude sketches, and ruder remarks,
till he came to a page headed “Equitation,
as practiced by Officers of the Staff,” and
followed by a series of caricatures of bad riding,
in all its moods and tenses. The flush of anger
which instantly colored his face, soon attracted
the notice of those about him, and one of the
bystanders quickly snatched the book from his
fingers, and, in the midst of a group all convulsed
with laughter, proceeded to expatiate
upon my illustrations. To be sure, they were
absurd enough. Some were represented sketching
on horseback, under shelter of an umbrella;
others were “taking the depth of a stream” by
a “header” from their own saddles; some,
again, were “exploring ground for an attack in
line,” by a measurement of the rider’s own
length over the head of his horse. Then there
were ridiculous situations, such as “sitting
down before a fortress,” “taking an angle of
incidence,” and so on. Sorry jests, all of them,
but sufficient to amuse those with whose daily
associations they chimed in, and to whom certain
traits of portraiture gave all the zest of a
personality.

My shame at the exposure, and my terror for
its consequences, gradually yielded to a feeling
of flattered vanity at the success of my lucubrations;
and I never remarked that the staff-officer
had ridden away from the group, till I
saw him galloping back at the top of his speed.

“Is your name Tiernay, my good fellow?”
cried he, riding close up to my side, and with
an expression on his features I did not half like.

“Yes, sir,” replied I.

“Hussar of the Ninth, I believe?” repeated
he, reading from a paper in his hand.

“The same, sir.”

“Well, your talents as a draughtsman have
procured you promotion, my friend; I have obtained
your discharge from your regiment, and
you are now my orderly—orderly on the staff,
do you mind? so mount, sir, and follow me.”

I saluted him respectfully, and prepared to
obey his orders. Already I foresaw the downfall
of all the hopes I had been cherishing, and
anticipated the life of tyranny and oppression
that lay before me. It was clear to me, that
my discharge had been obtained solely as a
means of punishing me, and that Captain Discau,
as the officer was called, had destined me
to a pleasant expiation of my note-book. The
savage exultation with which he watched me,
as I made up my kit and saddled my horse—the
cool malice with which he handed me back
the accursed journal, the cause of all my disasters—gave
me a dark foreboding of what was
to follow; and as I mounted my saddle, my
woeful face, and miserable look, brought forth a
perfect shout of laughter from the bystanders.

Captain Discau’s duty was to visit the banks
of the Rhine, and the Eslar island, to take certain
measurements of distances, and obtain accurate
information on various minute points
respecting the late engagement, for, while a
brief announcement of the victory would suffice
for the bulletin, a detailed narrative of the event,
in all its bearings, must be drawn up for the
minister of war, and for this latter purpose
various staff-officers were then employed in different
parts of the field.

As we issued from the fortress, and took our
way over the plain, we struck out into a sharp
gallop; but, as we drew near the river, our
passage became so obstructed by lines of baggage-wagons,
tumbrils, and ammunition-carts,
that we were obliged to dismount and proceed
on foot; and now I was to see, for the first time,
that dreadful picture, which, on the day after
a battle, forms the reverse of the great medal
of glory. Huge litters of wounded men on
their way back to Strasbourg, were drawn by
six or eight horses, their jolting motion increasing
the agony of sufferings that found their vent
in terrific cries and screams; oaths, yells, and
blasphemies, the ravings of madness, and the
wild shouts of infuriated suffering, filled the air
on every side. As if to give the force of contrast
to this uproar of misery, two regiments of
Swabian infantry marched past as prisoners.
Silent, crest-fallen, and wretched-looking, they
never raised their eyes from the ground, but
moved, or halted, wheeled, or stood at ease, as
though by some impulse of mechanism; a cord
coupled the wrists of the outer files, one with
another, which struck me less as a measure of
security against escape, than as a mark of indignity.

Carts and charettes with wounded officers,
in which often-times the uniform of the enemy
appeared side by side with our own, followed
in long procession; and thus were these two
great currents—the one hurrying forward, ardent,
high-hearted, and enthusiastic; the other
returning maimed, shattered, and dying!

It was an affecting scene to see the hurried
gestures, and hear the few words of adieu, as
they passed each other. Old comrades who
were never to meet again, parted with a little
[pg 629]
motion of the hand; sometimes a mere look
was all their leave-taking: save when, now
and then, a halt would for a few seconds bring
the two lines together, and then many a bronzed
and rugged cheek was pressed upon the faces
of the dying, and many a tear fell from eyes
bloodshot with the fury of the battle! Wending
our way on foot slowly along, we at last reached
the river side, and having secured a small skiff,
made for the Eslar island; our first business being
to ascertain some details respecting the intrenchments
there, and the depth and strength of the
stream between it and the left bank. Discau,
who was a distinguished officer, rapidly possessed
himself of the principal facts he wanted,
and then, having given me his portfolio, he seated
himself under the shelter of a broken wagon,
and opening a napkin, began his breakfast off a
portion of a chicken and some bread—viands
which, I own, more than once made my lips
water as I watched him.

“You’ve eaten nothing to-day, Tiernay?”
asked he, as he wiped his lips, with the air of a
man that feels satisfied.

“Nothing, mon capitaine,” replied I.

“That’s bad,” said he, shaking his head; “a
soldier can not do his duty, if his rations be neglected.
I have always maintained the principle:
Look to the men’s necessaries—take care
of their food and clothing. Is there any thing
on that bone there?”

“Nothing, mon capitaine.”

“I’m sorry for it; I meant it for you; put
up that bread, and the remainder of that flask
of wine. Bourdeaux is not to be had every
day. We shall want it for supper, Tiernay.”

I did as I was bid, wondering not a little
why he said “we,” seeing how little a share I
occupied in the co-partnery.

“Always be careful of the morrow on a
campaign, Tiernay—no squandering, no waste;
that’s one of my principles,” said he, gravely,
as he watched me while I tied up the bread and
wine in the napkin. “You’ll soon see the advantage
of serving under an old soldier.”

I confess the great benefit had not already
struck me, but I held my peace and waited;
meanwhile he continued—

“I have studied my profession from my boyhood,
and one thing I have acquired, that all
experience has confirmed, the knowledge, that
men must neither be taxed beyond their ability
nor their endurance; a French soldier, after all,
is human; eh, is’t not so?”

“I feel it most profoundly, mon capitaine,”
replied I, with my hand on my empty stomach.

“Just so,” rejoined he; “every man of sense
and discretion must confess it. Happily for you,
too, I know it; ay, Tiernay, I know it, and
practice it. When a young fellow has acquitted
himself to my satisfaction during the day—not
that I mean to say that the performance has not
its fair share of activity and zeal—when evening
comes and stable duty finished, arms burnished,
and accoutrements cleaned, what do you think
I say to him?—eh, Tiernay, just guess now?”

“Probably, sir, you tell him he is free to
spend an hour at the canteen, or take his sweetheart
to the theatre.”

“What! more fatigue! more exhaustion to
an already tired and worn-out nature!”

“I ask pardon, sir, I see I was wrong; but
I had forgotten how thoroughly the poor fellow
was done up. I now see that you told him to
go to bed.”

“To bed! to bed! Is it that he might
writhe in the nightmare, or suffer agony from
cramps? To bed after fatigue like this! No,
no, Tiernay, that was not the school in which I
was brought up; we were taught to think of
the men under our command; to remember that
they had wants, sympathies, hopes, fears, and
emotions like our own. I tell him to seat himself
at the table, and with pen, ink, and paper before
him, to write up the blanks. I see you don’t
quite understand me, Tiernay, as to the meaning
of the phrase, but I’ll let you into the
secret. You have been kind enough to give
me a peep at your note-book, and you shall in
return have a look at mine. Open that volume,
and tell me what you find in it.”

I obeyed the direction, and read at the top of
a page, the words “Skeleton, 5th Prairial,” in
large characters, followed by several isolated
words, denoting the strength of a brigade, the
number of guns in a battery, the depth of a
fosse, the height of a parapet, and such like.
These were usually followed by a flourish of
the pen, or sometimes by the word “Bom.”
which singular monosyllable always occurred
at the foot of the pages.

“Well, have you caught the key to the
cipher?” said he, after a pause.

“Not quite, sir,” said I, pondering; “I can
perceive that the chief facts stand prominently
forward, in a fair, round hand; I can also guess
that the flourishes may be spaces left for detail;
but this word ‘Bom.’ puzzles me completely.”

“Quite correct, as to the first part,” said he,
approvingly; “and as to the mysterious monosyllable,
it is nothing more than an abbreviation
for ‘Bombaste,’ which is always to be done to
the taste of each particular commanding officer.”

“I perceive, sir,” said I, quickly; “like the
wadding of a gun, which may increase the loudness,
but never affect the strength of the shot.”

“Precisely, Tiernay; you have hit it exactly.
Now I hope that, with a little practice, you may
be able to acquit yourself respectably in this
walk; and now to begin our skeleton. Turn
over to a fresh page, and write as I dictate to
you.”

So saying, he filled his pipe and lighted it,
and disposing his limbs in an attitude of perfect
ease, he began:

“8th Thermidor, midnight—twelve battalions,
and two batteries of field—boats and rafts—Eslar
island—stockades—eight guns—Swabian infantry—sharp
firing, and a flourish—strong current—flourish—detachment of the 28th
carried down—‘Bom.’ Let me see it now—all right—nothing
could be better—proceed. The 10th,
[pg 630]
45th, and 48th landing together—more firing—flourish—first
gun captured—Bom.—bayonet
charges—Bom. Bom.—three guns taken—Bom.
Bom. Bom.—Swabs in retreat—flourish. The
bridge eighty toises in length—flanking fire—heavy
loss—flourish.”

“You go a little too fast, mon capitaine,”
said I, for a sudden bright thought just flashed
across me.

“Very well,” said he, shaking the ashes of
his pipe out upon the rock, “I’ll take my doze,
and you may awaken me when you’ve filled in
those details—it will be a very fair exercise for
you;” and with this he threw his handkerchief
over his face, and without any other preparation
was soon fast asleep.

I own that, if I had not been a spectator of
the action, it would have been very difficult, if
not impossible, for me to draw up any thing
like a narrative of it, from the meagre details
of the captain’s note-book. My personal observations,
however, assisted by an easy imagination,
suggested quite enough to make at least
a plausible story, and I wrote away without impediment
and halt till I came to that part of the
action in which the retreat over the bridge commenced.
There I stopped. Was I to remain
satisfied with such a crude and one-sided explanation
as the note-book afforded, and merely
say that the retreating forces were harassed by
a strong flank fire from our batteries? Was I to
omit the whole of the great incident, the occupation
of the “Fels Insel,” and the damaging discharges
of grape and round shot which plunged
through the crowded ranks, and ultimately destroyed
the bridge? Could I—to use the phrase
so popular—could I, in the “interests of truth,”
forget the brilliant achievement of a gallant
band of heroes who, led on by a young hussar
of the 9th, threw themselves into the “Fels
Insel,” routed the garrison, captured the artillery,
and directing its fire upon the retiring
enemy, contributed most essentially to the victory.
Ought I, in a word, to suffer a name so
associated with a glorious action to sink into
oblivion? Should Maurice Tiernay be lost to
fame out of any neglect or false shame on my
part? Forbid it all truth and justice, cried I,
as I set myself down to relate the whole adventure
most circumstantially. Looking up
from time to time at my officer, who slept
soundly, I suffered myself to dilate upon a
theme in which somehow, I felt a more than
ordinary degree of interest. The more I dwelt
upon the incident, the more brilliant and striking
did it seem. Like the appetite, which the
proverb tells us comes by eating, my enthusiasm
grew under indulgence, so that, had a little
more time been granted me, I verily believe I
should have forgotten Moreau altogether, and
coupled only Maurice Tiernay with the passage
of the Rhine, and the capture of the fortress of
Kehl. Fortunately Captain Discau awoke, and
cut short my historic recollections, by asking
me how much I had done, and telling me to
read it aloud to him.

I accordingly began to read my narrative
slowly and deliberately, thereby giving myself
time to think what I should best do when I came
to that part which became purely personal. To
omit it altogether would have been dangerous,
as the slightest glance at the mass of writing
would have shown the deception. There was,
then, nothing left, but to invent at the moment
another version, in which Maurice Tiernay never
occurred, and the incident of the Fels Insel should
figure as unobtrusively as possible. I was always
a better improvisatore than amanuensis; so that
without a moment’s loss of time I fashioned a new
and very different narrative, and detailing the
battle tolerably accurately, minus the share my
own heroism had taken in it. The captain made
a few, a very few corrections of my style, in
which the “flourish” and “bom,” figured, perhaps,
too conspicuously; and then told me frankly,
that once upon a time he had been fool enough
to give himself great trouble in framing these
kind of reports, but that having served for a
short period in the “bureau” of the minister of
war, he had learned better. “In fact,” said
he, “a district report is never read! Some
hundreds of them reach the office of the minister
every day, and are safely deposited in the ‘archives’
of the department. They have all, besides,
such a family resemblance, that with a
few changes in the name of the commanding
officer, any battle in the Netherlands would do
equally well for one fought beyond the Alps!
Since I became acquainted with this fact, Tiernay,
I have bestowed less pains upon the matter,
and usually deputed the task to some smart orderly
of the staff.”

So thought I, I have been writing history for
nothing; and Maurice Tiernay, the real hero of
the passage of the Rhine, will be unrecorded
and unremembered, just for want of one honest
and impartial scribe to transmit his name to
posterity. The reflection was not a very encouraging
one; nor did it serve to lighten the
toil in which I passed many weary hours, copying
out my own precious manuscript. Again
and again during that night did I wonder at my
own diffuseness—again and again did I curse
the prolix accuracy of a description that cost
such labor to reiterate. It was like a species
of poetical justice on me for my own amplifications;
and when the day broke, and I still sat
at my table writing on, at the third copy of this
precious document, I vowed a vow of brevity,
should I ever survive to indite similar compositions.

Chapter XIII. A Farewell Letter.

It was in something less than a week after, that
I entered upon my new career as orderly in the
staff, when I began to believe myself the most
miserable of all human beings. On the saddle
at sunrise, I never dismounted, except to carry
a measuring-chain, “to step distances,” mark
out intrenchments, and then write away, for
[pg 631]
hours, long enormous reports, that were to be
models of calligraphy, neatness, and elegance—and
never to be read. Nothing could be less
like soldiering than the life I led; and were it
not for the clanking sabre I wore at my side,
and the jingling spurs that decorated my heels,
I might have fancied myself a notary’s clerk. It
was part of General Moreau’s plan to strengthen
the defenses of Kehl before he advanced further
into Germany; and to this end repairs were begun
upon a line of earth-works, about two leagues
to the northward of the fortress, at a small village
called “Ekheim.” In this miserable little
hole, one of the dreariest spots imaginable, we
were quartered, with two companies of “sapeurs”
and some of the wagon-train, trenching,
digging, carting earth, sinking wells, and in fact
engaged in every kind of labor save that which
seemed to be characteristic of a soldier.

I used to think that Nancy and the riding-school
were the most dreary and tiresome of all
destinies, but they were enjoyments and delight
compared with this. Now it very often happens
in life, that when a man grows discontented and
dissatisfied with mere monotony, when he chafes
at the sameness of a tiresome and unexciting
existence, he is rapidly approaching to some
critical or eventful point, where actual peril and
real danger assail him, and from which he would
willingly buy his escape by falling back upon
that wearisome and plodding life he had so often
deplored before. This case was my own. Just
as I had convinced myself that I was exceedingly
wretched and miserable, I was to know there
are worse things in this world than a life of mere
uniform stupidity. I was waiting outside my
captain’s door for orders one morning, when at
the tinkle of his little hand-bell I entered the
room where he sat at breakfast, with an open
dispatch before him.

“Tiernay,” said he, in his usual quiet tone,
“here is an order from the adjutant-general to
send you back under an escort to head-quarters.
Are you aware of any reason for it, or is there
any charge against you which warrants this?”

“Not to my knowledge, mon capitaine,” said
I, trembling with fright, for I well knew with
what severity discipline was exercised in that
army, and how any, even the slightest, infractions
met the heaviest penalties.

“I have never known you to pillage,” continued
he; “have never seen you drink, nor
have you been disobedient while under my command;
yet this order could not be issued on
light grounds; there must be some grave accusation
against you, and in any case you must
go; therefore arrange all my papers, put every
thing in due order, and be ready to return with
the orderly.”

“You’ll give me a good character, mon capitaine,”
said I, trembling more than ever—“you’ll
say what you can for me, I’m sure.”

“Willingly, if the general or chief were here,”
replied he; “but that’s not so. General Moreau
is at Strasbourg. It is General Regnier is in
command of the army; and unless specially applied
to, I could not venture upon the liberty of
obtruding my opinion upon him.”

“Is he so severe, sir?” asked I, timidly.

“The general is a good disciplinarian,” said
he, cautiously, while he motioned with his hand
toward the door, and accepting the hint, I retired.

It was evening when I re-entered Kehl, under
an escort of two of my own regiment, and was
conducted to the “Salle de Police.” At the
door stood my old corporal, whose malicious
grin as I alighted revealed the whole story of
my arrest; and I now knew the charge that
would be preferred against me—a heavier there
could not be made—was, “disobedience in the
field.” I slept very little that night, and when
I did close my eyes, it was to awake with a sudden
start, and believe myself in presence of the
court-martial, or listening to my sentence, as
read out by the president. Toward day, however,
I sunk into a heavy, deep slumber, from
which I was aroused by the reveillée of the
barracks.

I had barely time to dress when I was summoned
before the “Tribunale Militaire”—a
sort of permanent court-martial, whose sittings
were held in one of the churches of the town.
Not even all the terror of my own precarious
position could overcome the effect of old prejudices
in my mind, as I saw myself led up the
dim aisle of the church toward the altar rails,
within which, around a large table, were seated
a number of officers, whose manner and bearing
evinced but little reverence for the sacred character
of the spot.

Stationed in a group of poor wretches whose
wan looks and anxious glances told that they
were prisoners like myself, I had time to see
what was going forward around me. The
president, who alone wore his hat, read from a
sort of list before him the name of a prisoner
and that of the witnesses in the cause. In an
instant they were all drawn up and sworn. A
few questions followed, rapidly put, and almost
as rapidly replied to. The prisoner was called
on then for his defense: if this occupied many
minutes, he was sure to be interrupted by an
order to be brief. Then came the command to
“stand by;” and after a few seconds consultation
together, in which many times a burst of
laughter might be heard, the court agreed upon
the sentence, recorded and signed it, and then
proceeded with the next case.

If nothing in the procedure imposed reverence
or respect, there was that in the dispatch
which suggested terror, for it was plain to see
that the court thought more of the cost of their
own precious minutes than of the years of those
on whose fate they were deciding. I was sufficiently
near to hear the charges of those who
were arraigned, and, for the greater number,
they were all alike. Pillage, in one form or
another, was the universal offending; and from
the burning of a peasant’s cottage, to the theft
of his dog or his “poulet,” all came under this
head. At last came number 82—“Maurice
[pg 632]
Tiernay, hussar of the Ninth.” I stepped forward
to the rails.

“Maurice Tiernay,” read the president, hurriedly,
“accused by Louis Gaussin, corporal of
the same regiment, ‘of willfully deserting his
post while on duty in the field, and in the face
of direct orders to the contrary; inducing others
to a similar breach of discipline.’ Make the
change, Gaussin.”

The corporal stepped forward, and began,

“We were stationed in detachment on the
bank of the Rhine, on the evening of the 23d—”

“The court has too many duties to lose its
time for nothing,” interrupted I. “It is all
true. I did desert my post; I did disobey orders;
and, seeing a weak point in the enemy’s
line, attacked and carried it with success. The
charge is, therefore, admitted by me, and it only
remains for the court to decide how far a soldier’s
zeal for his country may be deserving of punishment.
Whatever the result, one thing is perfectly
clear, Corporal Gaussin will never be indicted
for a similar misdemeanor.”

A murmur of voices and suppressed laughter
followed this impertinent and not over discreet
sally of mine; and the president calling out,
“Proven by acknowledgment,” told me to
“stand by.” I now fell back to my former
place, to be interrogated by my comrades on
the result of my examination, and hear their
exclamations of surprise and terror at the rashness
of my conduct. A little reflection over
the circumstances would probably have brought
me over to their opinion, and shown me that I
had gratuitously thrown away an opportunity
of self-defense; but my temper could not brook
the indignity of listening to the tiresome accusation
and the stupid malevolence of the corporal,
whose hatred was excited by the influence I
wielded over my comrades.

It was long past noon ere the proceedings
terminated, for the list was a full one, and at
length the court rose, apparently not sorry to
exchange their tiresome duties for the pleasant
offices of the dinner-table. No sentences had
been pronounced, but one very striking incident
seemed to shadow forth a gloomy future. Three,
of whom I was one, were marched off, doubly
guarded, before the rest, and confined in separate
cells of the “Salle,” where every precaution
against escape too plainly showed the importance
attached to our safe keeping.

At about eight o’clock, as I was sitting on
my bed—if that inclined plane of wood, worn
by the form of many a former prisoner, could
deserve the name—a sergeant entered with the
prison allowance of bread and water. He placed
it beside me without speaking, and stood for a
few seconds gazing at me.

“What age art thou, lad?” said he, in a
voice of compassionate interest.

“Something over fifteen, I believe,” replied I.

“Hast father and mother?”

“Both are dead!”

“Uncles or aunts living?”

“Neither.”

“Hast any friends who could help thee?”

“That might depend upon what the occasion
for help should prove, for I have one friend in
the world.”

“Who is he?”

“Colonel Mahon, of the Curaissiers.”

“I never heard of him—is he here?”

“No; I left him at Nancy; but I could write
to him.”

“It would be too late, much too late.”

“How do you mean—too late?” asked I,
tremblingly.

“Because it is fixed for to-morrow evening,”
replied he, in a low, hesitating voice.

“What? the—the—” I could not say the
word, but merely imitated the motion of presenting
and firing. He nodded gravely in acquiescence.

“What hour is it to take place?” asked I.

“After evening parade. The sentence must
be signed by General Berthier, and he will not
be here before that time.”

“It would be too late, then, sergeant,” said I,
musing, “far too late. Still I should like to
write the letter; I would like to thank him for
his kindness in the past, and show him, too,
that I have not been either unworthy or ungrateful.
Could you let me have paper and
pen, sergeant?”

“I can venture so far, lad; but I can not let
thee have a light; it is against orders; and
during the day thou’lt be too strictly watched.”

“No matter let me have the paper and I’ll
try to scratch a few lines in the dark; and thou’lt
post it for me, sergeant? I ask thee as a last
favor to do this.”

“I promise it,” said he, laying his hand on
my shoulder. After standing for a few minutes
thus in silence, he started suddenly and left the
cell.

I now tried to eat my supper; but although
resolved on behaving with a stout and unflinching
courage throughout the whole sad
event, I could not swallow a mouthful. A sense
of choking stopped me at every attempt, and
even the water I could only get down by gulps.
The efforts I made to bear up seemed to have
caused a species of hysterical excitement that
actually rose to the height of intoxication, for I
talked away loudly to myself, laughed, and sung.
I even jested and mocked myself on this sudden
termination of a career that I used to anticipate
as stored with future fame and rewards. At
intervals, I have no doubt that my mind wandered
far beyond the control of reason, but as constantly
came back again to a full consciousness
of my melancholy position, and the fate that
awaited me. The noise of the key in the door
silenced my ravings, and I sat still and motionless
as the sergeant entered with the pen, ink,
and paper, which he laid down upon the bed,
and then as silently withdrew.

A long interval of stupor, a state of dreary
half consciousness, now came over me, from
which I aroused myself with great difficulty to
write the few lines I destined for Colonel Mahon.
[pg 633]
I remember even now, long as has been
the space of years since that event, full as it has
been of stirring and strange incidents, I remember
perfectly the thought which flashed across
me as I sat, pen in hand, before the paper. It
was the notion of a certain resemblance between
our actions in this world with the characters I
was about to inscribe upon that paper. Written
in darkness and in doubt, thought I, how shall
they appear when brought to the light! Perhaps
those I have deemed the best and fairest
shall seem but to be the weakest or the worst!
What need of kindness to forgive the errors,
and of patience to endure the ignorance! At
last I began: “Mon Colonel—Forgive, I
pray you, the errors of these lines, penned in
the darkness of my cell, and the night before
my death. They are written to thank you ere
I go hence, and to tell you that the poor heart
whose beating will soon be still throbbed gratefully
toward you to the last! I have been sentenced
to death for a breach of discipline of
which I was guilty. Had I failed in the achievement
of my enterprise by the bullet of an enemy,
they would have named me with honor; but I
have had the misfortune of success, and tomorrow
am I to pay its penalty. I have the satisfaction,
however, of knowing that my share in
that great day can neither be denied nor evaded;
it is already on record, and the time may yet
come when my memory will be vindicated. I
know not if these lines be legible, nor if I have
crossed or recrossed them. If they are blotted
they are not my tears have done it, for I have
a firm heart and a good courage; and when
the moment comes—”; here my hand trembled
so much, and my brain grew so dizzy, that I
lost the thread of my meaning, and merely jotted
down at random a few words, vague, unconnected,
and unintelligible, after which, and by an
effort that cost all my strength, I wrote “Maurice
Tierney, late Hussar of the 9th Regiment.”

A hearty burst of tears followed the conclusion
of this letter; all the pent-up emotion with which
my heart was charged broke out at last, and I
cried bitterly. Intense passions are, happily,
never of long duration, and better still, they are
always the precursors of calm. Thus, tranquil,
the dawn of morn broke upon me, when the
sergeant came to take my letter, and apprize
me that the adjutant would appear in a few moments
to read my sentence, and inform me when
it was to be executed.

“Thou’lt bear up well, lad; I know thou
wilt,” said the poor fellow, with tears in his
eyes. “Thou hast no mother, and thou’lt not
have to grieve for her.”

“Don’t be afraid, sergeant; I’ll not disgrace
the old 9th. Tell my comrades I said so.”

“I will. I will tell them all! Is this thy
jacket, lad?”

“Yes; what do you want it for?”

“I must take it away with me. Thou art
not to wear it more!”

“Not wear it, nor die in it; and why not?”

“That is the sentence, lad; I can not help it.
It’s very hard, very cruel; but so it is.”

“Then I am to die dishonored, sergeant; is
that the sentence?”

He dropped his head, and I could see that he
moved his sleeve across his eyes; and then,
taking up my jacket, he came toward me.

“Remember, lad, a stout heart; no flinching.
Adieu—God bless thee.” He kissed me on
either cheek, and went out.

He had not been gone many minutes, when
the tramp of marching outside apprized me of
the coming of the adjutant, and the door of my
cell being thrown open, I was ordered to walk
forth into the court of the prison. Two squadrons
of my own regiment, all who were not on
duty, were drawn up, dismounted, and without
arms; beside them stood a company of grenadiers,
and a half battalion of the line, the corps
to which the other two prisoners belonged, and
who now came forward, in shirt-sleeves like
myself, into the middle of the court.

One of my fellow-sufferers was a very old
soldier, whose hair and beard were white as
snow; the other was a middle-aged man, of a
dark and forbidding aspect, who scowled at me
angrily as I came up to his side, and seemed as
if he scorned the companionship. I returned a
glance, haughty and as full of defiance as his
own, and never noticed him after.

The drum beat a roll, and the word was
given for silence in the ranks—an order so
strictly obeyed, that even the clash of a weapon
was unheard, and stepping in front of the line,
the Auditeur Militaire read out the sentences.
As for me, I heard but the words “Peine afflictive
et infamante;” all the rest became confusion,
shame, and terror co-mingled; nor did I
know that the ceremonial was over, when the
troops began to defile, and we were marched
back again to our prison quarters.

Chapter XIV. A Surprise And An Escape.

It is a very common subject of remark in
newspapers, and as invariably repeated with
astonishment by the readers, how well and
soundly such a criminal slept on the night before
his execution. It reads like a wonderful
evidence of composure, or some not less surprising
proof of apathy or indifference. I really
believe it has as little relation to one feeling as
to the other, and is simply the natural consequence
of faculties over-strained, and a brain
surcharged with blood; sleep being induced by
causes purely physical in their nature. For
myself, I can say that I was by no means indifferent
to life, nor had I any contempt for the
form of death that awaited me. As localities,
which have failed to inspire a strong attachment,
become endowed with a certain degree of
interest when we are about to part from them
forever, I never held life so desirable as now
that I was going to leave it; and yet, with all
this, I fell into a sleep so heavy and profound,
[pg 634]
that I never awoke till late in the evening.
Twice was I shaken by the shoulder ere I
could throw off the heavy weight of slumber;
and even when I looked up, and saw the armed
figures around me, I could have laid down once
more, and composed myself to another sleep.

The first thing which thoroughly aroused
me, and at once brightened up my slumbering
senses, was missing my jacket, for which I
searched every corner of my cell, forgetting that
it had been taken away, as the nature of my
sentence was declared “infamante.” The next
shock was still greater, when two sapeurs came
forward to tie my wrists together behind my
back; I neither spoke nor resisted, but in silent
submission complied with each order given
me.

All preliminaries being completed, I was led
forward, preceded by a pioneer, and guarded on
either side by two sapeurs of “the guard;” a
muffled drum, ten paces in advance, keeping up
a low monotonous rumble as we went.

Our way led along the ramparts, beside
which ran a row of little gardens, in which the
children of the officers were at play. They
ceased their childish gambols as we drew near,
and came closer up to watch us. I could mark
the terror and pity in their little faces as they
gazed at me; I could see the traits of compassion
with which they pointed me out to each
other, and my heart swelled with gratitude for
even so slight a sympathy. It was with difficulty
I could restrain the emotion of that moment,
but with a great effort I did subdue it,
and marched on, to all seeming, unmoved. A
little further on, as we turned the angle of the
wall, I looked back to catch one last look at
them. Would that I had never done so! They
had quitted the railings, and were now standing
in a group, in the act of performing a mimic
execution. One, without his jacket, was kneeling
on the grass. But I could not bear the
sight, and in scornful anger I closed my eyes,
and saw no more.

A low whispering conversation was kept up
by the soldiers around me. They were grumbling
at the long distance they had to march, as
the “affair” might just as well have taken
place on the glacis as two miles away. How
different were my feelings—how dear to me
was now every minute, every second of existence;
how my heart leaped at each turn of the
way, as I still saw a space to traverse, and some
little interval longer to live.

“And, mayhap, after all,” muttered one dark-faced
fellow, “we shall have come all this way
for nothing. There can be no ‘fusillade’ without
the general’s signature, so I heard the adjutant
say; and who’s to promise that he’ll be at
his quarters?”

“Very true,” said another; “he may be
absent, or at table.”

“At table!” cried two or three together;
“and what if he were?”

“If he be,” rejoined the former speaker,
“we may go back again for our pains! I
ought to know him well; I was his orderly for
eight months, when I served in the ‘Legers,’
and can tell you, my lads, I wouldn’t be the
officer who would bring him a report, or a
return to sign, once he had opened out his napkin
on his knee; and it’s not very far from his
dinner-hour now.”

What a sudden thrill of hope ran through
me! Perhaps I should be spared for another
day.

“No, no, we’re all in time,” exclaimed the
sergeant; “I can see the general’s tent from
this; and there he stands, with all his staff
around him.”

“Yes; and there go the other escorts—they
will be up before us if we don’t make haste;
quick-time, lads. Come along, mon cher,” said
he, addressing me; “thou’rt not tired, I hope.”

“Not tired!” replied I; “but remember,
sergeant, what a long journey I have before
me.”

“Pardieu! I don’t believe all that rhodomontade
about another world,” said he gruffly;
“the republic settled that question.”

I made no reply. For such words, at such
a moment, were the most terrible of tortures to
me. And now we moved on at a brisker
pace, and crossing a little wooden bridge, entered
a kind of esplanade of closely-shaven turf,
at one corner of which stood the capacious tent
of the commander-in-chief, for such, in Moreau’s
absence, was General Berthier. Numbers of
staff-officers were riding about on duty, and a
large traveling-carriage, from which the horses
seemed recently detached, stood before the tent.

We halted as we crossed the bridge, while
the adjutant advanced to obtain the signature to
the sentence. My eyes followed him till they
swam with rising tears, and I could not wipe
them away, as my hands were fettered. How
rapidly did my thoughts travel during those few
moments. The good old Père Michel came
back to me in memory, and I tried to think of
the consolation his presence would have afforded
me; but I could do no more than think of
them.

“Which is the prisoner Tiernay?” cried a
young aid-de-camp, cantering up to where I
was standing.

“Here, sir,” replied the sergeant, pushing me
forward.

“So,” rejoined the officer, angrily, “this fellow
has been writing letters, it would seem,
reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and
arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your
epistolary tastes are like to cost you dearly, my
lad; it had been better for you if writing had
been omitted in your education. Reconduct
the others, sergeant, they are respited; this
fellow alone is to undergo his sentence.”

The other two prisoners gave a short and
simultaneous cry of joy as they fell back, and I
stood alone in front of the escort.

“Parbleu! he has forgotten the signature,”
said the adjutant, casting his eye over the
paper: “he was chattering and laughing all
[pg 635]
the time, with the pen in his hand, and I suppose
fancied that he had signed it.”

“Nathalie was there, perhaps,” said the aid-de-camp,
significantly.

“She was, and I never saw her looking better.
It’s something like eight years since I
saw her last; and I vow she seems not only
handsomer, but fresher and more youthful to-day
than then.”

“Where is she going; have you heard?”

“Who can tell? Her passport is like a
firman; she may travel where she pleases. The
rumor of the day says Italy.”

“I thought she looked provoked at Moreau’s
absence; it seemed like want of attention on
his part, a lack of courtesy she’s not used to.”

“Very true; and her reception of Berthier
was any thing but gracious, although he certainly
displayed all his civilities in her behalf.”

“Strange days we live in!” sighed the other,
“when a man’s promotion hangs upon the
favorable word of a—”

“Hush! take care! be cautious!” whispered
the other. “Let us not forget this poor
fellow’s business. How are you to settle it?
Is the signature of any consequence? The
whole sentence all is right and regular.”

“I shouldn’t like to omit the signature,” said
the other, cautiously; “it looks like carelessness,
and might involve us in trouble hereafter.”

“Then we must wait some time, for I see
they are gone to dinner.”

“So I perceive,” replied the former, as he
lighted his cigar, and seated himself on a bank.
“You may let the prisoner sit down, sergeant,
and leave his hands free; he looks wearied and
exhausted.”

I was too weak to speak, but I looked my
gratitude; and sitting down upon the grass,
covered my face, and wept heartily.

Although quite close to where the officers
sat together chatting and jesting, I heard little
or nothing of what they said. Already the things
of life had ceased to have any hold upon me; and
I could have heard of the greatest victory, or listened
to a story of the most fatal defeat, without
the slightest interest or emotion. An occasional
word or a name would strike upon my ear, but
leave no impression nor any memory behind it.

The military band was performing various
marches and opera airs before the tent where
the general dined, and in the melody, softened
by distance, I felt a kind of calm and sleepy
repose that lulled me into a species of ecstasy.

At last the music ceased to play, and the
adjutant, starting hurriedly up, called on the
sergeant to move forward.

“By Jove!” cried he, “they seem preparing
for a promenade, and we shall get into a scrape
if Berthier sees us here. Keep your party yonder,
sergeant, out of sight, till I obtain the
signature.”

And so saying, away he went toward the
tent at a sharp gallop.

A few seconds, and I watched him crossing
the esplanade; he dismounted and disappeared.
A terrible choking sensation was over me, and
I scarcely was conscious that they were again
tying my hands. The adjutant came out again,
and made a sign with his sword.

“We are to move on!” said the sergeant,
half in doubt.

“Not at all,” broke in the aid-de-camp; “he
is making a sign for you to bring up the prisoner!
There, he is repeating the signal; lead
him forward.”

I knew very little of how—less still of why—but
we moved on in the direction of the tent,
and in a few minutes stood before it. The
sounds of revelry and laughter, the crash of
voices, and the clink of glasses, together with
the hoarse bray of the brass band, which again
struck up, all were co-mingled in my brain, as,
taking me by the arm, I was led forward within
the tent, and found myself at the foot of a table
covered with all the gorgeousness of silver plate,
and glowing with bouquets of flowers and fruits.
In the one hasty glance I gave, before my lids
fell over my swimming eyes, I could see the
splendid uniforms of the guests as they sat
around the board, and the magnificent costume
of a lady in the place of honor next the head.

Several of those who sat at the lower end of
the table drew back their seats as I came forward,
and seemed as if desirous to give the general
a better view of me.

Overwhelmed by the misery of my fate, as I
stood awaiting my death, I felt as though a
mere word, a look, would have crushed me but
one moment back; but now, as I stood there, before
that group of gazers, whose eyes scanned
me with looks of insolent disdain, or still more
insulting curiosity, a sense of proud defiance
seized me, to confront and dare them with
glances haughty and scornful as their own. It
seemed to me so base and unworthy a part to
summon a poor wretch before them, as if to whet
their new appetite for enjoyment by the aspect
of his misery, that an indignant anger took
possession of me, and I drew myself up to my
full height, and stared at them calm and steadily.

“So, then!” cried a deep soldier-like voice
from the far-end of the table, which I at once
recognized as the general-in-chief’s; “so, then,
gentlemen, we have now the honor of seeing
among us the hero of the Rhine! This is the
distinguished individual by whose prowess the
passage of the river was effected, and the
Swabian infantry cut off in their retreat! Is it
not true, sir?” said he, addressing me with a
savage scowl.

“I have had my share in the achievement!”
said I, with a cool air of defiance.

“Parbleu! you are modest, sir. So had
every drummer-boy that beat his tattoo! But
yours was the part of a great leader, if I err
not?”

I made no answer, but stood firm and unmoved.

“How do you call the island which you have
immortalized by your valor?”

[pg 636]

“The Fels Insel, sir.”

“Gentlemen, let us drink to the hero of the
Fels Insel,” said he, holding up his glass for the
servant to fill it. “A bumper—a full, a flowing
bumper! And let him also pledge a toast,
in which his interest must be so brief. Give
him a glass, Contard.”

“His hands are tied, mon general.”

“Then free them at once.”

The order was obeyed in a second; and I,
summoning up all my courage to seem as easy
and indifferent as they were, lifted the glass to
my lips, and drained it off.

“Another glass, now, to the health of this
fair lady, through whose intercession we owe
the pleasure of your company,” said the general.

“Willingly,” said I; “and may one so beautiful
seldom find herself in a society so unworthy
of her!”

A perfect roar of laughter succeeded the insolence
of this speech; amid which I was half
pushed, half dragged, up to the end of the table,
where the general sat.

“How so, Coquin, do you dare to insult a
French general, at the head of his own staff!”

“If I did, sir, it were quite as brave as to
mock a poor criminal on the way to his execution!”

“That is the boy! I know him now! the
very same lad!” cried the lady, as, stooping
behind Berthier’s chair, she stretched out her
hand toward me. “Come here; are you not
Colonel Mahon’s godson?”

I looked her full in the face; and whether her
own thoughts gave the impulse, or that something
in my stare suggested it, she blushed till
her cheek grew crimson.

“Poor Charles was so fond of him!” whispered
she in Berthier’s ear; and, as she spoke,
the expression of her face at once recalled where
I had seen her, and I now perceived that she
was the same person I had seen at table with
Colonel Mahon, and whom I believed to be his
wife.

A low whispering conversation now ensued
between the general and her, at the close of
which, he turned to me and said,

“Madame Merlancourt has deigned to take
an interest in you—you are pardoned. Remember,
sir, to whom you owe your life, and be
grateful to her for it.”

I took the hand she extended toward me, and
pressed it to my lips.

“Madame,” said I, “there is but one favor
more I would ask in this world, and with it I
could think myself happy.”

“But can I grant it, mon cher,” said she,
smiling.

“If I am to judge from the influence I have
seen you wield, madame, here and elsewhere,
this petition will easily be accorded.”

A slight flush colored the lady’s cheek, while
that of the general became dyed red with anger.
I saw that I had committed some terrible blunder,
but how, or in what, I knew not.

“Well, sir,” said Madame Merlancourt, addressing
me with a stately coldness of manner
very different from her former tone, “Let us
hear what you ask, for we are already taking
up a vast deal of time that our host would prefer
devoting to his friends, what is it you wish?”

“My discharge from a service, madame, where
zeal and enthusiasm are rewarded with infamy
and disgrace; my freedom to be any thing but
a French soldier.”

“You are resolved, sir, that I am not to be
proud of my protégé,” said she, haughtily;
“what words are these to speak in presence of
a general and his officers?”

“I am bold, madame, as you say, but I am
wronged.”

“How so, sir—in what have you been injured?”
cried the general, hastily, “except in
the excessive condescension which has stimulated
your presumption. But we are really too
indulgent in this long parley. Madame, permit
me to offer you some coffee under the trees.
Contardo, tell the band to follow us. Gentlemen,
we expect the pleasure of your society.”

And so saying, Berthier presented his arm to
the lady, who swept proudly past without deigning
to notice me. In a few minutes the tent
was cleared of all, except the servants occupied
in removing the remains of the dessert, and I
fell back unremarked and unobserved, to take
my way homeward to the barracks, more indifferent
to life than ever I had been afraid of
death.

As I am not likely to recur at any length to
the somewhat famous person to whom I owed
my life, I may as well state that her name has
since occupied no inconsiderable share of attention
in France, and her history, under the title
of “Mémoires d’une Contemporaine,” excited a
degree of interest and anxiety in quarters which
one might have fancied far above the reach of
her revelations. At the time I speak of, I little
knew the character of the age in which such
influences were all powerful, nor how destinies
very different from mine hung upon the favoritism
of “La belle Nathalie.” Had I known these
things, and still more, had I known the sad fate
to which she brought my poor friend, Colonel
Mahon, I might have scrupled to accept my life
at such hands, or involved myself in a debt of
gratitude to one for whom I was subsequently
to feel nothing but hatred and aversion. It was
indeed a terrible period, and in nothing more so
than the fact, that acts of benevolence and charity
were blended up with features of falsehood,
treachery, and baseness, which made one despair
of humanity, and think the very worst of their
species.

Chapter XV. Scraps Of History.

Nothing displays more powerfully the force of
egotism than the simple truth that, when any man
sets himself down to write the events of his life,
the really momentous occurrences in which he
[pg 637]
may have borne a part occupy a conspicuously
small place, when each petty incident of a
merely personal nature, is dilated and extended
beyond all bounds. In one sense, the reader benefits
by this, since there are few impertinences
less forgivable than the obtrusion of some insignificant
name into the narrative of facts that
are meet for history. I have made these remarks
in a spirit of apology to my reader; not
alone for the accuracy of my late detail, but also,
if I should seem in future to dwell but passingly
on the truly important facts of a great campaign,
in which my own part was so humble.

I was a soldier in that glorious army which
Moreau led into the heart of Germany, and
whose victorious career would only have ceased
when they entered the capital of the Empire,
had it not been for the unhappy mistakes of
Jourdan, who commanded the auxiliary forces
in the north. For nigh three months we advanced
steadily and successfully, superior in
every engagement; we only waited for the moment
of junction with Jourdan’s army, to declare
the empire our own; when at last came
the terrible tidings that he had been beaten, and
that Latour was advancing from Ulm to turn
our left flank, and cut off our communications
with France.

Two hundred miles from our own frontiers—separated
from the Rhine by that terrible Black
Forest whose defiles are mere gorges between
vast mountains—with an army fifty thousand
strong on one flank, and the Archduke Charles
commanding a force of nigh thirty thousand on
the other—such were the dreadful combinations
which now threatened us with a defeat not less
signal than Jourdan’s own. Our strength, however,
lay in a superb army of seventy thousand
unbeaten men, led on by one whose name alone
was victory.

On the 24th of September, the order for retreat
was given; the army began to retire by
slow marches, prepared to contest every inch
of ground, and make every available spot a
battle-field. The baggage and ammunition were
sent on in front, and two days’ march in advance.
Behind, a formidable rear-guard was ready to
repulse every attack of the enemy. Before,
however, entering those close defiles by which
his retreat lay, Moreau determined to give one
terrible lesson to his enemy. Like the hunted
tiger turning upon his pursuers, he suddenly
halted at Biberach, and ere Latour, who commanded
the Austrians, was aware of his purpose,
assailed the imperial forces with an attack
on right, centre, and left together. Four thousand
prisoners and eighteen pieces of cannon
were trophies of the victory.

The day after this decisive battle our march
was resumed, and the advanced-guard entered
that narrow and dismal defile which goes by
the name of the “Valley of Hell,” when our
left and right flanks, stationed at the entrance
of the pass, effectually secured the retreat against
molestation. The voltigeurs of St. Cyr crowning
the heights as we went, swept away the
light troops which were scattered along the
rocky eminences, and in less than a fortnight
our army debouched by Fribourg and Oppenheim
into the valley of the Rhine, not a gun
having been lost, not a caisson deserted, during
that perilous movement.

The Archduke, however, having ascertained
the direction of Moreau’s retreat, advanced by
a parallel pass through the Kinzigthal, and attacked
St. Cyr at Nauendorf, and defeated him.
Our right flank, severely handled at Emmendingen,
the whole force was obliged to retreat
on Huningen, and once more we found ourselves
upon the banks of the Rhine, no longer an advancing
army, high in hope, and flushed with
victory, but beaten, harassed, and retreating!

The last few days of that retreat presented a
scene of disaster such as I can never forget. To
avoid the furious charges of the Austrian cavalry,
against which our own could no longer make
resistance, we had fallen back upon a line of
country cut up into rocky cliffs and precipices,
and covered by a dense pine forest. Here, necessarily
broken up into small parties, we were
assailed by the light troops of the enemy, led
on through the various passes by the peasantry,
whose animosity our own severity had excited.
It was, therefore, a continual hand-to-hand struggle,
in which, opposed as we were to over numbers,
well acquainted with every advantage of
the ground, our loss was terrific. It is said
that nigh seven thousand men fell—an immense
number, when no general action had occurred.
Whatever the actual loss, such were
the circumstances of our army, that Moreau
hastened to propose an armistice, on the condition
of the Rhine being the boundary between
the two armies, while Kehl was still to be held
by the French.

The proposal was rejected by the Austrians,
who at once commenced preparations for a
siege of the fortress with forty thousand troops,
under Latour’s command. The earlier months
of winter now passed in the labors of the siege,
and on the morning of New Year’s Day the first
attack was made; the second line was carried
a few days after, and, after a glorious defense
by Desaix, the garrison capitulated, and evacuated
the fortress on the 9th of the month. Thus,
in the space of six short months, had we advanced
with a conquering army into the very
heart of the Empire, and now we were back
again within our own frontier; not one single
trophy of all our victories remaining, two-thirds
of our army dead or wounded, more than all, the
prestige of our superiority fatally injured, and
that of the enemy’s valor and prowess as signally
elevated.

The short annals of a successful soldier are
often comprised in the few words which state
how he was made lieutenant at such a date,
promoted to his company here, obtained his
majority there, succeeded to the command of
his regiment at such a place, and so on. Now
my exploits may even be more briefly written
as regards this campaign, for whether at Kehl
[pg 638]
at Nauendorf, on the Etz, or at Huningen, I
ended as I begun—a simple soldier of the ranks.
A few slight wounds, a few still more insignificant
words of praise, were all that I brought
back with me; but if my trophies were small,
I had gained considerably both in habits of discipline
and obedience. I had learned to endure,
ably and without complaining, the inevitable
hardships of a campaign, and better still, to see,
that the irrepressible impulses of the soldier,
however prompted by zeal or heroism, may
oftener mar than promote the more mature
plans of his general. Scarcely had my feet once
more touched French ground, than I was seized
with the ague, then raging as an epidemic
among the troops, and sent forward with a large
detachment of sick to the Military Hospital of
Strasbourg.

Here I bethought me of my patron, Colonel
Mahon, and determined to write to him. For
this purpose I addressed a question to the Adjutant-general’s
office to ascertain the colonel’s
address. The reply was a brief and stunning
one—he had been dismissed the service. No
personal calamity could have thrown me into
deeper affliction; nor had I even the sad consolation
of learning any of the circumstances of
this misfortune. His death, even though thereby
I should have lost my only friend, would
have been a lighter evil than this disgrace; and
coming as did the tidings when I was already
broken by sickness and defeat, more than ever
disgusted me with a soldier’s life. It was then
with a feeling of total indifference that I heard
a rumor which at another moment would have
filled me with enthusiasm—the order for all
invalids sufficiently well to be removed, to be
drafted into regiments serving in Italy. The
fame of Bonaparte, who commanded that army,
had now surpassed that of all the other generals;
his victories paled the glory of their successes,
and it was already a mark of distinction to have
served under his command.

The walls of the hospital were scrawled over
with the names of his victories; rude sketches
of Alpine passes, terrible ravines, or snow-clad
peaks met the eye every where; and the one
magical name, “Bonaparte,” written beneath,
seemed the key to all their meaning. With him
war seemed to assume all the charms of romance.
Each action was illustrated by feats of valor or
heroism, and a halo of glory seemed to shine
over all the achievements of his genius.

It was a clear, bright morning of March,
when a light frost sharpened the air, and a fair,
blue sky overhead showed a cloudless elastic
atmosphere, that the “Invalides,” as we were
all called, were drawn up in the great square of
the hospital for inspection. Two superior officers
of the staff, attended by several surgeons
and an adjutant, sat at a table in front of us, on
which lay the regimental books and conduct-rolls
of the different corps. Such of the sick as
had received severe wounds, incapacitating them
for further service, were presented with some
slight reward—a few francs in money, a greatcoat,
or a pair of shoes, and obtained their freedom.
Others, whose injuries were less important,
received their promotion, or some slight
increase of pay, these favors being all measured
by the character the individual bore in his regiment,
and the opinion certified of him by his
commanding officer. When my turn came and
I stood forward, I felt a kind of shame to think
how little claim I could prefer either to honor
or advancement.

“Maurice Tiernay, slightly wounded by a
sabre at Nauendorf—flesh-wound at Biberach—enterprising
and active, but presumptuous
and overbearing with his comrades,” read out
the adjutant, while he added a few words I
could not hear, but at which the superior laughed
heartily.

“What says the doctor?” asked he, after a
pause.

“This has been a bad case of ague, and I
doubt if the young fellow will ever be fit for
active service—certainly not at present.”

“Is there a vacancy at Saumur?” asked the
general. “I see he has been employed in the
school at Nancy.”

“Yes, sir; for the third class there is one.”

“Let him have it, then. Tiernay, you are
appointed as aspirant of the third class at the
College of Saumur. Take care that the report
of your conduct be more creditable than what is
written here. Your opportunities will now be
considerable, and if well employed, may lead to
further honor and distinction; if neglected or
abused, your chances are forfeited forever.”

I bowed and retired, as little satisfied with
the admonition as elated with the prospect
which converted me from a soldier into a
scholar, and, in the first verge of manhood,
threw me back once more into the condition of
a mere boy.

Eighteen months of my life—not the least
happy, perhaps, since in the peaceful portion I
can trace so little to be sorry for—glided over
beside the banks of the beautiful Loire, the intervals
in the hours of study being spent either
in the riding-school, or the river, where, in
addition to swimming and diving, we were
instructed in pontooning and rafting, the modes
of transporting ammunition and artillery, and the
attacks of infantry by cavalry pickets.

I also learned to speak and write English and
German with great ease and fluency, besides
acquiring some skill in military drawing and
engineering.

It is true that the imprisonment chafed sorely
against us, as we read of the great achievements
of our armies in various parts of the world; of
the great battles of Cairo and the Pyramids, of
Acre and Mount Thabor; and of which a holiday
and a fête were to be our only share.

The terrible storms which shook Europe from
end to end, only reached us in the bulletins of
new victories; and we panted for the time when
we, too, should be actors in the glorious exploits
of France.

It is already known to the reader that of the
[pg 639]
country from which my family came I myself
knew nothing. The very little I had ever learned
of it from my father was also a mere tradition;
still was I known among my comrades only as
“the Irishman,” and by that name was I recognized,
even in the record of the school, where I
was inscribed thus: “Maurice Tiernay, dit
l’Irlandais.” It was on this very simple and
seemingly-unimportant fact my whole fate in
life was to turn; and in this wise—But the explanation
deserves a chapter of its own, and
shall have it.

(To be continued.)


The Enchanted Rock.
(From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.)

About four miles west-northwest of Cape
Clear Island and lighthouse, on the south-west
coast of Ireland, a singularly-shaped rock,
called the Fastnett, rises abruptly and perpendicularly
a height of ninety feet above the sea
level in the Atlantic Ocean. It is about nine
miles from the mainland, and the country-people
say it is nine miles from every part of the
coast.

The Fastnett for ages has been in the undisturbed
possession of the cormorant, sea-gull,
and various other tribes of sea-fowl, and was
also a noted place for large conger eels, bream,
and pollock; but from a superstitious dread of
the place, the fishermen seldom fished near it.
During foggy weather, and when the rock is
partially enveloped in mist, it has very much
the appearance of a large vessel under sail—hence
no doubt the origin of all the wonderful
tales and traditions respecting the Fastnett
being enchanted, and its celebrated feats. The
old people all along the sea-coast are under the
impression that the Fastnett hoists sails before
sunrise on the 1st of May in every year, and
takes a cruise toward the Dursey Islands, at the
north entrance of Bantry Bay, a distance of
some forty miles; and that, after dancing several
times round the rocks known to mariners
as the Bull, Cow, and Calf, it then shapes its
homeward course, drops anchor at the spot
from whence it sailed, and remains stationary
during the remainder of the year.

The Fastnett, however, it appears, is not the
only enchanted spot in that locality; for at the
head of Schull Harbor, about nine miles north
of the rock, on the top of Mount Gabriel—about
1400 feet above the sea-level—is a celebrated
lake, which the people say is so deep, that the
longest line ever made would not reach its bottom.
It is also stoutly asserted that a gentleman
once dropped his walking-stick into the
lake, and that it was afterward found by a fisherman
near the Fastnett. On another occasion,
a female wishing to get some water from the
lake to perform a miraculous cure on one of her
friends, accidentally let fall the jug into the water,
and after several months, the identical jug—it
could not be mistaken, part of the lip being
broken off—was also picked up near the Fastnett.
For such reasons the people imagine
that there is some mysterious connection between
the rock and the lake, and that they
have a subterranean passage or means of communication.
Captain Wolfe, indeed, during his
survey of the coast in 1848, sounded the mysterious
pool, and found the bottom with a line
seven feet long; but the people shake their
heads at the idea, and say it was all freemasonry
on the part of the captain, and ask how he accounts
for the affair of the stick and jug? It
will be some time, I presume, before this puzzling
question can be solved to the satisfaction
of all parties; and the traditions of the stick
and jug, and many other extraordinary occurrences,
are likely to be handed down to succeeding
generations. The lake, or bog-hole,
must therefore be left alone in its glory; but,
alas! not so with the Fastnett.

No more will it hoist sail for its Walpurgie
trip, and cruise to the Durseys, for it is now
firmly moored; and in the hands of man the
wonderful Fastnett is reduced to a simple isolated
rock in the Atlantic Ocean. During the awful
shipwrecks in the winters of 1846 and 1847,
but little assistance was derived from the Cape
Clear light, which is too elevated, and is often
totally obscured by fog, and this drew attention
to the Fastnett Rock as a more eligible site for
a pharos, being in the immediate route of all
outward and homeward-bound vessels: but the
great difficulty was to effect a landing, and
make the necessary surveys; its sides being
almost perpendicular, and continually lashed by
a heavy surge or surf. After many attempts.
Captain Wolfe did effect a landing; and having
made the necessary survey, and reported favorably
as to its advantages, it was determined by
the Ballast Board to erect on it a lighthouse
forthwith. Operations were commenced in the
summer of 1847, by sinking or excavating a
circular shaft about twelve feet deep in the solid
rock; holes were then drilled, in which were
fixed strong iron shafts for the framework of the
house; and then the masons began to rear the
edifice. The workmen found it pleasant enough
during the summer and autumn of 1847, and
lived in tents on the summit of the rock, and
looked over the mainland with the aid of a glass,
like so many of their predecessors—the cormorants.

In the spring of 1848, however, when operations
were resumed, after a cessation of the
works for the winter, the scene changed. It
began to blow very hard from the northwest;
and the men secured their building, which was
now several feet above the rocks, as well as they
could, and covered it over with strong and heavy
beams of timber, leaving a small aperture for
ingress and egress, and then awaited in silence
the result. During the night the wind increased,
and the sea broke with such fury over the whole
rock, that the men imagined every succeeding
wave to be commissioned to sweep them into
the abyss. It only extinguished their fire, however,
and carried off most of their provisions,
[pg 640]
together with sundry heavy pieces of cast-iron,
a large blacksmith’s anvil, and the crane with
which the building materials were lifted on the
rock. The storm lasted upward of a week,
during which time no vessel or boat could approach;
and the crew of this island-ship remained
drenched with water, and nearly perished
with cold in a dark hole, with nothing to relieve
their hunger but water-soaked biscuit. But the
wind at length suddenly shifted, the sea moderated,
and they were enabled eventually to crawl
out of their hole more dead than alive. In a
few days a boat approached as near as possible,
and by the aid of ropes fastened round their
waists, they were drawn one by one from the
rock through the boiling surf. The men speedily
recovered, and have since raised the building
some twenty feet above the ground: the extreme
height is to be sixty feet. This is the last
adventure of the Enchanted Rock; but we trust
a brilliant history is before it, in which, instead
of expending its energies in idle cruises, it will
act the part of the beneficent preserver of life
and property.


The Force Of Fear.
(From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.)

At the close of the winter of 1825-6, about
dusk in the afternoon, just as the wealthy
dealers in the Palais Royal at Paris were about
lighting their lamps and putting up their shutters
(the practice of the major part of them at
nightfall), a well-known money-changer sat behind
his counter alone, surrounded by massive
heaps of silver and gold, the glittering and sterling
currency of all the kingdoms of Europe.
He had well-nigh closed his operations for the
day, and was enjoying in anticipation the prospect
of a good dinner. Between the easy-chair
upon which he reclined in perfect satisfaction,
and the door which opened into the north
side of the immense quadrangle of which the
splendid edifice above-mentioned is composed,
arose a stout wire partition, reaching nearly to
the ceiling, and resting upon the counter, which
traversed the whole length of the room. Thus
he was effectually cut off from all possibility of
unfriendly contact from any of his occasional
visitors; while a small sliding-board that ran
in and out under the wire partition served as
the medium of his peculiar commerce. Upon
this he received every coin, note, or draft presented
for change; and having first carefully
examined it, returned its value by the same conveyance,
in the coin of France, or indeed of any
country required. Behind him was a door communicating
with his domestic chambers, and in
the middle of the counter was another, the upper
part of which formed a portion of the wire
partition above described.

The denizen of this little chamber had already
closed his outer shutters, and was just on
the point of locking up his doors, and retiring
to his repast, when two young men entered.
They were evidently Italians, from their costume
and peculiar dialect. Had it been earlier
in the day, when there would have been sufficient
light to have discerned their features and
expression, it is probable that our merchant
would have defeated their plans, for he was
well skilled in detecting the tokens of fraud
or design in the human countenance. But they
had chosen their time too appropriately. One
of them, advancing toward the counter, demanded
change in French coin for an English sovereign,
which he laid upon the sliding board, and
passed through the wire partition. The moneychanger
rose immediately, and having ascertained
that the coin was genuine, returned its proper
equivalent by the customary mode of transfer.
The Italians turned as if to leave the apartment,
when he who had received the money
suddenly dropped the silver, as though accidentally,
upon the floor. As it was now nearly
dark, it was scarcely to be expected that they
could find the whole of the pieces without the
assistance of a light. This the unconscious
merchant hastened to supply; and unlocking,
without suspicion, the door of the partition between
them, stooped with a candle over the
floor in search of the lost coin. In this position
the unfortunate man was immediately assailed
with repeated stabs from a poniard, and he at
length fell, after a few feeble and ineffectual
struggles, senseless, and apparently lifeless, at
the feet of his assassins.

A considerable time elapsed ere, by the fortuitous
entrance of a stranger, he was discovered
in this dreadful situation; when it was found
that the assassins, having first helped themselves
to an almost incredible amount of money, had
fled, without any thing being left by which a
clew might have been obtained to their retreat.

The unfortunate victim of their rapacity and
cruelty was, however, not dead. Strange as it
may appear, although he had received upward
of twenty wounds, several of which plainly
showed that the dagger had been driven to the
very hilt, he survived; and in a few months
after the event, was again to be seen in his
long-accustomed place at the changer’s board.
In vain had the most diligent search been made
by the military police of Paris for the perpetrators
of this detestable deed. The villains
had eluded all inquiry and investigation, and
would in all probability have escaped undiscovered
with their booty but for a mutually-cherished
distrust of each other. Upon the first
and complete success of their plan, the question
arose, how to dispose of their enormous plunder,
amounting to more than a hundred thousand
pounds. Fearful of the researches of the police,
they dared not retain it at their lodgings. To
trust a third party with their secret was not to
be thought of. At length, after long and anxious
deliberation, they agreed to conceal the
money outside the barriers of Paris until they
should have concocted some safe plan for transporting
it to their own country. This they accordingly
did, burying the treasure under a tree
about a mile from the Barrière d’Enfer. But
[pg 641]
they were still as far as ever from a mutual understanding.
When they separated, on any
pretense, each returned to the spot which contained
the stolen treasure, where of course he
was sure to find the other. Suspicion thus
formed and fed soon grew into dislike and hatred,
until at length, each loathing the sight of
the other, they agreed finally to divide the
booty, and then eternally to separate, each to
the pursuit of his own gratification. It then
became necessary to carry the whole of the
money home to their lodgings in Paris, in order
that it might, according to their notions, be
equitably divided.

The reader must here be reminded that there
exists in Paris a law relative to wines and
spirituous liquors which allows them to be retailed
at a much lower price without the barriers
than that at which they are sold within
the walls of the city. This law has given rise,
among the lower orders of people, to frequent
attempts at smuggling liquors in bladders concealed
about their persons, often in their hats.
The penalty for the offense was so high, that it
was very rarely enforced, and practically it was
very seldom, indeed, that the actual loss incurred
by the offending party was any thing more than
the paltry venture, which he was generally permitted
to abandon, making the best use of his
heels to escape any further punishment. The
gensdarmes planted at the different barriers
generally made a prey of the potables which
they captured, and were consequently interested
in keeping a good look-out for offenders. It
was this vigilance that led to the discovery of
the robbers; for, not being able to devise any
better plan for the removal of the money than
that of secreting it about their persons, they
attempted thus to carry out their object. But
as one of them, heavily encumbered with the
golden spoils, was passing through the Barrière
d’Enfer, one of the soldier-police who was on
duty as sentinel, suspecting, from his appearance
and hesitating gait, that he carried smuggled
liquors in his hat, suddenly stepped behind
him and struck it from his head with his halberd.
What was his astonishment to behold,
instead of the expected bladder of wine or spirits,
several small bags of gold and rolls of English
bank-notes! The confusion and prevarication
of the wretch, who made vain and frantic attempts
to recover the property, betrayed his
guilt, and he was immediately taken into custody,
together with his companion, who, following
at a very short distance, was unhesitatingly
pointed out by his cowardly and bewildered
confederate as the owner of the money. No
time was lost in conveying intelligence of their
capture to their unfortunate victim, who immediately
identified the notes as his own property,
and at the first view of the assassins swore distinctly
to the persons of both—to the elder, as
having repeatedly stabbed him; and to the
younger, as his companion and coadjutor.

The criminals were in due course of time
tried, fully convicted, and, as was to be expected,
sentenced to death by the guillotine; but,
owing to some technical informality in the proceedings,
the doom of the law could not be
carried into execution until the sentence of the
court had been confirmed upon appeal. This
delay afforded time and opportunity for some
meddling or interested individual—either moved
by the desire of making a cruel experiment, or
else by the hope of obtaining a reversal of the
capital sentence against the prisoners—to work
upon the feelings of the unfortunate money-changer.
A few days after the sentence of
death had been pronounced, the unhappy victim
received a letter from an unknown hand, mysteriously
worded, and setting forth, in expressions
that seemed to him fearfully prophetic,
that the thread of his own destiny was indissolubly
united with that of his condemned
assassins. It was evidently out of their power
to take away his life; and it was equally out of
his power to survive them, die by the sentence
of the law, or how or when they might; it
became clear—so argued this intermeddler—that
the same moment which saw the termination
of their lives, would inevitably be the last
of his own. To fortify his arguments, the
letter-writer referred to certain mystic symbols
in the heavens. Now though the poor man
could understand nothing of the trumpery diagrams
which were set forth as illustrating the
truth of the fatal warning thus conveyed to him,
and though his friends universally laughed at
the trick as a barefaced attempt of some anonymous
impostor to rob justice of her due, it
nevertheless made a deep impression upon his
mind. Ignorant of every thing but what related
immediately to his own money-getting
profession, he had a blind and undefined awe of
what he termed the supernatural sciences, and
he inwardly thanked the kind monitor who had
given him at least a chance of redeeming his
days.

He immediately set about making application
to the judges, in order to get the decree of death
changed into a sentence to the galleys for life.
He was equally surprised and distressed to find
that they treated his petition with contempt,
and ridiculed his fears. So far from granting
his request, after repeated solicitations, they
commanded him in a peremptory manner to
appear no more before them. Driven almost to
despair, he resolved upon petitioning the king;
and after much expense and toil, he at length
succeeded in obtaining an audience of Charles X.
All was in vain. A crime so enormous, committed
with such cool deliberation, left no opening
for the plea of mercy: every effort he made
only served to strengthen the resolution of the
authorities to execute judgment. Finding all
his efforts in vain, he appeared to resign himself
despairingly to his fate. Deprived of all relish
even for gain, he took to his bed, and languished
in hopeless misery, and as the time for the execution
of the criminals approached, lapsed more
and more into terror and dismay.

It was on a sultry afternoon, in the beginning
[pg 642]
of June, 1826, that the writer of this brief
narrative—then a not too thoughtful lad, in
search of employment in Paris—hurried, together
with a party of sight-seeing English
workmen, to the Place de Grève to witness the
execution of the two assassins of the money-changer.
Under the rays of an almost insupportable
sun, an immense crowd had congregated
around the guillotine; and it was not
without considerable exertion, and a bribe of
some small amount, that standing-places were
at length obtained within a few paces of the
deathful instrument, upon the flat top of the low
wall which divides the ample area of the Place
de Grève from the river Seine.

Precisely at four o’clock the sombre cavalcade
approached. Seated upon a bench in a
long cart, between two priests, sat the wretched
victims of retributive justice. The crucifix was
incessantly exhibited to their view, and presented
to their lips to be kissed, by their ghostly
attendants. After a few minutes of silent and
horrible preparation, the elder advanced upon
the platform of the guillotine. With livid aspect
and quivering lips, he gazed around in unutterable
agony upon the sea of human faces; then
lifting his haggard eyes to heaven, he demanded
pardon of God and the people for the violation
of the great prerogative of the former and the
social rights of the latter, and besought most
earnestly the mercy of the Judge into whose
presence he was about to enter. In less than
two minutes both he and his companion were
headless corpses, and in a quarter of an hour no
vestige, save a few remains of sawdust, was
left of the terrible drama that had been enacted.
Soon, however, a confused murmur pervaded
the crowd—a report that the victim of cruelty
and avarice had realized the dread presentiment
of his own mind, and justified the prediction
contained in the anonymous letter he had received.
On inquiry, this was found to be true.
As the signal rung out for execution, the unhappy
man, whom twenty-two stabs of the
dagger had failed to kill, expired in a paroxysm
of terror—adding one more to the many examples
already upon record of the fatal force of
fear upon an excited imagination.


Lady Alice Daventry; Or, The
Night Of Crime.
(From the Dublin University Magazine.)

Daventry Hall, near the little village
of the same name in Cumberland, is the
almost regal residence of the Cliffords; yet it
does not bear their name, nor, till within the
last quarter of a century, had it come into their
possession. The tragical event which consigned
it to the hands of a distant branch of the
Daventry family is now almost forgotten by its
occupants, but still lingers in the memory of
some of humbler rank, who, in days gone by,
were tenants under Sir John Daventry, the last
of a long line of baronets of that name. Few
men have entered life under happier auspices:
one of the oldest baronets in the kingdom, in
one sense, but just of age, in the other, possessed
of an unencumbered rent roll of £20,000
per annum, he might probably have selected
his bride from the fairest of the English aristocracy;
but when he was twenty-three he
married the beautiful and poor daughter of
an officer residing in his vicinity. It was a
love-match on his side—one partly of love,
parly of ambition, on hers; their union was
not very long, neither was it very happy, and
when Lady Daventry died, leaving an infant
daughter to his care, at the expiration of
his year of mourning he chose as his second
wife the wealthy and high-born widow of the
county member. This was a marriage de convenance,
and might have perhaps proved a fortunate
one, as it secured to Sir John a wife
suited to uphold his dignity and the style of his
establishment, at the same time conferring on
the little Clara the care of a mother, and the
society of a playmate in the person of Charles
Mardyn, Lady Daventry’s son by her first marriage.
But the marriage of convenience did
not end more felicitously than the marriage of
love—at the end of six months Sir John found
himself a second time a widower. His position
was now a somewhat unusual one—at twenty-seven
he had lost two wives, and was left the
sole guardian of two children, neither past the
age of infancy; Clara Daventry was but two
years old, Charles Mardyn three years her
senior. Of these circumstances Sir John made
what he conceived the best, provided attendants
and governesses for the children, consigned
them to the seclusion of the Hall, while he
repaired to London, procured a superb establishment,
was famed for the skill of his cooks,
and the goodness of his wines, and for the following
eighteen years was an habitué of the
clubs, and courted by the élite of London society;
and this, perhaps, being a perfectly blameless
course, and inflicting as little of any sort of
trouble or annoyance as possible, it must needs
excite our surprise if we do not find it producing
corresponding fruits. Eighteen years make
some changes every where. During these,
Clara Daventry had become a woman, and
Charles Mardyn, having passed through Eton
and Cambridge, had for the last two years
emulated his stepfather’s style of London life.
Mr. Mardyn had left his fortune at the disposal
of his widow, whom he had foolishly loved, and
Lady Daventry, at her death, divided the Mardyn
estates between her husband and son—an
unfair distribution, and one Charles was not
disposed to pardon. He was that combination
so often seen—the union of talent to depravity;
of such talent as the union admits—talent which
is never first-rate, though to the many it appears
so; it is only unscrupulous, and consequently,
has at its command, engines which
virtue dares not use. Selfish and profligate,
he was that mixture of strong passions and indomitable
will, with a certain strength of intellect,
a winning manner, and noble appearance.
[pg 643]
Clara possessed none of these external gifts.
Low and insignificant looking, her small, pale
features, narrow forehead, and cunning gray
eyes, harmonized with a disposition singularly
weak, paltry, and manoeuvring. Eighteen years
had altered Sir John Daventry’s appearance less
than his mind; he had grown more corpulent,
and his features wore a look of sensual indulgence,
mingled with the air of authority of one
whose will, even in trifles, has never been disputed.
But in the indolent voluptuary of forty-five
little remained of the good-humored, careless
man of twenty-seven. Selfishness is an
ill-weed, that grows apace; Sir John Daventry,
handsome, gifted with l’air distingué and thoroughly
répandu in society, was a singularly
heartless and selfish sensualist. Such changes
eighteen years had wrought, when Clara was
surprised by a visit from her father. It was
more than two years since he had been at the
Hall, and the news he brought was little welcome
to her. He was about to marry a third
time—his destined bride was Lady Alice Mortimer,
the daughter of a poor though noble
house, and of whose beauty, though now past
the first bloom of youth, report had reached
even Clara’s ears. From Mardyn, too, she
had heard of Lady Alice, and had fancied that
he was one of her many suitors. Her congratulations
on the event were coldly uttered; in
truth, Clara had long been accustomed to regard
herself as the heiress, and eventually, the
mistress of that princely estate where she had
passed her childhood; this was the one imaginative
dream in a cold, worldly mind. She did
not desire riches to gratify her vanity, or to
indulge in pleasures. Clara Daventry’s temperament
was too passionless to covet it for
these purposes; but she had accustomed herself
to look on these possessions as her right, and to
picture the day when, through their far extent,
its tenants should own her rule. Besides, Mardyn
had awoke, if not a feeling of affection, in
Clara Daventry’s breast, at least a wish to possess
him—a wish in which all the sensuous part
of her nature (and in that cold character there
was a good deal that was sensuous) joined.
She had perception to know her own want of
attractions, and to see that her only hope of
winning this gay and brilliant man of fashion
was the value her wealth might be of in repairing
a fortune his present mode of living was likely
to scatter—a hope which, should her father
marry, and have a male heir, would fall to the
ground. In due time the papers announced the
marriage of Sir John Daventry to the Lady
Alice Mortimer. They were to spend their
honeymoon at Daventry. The evening before
the marriage, Charles Mardyn arrived at the
Hall; it was some time since he had last been
there; it was a singular day to select for leaving
London, and Clara noticed a strange alteration
in his appearance, a negligence of dress,
and perturbation of manner unlike his ordinary
self-possession, that made her think that, perhaps,
he had really loved her destined step-mother.
Still, if so, it was strange his coming
to the Hall. The following evening brought
Sir John and Lady Alice Daventry to their
bridal home. The Hall had been newly decorated
for the occasion, and, in the general confusion
and interest, Clara found herself degraded
from the consideration she had before received.
Now the Hall was to receive a new mistress,
one graced with title, and the stamp of fashion.
These are offenses little minds can hardly be
thought to overlook; and as Clara Daventry
stood in the spacious hall to welcome her stepmother
to her home, and she who was hence-forward
to take the first place there, the Lady
Alice, in her rich traveling costume, stood before
her, the contrast was striking—the unattractive,
ugly girl, beside the brilliant London
beauty—the bitter feelings of envy and resentment,
that then passed through Clara’s mind
cast their shade on her after destiny. During
the progress of dinner, Clara noticed the extreme
singularity of Mardyn’s manner; noticed
also the sudden flush of crimson that dyed Lady
Alice’s cheek on first beholding him, which was
followed by an increased and continued paleness.
There was at their meeting, however, no embarrassment
on his part—nothing but the well-bred
ease of the man of the world was observable
in his congratulations; but during dinner
Charles Mardyn’s eyes were fixed on Lady
Alice with the quiet stealthiness of one calmly
seeking to penetrate through a mystery; and,
despite her efforts to appear unconcerned, it
was evident she felt distressed by his scrutiny.
The dinner was soon dispatched; Lady Alice
complained of fatigue, and Clara conducted her
to the boudoir designed for her private apartment.
As she was returning she met Mardyn.

“Is Lady Alice in the boudoir?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, “you do not want her?”

Without answering, he passed on, and, opening
the door, Charles Mardyn stood before the
Lady Alice Daventry, his stepfather’s wife.

She was sitting on a low stool, and in a deep
reverie, her cheek resting on one of her fairy-like
hands. She was indeed a beautiful woman.
No longer very young—she was about thirty,
but still very lovely, and something almost infantine
in the arch innocence of expression that
lighted a countenance cast in the most delicate
mould—she looked, in every feature, the child
of rank and fashion; so delicate, so fragile, with
those petites features, and that soft pink flesh,
and pouting coral lips; and, in her very essence,
she had all those qualities that belong to a
spoiled child of fashion—wayward, violent in
temper, capricious, and volatile. She started
from her reverie: she had not expected to see
Mardyn, and betrayed much emotion at his
abrupt entrance; for, as though in an agony of
shame, she buried her face in her hands, and
turned away her head, yet her attitude was
very feminine and attractive, with the glossy
ringlets of rich brown hair falling in a shower
over the fair soft arms, and the whole so graceful
in its defenselessness, and the forbearance it
[pg 644]
seemed to ask. Yet, whatever Mardyn’s purpose
might be, it did not seem to turn him from
it; the sternness on his countenance increased
as he drew a chair, and, sitting down close
beside her, waited in silence, gazing at his
companion till she should uncover her face.
At length the hands were dropped, and, with
an effort at calmness, Lady Alice looked up,
but again averted her gaze as she met his.

“When we last met, Lady Alice, it was
under different circumstances,” he said, sarcastically.
She bowed her head, but made no
answer.

“I fear,” he continued, in the same tone,
“my congratulations may not have seemed
warm enough on the happy change in your
prospects; they were unfeigned, I assure you.”
Lady Alice colored.

“These taunts are uncalled for, Mardyn,”
she replied, faintly.

“No; that would be unfair, indeed,” he continued,
in the same bitter tone, “to Lady Alice
Daventry, who has always displayed such consideration
for all my feelings.”

“You never seemed to care,” she rejoined,
and the woman’s pique betrayed itself in the
tone—“You never tried to prevent it.”

“Prevent what?”

She hesitated, and did not reply.

“Fool!” he exclaimed, violently, “did you
think that if one word of mine could have
stopped your marriage, that word would have
been said? Listen, Lady Alice: I loved you
once, and the proof that I did is the hate I now
bear you. If I had not loved you, I should now
feel only contempt. For a time I believed that
you had for me the love you professed. You
chose differently; but though that is over, do
not think that all is. I have sworn to make you
feel some of the misery you caused me. Lady
Alice Daventry, do you doubt that that oath
shall be kept?”

His violence had terrified her—she was deadly
pale, and seemed ready to faint; but a burst
of tears relieved her.

“I do not deserve this,” she said; “I did love
you—I swore it to you, and you doubted me.”

“Had I no reason?” he asked.

“None that you did not cause yourself; your
unfounded jealousy, your determination to humble
me, drove me to the step I took.”

The expression of his countenance somewhat
changed; he had averted his face so that she
could not read its meaning, and over it passed
no sign of relenting, but a look more wholly
triumphant than it had yet worn. When he
turned to Lady Alice it was changed to one of
mildness and sorrow.

“You will drive me mad, Alice,” he uttered,
in a low, deep voice. “May heaven forgive me
if I have mistaken you; you told me you loved
me.”

“I told you the truth,” she rejoined, quickly.

“But how soon that love changed,” he said,
in a half-doubting tone, as if willing to be convinced.

“It never changed!” she replied, vehemently.
“You doubted—you were jealous, and left
me. I never ceased to love you.”

“You do not love me now?” he asked.

She was silent; but a low sob sounded
through the room, and Charles Mardyn was
again at her feet; and, while the marriage-vows
had scarce died from her lips, Lady Alice
Daventry was exchanging forgiveness with, and
listening to protestations of love from the son
of the man to whom, a few hours before, she
had sworn a wife’s fidelity.

It is a scene which needs some explanation;
best heard, however, from Mardyn’s lips. A
step was heard along the passage, and Mardyn,
passing through a side-door, repaired to Clara’s
apartment. He found her engaged on a book.
Laying it down, she bestowed on him a look of
inquiry as he entered.

“I want to speak to you, Clara,” he said.

Fixing her cold gray eyes on his face, she
awaited his questions.

“Has not this sudden step of Sir John’s surprised
you?”

“It has,” she said, quietly.

“Your prospects are not so sure as they
were?”

“No, they are changed,” she said, in the
same quiet tone, and impassive countenance.

“And you feel no great love to your new
stepmother?”

“I have only seen Lady Alice once,” she
replied, fidgeting on her seat.

“Well, you will see her oftener now,” he
observed. “I hope she will make the Hall
pleasant to you.”

“You have some motive in this conversation,”
said Clara, calmly. “You may trust
me, I do not love Lady Alice sufficiently to betray
you.”

And now her voice had a tone of bitterness
surpassing Mardyn’s; he looked steadily at
her; she met and returned his gaze, and that
interchange of looks seemed to satisfy both,
Mardyn at once began:

“Neither of us have much cause to like Sir
John’s new bride; she may strip you of a splendid
inheritance, and I have still more reason to
detest her. Shortly after my arrival in London,
I met Lady Alice Mortimer. I had heard
much of her beauty—it seemed to me to surpass
all I had heard. I loved her; she seemed
all playful simplicity and innocence; but I discovered
she had come to the age of calculation,
and that though many followed, and praised her
wit and beauty, I was almost the only one who
was serious in wishing to marry Lord Mortimer’s
poor and somewhat passée daughter. She
loved me, I believe, as well as she could love
any one. That was not the love I gave, or
asked in return. In brief, I saw through her
sheer heartlessness, the first moment I saw her
waver between the wealth of an old sensualist,
and my love. I left her, but with an oath of
vengeance; in the pursuit of that revenge it will
be your interest to assist. Will you aid me?”

[pg 645]

“How can I?” she asked.

“It is not difficult,” he replied. “Lady Alice
and I have met to-night; she prefers me still.
Let her gallant bridegroom only know this, and
we have not much to fear.”

Clara Daventry paused, and, with clenched
hands, and knit brow, ruminated on his words—familiar
with the labyrinthine paths of the
plotter, she was not long silent.

“I think I see what you mean,” she said.
“And I suppose you have provided means to
accomplish your scheme?”

“They are provided for us. Where could
we find materials more made to our hands?—a
few insinuations, a conversation overheard, a
note conveyed opportunely—these are trifles,
but trifles are the levers of human action.”

There was no more said then; each saw
partly through the insincerity and falsehood
of the other, yet each knew they agreed in a
common object. These were strange scenes
to await a bride, on the first eve in her new
home.

Two or three months have passed since these
conversations. Sir John Daventry’s manner has
changed to his bride: he is no longer the lover,
but the severe, exacting husband. It may be
that he is annoyed at all his long-confirmed
bachelor habits being broken in upon, and that,
in time, he will become used to the change, and
settle down contentedly in his new capacity;
but yet something more than this seems to be at
the bottom of his discontent. Since a confidential
conversation, held over their wine between
him and Charles Mardyn, his manner had been
unusually captious. Mardyn had, after submitting
some time, taken umbrage at a marked
insult, and set off for London. On Lady Alice,
in especial, her husband spent his fits of ill-humor.
With Clara he was more than ever
friendly; her position was now the most enviable
in that house. But she strove to alleviate her
stepmother’s discomforts by every attention a
daughter could be supposed to show, and these
proofs of amiable feeling seemed to touch Sir
John, and as the alienation between him and his
wife increased, to cement an attachment between
Clara and her father.

Lady Alice had lately imparted to her husband
a secret that might be supposed calculated
to fill him with joyous expectations, and raise
hopes of an heir to his vast possessions; but the
communication had been received in sullen
silence, and seemed almost to increase his
savage sternness—treatment which stung Lady
Alice to the quick; and when she retired to her
room, and wept long and bitterly over this unkind
reception of news she had hoped would
have restored his fondness, in those tears mingled
a feeling of hate and loathing to the author
of her grief. Long and dreary did the next
four months appear to the beautiful Lady of
Daventry, who, accustomed to the flattery and
adulation of the London world, could ill-endure
the seclusion and harsh treatment of the
Hall.

At the end of that time, Charles Mardyn
again made his appearance; the welcome he
received from Sir John was hardly courteous.
Clara’s manner, too, seemed constrained; but his
presence appeared to remove a weight from Lady
Alice’s mind, and restore her a portion of her
former spirits. From the moment of Mardyn’s
arrival, Sir John Daventry’s manner changed to
his wife: he abandoned the use of sarcastic
language, and avoided all occasion of dispute
with her, but assumed an icy calmness of demeanor,
the more dangerous, because the more
clear-sighted. He now confided his doubts to
Clara; he had heard from Mardyn that his wife
had, before her marriage, professed an attachment
to him. In this, though jestingly alluded
to, there was much to work on a jealous and
exacting husband. The contrast in age, in
manner, and appearance, was too marked, not
to allow of the suspicion that his superiority in
wealth and position had turned the scale in his
favor—a suspicion which, cherished, had grown
to be the demon that allowed him no peace of
mind, and built up a fabric fraught with wretchedness
on this slight foundation. All this period
Lady Alice’s demeanor to Mardyn was but too
well calculated to deepen these suspicions.
Now, too, had come the time to strike a decisive
blow. In this Clara was thought a fitting
instrument.

“You are indeed unjust,” she said, with a
skillful assumption of earnestness; “Lady Alice
considers she should be a mother to Charles—they
meet often; it is that she may advise him,
She thinks he is extravagant—that he spends
too much time in London, and wishes to make
the country more agreeable to him.”

“Yes, Clary, I know she does; she would be
glad to keep the fellow always near her.”

“You mistake, sir, I assure you; I have been
with them when they were together; their
language has been affectionate, but as far as the
relationship authorizes.”

“Our opinions on that head differ, Clary; she
deceived me, and by —— she shall suffer for it.
She never told me she had known him; the
fellow insulted me by informing me when it was
too late. He did not wish to interfere—it was
over now—he told me with a sneer.”

“He was wounded by her treatment; so
wounded, that, except as your wife, and to show
you respect, I know he would never have
spoken to her. But if your doubts can not be
hushed, they may be satisfactorily dispelled.”

“How—tell me?”

“Lady Alice and Charles sit every morning
in the library; there are curtained recesses
there, in any of which you may conceal yourself,
and hear what passes.”

“Good—good; but if you hint or breathe to
them—”

“I merely point it out,” she interrupted, “as
a proof of my perfect belief in Charles’s principle
and Lady Alice’s affection for you. If a word
passes that militates against that belief, I will
renounce it.”

[pg 646]

A sneer distorted Sir John’s features. When
not blinded by passion, he saw clearly through
character and motives. He had by this discerned
Clara’s dislike to Lady Alice, and now felt convinced
she suggested the scheme as she guessed
he would have his suspicions confirmed. He
saw thus far, but he did not see through a far
darker plot—he did not see that, in the deep
game they played against him, Charles and
Clara were confederates.

That was a pleasant room; without, through
bayed windows, lay a wide and fertile prospect
of sunny landscape; within, it was handsomely
and luxuriously furnished. There were books
in gorgeous bindings; a range of marble pillars
swept its length; stands of flowers, vases of
agate and alabaster, were scattered on every
side; and after breakfast Mardyn and Lady
Alice made it their sitting-room. The morning
after the scheme suggested by Clara, they
were sitting in earnest converse, Lady Alice,
looking pale and care-worn, was weeping convulsively.

“You tell me you must go,” she said; “and
were it a few months later, I would forsake all
and accompany you. But for the sake of my
unborn infant, you must leave me. At another
time return, and you may claim me.”

“Dear Alice,” he whispered softly, “dear,
dear Alice, why did you not know me sooner?
Why did you not love me more, and you would
now have been my own, my wife?”

“I was mad,” she replied, sadly; “but I have
paid the penalty of my sin against you. The
last year has been one of utter misery to me.
If there is a being on earth I loathe, it is the
man I must call my husband; my hatred to him
is alone inferior to my love for you. When I
think what I sacrificed for him,” she continued,
passionately, “the bliss of being your wife, resigned
to unite myself to a vapid sensualist, a man
who was a spendthrift of his passions in youth, and
yet asks to be loved, as if the woman most lost
to herself could feel love for him.”

It was what he wished. Lady Alice had
spoken with all the extravagance of woman’s
exaggeration; her companion smiled; she understood
its meaning.

“You despise, me,” she said, “that I could
marry the man of whom I speak thus.”

“No,” he replied; “but perhaps you judge
Sir John harshly. We must own he has some
cause for jealousy.”

Despite his guarded accent, something smote
on Lady Alice’s ear in that last sentence. She
turned deadly pale—was she deceived? But
in a moment the sense of her utter helplessness
rushed upon her. If he were false, nothing but
destruction lay before her—she desperately closed
her eyes on her danger.

“You are too generous,” she replied. “If
I had known what I sacrificed—”

Poor, wretched woman, what fear was in her
heart as she strove to utter words of confidence.
He saw her apprehensions, and drawing her
toward him, whispered loving words, and showered
burning kisses on her brow. She leant
her head on his breast, and her long hair fell
over his arm as she lay like a child in his embrace.

A few minutes later the library was empty,
when the curtains that shrouded a recess near
where the lovers had sat were drawn back, and
Sir John Daventry emerged from his concealment.
His countenance betrayed little of what
passed within; every other feeling was swallowed
up in a thirst for revenge—a thirst that would
have risked life itself to accomplish its object—for
his suspicions had gone beyond the truth,
black, dreadful as was that truth to a husband’s
ears, and he fancied that his unborn infant owed
its origin to Charles Mardyn; when, for that infant’s
sake, where no other consideration could
have restrained her, Lady Alice had endured her
woman’s wrong, and while confessing her love
for Mardyn, refused to listen to his solicitations,
or to fly with him; and the reference she had
made to this, and which he had overheard, appeared
to him but a base design to palm the
offspring of her love to Mardyn as the heir to the
wealth and name of Daventry.

It wanted now but a month of Lady Alice’s
confinement, and even Mardyn and Clara were
perplexed and indecisive as to the effect their
stratagem had upon Sir John. No word or sign
escaped him to betray what passed within—he
seemed stricken with sudden age, so stern and
hard had his countenance become, so fixed his
icy calmness. They knew not the volcanoes
that burned beneath their undisturbed surface.
A sudden fear fell upon them; they were but
wicked—they were not great in wickedness.
Much of what they had done appeared to them
clumsy and ill-contrived; yet their very fears
lest they might be seen through urged on another
attempt, contrived to give confirmation to Sir
John’s suspicions, should his mind waver. So
great at this time was Mardyn’s dread of detection
that he suddenly left the Hall. He know
Sir John’s vengeance, if once roused, would be
desperate, and feared some attempts on his life.
In truth his position was a perilous one, and this
lull of fierce elements seemed to forerun some
terrible explosion—where the storm might spend
its fury was as yet hid in darkness. Happy
was it for the Lady Alice Daventry that she
knew none of these things, or hers would have
been a position of unparalleled wretchedness, as
over the plotters, the deceived, and the foredoomed
ones, glided on the rapid moments that
brought them nearer and nearer, till they stood
on the threshold of crime and death.

And now, through the dark channels of fraud
and jealousy, we have come to the eve of that
strange and wild page in our story, which long
attached a tragic interest to the hails of Daventry,
and swept all but the name of that ancient
race into obscurity.

On the fifteenth of December, Lady Alice
Daventry was confined of a son. All the usual
demonstrations of joy were forbidden by Sir
[pg 647]
John, on the plea of Lady Alice’s precarious
situation. Her health, weakened by the events
of the past year, had nearly proved unequal to
this trial of her married life, and the fifth morning
after her illness was the first on which the
physician held out confident hopes of her having
strength to carry her through. Up to that time
the survival of the infant had been a matter of
doubt; but on that morning, as though the one
slender thread had bound both to existence,
fear was laid aside, and calmness reigned through
the mansion of Daventry. On that morning,
too, arrived a letter directed to “The Lady
Alice Daventry.” A dark shade flitted over
Sir John’s face as he read the direction; then
placing it among his other letters reserved for
private perusal, he left the room.

The day wore on, each hour giving increasing
strength to the Lady Alice and her boy-heir.
During its progress, it was noticed, even by
the servants, that their master seemed unusually
discomposed, and that his countenance wore an
expression of ghastly paleness. As he sat alone,
after dinner, he drank glass after glass of wine,
but they brought no flush to his cheek—wrought
no change in his appearance; some mightier
spirit seemed to bid defiance to the effects of
drink. At a late hour he retired to his room.
The physician had previously paid his last visit
to the chamber of his patient; she was in a
calm sleep, and the last doubt as to her condition
faded from his mind, as, in a confident tone, he
reiterated his assurance to the nurse-tender
“that she might lie down and take some rest—that
nothing more was to be feared.”

The gloom of a December’s night had closed,
dark and dreary, around the Hall, while, through
the darkness, the wind drove the heavy rain
against the easements; but, undisturbed by the
rain and winds, the Lady Alice and her infant
lay in a tranquil sleep; doubt and danger had
passed from them; the grave had seemed to yawn
toward the mother and child, but the clear color
on the transparent cheek, the soft and regular
breathing caught through the stillness of the
chamber, when the wind had died in the distance,
gave assurance to the nurse that all danger was
past; and, wearied with the watching of the
last four nights, she retired to a closet opening
from Lady Alice’s apartment, and was soon
buried in the heavy slumber of exhaustion.

That profound sleep was rudely broken
through by wild, loud cries, reaching over the
rage of the elements, which had now risen to a
storm. The terrified woman staggered to the
bedroom, to witness there a fearful change—sudden,
not to be accounted for. A night-lamp
shed its dim light through the apartment on a
scene of horror and mystery. All was silence
now—and the Lady Alice stood erect on the
floor, half shrouded in the heavy curtains of the
bed, and clasping her infant in her arms. By
this time the attendants, roused from sleep, had
reached the apartment, and assisted in taking
the child from its mother’s stiff embrace; it had
uttered no cry, and when they brought it to the
light, the blaze fell on features swollen and lifeless—it
was dead in its helplessness—dead by
violence, for on its throat were the marks of
strong and sudden pressure; but how, by whom,
was a horrid mystery. They laid the mother
on the bed, and as they did so, a letter fell from
her grasp—a wild fit of delirium succeeded, followed
by a heavy swoon, from which the physician
failed in awaking her—before the night
had passed, Lady Alice Daventry had been summoned
to her rest. The sole clew to the events
of that night was the letter which had fallen
from Lady Alice; it the physician had picked
up and read, but positively refused to reveal its
contents, more than to hint that they betrayed
guilt that rendered his wife and child’s removal
more a blessing than a misfortune to Sir John
Daventry. Yet somehow rumors were heard
that the letter was in Charles Mardyn’s hand;
that it had fallen in Sir John’s way, and revealed
to him a guilty attachment between Mardyn
and his wife; but how it came into her hands,
or how productive of such a catastrophe as the
destruction of her infant, her frenzy, and death,
remained unknown: but one further gleam of
light was ever thrown on that dark tragedy.
The nurse-tender, who had first come to her
mistress’s assistance, declared that, as she entered
the room, she had heard steps in quick
retreat along the gallery leading from Lady
Alice’s room, and a few surmised that, in the
dead of night, her husband had placed that letter
in her hand, and told her he knew her guilt.
This was but conjecture—a wild and improbable
one, perhaps.

Charles Mardyn came not again to the Hall.
What he and Clara Daventry thought of what
had passed, was known only to themselves. A
year went on, and Clara and her father lived
alone—a year of terror to the former, for from
that terrible night her father had become subject
to bursts of savage passion that filled her with
alarm for her own safety: these, followed by
long fits of moody silence, rendered her life, for
a year, harassed and wretched; but then settling
into confirmed insanity, released her from his
violence. Sir John Daventry was removed to
an asylum, and Clara was mistress of the Hall.
Another year passed, and she became the wife
of Charles Mardyn. It was now the harvest
of their labors, and reaped as such harvests
must be. The pleasures and amusements of a
London life had grown distasteful to Mardyn—they
palled on his senses, and he sought change
in a residence at the Hall; but here greater
discontent awaited him. The force of conscience
allowed them not happiness in a place
peopled with such associations: they were
childless, they lived in solitary state, unvisited
by those of their own rank, who were deterred
from making overtures of intimacy by
the stories that were whispered affixing discredit
to his name; his pride and violent temper
were ill fitted to brook this neglect; in
disgust, they left Daventry, and went to Mardyn
[pg 648]
Park, an old seat left him by his mother, on
the coast of Dorsetshire. It was wildly situated,
and had been long uninhabited; and in this
lonely residence the cup of Clara’s wretchedness
was filled to overflowing. In Mardyn
there was now no trace left of the man who
had once captivated her fancy; prematurely
old, soured in temper, he had become brutal
and overbearing; for Clara he had cast off
every semblance of decency, and indifference
was now usurped by hate and violence; their
childless condition was made a constant, source
of bitter reproach from her husband. Time
brought no alleviation to this state of wretchedness,
but rather increased their evil passions
and mutual abhorrence. They had long and
bitterly disputed one day, after dinner, and each
reminded the other of their sins with a vehemence
of reproach that, from the lips of any
other, must have, overwhelmed the guilty pair
with shame and terror. Driven from the room
by Mardyn’s unmanly violence and coarse epithets,
Clara reached the drawing-room, and
spent some hours struggling with the stings of
conscience aroused by Mardyn’s taunts. They
had heard that morning of Sir John Daventry’s
death, and the removal of the only being who
lived to suffer for their sin had seemed but to
add a deeper gloom to their miserable existence—the
time was past when any thing could bid
them hope. Her past career passed through
the guilty woman’s mind, and filled her with
dread, and a fearful looking out for judgment.
She had not noticed how time had fled, till she
saw it was long past Mardyn’s hour for retiring,
and that he had not come up stairs yet.
Another hour passed, and then a vague fear
seized upon her mind—she felt frightened at
being alone, and descended to the parlor. She
had brought no light with her, and when she
reached the door she paused; all in the house
seemed so still she trembled, and turning the
lock, entered the room. The candles had burnt
out, and the faint red glare of the fire alone
shone through the darkness; by the dim light
she saw that Mardyn was sitting, his arms folded
on the table, and his head reclined as if in
sleep. She touched him, he stirred not, and
her hand, slipping from his shoulder, fell upon
the table and was wet; she saw that a decanter
had been overturned, and fancied Mardyn had
been drinking, and fallen asleep; she hastened
from the room for a candle. As she seized a
light burning in the passage, she saw that the
hand she had extended was crimsoned with
blood. Almost delirious with terror, she regained
the room. The light from her hand fell
on the table—it was covered with a pool of
blood, that was falling slowly to the floor.
With a wild effort she raised her husband—his
head fell on her arm—the throat was severed
from ear to ear—the countenance set, and distorted
in death.

In that moment the curse of an offended God
worked its final vengeance on guilt—Clara Mardyn
was a lunatic.


Mirabeau. An Anecdote Of His Private Life.
(From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.)

The public life as well as the private character
of Mirabeau are universally known,
but the following anecdote has not, we believe,
been recorded in any of the biographies. The
particulars were included in the brief furnished
to M. de Galitzane, advocate-general in the
parliament of Provence, when he was retained
for the defense of Madame Mirabeau in her
husband’s process against her. M. de Galitzane
afterward followed the Bourbons into exile,
and returned with them in 1814; and it is on
his authority that the story is given as fact.

Mirabeau had just been released from the
dungeon of the castle of Vincennes near Paris.
He had been confined there for three years and
a half, by virtue of that most odious mandate,
a lettre-de-cachet. His imprisonment had been
of a most painful nature; and it was prolonged
at the instance of his father, the Marquis de
Mirabeau. On his being reconciled to his
father, the confinement terminated, in the year
1780, when Mirabeau was thirty-one years of
age.

One of his father’s conditions was, that Mirabeau
should reside for some time at a distance
from Paris; and it was settled that he should go
on a visit to his brother-in-law, Count du Saillant,
whose estate was situated a few leagues
from the city of Limoges, the capital of the
Limousin. Accordingly, the count went to
Vincennes to receive Mirabeau on the day of
his liberation, and they pursued their journey at
once with all speed.

The arrival of Mirabeau at the ancient manorial
château created a great sensation in that
remote part of France. The country gentlemen
residing in the neighborhood had often heard
him spoken of as a remarkable man, not only
on account of his brilliant talents, but also for
his violent passions; and they hastened to the
château to contemplate a being who had excited
their curiosity to an extraordinary pitch. The
greater portion of these country squires were
mere sportsmen, whose knowledge did not extend
much beyond the names and qualities of
their dogs and horses, and in whose houses it
would have been almost in vain to seek for any
other book than the local almanac, containing
the list of the fairs and markets, to which they
repaired with the utmost punctuality, to loiter
away their time, talk about their rural affairs,
dine abundantly, and wash down their food with
strong Auvergne wine.

Count du Saillant was quite of a different
stamp from his neighbors. He had seen the
world, he commanded a regiment, and at that
period his château was perhaps the most civilized
country residence in the Limousin. People
came from a considerable distance to visit its
hospitable owner; and among the guests there
was a curious mixture of provincial oddities,
clad in their quaint costumes. At that epoch,
[pg 649]
indeed, the young Lismousin noblemen, when
they joined their regiments, to don their sword
and epaulets for the first time, were very
slightly to be distinguished, either by their
manners or appearance, from their rustic retainers.

It will easily be imagined, then, that Mirabeau,
who was gifted with brilliant natural
qualities, cultivated and polished by education—a
man, moreover, who had seen much of the
world, and had been engaged in several strange
and perilous adventures—occupied the most conspicuous
post in this society, many of the component
members whereof seemed to have barely
reached the first degrees in the scale of civilization.
His vigorous frame; his enormous head,
augmented in bulk by a lofty frizzled coiffure;
his huge face, indented with scars, and furrowed
with seams, from the effect of small-pox injudiciously
treated in his childhood; his piercing
eyes, the reflection of the tumultuous passions
at war within him; his mouth, whose expression
indicated in turn irony, disdain, indignation, and
benevolence; his dress, always carefully attended
to, but in an exaggerated style, giving him
somewhat the air of a traveling charlatan decked
out with embroidery, large frill, and ruffles; in
short, this extraordinary-looking individual astonished
the country-folks even before he opened
his mouth. But when his sonorous voice was
heard, and his imagination, heated by some interesting
subject of conversation, imparted a
high degree of energy to his eloquence, some
of the worthy rustic hearers felt as though they
were in the presence of a saint, others in that
of a devil; and according to their several impressions,
they were tempted either to fall down
at his feet, or to exorcise him by making the
sign of the cross, and uttering a prayer.

Seated in a large antique arm-chair, with his
feet stretched out on the floor, Mirabeau often
contemplated, with a smile playing on his lips,
those men who seemed to belong to the primitive
ages; so simple, frank, and at the same
time clownish, were they in their manners. He
listened to their conversations, which generally
turned upon the chase, the exploits of their dogs,
or the excellence of their horses, of whose breed
and qualifications they were very proud. Mirabeau
entered freely into their notions; took an
interest in the success of their sporting projects;
talked, too, about crops; chestnuts, of which
large quantities are produced in the Limousin;
live and dead stock; ameliorations in husbandry;
and so forth; and he quite won the
hearts of the company by his familiarity with
the topics in which they felt the most interest,
and by his good nature.

This monotonous life was, however, frequently
wearisome to Mirabeau; and in order to vary
it, and for the sake of exercise, after being occupied
for several hours in writing, he was in
the habit of taking a fowling-piece, according
to the custom of the country, and putting a
book into his game-bag, he would frequently
make long excursions on foot in every direction.
He admired the noble forests of chestnut-trees
which abound in the Limousin; the vast meadows,
where numerous herds of cattle of a superior
breed are reared; and the running streams
by which that picturesque country is intersected.
He generally returned to the château long
after sunset, saying that night scenery was
peculiarly attractive to him.

It was during and after supper that those
conversations took place for which Mirabeau
supplied the principal and the most interesting
materials. He possessed the knack of provoking
objections to what he might advance, in
order to combat them, as he did with great
force of logic and in energetic language; and
thus he gave himself lessons in argument, caring
little about his auditory, his sole aim being
to exercise his mental ingenuity and to cultivate
eloquence. Above all, he was fond of discussing
religious matters with the curé of the
parish. Without displaying much latitudinarianism,
he disputed several points of doctrine and
certain pretensions of the church so acutely,
that the pastor could say but little in reply.
This astonished the Limousin gentry, who, up
to that time, had listened to nothing but the
drowsy discourses of their curés, or the sermons
of some obscure mendicant friars, and who
placed implicit faith in the dogmas of the
church. The faith of a few was shaken, but the
greater number of his hearers were very much
tempted to look upon the visitor as an emissary
of Satan sent to the château to destroy them.
The curé, however, did not despair of eventually
converting Mirabeau.

At this period several robberies had taken
place at no great distance from the château:
four or five farmers had been stopped shortly
after nightfall on their return from the market-towns,
and robbed of their purses. Not one of
these persons had offered any resistance, for
each preferred to make a sacrifice rather than
run the risk of a struggle in a country full of
ravines, and covered with a rank vegetation
very favorable to the exploits of brigands, who
might be lying in wait to massacre any individual
who might resist the one detached from the
band to demand the traveler’s money or his life.
These outrages ceased for a short time, but they
soon recommenced, and the robbers remained
undiscovered.

One evening, about an hour after sunset, a
guest arrived at the château. He was one of
Count du Saillant’s most intimate friends, and
was on his way home from a neighboring fair.
This gentleman appeared to be very thoughtful,
and spoke but little, which surprised every
body, inasmuch as he was usually a merry companion.
His gasconades had frequently roused
Mirabeau from his reveries, and of this he was
not a little proud. He had not the reputation
of being particularly courageous, however,
though he often told glowing tales about his
own exploits; and it must be admitted that he
took the roars of laughter with which they were
usually received very good-humoredly.

[pg 650]

Count du Saillant being much surprised at
this sudden change in his friend’s manner, took
him aside after supper, and begged that he
would accompany him to another room. When
they were there alone, he tried in vain for a
long time to obtain a satisfactory answer to his
anxious inquiries as to the cause of his friend’s
unwonted melancholy and taciturnity. At
length the visitor said—“Nay, nay; you would
never believe it. You would declare that I was
telling you one of my fables, as you are pleased
to call them; and perhaps this time we might
fall out.”

“What do you mean?” cried Count de Saillant;
“this seems to be a serious affair. Am
I, then, connected with your presentiments?”

“Not exactly you; but—”

“What does this but mean? Has it any
thing to do with my wife? Explain yourself.”

“Not the least in the world. Madame du
Saillant is in nowise concerned in the matter:
but—”

“But!—but! you tire me out with your
buts. Are you resolved still to worry me with
your mysteries? Tell me at once what has
occurred—what has happened to you?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing at all. No doubt I
was frightened.”

“Frightened!—and at what? By whom?
For God’s sake, my dear friend, do not prolong
this painful state of uncertainty.”

“Do you really wish me to speak out?”

“Not only so, but I demand this of you as an
act of friendship.”

“Well, I was stopped to-night at about the
distance of half a league from your château.”

“Stopped! In what way? By whom?”

“Why, stopped as people are stopped by
footpads. A gun was leveled at me; I was
peremptorily ordered to deliver up my purse; I
threw it down on the ground, and galloped off.
Do not ask me any more questions.”

“Why not? I wish to know all. Should
you know the robber again? Did you notice
his figure and general appearance?”

“It being dark, I could not exactly discover:
I can not positively say. However, it seems to
me—”

“What seems to you? What or whom do
you think you saw?”

“I never can tell you.”

“Speak—speak; you can not surely wish to
screen a malefactor from justice?”

“No; but if the said malefactor should be—”

“If he were my own son, I should insist upon
your telling me.”

“Well, then, it appeared to me that the robber
was your brother-in-law, mirabeau! But
I might be mistaken; and, as I said before,
fear—”

“Impossible: no, it can not be. Mirabeau a
footpad! No, no. You are mistaken, my good
friend.”

“Certainly—certainly.”

“Let us not speak any more of this,” said
Count du Saillant. “We will return to the
drawing-room, and I hope you will be as gay
as usual; if not, I shall set you down as a mad-man.
I will so manage that our absence shall
not be thought any thing of.” And the gentlemen
re-entered the drawing room, one a short
time before the other.

The visitor succeeded in resuming his accustomed
manner; but the count fell into a gloomy
reverie, in spite of all his efforts. He could
not banish from his mind the extraordinary
story he had heard: it haunted him; and at
last, worn out with the most painful conjectures,
he again took his friend aside, questioned him
afresh, and the result was, that a plan was
agreed upon for solving the mystery. It was
arranged that M. De —— should in the course
of the evening mention casually, as it were,
that he was engaged on a certain day to meet
a party at a friend’s house to dinner, and that
he purposed coming afterward to take a bed
at the château, where he hoped to arrive at
about nine in the evening. The announcement
was accordingly made in the course of conversation,
when all the guests were present—good
care being taken that it should be heard by
Mirabeau, who at the time was playing a game
of chess with the curé.

A week passed away, in the course of which
a farmer was stopped and robbed of his purse;
and at length the critical night arrived.

Count du Saillant was upon the rack the
whole evening; and his anxiety became almost
unbearable when the hour for his friend’s promised
arrival had passed without his having made
his appearance. Neither had Mirabeau returned
from his nocturnal promenade. Presently
a storm of lightning, thunder, and heavy rain
came on; in the midst of it the bell at the gate
of the court-yard rang loudly. The count rushed
out of the room into the court-yard, heedless
of the contending elements; and before the
groom could arrive to take his friend’s horse,
the anxious host was at his side. His guest
was in the act of dismounting.

“Well,” said M. De ——, “I have been
stopped. It is really he. I recognized him
perfectly.”

Not a word more was spoken then; but as
soon as the groom had led the horse to the
stables, M. De —— rapidly told the count that,
during the storm, and as he was riding along,
a man, who was half-concealed behind a very
large tree, ordered him to throw down his purse.
At that moment a flash of lightning enabled
him to discover a portion of the robber’s person,
and M. De —— rode at him; but the robber
retreated a few paces, and then leveling his
gun at the horseman, cried with a powerful
voice, which it was impossible to mistake, “Pass
on, or you are a dead man!” Another flash of
lightning showed the whole of the robber’s figure:
it was Mirabeau, whose voice had already
betrayed him! The wayfarer, having no inclination
to be shot, put spurs to his horse, and
soon reached the château.

The count enjoined strict silence, and begged
[pg 651]
of his friend to avoid displaying any change in
his usual demeanor when in company with the
other guests; he then ordered his valet to come
again to him as soon as Mirabeau should return.
Half an hour afterward Mirabeau arrived.
He was wet to the skin, and hastened to his
own room; he told the servant to inform the
count that he could not join the company at the
evening meal, and begged that his supper might
be brought to his room; and he went to bed as
soon as he had supped.

All went on as usual with the party assembled
below, excepting that the gentleman who had
had so unpleasant an adventure on the road appeared
more gay than usual.

When his guests had all departed, the master
of the house repaired alone to his brother-in-law’s
apartment. He found him fast asleep,
and was obliged to shake him rather violently
before he could rouse him.

“What’s the matter? Who’s there? What
do you want with me?” cried Mirabeau, staring
at his brother-in-law, whose eyes were flashing
with rage and disgust.

“What do I want? I want, to tell you that
you are a wretch!”

“A fine compliment, truly!” replied Mirabeau,
with the greatest coolness. “It was
scarcely worth while to awaken me only to
abuse me: go away, and let me sleep.”

“Can you sleep after having committed so
bad an action? Tell me—where did you pass
the evening? Why did you not join us at the
supper-table?”

“I was wet through—tired—harassed: I
had been overtaken by the storm. Are you
satisfied now? Go, and let me get some sleep:
do you want to keep me chattering all night?”

“I insist upon an explanation of your strange
conduct. You stopped Monsieur De —— on
his way hither this evening: this is the second
time you have attacked that gentleman, for he
recognized you as the same man who robbed
him a week ago. You have turned highwayman,
then!”

“Would it not have been all in good time to
tell me this to-morrow morning?” said Mirabeau,
with inimitable sang-froid. “Supposing
that I did stop your friend, what of that?”

“That you are a wretch!”

“And that you are a fool, my dear Du Saillant.
Do you imagine that it was for the sake
of his money that I stopped this poor country
squire? I wished to put him to the proof, and
to put myself to the proof. I wished to ascertain
what degree of resolution was necessary in
order to place one’s self in formal opposition to
the most sacred laws of society: the trial was a
dangerous one; but I have made it several times.
I am satisfied with myself—but your friend is a
coward.” He then felt in the pocket of his
waistcoat, which lay on a chair by his bedside,
and drawing a key from it, said, “Take this
key, open my scrutoire, and bring me the second
drawer on the left hand.”

The count, astounded at so much coolness,
and carried away by an irresistible impulse—for
Mirabeau spoke with the greatest firmness—unlocked
the cabinet, and brought the drawer
to Mirabeau. It contained nine purses; some
made of leather, others of silk; each purse was
encircled by a label on which was written a
date—it was that of the day on which the owner
had been stopped and robbed; the sum contained
in the purse was also written down.

“You see,” said Mirabeau, “that I did not
wish to reap any pecuniary benefit from my
proceedings. A timid person, my dear friend,
could never become a highwayman; a soldier
who fights in the ranks does not require half so
much courage as a footpad. You are not the
kind of man to understand me, therefore I will
not attempt to make myself more intelligible.
You would talk to me about honor—about religion;
but these have never stood in the way
of a well-considered and a firm resolve. Tell
me, Du Saillant, when you lead your regiment
into the heat of battle, to conquer a province to
which he whom you call your master has no
right whatever, do you consider that you are
performing a better action than mine, in stopping
your friend on the king’s highway, and demanding
his purse?”

“I obey without reasoning,” replied the
count.

“And I reason without obeying, when obedience
appears to me to be contrary to reason,”
rejoined Mirabeau. “I study all kinds of social
positions, in order to appreciate them justly. I
do not neglect even those positions or cases
which are in decided opposition to the established
order of things; for established order is
merely conventional, and may be changed when
it is generally admitted to be faulty. Such a
study is a dangerous, but it is a necessary one
for him who wishes to gain a perfect knowledge
of men and things. You are living within the
boundary of the law, whether it be for good or
evil. I study the law, and I endeavor to acquire
strength enough to combat it if it be bad when
the proper time shall arrive.”

“You wish for a convulsion then?” cried the
count.

“I neither wish to bring it about nor do I
desire to witness it; but should it come to
pass through the force of public opinion, I would
second it to the full extent of my power. In
such a case you will hear me spoken of. Adieu.
I shall depart to-morrow; but pray leave me
now, and let me have a little sleep.”

Count du Saillant left the room without saying
another word. Very early on the following
morning Mirabeau was on his way to Paris.


Terrestrial Magnetism.
(From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.)

It is proposed in the following article to give
the reader some idea of one of the greatest and
most extensive scientific works going on at the
present time in this country—namely, the examination
of the phenomenon of the earth’s
[pg 652]
magnetism; but before doing so, it will be
necessary to make a few prefatory observations
respecting magnetism generally.

The attractive power of the natural magnet
or loadstone over fragments of iron seems to
have been known from the remotest antiquity.
It is distinctly referred to by ancient writers,
and Pliny mentions a chain of iron rings suspended
from one another, the first being upheld
by a loadstone. It is singular that although
the common properties of the loadstone were
known, and even studied, during the dark ages,
its directive power, or that of a needle touched
or rubbed by it, seems to be the discovery of
modern times, notwithstanding the claims of the
Chinese and Arabians to an early acquaintance
with this peculiarity.

There is no doubt that the mariner’s compass
was known in the twelfth century, for several
authors of that period make special allusion to
it; but centuries elapsed before its variation
from pointing precisely to the poles became
noticed. If a magnet be suspended by a thread,
in such a manner as to enable it to move freely,
it will, when all other magnetic bodies are entirely
removed from it, settle in a fixed position,
which, in this country, is about 25° to the west
of north; this deviation of the needle from the
north is called its variation. Again, if, in place
of suspending a magnetized needle, making it
move horizontally on a pivot, we balance it upon
a horizontal axis, as the beam of a pair of scales,
we shall find that it no longer remains horizontal,
but that one end will incline downward, or,
as it is called, dip, and this dip or inclination
from a horizontal line is about 70° in this country.

Thus we are presented with two distinct
magnetical phenomena: 1. The variation or
declination of the needle; 2. Its dip or inclination;
and to these we may add the intensity or
force which draws the needle from pointing to
the north, and which varies in different latitudes.
These phenomena constitute what has been called
terrestrial magnetism.

Recent writers, and among them the great
philosopher Humboldt, have shown that in all
probability the declination or variation of the
magnet was known as early as the twelfth century;
but this important discovery has been
generally ascribed to Columbus. His son Ferdinand
states that on the 14th September 1492,
his father, when about 200 leagues from the
island of Ferro, noticed for the first time the
variation of the needle. “A phenomenon,” says
Washington Irving, “that had never before been
remarked.” “He perceived,” adds this author,
“about nightfall that the needle, instead of pointing
to the north star, varied half a point, or between
five and six degrees, to the northwest,
and still more on the following morning. Struck
with this circumstance, he observed it attentively
for three days, and found that the variation increased
as he advanced. He at first made no
mention of this phenomenon, knowing how ready
his people were to take alarm; but it soon attracted
the attention of the pilots, and filled
them with consternation. It seemed as if the
laws of nature were changing as they advanced,
and that they were entering another world, subject
to unknown influences. They apprehended
that the compass was about to lose its mysterious
virtues; and without this guide, what
was to become of them in a vast and trackless
ocean? Columbus tasked his science and ingenuity
for reasons with which to allay their
terrors. He told them that the direction of the
needle was not the polar star, but to some fixed
and invisible point: the variation was not caused
by any failing in the compass, but because this
point, like the heavenly bodies, had its changes
and revolutions, and every day described a circle
round the pole. The high opinion that the pilots
entertained of Columbus as a profound astronomer
gave weight to his theory, and their alarm
subsided.”

Thus, although it is possible that the variation
of the needle had been noticed before the
time of Columbus, it is evident that he had discovered
the amount of the variation, and that it
varied in different latitudes. The great philosopher
Humboldt observes on this point, that
“Columbus has not only the incontestible merit
of having first discovered a line without magnetic
variation, but also of having, by his considerations
on the progressive increase of westerly
declination in receding from that line, given the
first impulse to the study of terrestrial magnetism
in Europe.”

With respect to the dip or inclination of the
magnetic needle, which must be regarded as
the other element of magnetic direction, there
is little doubt that it was known long before the
period usually assigned as the date of its discovery—namely,
in 1576; for it is difficult to
conceive how the variation of the needle should
be observed and noted, and not its deviation
from a horizontal line. In the above year a
person of the name of Robert Norman, who
styled himself “hydrographer,” published a
book containing an account of this phenomenon.
The title of this work is sufficiently curious to
be quoted. It runs: “The New Attractive;
containing a short Discourse of the Magnes or
Loadstone, and amongst others his Virtues, of a
neue discovered Secret and Subtill Propertie,
concerning the Declination of the Needle touched
therewith under the Plaine of the Horizon, now
first found out by Robert Norman, Hydrographer.”
In the third chapter we are told “by what
meanes the rare and straunge declyning of the
needle from the plaine of the horison was first
found.”

“Having made many and diuers compasses,
and using always to finish and end them before
I touched the needle, I found continually that
after I had touched the yrons with the stone,
that presently the north point thereof would
bend or declyne downwards under the horison
in some quantity, insomuch that I was constrained
to putt some small piece of waxe in the
south parts thereof, to counterpoise this declyning,
[pg 653]
and to make it equal againe. Which
effecte hauing many times passed my hands
without any greate regarde thereunto, as ignorant
of any such properties in the stone, and not
before hauing heard or read of any such matter,
it chanced at length that there came to my
handes an instrument to be made with a needle
of sixe inches long, which needle, after I had
polished, cutt off at full length, and made it to
stand leuel upon the pinn, so that nothing rested
but only the touching of it with the stone.
When I hadde touched the same, presently the
north part thereof declyned down in such sort,
that being constrained to cut away some of that
part to make it equall againe in the end, I cut
it too short, and so spoiled the needle wherein I
had taken so much paines.

“Hereby being straken into some cholar, I
applyed myself to seek farther into this effecte;
and making certain learned and expert men, my
friends, acquainted in this matter, they advised
me to frame some instrument to make some
exact triall how much the needle touched with
the stone would declyne, or what greatest angle
it would make with the plaine of the horison.”

The author then proceeds to give a number
of experiments which he made with his instrument,
and which may be regarded as the dipping-needle
in its first and rudest form. By it
he found the inclination or dip to be 71° 50′.

It is remarkable, that until within the last
seventy years, it appears to have been the received
opinion that the intensity of terrestrial
magnetism was the same at all parts of the
earth’s surface; or, in other words, that in all
countries the needle was similarly affected.
And yet few things are more inconstant; for,
not only is the magnetic force widely different in
various parts of our globe, but the magnetic condition
itself is one of swift and ceaseless change.

The first person who attempted to collect and
generalize observations on the variation of the
needle, was Robert Halley, who constructed a
chart, showing a series of lines drawn through
the points or places where the needle exhibited
the same variation. This chart was published
in 1700, and was preceded by some exceedingly
curious papers, communicated to the Royal
Society, in which he expresses his belief that
he has put it past doubt that the globe of the
earth is one great magnet, having four magnetic
poles or points of attraction, two near each
pole of the equator; and that in those parts of
the world which lie adjacent to any one of those
magnetical poles, the needle is chiefly governed
thereby, the nearest pole being always predominant
over the more remote.

The great importance of collecting as much
information as possible respecting the laws of
magnetism, with a view to the proper understanding
of its effects, was fully understood by
Halley, as the following passage, taken from
one of his papers, read before the Royal Society
in 1692, singularly attests: “The nice determination
of the variation, and several other particulars
in the magnetic system, is reserved for
a remote posterity. All that we can hope to
do is, to leave behind us observations that may
be confided in, and to propose hypotheses which
after-ages may examine, amend, or refute; only
here I must take leave to recommend to all
masters of ships, and all others, lovers of natural
truths, that they use their utmost diligence
to make, or procure to be made, observations of
these variations in all parts of the world, as well
in the north as south latitude, after the laudable
custom of our East India commanders; and
that they please to communicate them to the
Royal Society, in order to leave as complete a
history as may be to those that are hereafter to
compare all together, and to complete and perfect
this abstruse theory.”

Halley’s theory, or rather hypothesis, which
regarded our globe as a great piece of clockwork,
by which the poles of an internal magnet
were carried round in a cycle of determinate
but unknown period, was so far confirmed, that
his variation chart had been hardly forty years
completed, when, by the effect of these changes,
it had already become obsolete; and to satisfy
the requirements of navigation, it became necessary
to reconstruct it. This was performed by
the aid of various observations furnished by the
Commissioners of the Navy, and the East India,
Africa, and Hudson’s Bay Companies. But the
chart was far from satisfactory, and, in consequence
of the discordant nature of the observations,
no dependence could be placed on it.

No further steps were taken to ascertain the
magnetism of the earth until the close of the
last century, when the French government
undertook the first comprehensive experimental
inquiry on the subject. When the exploring
expedition of La Pérouse was organized, the
French Academy of Sciences prepared instructions
for the expedition, containing a recommendation
that observations with the dipping-needle
should be made at stations widely remote,
as a test of the equality or difference of the
magnetic intensity; suggesting also, with a
sagacity anticipating the result, that such observations
should particularly be made at those
parts of the earth where the dip was greatest,
and where it was least. The experiments,
whatever their results may have been, which,
in compliance with this recommendation, were
made in the expedition of La Pérouse, perished
in its general catastrophe, neither ships nor
navigators having ever been heard of; but the
instructions survived.

Our knowledge of the laws of magnetism was
not increased until 1811, when, on the occasion
of a prize proposed by the Royal Danish Academy,
M. Hansteen, whose attention had for many
years been turned to magnetic phenomena, undertook
its re-examination. With indefatigable
labor M. Hansteen traced back the history of
the subject, and filled up the interval from Halley’s
time, and even from an earlier epoch
(1600). The results appeared in his very remarkable
and celebrated work, published in
1819, entitled, “Upon the Magnetism of the
[pg 654]
Earth;” in which he clearly demonstrates, by
a great number of facts, the fluctuation which
the magnetical element has undergone during
the last two centuries, confirming in great detail
the position of Halley—that the whole magnetical
system is in motion; that the moving
force is very great, extending its effects from
pole to pole; and its that motion is not sudden,
but gradual and regular.

In the magnetic atlas which accompanies M.
Hansteen’s work there is a variation chart for
1787, showing the magnetic force at that period.
In this chart the western line of no variation,
or that which passes through all places on the
globe when the needle points to the true north,
begins in latitude 60° to the west of Hudson’s
Bay; proceeds in a southeast direction through
the North American Lakes, passes the Antilles
and Cape St. Roque, till it reaches the South
Atlantic Ocean, when it cuts the meridian of
Greenwich in about 65° of south latitude. This
line of no variation is extremely regular, being
almost straight, till it bends round the eastern
part of South America, a little south of the
equator. The eastern line of no variation is
exceedingly irregular, being full of curves and
contortions of the most extraordinary kind, indicating
plainly the action of local magnetic
forces. It begins in latitude 60° south, below
New Holland; crosses that island through its
centre; extends through the Indian Archipelago
with a double sinuosity, so as to cross the
equator three times—first passing north of it to
the east of Borneo, then returning to it, and
passing south between Sumatra and Borneo, and
then crossing it again south of Ceylon, from
which it passes to the east through the Yellow
Sea. It then stretches along the coast of China,
making a semicircular sweep to the west, till it
reaches the latitude of 71°, when it descends
again to the south, and returns northwards with
a great semicircular bend, which terminates in
the White Sea. Thus it is demonstrated that
in the northern hemisphere the general motion
of the variation lines is from west to east, in the
southern hemisphere from east to west.

A great impetus was given to the study of
terrestrial magnetism by the publication of M.
Hansteen’s labors; and the various arctic expeditions
sent out by the country did much toward
making us acquainted with the laws of magnetism
in the northern regions. One of these expeditions
led to the discovery of the north magnetic
pole, or that point where the dipping-needle
assumes a vertical position. The discovery
was made by Captain Sir James Ross,
who sailed with his uncle Sir John Ross, in a
voyage undertaken in search of a northwest
passage. He left his uncle’s ship with a party
for the sole purpose of reaching this interesting
magnetical point, which a series of observations
assured him could not be very far distant. The
following extract from his journal communicating
his discovery will be read with interest.
Under the date of the 31st of May 1831, he
writes: “We were now within fourteen miles
of the calculated position of the magnetic pole,
and my anxiety, therefore, did not permit me to
do or endure any thing which might delay my
arrival at the long wished-for spot. I resolved,
therefore, to leave behind the greater part of
our baggage and provisions, and to take onward
nothing more than was strictly necessary,
lest bad weather or other accidents should be
added to delay, or lest unforeseen circumstances,
still more untoward, should deprive me entirely of
the high gratification which I could not but look to
in accomplishing this most-desired object. We
commenced, therefore, a most rapid march,
comparatively disencumbered as we now were;
and persevering with all our might, we reached
the calculated place at eight in the morning of
the 1st of June. The amount of the dip, as indicated
by my dipping-needle, was 89° 59′,
being thus within one minute of the vertical;
while the proximity at least of this magnetic
pole, if not its actual existence where we stood,
was further confirmed by the total inaction of
the several horizontal needles then in my possession.
These were suspended in the most
delicate manner possible, but there was not one
which showed the slightest effort to move from
the position in which it was placed—a fact
which even the most moderately-informed of
readers must know to be one which proves that
the centre of attraction lies at a very small horizontal
distance, if at any. The land at this
place is very low near the coast, but it rises
into ridges of fifty or sixty feet high about a
mile inland. We could have wished that a
place so important had possessed more of mark
or note. But nature had here erected no monument
to denote the spot that she had chosen as
the centre of one of her great and dark powers.
We had abundance of materials for building in
the fragments of limestone that covered the
beach, and we therefore erected a cairn of some
magnitude, under which we buried a canister
containing a record of the interesting fact, only
regretting that we had not the means of constructing
a pyramid of more importance, and of
strength sufficient to stand the assaults of time
and of the Esquimaux.” The latitude of this
spot is 70° 5′ 17″, and its longitude 96° 46′ 45″
west. The reader may remember that during
his late arctic voyage in search of Sir John
Franklin, Sir James Ross was extremely anxious
to revisit this interesting locality, which he
was at one time not very distant from; but
which, as the places of magnetic intensity are
continually changing, he would no longer have
found representing the north magnetic pole.
It is not a little remarkable that during Sir
John Ross’s voyage, Mr. Barlow, who had been
long engaged investigating the laws of magnetism,
had constructed a magnetical map, in which
he laid down a point which he described as that
where, in all probability, the dipping-needle
would be perpendicular, and which is the very
spot where Sir James Ross ascertained the north
magnetic pole to exist.

But valuable and interesting as were the observations
[pg 655]
made by navigators in different parts
if the globe, yet philosophers began to perceive
that, without some definite plan of proceeding,
the mere multiplication of random observations
made here and there at irregular periods was not
the course most likely to lead to desired results,
and to make us acquainted with the mysterious
laws of magnetism. The establishment of national
observatories for the registration of magnetical
observations became absolutely necessary;
and the illustrious Humboldt, to whom
every branch of science owes so much, gave the
first impulse to this great undertaking. During
the course of his memorable voyages and travels
in various parts of the globe, the observation of
the magnetic phenomena in all their particulars
occupied a large portion of his attention; and
as the commencement of any great work is always
an epoch of rare and lasting interest, we
shall give the philosopher’s own words on the
subject: “When the first proposal to establish
a system of observatories forming a network of
stations, all provided with similar instruments,
was made by myself, I could hardly entertain
the hope that I should actually live to see the
time when, thanks to the united activity of excellent
physicists and astronomers, and especially
to the munificent and persevering support of
two governments—the Russian and the British,
both hemispheres should be covered with magnetic
observatories. In 1806 and 1807 my
friend M. Altmanns and myself frequently observed
the march of the declination needle at
Berlin for five or six days and nights consecutively,
from hour to hour, and often from half hour
to half hour, particularly at the equinoxes and
solstices. I was persuaded that continuous uninterrupted
observations during several days and
nights were preferable to detached observations
continued during an interval of many months.”

Political disturbances, always ruinous to the
calm researches of the man of science, for many
years prevented Humboldt carrying his wishes
into effect; and it was not until 1828 that he
was enabled to erect a small observatory at
Berlin, whose more immediate object was to
institute a series of simultaneous observations
at concerted hours at Berlin, Paris, and Freiburg.
In 1829 magnetic stations were established
throughout Northern Asia, in connection with
an expedition to that country which emanated
from the Russian government; and in 1832 M.
Gauss, the illustrious founder of a general theory
of terrestrial magnetism, established a magnetic
observatory at Göttingen, which was completed
in 1834, and furnished with his ingenious instruments.

In 1836 Baron Humboldt addressed a long
and highly-interesting letter to the Duke of
Sussex, then president of the Royal Society,
urging the establishment of regular magnetical
stations in the British possessions in North
America, Australia, the Cape of Good Hope,
and between the tropics, not only for the observation
of the momentary perturbations of the
needle, but also for that of its periodical and
secular movements. This appeal was nobly
responded to.

The Royal Society, in conjunction with the
British Association, called on government to
advance the necessary funds to establish magnetical
observatories at Greenwich, and in various
parts of the British possessions; and in 1839-40
magnetical establishments were in activity at St.
Helena, the Cape of Good Hope, Canada, and
Van Diemen’s Land. The munificence of the
directors of the East India Company founded
and furnished, at the request of the Royal Society,
magnetic observatories at Simla, Madras,
Bombay, and Singapore, and the observations
will be published in a similar form to those of the
British observatories. We will now briefly describe
the scheme of observations, and the manner
of making them in the different observatories.

Each observatory is supplied with three magnetometers,
or bars of magnetized steel, delicately
suspended by threads of raw silk, which
measure the magnetical declination, horizontal
intensity, and vertical force—and such astronomical
apparatus as is required for ascertaining the
time and the true meridian. To these have also
been added in each case a most complete and
perfect set of meteorological instruments, carefully
compared with the standards in possession
of the Royal Society, not only for the purpose
of affording the necessary corrections of the
magnetic observations, but also with a view to
obtaining at each station, at very little additional
cost and trouble, a complete series of meteorological
observations. In order that the observations
may be made at the same periods
of time, it was resolved that the mean time
at Göttingen should be employed at all the
stations, without any regard to the apparent
times of day at the stations themselves. Each
day is supposed to be divided into twelve equal
portions of two hours each, commencing at all
the stations at the same instants of absolute time,
which are called the magnetic hours. At the
commencement of each period of two hours
throughout the day and night, with the exception
of Sundays, the magnetometers are observed,
and the meteorological instruments read off. Independently
of these observations, others are made
at stated periodical intervals every two minutes
and a half during twenty-four hours. These are
known by the name of “turn-day observations.”
Printed forms for registering the observations
have been prepared with great care, in order
that a complete form of registry may be preserved—a
point of great importance, when it is
remembered that all the observations made at
the different stations must eventually be reduced
and analyzed. A singularly felicitous adaptation
of photography has been carried into effect
with the magnetometers. By means of mirrors
attached to their arms, reflected light is cast on
highly-sensitive photographic paper wound round
a cylinder moved by clockwork, and the slightest
variation of the magnets is registered with the
greatest accuracy.

The period has not yet arrived for reaping
[pg 656]
the fruits of all the labor carried on in the magnetic
observatories at home and abroad, but
already certain results have been deduced from
the observations which are highly interesting.
It appears that if the globe be divided into an
eastern and a western hemisphere by a plane
coinciding with the meridians of 100° and 280°,
the western hemisphere, or that comprising the
Americas and the Pacific Ocean, has a much
higher magnetic intensity distributed generally
over its surface than the eastern hemisphere,
containing Europe and Africa, and the adjacent
part of the Atlantic Ocean. The distribution
of the magnetic intensity in the intertropical
regions of the globe affords evidence of two
governing magnetic centres in each hemisphere.
The highest magnetic intensity which has been
observed is more than twice as great as the
lowest. It had long been known that in Europe
the north end of a magnet suspended horizontally
(meaning by the north end that which is directed
toward the north) moves to the east from the
night until between seven and eight o’clock in
the morning, when an opposite movement commences,
and the north end of the magnet moves
to the west. Recent observations have shown
that a similar movement takes place at the same
hours of local time in North America, and that
it is general in the middle latitudes of the northern
hemisphere; but to show the capricious
nature of magnetism, it may be mentioned, that
although in the southern portion of the globe the
movement of the magnet in the contrary direction
is constant throughout the year, yet at St.
Helena the peculiar feature of the diurnal is, that
during one half of the year the movement of the
north end of the magnet corresponds in direction
with the movement which is taking place in
the northern hemisphere, while in the other half
of the year the direction corresponds with that
which is taking place in the southern hemisphere.

Another striking result of these investigations
is the estimate of the total magnetic power of
the earth as compared with a steel bar magnetized
one pound in weight. This proportion is
calculated as 8,464,000,000,000,000,000,000 to
1, which, supposing the magnetic force uniformly
distributed, will be found to amount to about six
such bars to every cubic yard of the earth’s surface.

Thus measured, it will be seen how tremendously
mysterious is the power of magnetism,
and how potent an influence it must possess
over animate and inanimate nature! And not
one of its least wonderful mysteries is its singular
exception to the character of stability and
permanence. The configuration of our globe,
the distribution of temperature in its interior, the
tides and currents of the ocean, the general
course of winds, and the affections of climate—all
these are appreciably constant. But magnetism,
that subtle, undefinable fluid, is perpetually
undergoing a change, and of so rapid a
nature, that it becomes necessary to assume
epochs, which ought not to be more than ten
years apart, to which every observation should
be reduced. The extreme importance of knowing
the exact amount of magnetic variation can
scarcely be overrated for maritime purposes;
and the establishment of a complete magnetical
theory, based on an extensive series of observations,
must be regarded as a desideratum by
the first nautical country.

The numerous magnetical surveys that have
been made by our government, taken in conjunction
with those in progress on the continent
of Europe, and particularly in the Austrian
dominions, give a full promise of the speedy
realization of M. Humboldt’s wish, so earnestly
expressed, that the materials of the first general
magnetic map of the globe should be assembled;
and even permit the anticipation, that the first
normal epoch of such a map will be but little
removed from the present year.


Early History Of The Use Of Coal.
(From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.)

Bituminous matter, if not the carboniferous
system itself, exists abundantly on the
banks of the Euphrates. In the basin of the
Nile coal has been recently detected. It occurs
sparingly in some of the states of Greece; and
Theophrastus, in his “History of Stones,” refers
to mineral coal (lithanthrax) being found in
Liguria and in Elis, and used by the smiths;
the stones are earthy, he adds, but kindle and
burn like wood coals (the anthrax). But by
none of the Oriental nations does it appear that
the vast latent powers and virtues of the mineral
were thus early discovered, so as to render it
an object of commerce or of geological research.
What the Romans termed lapis ampelites, is
generally understood to mean our cannel coal,
which they used not as fuel, but in making
toys, bracelets, and other ornaments; while
their carbo, which
Pliny describes as vehementer
perlucet, was simply the petroleum or naphtha,
which issues so abundantly from all the tertiary
deposits. Coal is found in Syria, and the term
frequently occurs in the Sacred Writings. But
there is no reference any where in the inspired
record as to digging or boring for the mineral—no
directions for its use—no instructions as
to its constituting a portion of the promised
treasures of the land. In their burnt-offerings,
wood appears uniformly to have been employed;
in Leviticus, the term is used as synonymous
with fire, where it is said that “the priests shall
lay the parts in order upon the wood”—that is,
on the fire which is upon the altar. And in the
same manner for all domestic purposes, wood
and charcoal were invariably made use of.
Doubtless the ancient Hebrews would be acquainted
with natural coal, as in the mountains
of Lebanon, whither they continually resorted
for their timber, seams of coal near Beirout
were seen to protrude through the superincumbent
strata in various directions. Still there are
no traces of pits or excavations into the rock to
show that they duly appreciated the extent and
[pg 657]
uses of the article…. For many reasons it
would seem that, among modern nations, the
primitive Britons were the first to avail themselves
of the valuable combustible. The word
by which it is designated is not of Saxon, but
of British extraction, and is still employed to
this day by the Irish, in their form of o-gual,
and in that of kolan by the Cornish. In Yorkshire,
stone hammers and hatchets have been
found in old mines, showing that the early
Britons worked coals before the invasion of the
Romans. Manchester, which has risen upon
the very ashes of the mineral, and grown to all
its wealth and greatness under the influence of
its heat and light, next claims the merit of the
discovery. Portions of coal have been found
under, or imbedded in the sand of a Roman
way, excavated some years ago for the construction
of a house, and which at the time
were ingeniously conjectured by the local antiquaries
to have been collected for the use of the
garrison stationed on the route of these warlike
invaders at Mancenion, or the Place of Tents.
Certain it is that fragments of coal are being
constantly, in the district, washed out and
brought down by the Medlock and other streams,
which break from the mountains through the
coal strata. The attention of the inhabitants
would in this way be the more early and readily
attracted by the glistening substance. Nevertheless,
for long after, coal was but little valued
or appreciated, turf and wood being the common
articles of consumption throughout the
country. About the middle of the ninth century,
a grant of land was made by the Abbey
of Peterborough, under the restriction of certain
payments in kind to the monastery, among which
are specified sixty carts of wood, and as showing
their comparative worth, only twelve carts
of pit coal. Toward the end of the thirteenth
century, Newcastle is said to have traded in the
article, and by a charter of Henry III., of date
1284, a license is granted to the burgesses to
dig for the mineral. About this period, coals
for the first time began to be imported into
London, but were made use of only by smiths,
brewers, dyers, and other artisans, when, in
consequence of the smoke being regarded as
very injurious to the public health, parliament
petitioned the king, Edward I., to prohibit the
burning of coal, on the ground of being an intolerable
nuisance. A proclamation was granted,
conformable to the prayer of the petition;
and the most severe inquisitorial measures were
adopted to restrict or altogether abolish the use
of the combustible, by fine, imprisonment, and
destruction of the furnaces and workshops!
They were again brought into common use in
the time of Charles I., and have continued to
increase steadily with the extension of the arts
and manufactures, and the advancing tide of
population, till now, in the metropolis and suburbs,
coals are annually consumed to the amount
of about three million of tons. The use of coal
in Scotland seems to be connected with the rise
of the monasteries…. Under the regime of
domestic rule at Dunfermline, coals were worked
in the year 1291—at Dysart and other places
along the Fife coast, about half a century later—and
generally in the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries the inhabitants were assessed in coals
to the churches and chapels, which, after the
Reformation, have still continued to be paid in
many parishes. Boethius records that in his
time the inhabitants of Fife and the Lothians
dug “a black stone,” which, when kindled,
gave out a heat sufficient to melt iron.—Rev.
Dr. Anderson’s Course of Creation.


Jenny Lind.
By Fredrika Bremer.

There was once a poor and plain little girl
dwelling in a little room in Stockholm, the
capital of Sweden. She was a poor little girl
indeed, then; she was lonely and neglected,
and would have been very unhappy, deprived
of the kindness and care so necessary to a child,
if it had not been for a peculiar gift. The little
girl had a fine voice, and in her loneliness, in
trouble or in sorrow, she consoled herself by
singing. In fact she sang to all she did; at
her work, at her play, running or resting, she
always sang.

The woman who had her in care went out
to work during the day, and used to lock in the
little girl, who had nothing to enliven her solitude
but the company of a cat. The little girl
played with her cat and sang. Once she sat
by the open window and stroked her cat and
sang, when a lady passed by. She heard the
voice and looked up and saw the little singer.
She asked the child several questions, went
away, and came back several days later, followed
by an old music master, whose name
was Crelius. He tried the little girl’s musical
ear and voice, and was astonished. He took
her to the director of the Royal Opera of Stockholm,
then a Count Puhe, whose truly generous
and kind heart was concealed by rough speech
and a morbid temper. Crelius introduced his
little pupil to the count, and asked him to engage
her as “élève for the opera.” “You ask
a foolish thing!” said the count, gruffly, looking
disdainfully down on the poor little girl. “What
shall we do with that ugly thing? see what
feet she has? And then her face? She will
never be presentable. No, we can not take
her. Away with her!”

The music master insisted, almost indignantly.
“Well,” exclaimed he at last, “if you
will not take her, poor as I am, I will take her
myself, and have her educated for the scene;
such another ear as she has for music is not to
be found in the world!”

The count relented. The little girl was at
last admitted into the school for élèves, at the
Opera, and with some difficulty a simple gown
of black bombazine was procured for her. The
care of her musical education was left to an
able master, Mr. Albert Breg, director of the
song school of the Opera.

[pg 658]

Some years later, at a comedy given by the
élèves of the theatre, several persons were struck
by the spirit and life with which a very young
élève acted the part of a beggar-girl in the
play. Lovers of genial nature were charmed,
pedants almost frightened. It was our poor
little girl, who had made her first appearance,
now about fourteen years of age, frolicksome
and full of fun as a child.

A few years still later, a young debutante
was to sing for the first time before the public
in Weber’s Freischutz. At the rehearsal preceding
the representation of the evening, she
sang in a manner which made the members of
the orchestra at once lay down their instruments
to clap their hands in rapturous applause. It
was our poor, plain little girl here again, who
now had grown up and was to appear before
the public in the role of Agatha. I saw her
at the evening representation. She was then
in the prime of youth, fresh, bright, and serene
as a morning in May—perfect in form—her
hands and her arms peculiarly graceful—and
lovely in her whole appearance, through the
expression of her countenance, and the noble
simplicity and calmness of her manners. In
fact she was charming. We saw not an actress,
but a young girl full of natural geniality and
grace. She seemed to move, speak, and sing
without effort or art. All was nature and harmony.
Her song was distinguished especially
by its purity, and the power of soul which
seemed to swell in her tones. Her “mezzo
voice” was delightful. In the night scene
where Agatha, seeing her lover come, breathes
out her joy in rapturous song, our young singer
on turning from the window, at the back of the
theatre, to the spectators again, was pale for
joy. And in that pale joyousness she sang with
a burst of outflowing love and life that called
forth, not the mirth, but the tears of the auditors.

From this time she was the declared favorite
of the Swedish public, whose musical tastes
and knowledge are said not to be surpassed.
And, year after year, she continued so, though,
after a time, her voice, being overstrained, lost
somewhat of its freshness, and the public being
satiated, no more crowded the house when she
was singing. Still, at that time, she could be
heard singing and playing more delightfully
than ever in Pamina (in Zauberflote) or in Anna
Bolena, though the opera was almost deserted.
She evidently sang for the pleasure of the song.

By that time she went to take lessons of
Garcia, in Paris, and so give the finishing touch
to her musical education. There she acquired
that warble in which she is said to have been
equalled by no singer, and which could be compared
only to that of the soaring and warbling
lark, if the lark had a soul.

And then the young girl went abroad and
sang on foreign shores and to foreign people.
She charmed Denmark, she charmed Germany,
she charmed England. She was caressed and
courted every where, even to adulation. At
the courts of kings, the houses of the great and
noble, she was feasted as one of the grandees of
nature and art. She was covered with laurels
and jewels. But friends wrote of her, “In the
midst of these splendors she only thinks of her Sweden,
and yearns for her friends and her people.”

One dusky October night, crowds of people
(the most part, by their dress, seemed to belong
to the upper classes of society) thronged on the
shore of the Baltic harbor at Stockholm. All
looked toward the sea. There was a rumor of
expectance and pleasure. Hours passed away,
and the crowds still gathered, and waited and
looked out eagerly toward the sea. At length
a brilliant rocket rose joyfully, far out at the
entrance of the harbor, and was greeted with a
general buzz on the shore.

“There she comes! there she is!” A large
steamer now came whelming on its triumphant
way through the flocks of ships and boats lying
in the harbor, toward the shore of the “Skeppsbero.”
Flashing rockets marked its way in the
dark as it advanced. The crowds on the shore
pressed forward as if to meet it. Now the
leviathan of the waters was heard thundering
nearer and nearer; now it relented, now again
pushed on, foaming and splashing; now it lay still.
And, there on the front of the deck, was seen
by the light of lamps and rockets, a pale, graceful
young woman, her eyes brilliant with tears,
and lips radiant with smiles, waving her handkerchief
to her friends and countrymen on shore.

It was she again—our poor, plain, neglected
little girl of former days—who now came back
in triumph to her fatherland. But no more
poor, no more plain, no more neglected. She
had become rich; she had in her slender person
the power to charm and inspire multitudes.

Some days later, we read in the papers of
Stockholm, an address to the public written by
the beloved singer, stating, with noble simplicity,
that “as she once more had the happiness to be
in her native land, she would be glad to sing
again to her countrymen, and that the income
of the operas in which she was this season to
appear, would be devoted to raise a fund for a
school where élèves for the theatre would be
educated to virtue and knowledge.” The intelligence
was received as it deserved, and of
course the Opera was crowded every night the
beloved singer sang there. The first time she
again appeared in Somnambula (one of her
favorite roles), the public, after the curtain was
dropped, called her back with great enthusiasm,
and received her, when she appeared, with a
roar of hurrahs. In the midst of the burst of
applause a clear and melodious warbling was
heard. The hurrahs were hushed instantly.
And we saw the lovely singer standing with her
arms slightly extended, somewhat bowing forward,
graceful as a bird on its branch warbling,
warbling as no bird ever did, from note to note—and
on every one a clear, strong, soaring
warble—until she fell into the retournelle of her
last song, and again sang that joyful and touching
strain,

“No thought can conceive how I feel at my heart.”

[pg 659]


My Novel; Or, Varieties In English Life.
By Pisistratus Caxton.
(From Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.)


Book I.—Initial Chapter: Showing How My Novel
Came To Be Written.

Scene, the Hall in Uncle Roland’s Tower;
Time, night; Season, winter.

Mr. Caxton is seated before a great geographical
globe, which he is turning round
leisurely, and “for his own recreation,” as, according
to Sir Thomas Browne, a philosopher
should turn round the orb, of which that globe
professes to be the representation and effigies.
My mother having just adorned a very small
frock with a very smart braid, is holding it out
at arm’s length, the more to admire the effect.
Blanche, though leaning both hands on my
mother’s shoulder, is not regarding the frock,
but glances toward Pisistratus, who, seated
near the fire leaning back in his chair, and his
head bent over his breast, seems in a very bad
humor. Uncle Roland, who has become a great
novel reader, is deep in the mysteries of some
fascinating Third Volume. Mr. Squills has
brought The Times in his pocket for his own
special profit and delectation, and is now bending
his brows over “the state of the money
market” in great doubt whether railway shares
can possibly fall lower. For Mr. Squills, happy
man! has large savings, and does not know
what to do with his money; or, to use his own
phrase, “how to buy in at the cheapest, in order
to sell out at the dearest.”

Mr. Caxton, musingly.—“It must have been
a monstrous long journey. It would be somewhere
hereabouts, I take it, that they would
split off.”

My Mother, mechanically, and in order to
show Austin that she paid him the compliment
of attending to his remarks.—“Who split off,
my dear?”

“Bless me, Kitty,” said my father, in great
admiration, “you ask just the question which it
is most difficult to answer. An ingenious speculator
on races contends that the Danes, whose
descendants make the chief part of our northern
population (and, indeed, if his hypothesis could
be correct, we must suppose all the ancient
worshipers of Odin), are of the same origin as
the Etrurians. And why, Kitty? I just ask
you, why?”

My mother shook her head thoughtfully,
and turned the frock to the other side of the
light.

“Because, forsooth,” cried my father, exploding—“because
the Etrurians called their gods
‘the Æsar,’ and the Scandinavians called theirs
the Æsir, or Aser! And where do you think
he puts their cradle?”

“Cradle!” said my mother, dreamily; “it
must be in the nursery.”

Mr. Caxton.—“Exactly—in the nursery of
the human race—just here,” and my father
pointed to the globe; “bounded, you see, by
the River Helys, and in that region which, taking
its name from Ees, or As (a word designating
light or fire), has been immemorially called
Asia. Now, Kitty, from Ees or As, our ethnological
speculator would derive not only Asia,
the land, but Æser or Aser, its primitive inhabitants.
Hence, he supposes the origin of the
Etrurians, and the Scandinavians. But, if we
give him so much, we must give him more, and
deduce from the same origin the Es of the Celt,
and the Ized of the Persian, and—what will be
of more use to him, I dare say, poor man, than
all the rest put together—the Æs of the Romans,
that is, the God of Copper-Money—a very
powerful household god he is to this day!”

My mother looked musingly at her frock, as
if she were taking my father’s proposition into
serious consideration.

“So, perhaps,” resumed my father, “and not
unconformably with sacred records, from one
great parent horde came all these various tribes,
carrying with them the name of their beloved
Asia; and whether they wandered north, south,
or west, exalting their own emphatic designation
of ‘Children of the Land of Light’ into the
title of gods. And to think (added Mr. Caxton
pathetically, gazing upon that speck in the
globe on which his forefinger rested), to think
how little they changed for the better when
they got to the Don, or entangled their rafts
amidst the icebergs of the Baltic—so comfortably
off as they were here, if they could but have
staid quiet!”

“And why the deuce could not they?” asked
Mr. Squills.

“Pressure of population, and not enough to
live upon, I suppose,” said my father.

Pisistratus, sulkily.—“More probably they
did away with the Corn Laws, sir.”

“Papæ!” quoth my father, “that throws a
new light on the subject.”

Pisistratus, full of his grievances, and not
caring three straws about the origin of the
Scandinavians—“I know that if we are to lose
£500 every year on a farm which we hold rent-free,
and which the best judges allow to be a
perfect model for the whole country, we had
better make haste, and turn Æsar, or Aser, or
whatever you call them, and fix a settlement on
the property of other nations, otherwise, I suspect,
our probable settlement will be on the
parish.”

Mr. Squills, who, it must be remembered,
is an enthusiastic free-trader—“You have only
got to put more capital on the land.”

Pisistratus.—“Well, Mr. Squills, as you
think so well of that investment, put your capital
[pg 660]
on it. I promise that you shall have every
shilling of profit.”

Mr. Squills, hastily retreating behind The
Times—“I don’t think the Great Western can
fall any lower: though it is hazardous—I can
but venture a few hundreds—”

Pisistratus.—“On our land, Squills? Thank
you.”

Mr. Squills.—“No, no—any thing but that—on
the Great Western.”

Pisistratus relapses into gloom. Blanche
steals up coaxingly, and gets snubbed for her
pains.

A pause.

Mr. Caxton.—“There are two golden rules
of life: one relates to the mind, and the other to
the pockets. The first is—If our thoughts get
into a low, nervous, aguish condition, we should
make them change the air; the second is comprised
in the proverb, ‘it is good to have two
strings to one’s bow.’ Therefore, Pisistratus, I
tell you what you must do—write a book!”

Pisistratus.—“Write a book!—Against the
abolition of the Corn Laws? Faith, sir, the
mischief’s done. It takes a much better pen
than mine to write down an act of Parliament.”

Mr. Caxton.—“I only said, ‘Write a book.’
All the rest is the addition of your own headlong
imagination.”

Pisistratus, with the recollection of the great
book rising before him—“Indeed, sir, I should
think that that would just finish us!”

Mr. Caxton, not seeming to heed the interruption—“A
book that will sell! A book that
will prop up the fall of prices! A book that
will distract your mind from its dismal apprehensions,
and restore your affection to your
species, and your hopes in the ultimate triumph
of sound principles—by the sight of a favorable
balance at the end of the yearly accounts. It is
astonishing what a difference that little circumstance
makes in our views of things in general.
I remember when the bank, in which Squills had
incautiously left £1000, broke; one remarkably
healthy year, that he became a great alarmist,
and said that the country was on the verge of
ruin; whereas, you see now, when, thanks to a
long succession of sickly seasons, he has a surplus
capital to risk in the Great Western—he is
firmly persuaded that England was never in so
prosperous a condition.”

Mr. Squills, rather sullenly.—“Pooh, pooh.”

Mr. Caxton.—“Write a book, my son—write
a book. Need I tell you that Money or
Moneta, according to Hyginus, was the mother
of the Muses? Write a book.”

Blanche and my
Mother, in full chorus.—“yes,
Sisty—a book—a book! you must
write a book!”

“I am sure,” quoth my Uncle Roland, slamming
down the volume he had just concluded,
“he could write a devilish deal better book than
this; and how I come to read such trash, night
after night, is more than I could possibly explain
to the satisfaction of any intelligent jury, if I
were put into a witness-box, and examined in
the mildest manner by my own counsel.”

Mr. Caxton.—“You see that Roland tells us
exactly what sort of a book it shall be.”

Pisistratus.—“Trash, sir?”

Mr. Caxton.—“No—that is not necessarily
trash—but a book of that class which, whether
trash or not, people can’t help reading. Novels
have become a necessity of the age. You must
write a novel.”

Pisistratus, flattered, but dubious.—“A
novel! But every subject on which novels can
be written is preoccupied. There are novels
on low life, novels of high life, military novels,
naval novels, novels philosophical, novels religious,
novels historical, novels descriptive of India,
the Colonies, Ancient Rome, and the Egyptian
Pyramids. From what bird, wild eagle, or
barn-door fowl, can I

‘Pluck one unwearied plume from Fancy’s wing?’ ”

Mr. Caxton, after a little thought.—“You
remember the story which Trevanion (I beg his
pardon, Lord Ulswater) told us the other night.
That gives you something of the romance of
real life for your plot—puts you chiefly among
scenes with which you are familiar, and furnishes
you with characters which have been
very sparingly dealt with since the time of
Fielding. You can give us the country squire,
as you remember him in your youth: it is a
specimen of a race worth preserving—the old
idiosyncrasies of which are rapidly dying off, as
the railways bring Norfolk and Yorkshire within
easy reach of the manners of London. You
can give us the old-fashioned parson, as in all
essentials he may yet be found—but before you
had to drag him out of the great Puseyite sectarian
bog; and, for the rest, I really think that
while, as I am told, many popular writers are
doing their best, especially in France, and perhaps
a little in England, to set class against
class, and pick up every stone in the kennel to
shy at a gentleman with a good coat on his
back, something useful might be done by a few
good humored sketches of those innocent criminals
a little better off than their neighbors,
whom, however we dislike them, I take it for
granted we shall have to endure, in one shape
or another, as long as civilization exists; and
they seem, on the whole, as good in their present
shape, as we are likely to get, shake the
dice-box of society how we will.”

Pisistratus.—“Very well said, sir; but this
rural country gentleman life is not so new as
you think. There’s Washington Irving—”

Mr. Caxton.—“Charming—but rather the
manners of the last century than this. You may
as well cite Addison and Sir Roger de Coverley.”

[pg 661]

Pisistratus.—“Tremaine
and De Vere.”

Mr. Caxton.—“Nothing can be more graceful,
nor more unlike what I mean. The Pales
and Terminus I wish you to put up in the fields
are familiar images, that you may cut out of
in oak tree—not beautiful marble statues, on
porphyry pedestals twenty feet high.”

Pisistratus.—“Miss Austin; Mrs. Gore in
her masterpiece of Mrs. Armytage; Mrs. Marsh,
too; and then (for Scottish manners) Miss Ferrier!”

Mr. Caxton, growing cross.—“Oh, if you
can not treat on bucolics but what you must hear
some Virgil or other cry ‘Stop thief!’ you deserve
to be tossed by one of your own ‘short-horns.’
(Still more contemptuously)—I am sure
I don’t know why we spend so much money on
sending our sons to school to learn Latin, when
that Anachronism of yours, Mrs. Caxton, can’t
even construe a line and a half of Phædrus.
Phædrus, Mrs. Caxton—a book which is in
Latin what Goody Two Shoes is in the vernacular!”

Mrs. Caxton, alarmed and indignant.—“Fie,
Austin! I am sure you can construe Phædras,
dear!”

Pisistratus prudently preserves silence.

Mr. Caxton.—“I’ll try him—

“Sua cuique quum sit animi cogitatio
Colorque proprius.”

What does that mean?”

Pisistratus, smiling.—“That every man has
some coloring matter within him, to give his
own tinge to—”

“His own novel,” interrupted my father!
“Contentus peragis.”

During the latter part of this dialogue,
Blanche had sewn together three quires of the
best Bath paper, and she now placed them on a
little table before me, with her own inkstand
and steel pen.

My mother put her finger to her lip, and said,
“Hush!” my father returned to the cradle of
the Æsar; Captain Roland leant his cheek on
his hand, and gazed abstractedly on the fire;
Mr. Squills fell into a placid doze; and, after
three sighs that would have melted a heart of
stone, I rushed into—my novel.

Chapter II.

“There has never been occasion to use them
since I’ve been in the parish,” said Parson Dale.

“What does that prove?” quoth the Squire,
sharply, and looking the Parson full in the face.

“Prove!” repeated Mr. Dale—with a smile
of benign, yet too conscious superiority—“What
does experience prove?”

“That your forefathers were great blockheads,
and that their descendant is not a whit
the wiser.”

“Squire,” replied the Parson, “although that
is a melancholy conclusion, yet if you mean it
to apply universally, and not to the family of
the Dales in particular, it is not one which my
candor as a reasoner, and my humility as a
mortal, will permit me to challenge.”

“I defy you.” said Mr. Hazeldean, triumphantly.
“But to stick to the subject, which it is
monstrous hard to do when one talks with a
parson, I only just ask you to look yonder, and
tell me on your conscience—I don’t even say as
a parson, but as a parishioner—whether you
ever saw a more disreputable spectacle?”

While he spoke, the Squire, leaning heavily
on the Parson’s left shoulder, extended his cane
in a line parallel with the right eye of that disputatious
ecclesiastic, so that he might guide
the organ of sight to the object he had thus unflatteringly
described.

“I confess,” said the Parson, “that, regarded
by the eye of the senses, it is a thing that in
its best day had small pretensions to beauty,
and is not elevated into the picturesque even by
neglect and decay. But, my friend, regarded
by the eye of the inner man—of the rural philosopher
and parochial legislator—I say it is by
neglect and decay that it is rendered a very
pleasing feature in what I may call ‘the moral
topography of a parish.’ ”

The Squire looked at the Parson as if he
could have beaten him; and indeed, regarding
the object in dispute not only with the eye of
the outer man, but the eye of law and order, the
eye of a country gentleman and a justice of the
peace, the spectacle was scandalously disreputable.
It was moss-grown; it was worm-eaten;
it was broken right in the middle; through its
four socketless eyes, neighbored by the nettle,
peered the thistle:—the thistle!—a forest of
thistles!—and, to complete the degradation of
the whole, those thistles had attracted the donkey
of an itinerant tinker; and the irreverent
animal was in the very act of taking his luncheon
out of the eyes and jaws of—The Parish
Stocks.

The Squire looked as if he could have beaten
the Parson; but as he was not without some
slight command of temper, and a substitute was
luckily at hand, he gulped down his resentment
and made a rush—at the donkey!

Now the donkey was hampered by a rope to
its forefeet, to the which was attached a billet
of wood called technically “a clog,” so that it
had no fair chance of escape from the assault its
sacrilegious luncheon had justly provoked. But,
the ass turning round with unusual nimbleness
at the first stroke of the cane, the Squire caught
his foot in the rope, and went head over heels
among the thistles. The donkey gravely bent
down, and thrice smelt or sniffed its prostrate
foe; then, having convinced itself that it had
nothing farther to apprehend for the present,
and very willing to make the best of the reprieve,
[pg 662]
according to the poetical admonition,
“Gather your rosebuds while you may,” it cropped
a thistle in full bloom, close to the ear of
the Squire; so close indeed, that the Parson
thought the ear was gone; and with the more
probability, inasmuch as the Squire, feeling the
warm breath of the creature, bellowed out with
all the force of lungs accustomed to give a View-hallo!

“Bless me, is it gone?” said the Parson,
thrusting his person between the ass and the
squire.

“Zounds and the devil!” cried the Squire,
rubbing himself as he rose to his feet.

“Hush,” said the parson gently “What a
horrible oath!”

“Horrible oath! If you had my nankeens on,”
said the Squire, still rubbing himself, “and had
fallen into a thicket of thistles with a donkey’s
teeth within an inch of your ear!”

“It is not gone—then?” interrupted the Parson.

“No—that is, I think not,” said the Squire
dubiously; and he clapped his hand to the organ
in question. “No! it is not gone!”

“Thank Heaven!” said the good Clergyman
kindly.

“Hum,” growled the Squire, who was now
once more engaged in rubbing himself. “Thank
Heaven indeed, when I am as full of thorns as a
porcupine! I should just like to know what use
thistles are in the world.”

“For donkeys to eat, if you will let them,
Squire,” answered the Parson.

“Ugh, you beast!” cried Mr. Hazeldean, all
his wrath reawakened, whether by the reference
to the donkey species, or his inability to reply to
the Parson, or perhaps by some sudden prick too
sharp for humanity—especially humanity in nankeens—to
endure without kicking; “Ugh, you
beast!” he exclaimed, shaking his cane at the
donkey, who, at the interposition of the Parson,
had respectfully recoiled a few paces, and now
stood switching its thin tail, and trying vainly
to lift one of its fore legs—for the flies teased
it.

“Poor thing!” said the Parson pityingly.
“See, it has a raw place on the shoulder, and
the flies have found out the sore.”

“I am devilish glad to hear it,” said the
Squire vindictively.

“Fie, fie!”

“It is very well to say ‘Fie, fie.’ It was not
you who fell among the thistles. What’s the
man about now, I wonder?”

The Parson had walked toward a chestnut tree
that stood on the village green—he broke off a
bough—returned to the donkey—whisked away
the flies, and then tenderly placed the broad
leaves over the sore, as a protection from the
swarms. The donkey turned round its head,
and looked at him with mild wonder.

“I would bet a shilling,” said the Parson,
softly, “that this is the first act of kindness thou
hast met with this many a day. And slight
enough it is, Heaven knows.”

With that the Parson put his hand into his
pocket, and drew out an apple. It was a fine
large rose-cheeked apple: one of the last winter’s
store, from the celebrated tree in the parsonage
garden, and he was taking it as a present
to a little boy in the village who had notably distinguished
himself in the Sunday school. “Nay,
in common justice, Lenny Fairfield should have
the preference,” muttered the Parson. The ass
pricked up one of its ears, and advanced its head
timidly. “But Lenny Fairfield would be as much
pleased with twopence: and what could twopence
do to thee?” The ass’s nose now touched
the apple. “Take it in the name of Charity,”
quoth the Parson, “Justice is accustomed to be
served last.” And the ass took the apple.
“How had you the heart?” said the Parson,
pointing to the Squire’s cane.

The ass stopped munching, and looked askant
at the Squire.

“Pooh! eat on; he’ll not beat thee now!”

“No,” said the Squire apologetically. “But,
after all, he is not an Ass of the Parish; he is a
vagrant, and he ought to be pounded. But the
pound is in as bad a state as the stocks, thanks
to your new-fashioned doctrines.”

“New-fashioned!” cried the Parson almost
indignantly, for he had a great disdain of new
fashions. “They are as old as Christianity;
nay, as old as Paradise, which you will observe
is derived from a Greek, or rather a Persian
word, and means something more than ‘garden,’
corresponding (pursued the Parson rather
pedantically) with the Latin
vivarium—viz.
grove or park full of innocent dumb creatures.
Depend on it, donkeys were allowed to eat
thistles there.”

“Very possibly,” said the Squire drily. “But
Hazeldean, though a very pretty village, is not
Paradise. The stocks shall be mended to-morrow—ay,
and the pound too—and the next donkey
found trespassing shall go into it, as sure as
my name’s Hazeldean.”

“Then,” said the Parson gravely, “I can only
hope that the next parish may not follow your
example; or that you and I may never be caught
straying!”

Chapter III.

Parson Dale and Squire Hazeldean parted
company; the latter to inspect his sheep, the
former to visit some of his parishioners, including
Lenny Fairfield, whom the donkey had defrauded
of his apple.

Lenny Fairfield was sure to be in the way, for
his mother rented a few acres of grass land from
the Squire, and it was now hay-time. And
[pg 663]
Leonard, commonly called Lenny, was an only
son, and his mother a widow. The cottage
stood apart, and somewhat remote, in one of
the many nooks of the long green village lane.
And a thoroughly English cottage it was—three
centuries old at least; with walls of rubble let
into oak frames, and duly whitewashed every
summer, a thatched roof, small panes of glass,
and an old doorway raised from the ground by
two steps. There was about this little dwelling
all the homely rustic elegance which peasant
life admits of: a honeysuckle was trained over
the door; a few flower-pots were placed on the
window-sills; the small plot of ground in front
of the house was kept with great neatness, and
even taste; some large rough stones on either
side the little path having been formed into a
sort of rockwork, with creepers that were now
in flower; and the potato-ground was screened
from the eye by sweet peas and lupine. Simple
elegance all this, it is true; but how well it
speaks for peasant and landlord, when you see
that the peasant is fond of his home, and has
some spare time and heart to bestow upon mere
embellishment. Such a peasant is sure to be a
bad customer to the ale-house, and a safe neighbor
to the Squire’s preserves. All honor and
praise to him, except a small tax upon both,
which is due to the landlord!

Such sights were as pleasant to the Parson as
the most beautiful landscapes of Italy can be to
the dilettante. He paused a moment at the
wicket to look around him, and distended his
nostrils voluptuously to inhale the smell of the
sweet peas, mixed with that of the new-mown
hay in the fields behind, which a slight breeze
bore to him. He then moved on, carefully
scraped his shoes, clean and well polished as
they were—for Mr. Dale was rather a beau in
his own clerical way—on the scraper without
the door, and lifted the latch.

Your virtuoso looks with artistical delight on
the figure of some nymph painted on an Etruscan
vase, engaged in pouring out the juice of
the grape from her classic urn. And the Parson
felt as harmless, if not as elegant a pleasure,
in contemplating Widow Fairfield brimming
high a glittering can, which she designed
for the refreshment of the thirsty hay-makers.

Mrs. Fairfield was a middle-aged, tidy woman,
with that alert precision of movement which
seems to come from an active orderly mind;
and as she now turned her head briskly at the
sound of the Parson’s footsteps, she showed a
countenance prepossessing, though not handsome—a
countenance from which a pleasant
hearty smile, breaking forth at that moment
effaced some lines that, in repose, spoke “of
sorrows, but of sorrows past;” and her cheek,
paler than is common to the complexions even
of the fair sex, when born and bred amidst a
rural population, might have favored the guess
that the earlier part of her life had been spent
in the languid air and “within-doors” occupation
of a town.

“Never mind me,” said the Parson, as
Mrs. Fairfield dropped her quick courtesy, and
smoothed her apron; “if you are going into the
hayfield, I will go with you; I have something
to say to Lenny—an excellent boy.”

Widow.—“Well, sir, and you are kind to
say to it—but he is.”

Parson.—“He reads uncommonly well, he
writes tolerably; he is the best lad in the whole
school at his catechism and in the Bible lessons;
and I assure you, when I see his face at church,
looking up so attentively, I fancy that I shall
read my sermon all the better for such a listener!”

Widow, wiping her eyes with the corner of
her apron.—“’Deed, sir, when my poor Mark
died, I never thought I could have lived on as I
have done. But that boy is so kind and good,
that when I look at him sitting there in dear
Mark’s chair, and remember how Mark loved
him, and all he used to say to me about him, I
feel somehow or other as if my goodman smiled
on me, and would rather I was not with him
yet, till the lad had grown up, and did not want
me any more.”

Parson, looking away, and after a pause.—“You
never hear any thing of the old folks at
Lansmere?”

“’Deed, sir, sin’ poor Mark died, they han’t
noticed me, nor the boy; but,” added the widow,
with all a peasant’s pride, “it isn’t that I wants
their money; only it’s hard to feel strange like
to one’s own father and mother!”

Parson.—“You must excuse them. Your
father, Mr. Avenel, was never quite the same
man after that sad event—but you are weeping,
my friend, pardon me:—your mother is a
little proud; but so are you, though in another
way.”

Widow.—“I proud! Lord love ye, sir, I
have not a bit of pride in me! and that’s the
reason they always looked down on me.”

Parson.—“Your parents must be well off,
and I shall apply to them in a year or two on
behalf of Lenny, for they promised me to
provide for him when he grew up, as they
ought.”

Widow, with flashing eyes.—“I am sure, sir,
I hope you will do no such thing; for I would
not have Lenny beholden to them as has never
given him a kind word sin’ he was born!”

The Parson smiled gravely and shook his head
at poor Mrs. Fairfield’s hasty confutation of her
own self-acquittal from the charge of pride,
but he saw that it was not the time or moment
for effectual peace-making in the most irritable
of all rancors, viz., that nourished against one’s
nearest relations. He therefore dropped that
subject, and said, “Well, time enough to think
[pg 664]
of Lenny’s future prospects: meanwhile we are
forgetting the hay-makers. Come.”

The widow opened the back door, which led
across a little apple orchard into the fields.

Parson.—“You have a pleasant place here,
and I see that my friend Lenny should be in no
want of apples. I had brought him one, but I
have given it away on the road.”

Widow.—“Oh, sir, it is not the deed—it is
the will; as I felt when the Squire, God bless
him! took two pounds off the rent the year he—that
is, Mark—died.”

Parson.—“If Lenny continues to be such a
help to you, it will not be long before the
Squire may put the two pounds on again.”

“Yes, sir,” said the widow simply; “I hope
he will.”

“Silly woman!” muttered the Parson. “That’s
not exactly what the schoolmistress would have
said. You don’t read nor write, Mrs. Fairfield;
yet you express yourself with great propriety.”

“You know Mark was a schollard, sir, like
my poor, poor, sister; and though I was a sad
stupid girl afore I married, I tried to take after
him when we came together.”

Chapter IV.

They were now in the hayfield, and a boy of
about sixteen, but like most country lads, to
appearance much younger than he was, looked
up from his rake, with lively blue eyes, beaming
forth under a profusion of brown curly hair.

Leonard Fairfield was indeed a very handsome
boy—not so stout nor so ruddy as one would
choose for the ideal of rustic beauty; nor yet
so delicate in limb and keen in expression as
are those children of cities, in whom the mind
is cultivated at the expense of the body; but
still he had the health of the country in his
cheeks, and was not without the grace of the
city in his compact figure and easy movements.
There was in his physiognomy something interesting
from its peculiar character of innocence
and simplicity. You could see that he had been
brought up by a woman, and much apart from
familiar contact with other children; and such
intelligence as was yet developed in him, was
not ripened by the jokes and cuffs of his coevals,
but fostered by decorous lecturings from his
elders, and good little boy maxims in good little
boy books.

Parson.—“Come hither, Lenny. You know
the benefit of school, I see: it can teach you
nothing better than to be a support to your
mother.”

Lenny, looking down sheepishly, and with a
heightened glow over his face.—“Please, sir,
that may come one of these days.”

Parson—“That’s right Lenny. Let me
see! why, you must be nearly a man. How old
are you?”

Lenny looks up inquiringly at his mother.

Parson.—“You ought to know, Lenny; speak
for yourself. Hold your tongue, Mrs. Fairfield.”

Lenny, twirling his hat, and in great perplexity.—“Well,
and there is Flop, neighbor
Dutton’s old sheep-dog. He be very old now.”

Parson.—“I am not asking Flop’s age, but
your own.”

“’Deed, sir, I have heard say as how Flop
and I were pups together. That is, I—I—”

For the Parson is laughing, and so is Mrs.
Fairfield; and the haymakers, who have stood
still to listen, are laughing too. And poor
Lenny has quite lost his head, and looks as if
he would like to cry.

Parson, patting the curly locks, encouragingly.—“Never
mind; it is not so badly answered
after all. And how old is Flop?”

Lenny.—“Why, he must be fifteen year and
more.”

Parson.—“How old, then, are you?”

Lenny, looking up with a beam of intelligence.—“Fifteen
year and more!”

Widow sighs and nods her head.

“That’s what we call putting two and two
together,” said the Parson. “Or, in other
words,” and here he raised his eyes majestically
toward the haymakers—“in other words—thanks
to his love for his book—simple as he
stands here, Lenny Fairfield has shown himself
capable of Inductive Ratiocination.”

At those words, delivered ore rotundo, the
haymakers ceased laughing. For even in lay
matters they held the Parson to be an oracle,
and words so long must have a great deal in
them.

Lenny drew up his head proudly.

“You are very fond of Flop, I suppose?”

“’Deed he is,” said the widow, “and of all
poor dumb creatures.”

“Very good. Suppose, my lad, that you had
a fine apple, and that you met a friend who
wanted it more than you; what would you do
with it?”

“Please you, sir, I would give him half of it.”

The Parson’s face fell. “Not the whole,
Lenny?”

Lenny considered. “If he was a friend, sir,
he would not like me to give him all!”

“Upon my word, Master Leonard, you speak
so well, that I must e’en tell the truth. I brought
you an apple, as a prize for good conduct in
school. But I met by the way a poor donkey,
and some one beat him for eating a thistle; so I
thought I would make it up by giving him the
apple. Ought I only to have given him the
half?”

Lenny’s innocent face became all smile; his
interest was aroused. “And did the donkey
like the apple?”

“Very much,” said the Parson, fumbling in
[pg 665]
his pocket, but thinking of Leonard Fairfield’s
years and understanding; and moreover, observing,
in the pride of his heart, that there were
many spectators to his deed, he thought the
meditated twopence not sufficient, and he generously
produced a silver sixpence.

“There, my man, that will pay for the half
apple which you would have kept for yourself.”
The Parson again patted the curly locks, and,
after a hearty word or two with the other haymakers,
and a friendly “Good-day” to Mrs.
Fairfield, struck into a path that led toward his
own glebe.

He had just crossed the stile, when he heard
hasty but timorous feet behind him. He turned,
and saw his friend Lenny.

Lenny, half crying, and
holding out the sixpence.—“Indeed,
sir, I would rather not. I
would have given all to the Neddy.”

Parson.—“Why, then, my man, you have a
still greater right to the sixpence.”

Lenny.—“No, sir; ’cause you only gave it
to make up for the half apple. And if I had
given the whole, as I ought to have done, why,
I should have had no right to the sixpence.
Please, sir, don’t be offended; do take it back,
will you?”

The Parson hesitated. And the boy thrust the
sixpence into his hand, as the ass had poked his
nose there before in quest of the apple.

“I see,” said Parson Dale, soliloquizing, “that
if one don’t give Justice the first place at the
table, all the other Virtues eat up her share.”

Indeed, the case was perplexing. Charity,
like a forward impudent baggage as she is,
always thrusting herself in the way, and taking
other people’s apples to make her own little pie,
had defrauded Lenny of his due; and now Susceptibility,
who looks like a shy, blush-faced,
awkward Virtue in her teens—but who, nevertheless,
is always engaged in picking the pockets
of her sisters, tried to filch from him his lawful
recompense. The case was perplexing; for the
Parson held Susceptibility in great honor, despite
her hypocritical tricks, and did not like to give
her a slap in the face, which might frighten her
away forever. So Mr. Dale stood irresolute,
glancing from the sixpence to Lenny, and from
Lenny to the sixpence.

“Buon giorno—good-day to you,” said
a voice behind, in an accent slightly but unmistakably
foreign, and a strange-looking figure presented
itself at the stile.

Imagine a tall and exceedingly meagre man,
dressed in a rusty suit of black—the pantaloons
tight at the calf and ankle, and there forming a
loose gaiter over thick shoes buckled high at the
instep; an old cloak, lined with red, was thrown
over one shoulder, though the day was sultry;
a quaint, red, outlandish umbrella, with a carved
brass handle, was thrust under one arm, though
the sky was cloudless; a profusion of raven hair,
in waving curls that seemed as fine as silk,
escaped from the sides of a straw-hat of prodigious
brim; a complexion sallow and swarthy,
and features which, though not without considerable
beauty to the eye of the artist, were not only
unlike what we fair, well-fed, neat-faced Englishmen
are wont to consider comely, but exceedingly
like what we are disposed to regard as awful
and Satanic—to wit, a long hooked nose, sunken
cheeks, black eyes, whose piercing brilliancy
took something wizard-like and mystical from
the large spectacles through which they shone;
a mouth round which played an ironical smile,
and in which a physiognomist would have remarked
singular shrewdness and some closeness,
complete the picture: imagine this figure, grotesque,
peregrinate, and to the eye of a peasant
certainly diabolical, then perch it on the stile in
the midst of those green English fields, and in
sight of that primitive English village; there let
it sit straddling, its long legs dangling down, a
short German pipe emitting clouds from one
corner of those sardonic lips, its dark eyes glaring
through the spectacles full upon the Parson, yet
askant upon Lenny Fairfield. Lenny Fairfield
looked exceedingly frightened.

“Upon my word, Dr. Riccabocca,” said Mr.
Dale, smiling, “you come in good time to solve
a very nice question in casuistry;” and herewith
the Parson explained the case, and put the question—“Ought
Lenny Fairfield to have the sixpence,
or ought he not?”

“Cospetto!” said the doctor. “If the hen
would but hold her tongue, nobody would know
that she had laid an egg.”

Chapter V.

“Granted,” said the Parson; “but what follows?
The saying is good, but I don’t see the
application.”

“A thousand pardons!” replied Dr. Riccabocca,
with all the urbanity of an Italian; “but
it seems to me, that if you had given the sixpence
to the fanciullo—that is, to this good
little boy—without telling him the story about the
donkey, you would never have put him and
yourself into this awkward dilemma.”

“But, my dear sir,” whispered the Parson,
mildly, as he inclined his lips to the Doctor’s
ear, “I should then have lost the opportunity of
inculcating a moral lesson—you understand.”

Dr. Riccabocca shrugged his shoulders, restored
his pipe to his mouth, and took a long
whiff. It was a whiff eloquent, though cynical—a
whiff peculiar to your philosophical smoker—a
whiff that implied the most absolute but the
most placid incredulity as to the effect of the
Parson’s moral lesson.

“Still you have not given us your decision,”
said the Parson, after a pause.

The doctor withdrew the pipe. “Cospetto!”
[pg 666]
said he. “He who scrubs the head of an ass
wastes his soap.”

“If you scrubbed mine fifty times over with
those enigmatical proverbs of yours,” said the
Parson, testily, “you would not make it any the
wiser.”

“My good sir,” said the Doctor, bowing low
from his perch on the stile, “I never presumed
to say that there were more asses than one in
the story; but I thought that I could not better
explain my meaning, which is simply this—you
scrubbed the ass’s head, and therefore you must
lose the soap. Let the fanciullo have the
sixpence; and a great sum it is, too, for a little
boy, who may spend it all upon pocket-money!”

“There, Lenny—you hear?” said the Parson,
stretching out the sixpence. But Lenny retreated,
and cast on the umpire a look of great aversion
and disgust.

“Please, Master Dale,” said he, obstinately,
“I’d rather not.”

“It is a matter of feeling, you see,” said the
Parson, turning to the umpire; “and I believe
the boy is right.”

“If it is a matter of feeling,” replied Dr.
Riccabocca, “there is no more to be said on it.
When Feeling comes in at the door, Reason has
nothing to do but to jump out of the window.”

“Go, my good boy,” said the Parson, pocketing
the coin; “but stop! give me your hand
first. There—I understand you—good-by!”

Lenny’s eyes glistened as the Parson shook
him by the hand, and, not trusting himself to
speak, he walked off sturdily. The Parson wiped
his forehead, and sat himself down on the stile
beside the Italian. The view before them was
lovely, and both enjoyed it (though not equally)
enough to be silent for some moments. On the
other side the lane, seen between gaps in the old
oaks and chestnuts that hung over the moss-grown
pales of Hazeldean Park, rose gentle
verdant slopes, dotted with sheep and herds of
deer; a stately avenue stretched far away to the
left, and ended at the right hand, within a few
yards of a ha-ha that divided the park from
a level sward of table-land gay with shrubs
and flower-plots, relieved by the shade of two
mighty cedars. And on this platform, only seen
in part, stood the squire’s old-fashioned house,
red brick, with stone mullions, gable-ends, and
quaint chimney-pots. On this side the road, immediately
facing the two gentlemen, cottage
after cottage whitely emerged from the curves
in the lane, while, beyond, the ground declining
gave an extensive prospect of woods and cornfields,
spires and farms. Behind, from a belt
of lilacs and evergreens, you caught a peep of
the parsonage-house, backed by woodlands, and
a little noisy rill running in front. The birds
were still in the hedgerows, only as if from the
very heart of the most distant woods, there came
now and then the mellow note of the cuckoo.

“Verily,” said Mr. Dale softly, “my lot has
fallen on a goodly heritage.”

The Italian twitched his cloak over him, and
sighed almost inaudibly. Perhaps he thought
of his own Summer Land, and felt that amidst
all that fresh verdure of the North, there was no
heritage for the stranger.

However, before the Parson could notice the
sigh or conjecture the cause, Dr. Riccabocca’s
thin lips took an expression almost malignant.

“Per Bacco!” said he; “in every country
I find that the rooks settle where the trees are the
finest. I am sure that, when Noah first landed
on Ararat, he must have found some gentleman
in black already settled in the pleasantest part
of the mountain, and waiting for his tenth of the
cattle as they came out of the ark.”

The Parson turned his meek eyes to the philosopher,
and there was in them something so
deprecating rather than reproachful, that Dr.
Riccabocca turned away his face, and refilled
his pipe. Dr. Riccabocca abhorred priests; but
though Parson Dale was emphatically a parson,
he seemed at that moment so little of what Dr.
Riccabocca understood by a priest, that the
Italian’s heart smote him for his irreverent jest
on the cloth. Luckily at this moment there
was a diversion to that untoward commencement
of conversation, in the appearance of no
less a personage than the donkey himself—I
mean the donkey who ate the apple.

Chapter VI.

The Tinker was a stout swarthy fellow,
jovial and musical withal, for he was singing a
stave as he flourished his staff, and at the end
of each refrain down came the staff on the
quarters of the donkey. The tinker went behind
and sung, the donkey went before and was
thwacked.

“Yours is a droll country,” quoth Dr. Riccabocca;
“in mine it is not the ass that walks
first in the procession, who gets the blows.”

The Parson jumped from the stile, and, looking
over the hedge that divided the field from
the road—“Gently, gently,” said he; “the sound
of the stick spoils the singing! O Mr. Sprott,
Mr. Sprott! a good man is merciful to his
beast.”

The donkey seemed to recognize the voice
of its friend, for it stopped short, pricked one
ear wistfully, and looked up.

The Tinker touched his hat, and looked up
too. “Lord bless your reverence! he does not
mind it, he likes it. I vould not hurt thee;
vould I, Neddy?”

The donkey shook his head and shivered;
perhaps a fly had settled on the sore, which the
chestnut leaves no longer protected.

“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him,
Sprott,” said the Parson, more politely, I fear,
[pg 667]
than honesty—for he had seen enough of that
cross-grained thing called the human heart,
even in the little world of a country parish, to
know that it requires management, and coaxing,
and flattering, to interfere successfully
between a man and his own donkey—“I am
sure you did not mean to hurt him; but he has
already got a sore on his shoulder as big as my
hand, poor thing!”

“Lord love ‘un! yes; that vas done a playing
with the manger, the day I gave ‘un oats!”
said the Tinker.

Dr. Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and
surveyed the ass. The ass pricked up his other
ear, and surveyed Dr. Riccabocca. In that
mutual survey of physical qualifications, each
being regarded according to the average symmetry
of its species, it may be doubted whether
the advantage was on the side of the philosopher.

The Parson had a great notion of the wisdom
of his friend, in all matters not immediately
ecclesiastical.

“Say a good word for the donkey!” whispered
he.

“Sir,” said the Doctor, addressing Mr. Sprott,
with a respectful salutation, “there’s a great
kettle at my house—the Casino—which wants
soldering: can you recommend me a Tinker?”

“Why, that’s all in my line,” said Sprott,
“and there ben’t a Tinker in the country that I
vould recommend like myself, thof I say it.”

“You jest, good sir,” said the Doctor, smiling
pleasantly. “A man who can’t mend a hole in
his own donkey, can never demean himself by
patching up my great kettle.”

“Lord, sir!” said the Tinker, archly, “if I
had known that poor Neddy had had two sitch
friends in court, I’d have seen he was a gintleman,
and treated him as sitch.”

“Corpo di Bacco.” quoth the Doctor,
“though that jest’s not new, I think the Tinker comes
very well out of it.”

“True; but the donkey!” said the Parson,
“I’ve a great mind to buy it.”

“Permit me to tell you an anecdote in point,”
said Dr. Riccabocca.

“Well?” said the Parson, interrogatively.

“Once in a time,” pursued Riccabocca, “the
Emperor Adrian, going to the public baths,
saw an old soldier, who had served under him,
rubbing his back against the marble wall. The
emperor, who was a wise, and therefore a curious,
inquisitive man, sent for the soldier, and
asked him why he resorted to that sort of friction.
‘Because,’ answered the veteran, ‘I am
too poor to have slaves to rub me down.’ The
emperor was touched, and gave him slaves and
money. The next day, when Adrian went to
the baths, all the old men in the city were to be
seen rubbing themselves against the marble as
hard as they could. The emperor sent for them,
and asked them the same question which he had
put to the soldier; the cunning old rogues, of
course, made the same answer. ‘Friends,’ said
Adrian, ‘since there are so many of you, you
will just rub one another!’ Mr. Dale, if you
don’t want to have all the donkeys in the county
with holes in their shoulders, you had better not
buy the Tinker’s!”

“It is the hardest thing in the world to do the
least bit of good,” groaned the Parson, as he
broke a twig off the hedge nervously, snapped it
in two, and flung the fragments on the road—one
of them hit the donkey on the nose. If the
ass could have spoken Latin, he would have
said, “Et tu, Brute!” As it was, he hung
down his ears, and walked on.

“Gee hup,” said the Tinker, and he followed
the ass. Then stopping, he looked over his
shoulder, and seeing that the Parson’s eyes
were gazing mournfully on his protégé, “Never
fear, your reverence,” cried the Tinker kindly;
“I’ll not spite ‘un.”

Chapter VII.

“Four o’clock,” cried the Parson, looking at
his watch; “half-an-hour after dinner-time, and
Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be punctual,
because of the fine trout the Squire sent
us. Will you venture on what our homely language
calls ‘pot luck,’ Doctor?”

Now Riccabocca, like most wise men, especially
if Italians, was by no means inclined to
the credulous view of human nature. Indeed,
he was in the habit of detecting self-interest in
the simplest actions of his fellow-creatures.
And when the Parson thus invited him to pot
luck, he smiled with a kind of lofty complacency;
for Mrs. Dale enjoyed the reputation of having
what her friends styled “her little tempers.”
And, as well-bred ladies rarely indulge “little
tempers” in the presence of a third person, not
of the family, so Dr. Riccabocca instantly concluded
that he was invited to stand between the
pot and the luck! Nevertheless—as he was
fond of trout, and a much more good-natured
man than he ought to have been according to
his principles—he accepted the hospitality; but
he did so with a sly look from over his spectacles,
which brought a blush into the guilty
cheeks of the Parson. Certainly Riccabocca
had for once guessed right in his estimate of
human motives.

The two walked on, crossed a little bridge
that spanned the rill, and entered the parsonage
lawn. Two dogs, that seemed to have sate on
watch for their master, sprung toward him
barking; and the sound drew the notice of Mrs.
Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out
from the sash window which opened on the
lawn. Now, O reader! I know that in thy secret
heart, thou art chuckling over the want of
knowledge in the sacred arcana of the domestic
[pg 668]
hearth, betrayed by the author; thou art saying
to thyself, “A pretty way to conciliate little
tempers indeed, to add to the offense of spoiling
the fish the crime of bringing an unexpected
friend to eat it. Pot luck, quotha, when the
pot’s boiled over this half hour!”

But, to thy utter shame and confusion, O
reader, learn that both the author and Parson
Dale knew very well what they were about.

Dr. Riccabocca was the special favorite of
Mrs. Dale, and the only person in the whole
country who never put her out, by dropping in.
In fact, strange though it may seem at first
glance, Dr. Riccabocca had that mysterious
something about him which we of his own sex
can so little comprehend, but which always propitiates
the other. He owed this, in part, to his
own profound but hypocritical policy; for he
looked upon woman as the natural enemy to
man—against whom it was necessary to be always
on the guard; whom it was prudent to
disarm by every species of fawning servility and
abject complaisance. He owed it also, in part,
to the compassionate and heavenly nature of the
angels whom his thoughts thus villainously traduced—for
women like one whom they can pity
without despising; and there was something in
Signor Riccabocca’s poverty, in his loneliness,
in his exile, whether voluntary or compelled,
that excited pity; while, despite the threadbare
coat, the red umbrella, and the wild hair, he
had, especially when addressing ladies, that air
of gentleman and cavalier which is or was more
innate in an educated Italian, of whatever rank,
than perhaps in the highest aristocracy of another
country in Europe. For, though I grant
that nothing is more exquisite than the politeness
of your French marquis of the old régime—nothing
more frankly gracious than the cordial
address of a highbred English gentleman—nothing
more kindly prepossessing than the genial
good-nature of some patriarchal German, who
will condescend to forget his sixteen quarterings
in the pleasure of doing you a favor—yet
these specimens of the suavity of their several
nations are rare; whereas blandness and polish
are common attributes with your Italian. They
seem to have been immemorially handed down
to him, from ancestors emulating the urbanity
of Cæsar, and refined by the grace of
Horace.

“Dr. Riccabocca consents to dine with us,”
cried the Parson, hastily.

“If madame permit?” said the Italian, bowing
over the hand extended to him, which, however,
he forebore to take, seeing it was already
full of the watch.

“I am only sorry that the trout must be quite
spoiled,” began Mrs. Dale, plaintively.

“It is not the trout one thinks of when one
dines with Mrs. Dale,” said the infamous dissimulator.

“But I see James coming to say that dinner
is ready?” observed the Parson.

“He said that three quarters of an hour ago,
Charles dear,” retorted Mrs. Dale, taking the
arm of Dr. Riccabocca.

Chapter VIII.

While the Parson and his wife are entertaining
their guest, I propose to regale the reader
with a small treatise apropos of that “Charles
dear,” murmured by Mrs. Dale;—a treatise expressly
written for the benefit of The Domestic
Circle.

It is an old jest that there is not a word in the
language that conveys so little endearment as
the word “dear.” But though the saying itself,
like most truths, be trite and hackneyed,
no little novelty remains to the search of the
inquirer into the varieties of inimical import
comprehended in that malign monosyllable. For
instance, I submit to the experienced that the
degree of hostility it betrays is in much proportioned
to its collocation in the sentence. When,
gliding indirectly through the rest of the period,
it takes its stand at the close, as in that “Charles
dear” of Mrs. Dale—it has spilt so much of its
natural bitterness by the way that it assumes
even a smile, “amara lento temperet risu.”
Sometimes the smile is plaintive, sometimes
arch. Ex. gr.

(Plaintive.)

“I know very well that whatever I do is
wrong, Charles dear.”

“Nay, I am only glad you amused yourself
so much without me, Charles dear.”

“Not quite so loud! If you had, but my poor
head, Charles dear,” &c.

(Arch.)

“If you could spill the ink any where but on
the best table-cloth, Charles dear!”

“But though you must always have your own
way, you are not quite faultless, own, Charles
dear,” &c.

In this collocation occur many dears, parental
as well as conjugal; as—“Hold up your head
and don’t look quite so cross, dear.”

“Be a good boy for once in your life—that’s
a dear,” &c.

When the enemy stops in the middle of the
sentence, its venom is naturally less exhausted.
Ex. gr.

“Really, I must say, Charles dear, that you
are the most fidgety person,” &c.

“And if the house bills were so high last
week, Charles dear, I should just like to know
whose fault it was—that’s all.”

“Do you think, Charles dear, that you could put
your feet any where except upon the chintz sofa?”

“But you know, Charles dear, that you care
no more for me and the children than,” &c.

But if the fatal word spring up, in its primitive
[pg 669]
freshness, at the head of the sentence, bow
your head to the storm. It then assumes the
majesty of “my” before it; is generally more
than simple objurgation—it prefaces a sermon.
My candor obliges me to confess that this is the
mode in which the hateful monosyllable is more
usually employed by the marital part of the one
flesh; and has something about it of the odious
assumption of the Petruchian pater-familias—the
head of the family—boding, not perhaps
“peace, and love, and quiet life,” but certainly
“awful rule and right supremacy.” Ex. gr.

“My dear Jane—I wish you would just put
by that everlasting tent-stitch, and listen to me
for a few moments,” &c.

“My dear Jane—I wish you would understand me for once—don’t
think I am angry—no,
but I am hurt. You must consider,” &c.

“My dear Jane—I don’t know if it is your
intention to ruin me; but I only wish you would
do as all other women do who care three straws
for their husbands’ property,” &c.

“My dear Jane—I wish you to understand
that I am the last person in the world to be
jealous; but I’ll be d—d if that puppy, Captain
Prettyman,” &c.

Now, if that same “dear” could be thoroughly
raked and hoed out of the connubial
garden, I don’t think that the remaining nettles
would signify a button. But even as it was,
Parson Dale, good man, would have prized his
garden beyond all the bowers which Spenser
and Tasso have sung so musically, though there
had not been a single specimen of “dear,”
whether the dear humilis, or the
dear superba,
the dear pallida,
rubra, or
nigra; the dear umbrosa,
florens,
spicata; the
dear savis, or the
dear horrida; no, not a single dear in the whole
horticulture of matrimony which Mrs. Dale had
not brought to perfection; but this, fortunately,
was far from being the case. The dears of Mrs.
Dale were only wild flowers, after all.

Chapter IX.

In the cool of the evening, Dr. Riccabocca
walked home across the fields. Mr. and Mrs.
Dale had accompanied him half way; and as
they now turned back to the Parsonage, they
looked behind, to catch a glimpse of the tall,
outlandish figure, winding slowly through the
path amidst the waves of the green corn.

“Poor man!” said Mrs. Dale, feelingly;
“and the button was off his wristband! What
a pity he has nobody to take care of him! He
seems very domestic. Don’t you think, Charles,
it would be a great blessing if we could get
him a good wife?”

“Um,” said the Parson; “I doubt if he
values the married state as he ought.”

“What do you mean, Charles? I never saw
a man more polite to ladies in my life.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? You are always so mysterious,
Charles dear.”

“Mysterious! No, Carry; but if you could
hear what the Doctor says of the ladies sometimes.”

“Ay, when you men get together, my dear.
I know what that means—pretty things you say
of us. But you are all alike; you know you
are, love!”

“I am sure,” said the Parson, simply, “that
I have good cause to speak well of the sex—when
I think of you, and my poor mother.”

Mrs. Dale, who, with all her “tempers,” was
an excellent woman, and loved her husband
with the whole of her quick little heart, was
touched. She pressed his hand, and did not
call him dear all the way home.

Meanwhile the Italian passed the fields, and
came upon the high-road about two miles from
Hazeldean. On one side stood an old-fashioned
solitary inn, such as English inns used to be before
they became railway hotels—square, solid,
old-fashioned, looking so hospitable and comfortable,
with their great signs swinging from some
elm tree in front, and the long row of stables
standing a little back, with a chaise or two in
the yard, and the jolly landlord talking of the
crops to some stout farmer, who has stopped
his rough pony at the well-known door. Opposite
this inn, on the other side the road, stood
the habitation of Dr. Riccabocca.

A few years before the date of these annals,
the stage-coach, on its way to London, from a
seaport town, stopped at the inn, as was its
wont, for a good hour, that its passengers might
dine like Christian Englishmen—not gulp down
a basin of scalding soup, like everlasting heathen
Yankees, with that cursed railway whistle shrieking
like a fiend in their ears! It was the best
dining-place on the whole road, for the trout in
the neighboring rill were famous, and so was
the mutton which came from Hazeldean Park.

From the outside of the coach had descended
two passengers who, alone, insensible to the
attractions of mutton and trout, refused to dine—two
melancholy-looking foreigners, of whom
one was Signor Riccabocca, much the same as
we see him now, only that the black suit, was
less threadbare, the tall form less meagre, and
he did not then wear spectacles; and the other
was his servant. They would walk about
while the coach stopped. Now the Italian’s
eye had been caught by a mouldering dismantled
house on the other side the road, which
nevertheless was well situated; half-way up a
green hill, with its aspect due south, a little
cascade falling down artificial rock-work, and
a terrace with a balustrade, and a few broken
urns and statues before its Ionic portico; while
on the roadside stood a board, with characters
already half effaced, implying that the house
[pg 670]
was to be “Let unfurnished, with or without
land.”

The abode that looked so cheerless, and
which had so evidently hung long on hand,
was the property of Squire Hazeldean. It had
been built by his grandfather on the female
side—a country gentleman who had actually
been in Italy (a journey rare enough to boast
of in those days), and who, on his return home,
had attempted a miniature imitation of an Italian
villa. He left an only daughter and sole heiress,
who married Squire Hazeldean’s father; and
since that time, the house, abandoned by its
proprietors for the larger residence of the Hazeldeans,
had been uninhabited and neglected.
Several tenants, indeed, had offered themselves:
but your Squire is slow in admitting upon his
own property a rival neighbor. Some wanted
shooting. “That,” said the Hazeldeans, who
were great sportsmen and strict preservers,
“was quite out of the question.” Others were
fine folks from London. “London servants,”
said the Hazeldeans, who were moral and prudent
people, “would corrupt their own, and
bring London prices.” Others, again, were
retired manufacturers, at whom the Hazeldeans
turned up their agricultural noses. In short,
some were too grand, and others too vulgar.
Some were refused because they were known
so well: “Friends are best at a distance,” said
the Hazeldeans. Others because they were not
known at all: “No good comes of strangers,”
said the Hazeldeans. And finally, as the house
fell more and more into decay, no one would
take it unless it was put into thorough repair:
“As if one was made of money!” said the
Hazeldeans. In short, there stood the house
unoccupied and ruinous; and there, on its terrace,
stood the two forlorn Italians, surveying
it with a smile at each other, as, for the first
time since they set foot in England, they recognized,
in dilapidated pilasters and broken statues,
in a weed-grown terrace and the remains of an
orangery, something that reminded them of the
land they had left behind.

On returning to the inn, Dr. Riccabocca took
the occasion of learning from the innkeeper
(who was indeed a tenant of the Squire’s) such
particulars as he could collect; and a few days
afterward Mr. Hazeldean received a letter from
a solicitor of repute in London, stating that a
very respectable foreign gentleman had commissioned
him to treat for Clump Lodge, otherwise
called the “Casino;” that the said gentleman
did not shoot—lived in great seclusion—and,
having no family, did not care about the
repairs of the place, provided only it were made
weather-proof—if the omission of more expensive
reparations could render the rent suitable
to his finances, which were very limited. The
offer came at a fortunate moment—when the
steward had just been representing to the
Squire the necessity of doing something to keep
the Casino from falling into positive ruin, and
the Squire was cursing the fates which had put
the Casino into an entail—so that he could not
pull it down for the building materials. Mr.
Hazeldean therefore caught at the proposal even
as a fair lady, who has refused the best offers
in the kingdom, catches at last at some battered
old captain on half-pay, and replied that, as for
rent, if the solicitor’s client was a quiet respectable
man, he did not care for that. But that
the gentleman might have it for the first year
rent free, on condition of paying the taxes and
putting the place a little in order. If they
suited each other, they could then come to
terms. Ten days subsequently to this gracious
reply, Signor Riccabocca and his servant arrived;
and, before the year’s end, the Squire
was so contented with his tenant that he gave
him a running lease of seven, fourteen, or
twenty-one years, at a rent nearly nominal, on
condition that Signor Riccabocca would put and
maintain the place in repair, barring the roof
and fences, which the Squire generously renewed
at his own expense. It was astonishing,
by little and little, what a pretty place the
Italian had made of it, and what is more astonishing,
how little it had cost him. He had indeed
painted the walls of the hall, staircase,
and the rooms appropriated to himself, with his
own hands. His servant had done the greater
part of the upholstery. The two between them
had got the garden into order. The Italians
seemed to have taken a joint love to the place,
and to deck it as they would have done some
favorite chapel to their Madonna.

It was long before the natives reconciled
themselves to the odd ways of the foreign settlers—the
first thing that offended them was
the exceeding smallness of the household bills.
Three days out of the seven, indeed, both man and
master dined on nothing else but the vegetables
in the garden, and the fishes in the neighboring
rill; when no trout could be caught they fried
the minnows (and certainly, even in the best
streams, minnows are more frequently caught
than trouts). The next thing which angered
the natives quite as much, especially the female
part of the neighborhood, was the very sparing
employment the two he creatures gave to the
sex usually deemed so indispensable in household
matters. At first indeed, they had no
woman servant at all. But this created such
horror that Parson Dale ventured a hint upon
the matter, which Riccabocca took in very good
part, and an old woman was forthwith engaged,
after some bargaining—at three shillings a
week—to wash and scrub as much as she liked
during the daytime. She always returned to
her own cottage to sleep. The man-servant,
who was styled in the neighborhood “Jackeymo,”
did all else for his master—smoothed his
[pg 671]
room, dusted his papers, prepared his coffee,
cooked his dinner, brushed his clothes, and
cleaned his pipes, of which Riccabocca had a
large collection. But, however close a man’s
character, it generally creeps out in driblets;
and on many little occasions the Italian had
shown acts of kindness, and, on some more rare
occasions, even of generosity, which had served
to silence his calumniators, and by degrees he
had established a very fair reputation—suspected,
it is true, of being a little inclined to the Black
Art, and of a strange inclination to starve
Jackeymo and himself—in other respects harmless
enough.

Signor Riccabocca had become very intimate,
as we have seen, at the Parsonage. But not so
at the Hall. For though the Squire was inclined
to be very friendly to all his neighbors—he was,
like most country gentlemen, rather easily huffed.
Riccabocca had, if with great politeness, still
with great obstinacy, refused Mr. Hazeldean’s
earlier invitations to dinner, and when the Squire
found, that the Italian rarely declined to dine at
the Parsonage, he was offended in one of his
weak points, viz., his regard for the honor of
the hospitality of Hazeldean Hall—and he ceased
altogether invitations so churlishly rejected.
Nevertheless, as it was impossible for the Squire,
however huffed, to bear malice, he now and then
reminded Riccabocca of his existence by presents
of game, and would have called on him more
often than he did, but that Riccabocca received
him with such excessive politeness that the blunt
country gentleman felt shy and put out, and used
to say that “to call on Riccabocca was as bad
as going to court.”

But I left Dr. Riccabocca on the high-road.
By this time he has ascended a narrow path
that winds by the side of the cascade, he has
passed a trellis-work covered with vines, from
the which Jackeymo has positively succeeded
in making what he calls wine—a liquid, indeed,
that, if the cholera had been popularly known in
those days, would have soured the mildest member
of the Board of Health; for Squire Hazeldean,
though a robust man who daily carried
off his bottle of port with impunity, having once
rashly tasted it, did not recover the effect till he
had had a bill from the apothecary as long as
his own arm. Passing this trellis, Dr. Riccabocca
entered upon the terrace, with its stone
pavement smoothed and trim as hands could
make it. Here, on neat stands, all his favorite
flowers were arranged. Here four orange trees
were in full blossom; here a kind of summer-house
or Belvidere, built by Jackeymo and himself,
made his chosen morning room from May
till October; and from this Belvidere there was
as beautiful an expanse of prospect as if our
English Nature had hospitably spread on her
green board all that she had to offer as a banquet
to the exile.

A man without his coat, which was thrown over
the balustrade, was employed in watering the
flowers; a man with movements so mechanical—with
a face so rigidly grave in its tawny hues—that
he seemed like an automaton made out
of mahogany.

“Giacomo,” said Dr. Riccabocca, softly.

The automaton stopped its hand, and turned
its head.

“Put by the watering-pot, and come here,”
continued Riccabocca in Italian; and, moving
toward the balustrade, he leaned over it. Mr.
Mitford, the historian, calls Jean Jacques “John
James.” Following that illustrious example,
Giacomo shall be Anglified into Jackeymo.
Jackeymo came to the balustrade also, and stood
a little behind his master.

“Friend,” said Riccabocca, “enterprises have
not always succeeded with us. Don’t you think,
after all, it is tempting our evil star to rent those
fields from the landlord?” Jackeymo crossed
himself, and made some strange movement with
a little coral charm which he wore set in a ring
on his finger.

“If the Madonna send us luck, and we could
hire a lad cheap?” said Jackeymo, doubtfully.

“Piu vale un presente che due futuri,”
said Riccabocca. “A bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush.”

“Chi non fa quondo può, non può fare quondo
vuole”—(“He who will not when he may, when
he will it shall have nay”)—answered Jackeymo,
as sententiously as his master. “And the Padrone
should think in time that he must lay by for the
dower of the poor signorina”—(young lady).

Riccabocca sighed, and made no reply.

“She must be that high now!” said Jackeymo,
putting his hand on some imaginary line a
little above the balustrade. Riccabocca’s eyes,
raised over the spectacles, followed the hand.

“If the Padrone could but see her here—”

“I thought I did!” muttered the Italian.

“He would never let her go from his side
till she went to a husband’s,” continued Jackeymo.

“But this climate—she could never stand it,”
said Riccabocca, drawing his cloak round him,
as a north wind took him in the rear.

“The orange trees blossom even here with
care,” said Jackeymo, turning back to draw
down an awning where the orange trees faced
the north. “See!” he added, as he returned
with a sprig in full bud.

Dr. Riccabocca bent over the blossom, and
then placed it in his bosom.

“The other one should be there, too,” said
Jackeymo.

“To die—as this does already!” answered
Riccabocca. “Say no more.”

Jackeymo shrugged his shoulders; and then,
glancing at his master, drew his hand over his
eyes.

[pg 672]

There was a pause. Jackeymo was the first
to break it.

“But, whether here or there, beauty without
money is the orange tree without shelter. If a
lad could be got cheap, I would hire the land,
and trust for the crop to the Madonna.”

“I think I know of such a lad,” said Riccabocca,
recovering himself, and with his sardonic
smile once more lurking about the corner of his
mouth—“a lad made for us!”

“Diavolo!”

“No, not the Diavolo! Friend, I have this
day seen a boy who—refused sixpence!”

“Cosa stupenda!”—(Stupendous
thing!) exclaimed Jackeymo, opening his eyes, and letting
fall the water-pot.

“It is true, my friend.”

“Take him, Padrone, in Heaven’s name, and
the fields will grow gold.”

“I will think of it, for it must require management
to catch such a boy,” said Riccabocca.
“Meanwhile, light a candle in the parlor, and
bring from my bedroom—that great folio of
Machiavelli.”


The Two Guides Of The Child.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

A spirit near me said, “Look forth upon
the Land of Life. What do you see?”

“Steep mountains, covered by a mighty
plain, a table-land of many-colored beauty.
Beauty, nay, it seems all beautiful at first, but
now I see that there are some parts barren.”

“Are they quite barren?—look more closely
still!”

“No, in the wildest deserts, now, I see some
gum-dropping acacias, and the crimson blossom
of the cactus. But there are regions that rejoice
abundantly in flower and fruit; and now,
O Spirit, I see men and women moving to and
fro.”

“Observe them, mortal.”

“I behold a world of love; the men have
women’s arms entwined about them; some
upon the verge of precipices—friends are running
to the rescue. There are many wandering
like strangers, who know not their road,
and they look upward. Spirit, how many, many
eyes are looking up as if to God! Ah, now I
see some strike their neighbors down into the
dust; I see some wallowing like swine; I see
that there are men and women brutal.”

“Are they quite brutal—look more closely
still.”

“No, I see prickly sorrow growing out of
crime, and penitence awakened by a look of
love. I see good gifts bestowed out of the
hand of murder, and see truth issue out of lying
lips. But in this plain, O Spirit, I see regions—wide,
bright regions—yielding fruit and flower,
while others seem perpetually vailed with
fogs, and in them no fruit ripens. I see pleasant
regions where the rock is full of clefts, and people
fall into them. The men who dwell beneath
the fog deal lovingly, and yet they have small
enjoyment in the world around them, which
they scarcely see. But whither are these
women going?”

“Follow them.”

“I have followed down the mountains to a
haven in the vale below. All that is lovely in
the world of flowers makes a fragrant bed for
the dear children; birds singing, they breathe
upon the pleasant air; the butterflies play with
them. Their limbs shine white among the
blossoms, and their mothers come down full of
joy to share their innocent delight. They pelt
each other with the lilies of the valley. They
call up at will fantastic masks, grim giants
play to make them merry, a thousand grotesque
loving phantoms kiss them; to each the mother
is the one thing real, the highest bliss—the
next bliss is the dream of all the world beside.
Some that are motherless, all mother’s love.
Every gesture, every look, every odor, every
song, adds to the charm of love which fills the
valley. Some little figures fall and die, and on
the valley’s soil they crumble into violets and
lilies, with love-tears to hang in them like dew.

“Who dares to come down with a frown into
this happy valley? A severe man seizes an
unhappy, shrieking child, and leads it to the
roughest ascent of the mountain. He will lead
it over steep rocks to the plain of the mature.
On ugly needle-points he makes the child sit
down, and teaches it its duty in the world
above.”

“Its duty, mortal! Do you listen to the
teacher?”

“Spirit, I hear now. The child is informed
about two languages spoken by nations extinct
centuries ago, and something also, O Spirit,
about the base of an hypothenuse.”

“Does the child attend?”

“Not much; but it is beaten silly, and its
knees are bruised against the rocks, till it is
hauled up, woe-begone and weary, to the upper
plain. It looks about bewildered; all is strange—it
knows not how to act. Fogs crown the
barren mountain paths. Spirit, I am unhappy;
there are many children thus hauled up, and as
young men upon the plain; they walk in fog,
or among brambles; some fall into pits; and
many, getting into flower-paths, lie down and
learn. Some become active, seeking right, but
ignorant of what right is; they wander among
men out of their fog-land, preaching folly. Let
me go back among the children.”

“Have they no better guide?”

“Yes, now there comes one with a smiling
face, and rolls upon the flowers with the little
ones, and they are drawn to him. And he has
magic spells to conjure up glorious spectacles
of fairy land. He frolics with them, and might
be first cousin to the butterflies. He wreathes
their little heads with flower garlands, and with
his fairy land upon his lips he walks toward
the mountains; eagerly they follow. He seeks
the smoothest upward path, and that is but a
[pg 673]
rough one, yet they run up merrily, guide and
children, butterflies pursuing still the flowers as
they nod over a host of laughing faces. They
talk of the delightful fairy world, and resting in
the shady places learn of the yet more delightful
world of God. They learn to love the
Maker of the Flowers, to know how great the
Father of the Stars must be, how good must be
the Father of the Beetle. They listen to the
story of the race they go to labor with upon the
plain, and love it for the labor it has done.
They learn old languages of men, to understand
the past—more eagerly they learn the voices of
the men of their own day, that they may take
part with the present. And in their study when
they flag, they fall back upon thoughts of the
Child Valley they are leaving. Sports and
fancies are the rod and spur that bring them
with new vigor to the lessons. When they
reach the plain they cry, ‘We know you, men
and women; we know to what you have aspired
for centuries; we know the love there is in
you; we know the love there is in God; we
come prepared to labor with you, dear, good
friends. We will not call you clumsy when we
see you tumble, we will try to pick you up;
when we fall, you shall pick us up. We have
been trained to love, and therefore we can aid
you heartily, for love is labor!’ ”

The Spirit whispered, “You have seen and
you have heard. Go now, and speak unto your
fellow-men: ask justice for the child.”

To-day should love To-morrow, for it is a
thing of hope; let the young Future not be
nursed by Care. God gave not fancy to the
child that men should stamp its blossoms down
into the loose soil of intellect. The child’s
heart was not made full to the brim of love,
that men should pour its love away, and bruise
instead of kiss the trusting innocent. Love and
fancy are the stems on which we may graft
knowledge readily. What is called by some
dry folks a solid foundation may be a thing not
desirable. To cut down all the trees, and root
up all the flowers in a garden, to cover walks
and flower-beds alike with a hard crust of well-rolled
gravel, that would be to lay down your
solid foundation after a plan which some think
good in a child’s mind, though not quite worth
adopting in a garden. O, teacher, love the child
and learn of it; so let it love and learn of you.


The Laboratory In The Chest.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

The mind of Mr. Bagges was decidedly
affected—beneficially—by the lecture on
the Chemistry of a Candle, which, as set forth
in a previous number of this journal, had been
delivered to him by his youthful nephew. That
learned discourse inspired him with a new feeling;
an interest in matters of science. He
began to frequent the Polytechnic Institution,
nearly as much as his club. He also took to
lounging at the British Museum; where he
was often to be seen, with his left arm under
his coat-tails, examining the wonderful works
of nature and antiquity, through his eye-glass.
Moreover, he procured himself to be elected
a member of the Royal Institution, which became
a regular house of call to him, so that
in a short time he grew to be one of the ordinary
phenomena of the place.

Mr. Bagges likewise adopted a custom of
giving conversaziones, which, however, were
always very private and select—generally confined
to his sister’s family. Three courses
were first discussed; then dessert; after which,
surrounded by an apparatus of glasses and
decanters, Master Harry Wilkinson was called
upon, as a sort of juvenile Davy, to amuse his
uncle by the elucidation of some chemical or
other physical mystery. Master Wilkinson had
now attained to the ability of making experiments;
most of which, involving combustion,
were strongly deprecated by the young gentleman’s
mamma; but her opposition was overruled
by Mr. Bagges, who argued that it was
much better that a young dog should burn
phosphorus before your face than let off gunpowder
behind your back, to say nothing of
occasionally pinning a cracker to your skirts.
He maintained that playing with fire and water,
throwing stones, and such like boys’ tricks, as
they are commonly called, are the first expressions
of a scientific tendency—endeavors and
efforts of the infant mind to acquaint itself with
the powers of Nature.

His own favorite toys, he remembered, were
squibs, suckers, squirts, and slings; and he was
persuaded that, by his having been denied them
at school, a natural philosopher had been nipped
in the bud.

Blowing bubbles was an example—by-the-by,
a rather notable one—by which Mr. Bagges,
on one of his scientific evenings, was instancing
the affinity of child’s play to philosophical
experiments, when he bethought him Harry
had said on a former occasion that the human
breath consists chiefly of carbonic acid, which
is heavier than common air. How then, it
occurred to his inquiring, though elderly mind,
was it that soap-bladders, blown from a tobacco-pipe,
rose instead of sinking? He asked
his nephew this.

“Oh, uncle!” answered Harry, “in the first
place, the air you blow bubbles with mostly
comes in at the nose and goes out at the
mouth, without having been breathed at all.
Then it is warmed by the mouth, and warmth,
you know, makes a measure of air get larger,
and so lighter in proportion. A soap-bubble
rises for the same reason that a fire-balloon rises—that
is, because the air inside of it has been
heated, and weighs less than the same sized
bubbleful of cold air.”

“What, hot breath does!” said Mr. Bagges.
“Well, now, it’s a curious thing, when you
come to think of it, that the breath should be
hot—indeed, the warmth of the body generally
seems a puzzle. It is wonderful, too, how the
bodily heat can be kept up so long as it is.
[pg 674]
Here, now, is this tumbler of hot grog—a
mixture of boiling water, and what d’ye call
it, you scientific geniuses?”

“Alcohol, uncle.”

“Alcohol—well—or, as we used to say,
brandy. Now, if I leave this tumbler of brandy-and-water
alone—”

“If you do, uncle,” interposed his nephew,
archly.

“Get along, you idle rogue! If I let that
tumbler stand there, in a few minutes the
brandy-and-water—eh?—I beg pardon—the
alcohol-and-water—gets cold. Now, why—why
the deuce—if the brand—the alcohol-and-water
cools; why—how—how is it we don’t
cool in the same way, I want to know? eh?”
demanded Mr. Bagges, with the air of a man
who feels satisfied that he has propounded a
“regular poser.”

“Why,” replied Harry, “for the same reason
that the room keeps warm so long as there
is a fire in the grate.”

“You don’t mean to say that I have a fire
in my body?”

“I do, though.”

“Eh, now? That’s good,” said Mr. Bagges.
“That reminds me of the man in love crying,
‘Fire! fire!’ and the lady said, ‘Where,
where?’ And he called out, ‘Here! here!’
with his hand upon his heart. Eh?—but now
I think of it—you said, the other day, that
breathing was a sort of burning. Do you
mean to tell me that I—eh?—have fire, fire,
as the lover said, here, here—in short, that
my chest is a grate or an Arnott’s stove?”

“Not exactly so, uncle. But I do mean to
tell you that you have a sort of fire burning
partly in your chest; but also, more or less,
throughout your whole body.”

“Oh, Henry!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson,
“How can you say such horrid things!”

“Because they’re quite true, mamma—but
you needn’t be frightened. The fire of one’s
body is not hotter than from ninety degrees to
one hundred and four degrees or so. Still it
is fire, and will burn some things, as you would
find, uncle, if, in using phosphorus, you were
to let a little bit of it get under your nail.”

“I’ll take your word for the fact, my boy,”
said Mr. Bagges. “But, if I have a fire burning
throughout my person—which I was not
aware of, the only inflammation I am ever
troubled with being in the great toe—I say,
if my body is burning continually—how is it I
don’t smoke—eh? Come, now?”

“Perhaps you consume your own smoke,”
suggested Mr. Wilkinson, senior, “like every
well-regulated furnace.”

“You smoke nothing but your pipe, uncle,
because you burn all your carbon,” said Harry.
“But, if your body doesn’t smoke, it steams.
Breathe against a looking-glass, or look at
your breath on a cold morning. Observe how
a horse reeks when it perspires. Besides—as
you just now said you recollected my telling
you the other day—you breathe out carbonic
acid, and that, and the steam of the breath
together, are exactly the same things, you
know, that a candle turns into in burning.”

“But if I burn like a candle—why don’t I
burn out like a candle?” demanded Mr. Bagges.
“How do you get over that?”

“Because,” replied Harry, “your fuel is renewed
as fast as burnt. So perhaps you resemble
a lamp rather than a candle. A lamp
requires to be fed; so does the body—as, possibly,
uncle, you may be aware.”

“Eh?—well—I have always entertained an
idea of that sort,” answered Mr. Bagges, helping
himself to some biscuits. “But the lamp
feeds on train-oil.”

“So does the Laplander. And you couldn’t
feed the lamp on turtle or mulligatawny, of
course, uncle. But mulligatawny or turtle can
be changed into fat—they are so, sometimes, I
think—when they are eaten in large quantities,
and fat will burn fast enough. And most of
what you eat turns into something which burns
at last, and is consumed in the fire that warms
you all over.”

“Wonderful, to be sure,” exclaimed Mr.
Bagges. “Well, now, and how does this extraordinary
process take place?”

“First, you know, uncle, your food is digested—”

“Not always, I am sorry to say, my boy,”
Mr. Bagges observed, “but go on.”

“Well; when it is digested, it becomes a
sort of fluid, and mixes gradually with the
blood, and turns into blood, and so goes over
the whole body, to nourish it. Now, if the
body is always being nourished, why doesn’t it
keep getting bigger and bigger, like the ghost
in the Castle of Otranto?”

“Eh? Why, because it loses as well as
gains, I suppose. By perspiration—eh—for
instance?”

“Yes, and by breathing; in short, by the
burning I mentioned just now. Respiration, or
breathing, uncle, is a perpetual combustion.”

“But if my system,” said Mr. Bagges, “is
burning throughout, what keeps up the fire in
my little finger—putting gout out of the question?”

“You burn all over, because you breathe all
over, to the very tips of your fingers’ ends,”
replied Harry.

“Oh, don’t talk nonsense to your uncle!”
exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson.

“It isn’t nonsense,” said Harry. “The air
that you draw into the lungs goes more or less
over all the body, and penetrates into every
fibre of it, which is breathing. Perhaps you
would like to hear a little more about the chemistry
of breathing, or respiration, uncle?”

“I should, certainly.”

“Well, then; first you ought to have some
idea of the breathing apparatus. The laboratory
that contains this is the chest, you know.
The chest, you also know, has in it the heart
and lungs, which, with other things in it, fill it
quite out, so as to leave no hollow space between
[pg 675]
themselves and it. The lungs are a sort
of air-sponges, and when you enlarge your
chest to draw breath, they swell out with it,
and suck the air in. On the other hand, you
narrow your chest, and squeeze the lungs, and
press the air from them;—that is breathing out.
The lungs are made up of a lot of little cells.
A small pipe—a little branch of the windpipe—opens
into each cell. Two blood-vessels, a little
tiny artery, and a vein to match, run into it
also. The arteries bring into the little cells
dark-colored blood, which has been all over the
body. The veins carry out of the little cells
bright scarlet-colored blood, which is to go all
over the body. So all the blood passes through
the lungs, and in so doing, is changed from
dark to bright scarlet.”

“Black blood, didn’t you say, in the arteries,
and scarlet in the veins? I thought it was just
the reverse,” interrupted Mr. Bagges.

“So it is,” replied Harry, “with all the
other arteries and veins, except those that circulate
the blood through the lung-cells. The
heart has two sides, with a partition between
them that keeps the blood on the right side
separate from the blood on the left; both sides
being hollow, mind. The blood on the right
side of the heart comes there from all over the
body, by a couple of large veins, dark, before it
goes to the lungs. From the right side of the
heart, it goes on to the lungs, dark still, through
an artery. It comes back to the left side of the
heart from the lungs, bright scarlet, through
four veins. Then it goes all over the rest of
the body from the left side of the heart, through
an artery that branches into smaller arteries, all
carrying bright scarlet blood. So the arteries
and veins of the lungs on one hand, and of the
rest of the body on the other, do exactly opposite
work, you understand.”

“I hope so.”

“Now,” continued Harry, “it requires a
strong magnifying glass to see the lung-cells
plainly, they are so small. But you can fancy
them as big as you please. Picture any one of
them to yourself of the size of an orange, say,
for convenience in thinking about it; that one
cell, with whatever takes place in it, will be a
specimen of the rest. Then you have to imagine
an artery carrying blood of one color into it, and
a vein taking away blood of another color from
it, and the blood changing its color in the cell.”

“Ay, but what makes the blood change its
color?”

“Recollect, uncle, you have a little branch
from the windpipe opening into the cell which
lets in the air. Then the blood and the air are
brought together, and the blood alters in color.
The reason, I suppose you would guess, is that
it is somehow altered by the air.”

“No very unreasonable conjecture, I should
think,” said Mr. Bagges.

“Well; if the air alters the blood, most likely,
we should think, it gives something to the
blood. So first let us see what is the difference
between the air we breathe in, and the air we
breathe out. You know that neither we nor
animals can keep breathing the same air over
and over again. You don’t want me to remind
you of the Black Hole of Calcutta, to convince
you of that; and I dare say you will believe
what I tell you, without waiting till I can catch
a mouse and shut it up in an air-tight jar, and
show you how soon the unlucky creature will
get uncomfortable, and began to gasp, and that
it will by-and-by die. But if we were to try
this experiment—not having the fear of the Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,
nor the fear of doing wrong, before our eyes—we
should find that the poor mouse, before he
died, had changed the air of his prison considerably.
But it would be just as satisfactory, and
much more humane, if you or I were to breathe
in and out of a silk bag or a bladder till we could
stand it no longer, and then collect the air which
we had been breathing in and out. We should
find that a jar of such air would put out a candle.
If we shook some lime-water up with it,
the lime-water would turn milky. In short,
uncle, we should find that a great part of the
air was carbonic acid, and the rest mostly nitrogen.
The air we inhale is nitrogen and
oxygen; the air we exhale has lost most of its
oxygen, and consists of little more than nitrogen
and carbonic acid. Together with this, we
breathe out the vapor of water, as I said before.
Therefore in breathing, we give off exactly what
a candle does in burning, only not so fast, after
the rate. The carbonic acid we breathe out,
shows that carbon is consumed within our bodies.
The watery vapor of the breath is a proof that
hydrogen is so, too. We take in oxygen with
the air, and the oxygen unites with carbon, and
makes carbonic acid, and with hydrogen, forms
water.”

“Then don’t the hydrogen and carbon combine
with the oxygen—that is, burn—in the
lungs, and isn’t the chest the fire-place, after
all?” asked Mr. Bagges.

“Not altogether, according to those who are
supposed to know better. They are of opinion,
that some of the oxygen unites with the carbon
and hydrogen of the blood in the lungs: but
that most of it is merely absorbed by the blood,
and dissolved in it in the first instance.”

“Oxygen, absorbed by the blood? That
seems odd,” remarked Mr. Bagges. “How
can that be?”

“We only know the fact that there are some
things that will absorb gases—suck them in—make
them disappear. Charcoal will, for instance.
It is thought that the iron which the
blood contains gives it the curious property of
absorbing oxygen. Well; the oxygen going
into the blood makes it change from dark to
bright scarlet; and then this blood containing
oxygen is conveyed all over the system by the
arteries, and yields up the oxygen to combine
with hydrogen and carbon as it goes along.
The carbon and hydrogen are part of the substance
of the body. The bright scarlet blood
mixes oxygen with them, which burns them, in
[pg 676]
fact; that is, makes them into carbonic acid and
water. Of course, the body would soon be consumed
if this were all that the blood does. But
while it mixes oxygen with the old substance of
the body, to burn it up, it lays down fresh material
to replace the loss. So our bodies are
continually changing throughout, though they
seem to us always the same; but then, you
know, a river appears the same from year’s end
to year’s end, although the water in it is different
every day.”

“Eh, then,” said Mr. Bagges, “if the body
is always on the change in this way, we must
have had several bodies in the course of our
lives, by the time we are old.”

“Yes, uncle; therefore, how foolish it is to
spend money upon funerals. What becomes of
all the bodies we use up during our life-times?
If we are none the worse for their flying away
in carbonic acid and other things without ceremony,
what good can we expect from having a
fuss made about the body we leave behind us,
which is put into the earth? However, you
are wanting to know what becomes of the water
and carbonic acid which have been made by the
oxygen of the blood burning up the old materials
of our frame. The dark blood of the veins absorbs
this carbonic acid and water, as the blood
of the arteries does oxygen—only, they say, it
does so by means of a salt in it, called phosphate
of soda. Then the dark blood goes back to the
lungs, and in them it parts with its carbonic acid
and water, which escapes as breath. As fast as
we breathe out, carbonic acid and water leave
the blood; as fast as we breathe in, oxygen enters
it. The oxygen is sent out in the arteries
to make the rubbish of the body into gas and
vapor, so that the veins may bring it back and
get rid of it. The burning of rubbish by oxygen
throughout our frames is the fire by which our
animal heat, is kept up. At least this is what
most philosophers think; though doctors differ
a little on this point, as on most others, I hear.
Professor Liebig says, that our carbon is mostly
prepared for burning by being first extracted
from the blood sent to it—(which contains much
of the rubbish of the system dissolved)—in the
form of bile, and is then re-absorbed into the
blood, and burnt. He reckons that a grown-up
man consumes about fourteen ounces of carbon
a day. Fourteen ounces of charcoal a day, or
eight pounds two ounces a week, would keep
up a tolerable fire.”

“I had no idea we were such extensive charcoal-burners,”
said Mr. Bagges. “They say
we each eat our peck of dirt before we die—but
we must burn bushels of charcoal.”

“And so,” continued Harry, “the professor
calculates that we burn quite enough fuel to
account for our heat. I should rather think,
myself, it had something to do with it—shouldn’t
you?”

“Eh?” said Mr. Bagges; “it makes one
rather nervous to think that one is burning all
over—throughout one’s very blood—in this kind
of way.”

“It is very awful!” said Mrs. Wilkinson.

“If true. But in that case, shouldn’t we be
liable to inflame occasionally?” objected her husband.

“It is said,” answered Harry, “that spontaneous
combustion does happen sometimes; particularly
in great spirit drinkers. I don’t see
why it should not, if the system were to become
too inflammable. Drinking alcohol would be
likely to load the constitution with carbon, which
would be fuel for the fire, at any rate.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed Mr. Bagges, pushing
his brandy-and-water from him. “We had
better take care how we indulge in combustibles.”

“At all events,” said Harry, “it must be bad
to have too much fuel in us. It must choke the
fire, I should think, if it did not cause inflammation;
which Dr. Truepenny says it does, meaning,
by inflammation, gout, and so on, you know,
uncle.”

“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Bagges.

“Taking in too much fuel, I dare say, you
know, uncle, means eating and drinking to excess,”
continued Harry. “The best remedy,
the doctor says, for overstuffing is exercise. A
person who uses great bodily exertion, can eat
and drink more without suffering from it than
one who leads an inactive life; a fox-hunter,
for instance, in comparison with an alderman.
Want of exercise and too much nourishment
must make a man either fat or ill. If the extra
hydrogen and carbon are not burnt out, or otherwise
got rid of, they turn to blubber, or cause
some disturbance in the system, intended by
Nature to throw them off, which is called a disease.
Walking, riding, running, increase the
breathing—as well as the perspiration—and
make us burn away our carbon and hydrogen
in proportion. Dr. Truepenny declares that if
people would only take in as much fuel as is
requisite to keep up a good fire, his profession
would be ruined.”

“The good old advice—Baillie’s, eh?—or
Abernethy’s—live upon sixpence a day, and earn
it,” Mr. Bagges observed.

“Well, and then, uncle, in hot weather the
appetite is naturally weaker than it is in cold—less
heat is required, and therefore less food. So
in hot climates; and the chief reason, says the
doctor, why people ruin their health in India is
their spurring and goading their stomachs to
crave what is not good for them, by spices and
the like. Fruits and vegetables are the proper
things to eat in such countries, because they
contain little carbon compared to flesh, and they
are the diet of the natives of those parts of the
world. Whereas food with much carbon in it,
meat, or even mere fat or oil, which is hardly
any thing else than carbon and hydrogen, are
proper in very cold regions, where heat from
within is required to supply the want of it without.
That is why the Laplander is able, as I
said he does, to devour train-oil. And Dr. Truepenny
says that it may be all very well for Mr.
M’Gregor to drink raw whisky at deer-stalking
[pg 677]
in the Highlands, but if Major Campbell combines
that beverage with the diversion of tiger-hunting
in the East Indies, habitually, the chances
are that the major will come home with a diseased
liver.”

“Upon my word, sir, the whole art of preserving
health appears to consist in keeping up
a moderate fire within us,” observed Mr. Bagges.

“Just so, uncle, according to my friend the
doctor. ‘Adjust the fuel,’ he says, ‘to the
draught’—he means the oxygen; ‘keep the
bellows properly at work, by exercise, and your
fire will seldom want poking.’ The doctor’s
pokers, you know, are pills, mixtures, leeches,
blisters, lancets, and things of that sort.”

“Indeed? Well, then, my heart-burn, I suppose,
depends upon bad management of my
fire?” surmised Mr. Bagges.

“I should say that was more than probable,
uncle. Well, now, I think you see that animal
heat can be accounted for, in very great part at
least, by the combustion of the body. And then
there are several facts that—as I remember
Shakspeare says—

“ ‘Help
to thicken other proofs,
That do demonstrate thinly.”

“Birds that breathe a great deal are very hot
creatures; snakes and lizards, and frogs and
fishes, that breathe but little, are so cold that
they are called cold-blooded animals. Bears
and dormice, that sleep all the winter, are cold
during their sleep, while their breathing and
circulation almost entirely stop. We increase
our heat by walking fast, running, jumping, or
working hard; which sets us breathing faster,
and then we get warmer. By these means, we
blow up our own fire, if we have no other, to
warm ourselves on a cold day. And how is it
that we don’t go on continually getting hotter
and hotter?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Bagges, “I suppose
that is one of Nature’s mysteries.”

“Why, what happens, uncle, when we take
violent exercise? We break out into a perspiration;
as you complain you always do, if
you only run a few yards. Perspiration is
mostly water, and the extra heat of the body
goes into the water, and flies away with it in
steam. Just for the same reason, you can’t
boil water so as to make it hotter than two
hundred and twelve degrees; because all the
heat that passes into it beyond that, unites with
some of it and becomes steam, and so escapes.
Hot weather causes you to perspire even when
you sit still; and so your heat is cooled in summer.
If you were to heat a man in an oven,
the heat of his body generally wouldn’t increase
very much till he became exhausted and died.
Stories are told of mountebanks sitting in ovens,
and meat being cooked by the side of them.
Philosophers have done much the same thing—Dr.
Fordyce and others, who found they could
bear a heat of two hundred and sixty degrees.
Perspiration is our animal fire-escape. Heat
goes out from the lungs, as well as the skin, in
water; so the lungs are concerned in cooling
us as well as heating us, like a sort of regulating
furnace. Ah, uncle, the body is a wonderful
factory, and I wish I were man enough
to take you over it. I have only tried to show
you something of the contrivances for warming
it, and I hope you understand a little about
that!”

“Well,” said Mr. Bagges, “breathing, I
understand you to say, is the chief source of
animal heat, by occasioning the combination of
carbon and hydrogen with oxygen, in a sort of
gentle combustion, throughout our frame. The
lungs and heart are an apparatus for generating
heat, and distributing it over the body by means
of a kind of warming pipes, called blood-vessels.
Eh?—and the carbon and hydrogen we have in
our systems we get from our food. Now, you
see, here is a slice of cake, and there is a glass
of wine—Eh?—now see whether you can get
any carbon and oxygen out of that.”

The young philosopher, having finished his
lecture, applied himself immediately to the performance
of the proposed experiment, which he
performed with cleverness and dispatch.


The Steel Pen.
An Illustration Of Cheapness.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

We remember (early remembrances are more
durable than recent) an epithet employed
by Mary Wolstonecroft, which then seemed as
happy as it was original—“The iron pen of
Time.” Had the vindicatress of the “Rights
of Women” lived in these days (fifty years later),
when the iron pen is the almost universal instrument
of writing, she would have bestowed upon
Time a less common material for recording his
doings.

While we are remembering, let us look back
for a moment upon our earliest school-days—the
days of large text and round hand. Twenty
urchins sit at a long desk, each intent upon
making his copy. A nicely mended pen has
been given to each. Our own labor goes on
successfully, till, in school-boy phrase, the pen
begins to splutter. A bold effort must be made.
We leave the form, and timidly address the
writing-master with—“Please, sir, mend my
pen.” A slight frown subsides as he sees that
the quill is very bad—too soft or too hard—used
to the stump. He dashes it away, and snatching
a feather from a bundle—a poor thin feather,
such as green geese drop on a common—shapes
it into a pen. This mending and making process
occupies all his leisure—occupies, indeed,
many of the minutes that ought to be devoted
to instruction. He has a perpetual battle to
wage with his bad quills. They are the meanest
produce of the plucked goose.

And is this process still going on in the many
thousand schools of our land, where with all
drawbacks of imperfect education, both as to
numbers educated and gifts imparted, there are
about two millions and a half of children under
daily instruction? In remote rural districts
[pg 678]
probably; in the towns certainly not. The
steam-engine is now the pen-maker. Hecatombs
of geese are consumed at Michaelmas
and Christmas; but not all the geese in the
world would meet the demand of England for
pens. The supply of patés de foie gras will be
kept up—that of quills, whether known as
primes, seconds, or
pinions, must be wholly inadequate
to the wants of a writing people.
Wherever geese are bred in these islands, so
assuredly, in each succeeding March, will every
full-fledged victim be robbed of his quills; and
then turned forth on the common, a very waddling
and impotent goose, quite unworthy of
the name of bird. The country schoolmaster,
at the same spring-time, will continue to buy
the smallest quills, at a low price, clarify them
after his own rude fashion, make them into pens,
and sorely spite the boy who splits them up too
rapidly. The better quills will still be collected,
and find their way to the quill dealer, who
will exercise his empirical arts before they pass
to the stationer. He will plunge them into
heated sand, to make the external skin peel off,
and the external membrane shrivel up; or he
will saturate them with water, and alternately
contract and swell them before a charcoal fire;
or he will dip them in nitric acid, and make
them of a gaudy brilliancy but a treacherous
endurance. They will be sorted according to
the quality of the barrels, with the utmost nicety.
The experienced buyer will know their value
by looking at their feathery ends, tapering to a
point; the uninitiated will regard only the quill
portion. There is no article of commerce in
which the market value is so difficult to be determined
with exactness. For the finest and
largest quills no price seems unreasonable; for
those of the second quality too exorbitant a
charge is often made. The foreign supply is
large, and probably exceeds the home supply
of the superior article. What the exact amount
is we know not. There is no duty now on quills.
The tariff of 1845—one of the most lasting
monuments of the wisdom of our great commercial
minister—abolished the duty of half-a-crown
a thousand. In 1832 the duty amounted to four
thousand two hundred pounds, which would show
an annual importation of thirty-three millions one
hundred thousand quills; enough, perhaps, for
the commercial clerks of England, together with
the quills of home growth—but how to serve a
letter-writing population?

The ancient reign of the quill-pen was first
seriously disturbed about twenty-five years ago.
An abortive imitation of the form of a pen was
produced before that time; a clumsy, inelastic,
metal tube fastened in a bone or ivory handle,
and sold for half-a-crown. A man might make
his mark with one—but as to writing, it was a
mere delusion. In due course came more carefully
finished inventions for the luxurious, under
the tempting names of ruby pen, or diamond pen—with
the plain gold pen, and the rhodium pen,
for those who were skeptical as to the jewelry
of the inkstand. The economical use of the
quill received also the attention of science. A
machine was invented to divide the barrel
lengthwise into two halves; and, by the same
mechanical means, these halves were subdivided
into small pieces, cut pen-shape, slit, and
nibbed. But the pressure upon the quill supply
grew more and more intense. A new
power had risen up in our world—a new seed
sown—the source of all good, or the dragon’s
teeth of Cadmus. In 1818 there were only
one hundred and sixty-five thousand scholars in
the monitorial schools—the new schools, which
were being established under the auspices of the
National Society, and the British and Foreign
School Society. Fifteen years afterward, in
1833, there were three hundred and ninety
thousand. Ten years later, the numbers exceeded
a million. Even a quarter of a century
ago two-thirds of the male population of England,
and one-half of the female, were learning
to write; for in the Report of the Registrar-General
for 1846, we find this passage—“Persons
when they are married are required to sign
the marriage register; if they can not write
their names, they sign with a mark: the result
has hitherto been, that nearly one man in three,
and one woman in two, married, sign with marks.”
This remark applies to the period between 1839
and 1845. Taking the average age of men at
marriage as twenty-seven years, and the average
age of boys during their education as ten
years, the marriage-register is an educational
test of male instruction for the years 1824-28.
But the gross number of the population of England
and Wales was rapidly advancing. In
1821 it was twelve millions; in 1831, fourteen
millions; in 1841, sixteen millions; in 1851,
taking the rate of increase at fourteen per cent.,
it will be eighteen millions and a half. The
extension of education was proceeding in a
much quicker ratio; and we may therefore
fairly assume that the proportion of those who
make their marks in the marriage-register has
greatly diminished since 1844.

But, during the last ten years, the natural
desire to learn to write, of that part of the
youthful population which education can reach,
has received a great moral impulse by a wondrous
development of the most useful and pleasurable
exercise of that power. The uniform
penny postage has been established. In the
year 1838, the whole number of letters delivered
in the United Kingdom was seventy-six
millions; in this year that annual delivery has
reached the prodigious number of three hundred
and thirty-seven millions. In 1838, a Committee
of the House of Commons thus denounced,
among the great commercial evils of the high
rates of postage, their injurious effects upon the
great bulk of the people. They either act as
a grievous tax on the poor, causing them to
sacrifice their little earnings to the pleasure and
advantage of corresponding with their distant
friends, or compel them to forego such intercourse
altogether; thus subtracting from the
small amount of their enjoyments, and obstructing
[pg 679]
the growth and maintenance of their best
affections. Honored be the man who broke
down these barriers! Praised be the Government
that, for once, stepping out of its fiscal
tram-way, dared boldly to legislate for the
domestic happiness, the educational progress,
and the moral elevation of the masses! The
steel pen, sold at the rate of a penny a dozen,
is the creation, in a considerable degree, of the
Penny Postage stamp; as the Penny Postage
stamp was a representative, if not a creation,
of the new educational power. Without the
steel pen, it may reasonably be doubted whether
there were mechanical means within the reach
of the great bulk of the population for writing
the three hundred and thirty-seven millions of
letters that now annually pass through the Post
Office.

Othello’s sword had “the ice-brook’s temper;”
but not all the real or imaginary virtues
of the stream that gave its value to the true
Spanish blade could create the elasticity of a
steel pen. Flexible, indeed, is the Toledo. If
thrust against a wall, it will bend into an arc
that describes three-fourths of a circle. The
problem to be solved in the steel-pen, is to convert
the iron of Dannemora into a substance as
thin as the quill of a dove’s pinion, but as strong
as the proudest feather of an eagle’s wing.
The furnaces and hammers of the old armorers
could never have solved this problem. The
steel pen belongs to our age of mighty machinery.
It could not have existed in any other
age. The demand for the instrument, and the
means of supplying it, came together.

The commercial importance of the steel pen
was first manifested to our senses a year or two
ago at Sheffield. We had witnessed all the
curious processes of converting iron into steel,
by saturating it with carbon in the converting
furnace; of tilting the bars so converted into a
harder substance, under the thousand hammers
that shake the waters of the Sheaf and the Don:
of casting the steel thus converted and tilted
into ingots of higher purity; and, finally, of
milling, by which the most perfect development
of the material is acquired, under enormous
rollers. About two miles from the metropolis
of steel, over whose head hangs a canopy of
smoke through which the broad moors of the
distance sometimes reveal themselves, there is a
solitary mill where the tilting and rolling processes
are carried to great perfection. The din
of the large tilts is heard half a mile off. Our
ears tingle, our legs tremble, when we stand
close to their operation of beating bars of steel
into the greatest possible density; for the whole
building vibrates as the workmen swing before
them in suspended baskets, and shift the
bar at every movement of these hammers of the
Titans. We pass onward to the more quiet
rolling department. The bar that has been
tilted into the most perfect compactness, has
now to acquire the utmost possible tenuity. A
large area is occupied by furnaces and rollers.
The bar of steel is dragged out of the furnace
at almost a white heat. There are two men at
each roller. It is passed through the first pair,
and its squareness is instantly elongated and
widened into flatness; rapidly through a second
pair, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. The
bar is becoming a sheet of steel. Thinner and
thinner it becomes, until it would seem that the
workmen can scarcely manage the fragile substance.
It has spread out like a morsel of gold
under the beater’s hammer, into an enormous
leaf. The least attenuated sheet is only the
hundredth part of an inch in thickness; some
sheets are made as thin as the two-hundredth
part of an inch. And for what purpose is this
result of the labors of so many workmen, of such
vast and complicated machinery, destined?—what
the final application of a material employing
so much capital in every step, from the
Swedish mine to its transport by railroad to
some other seat of British industry? The
whole is prepared for one steel-pen manufactory
at Birmingham.

There is nothing very remarkable in a steel-pen
manufactory, as regards ingenuity of contrivance
or factory organization. Upon a large
scale of production, the extent of labor engaged
in producing so minute an article, is necessarily
striking. But the process is just as curious and
interesting, if conducted in a small shop as in a
large. The pure steel, as it comes from the
rolling-mill, is cut up into strips about two
inches and a half in width. These are further
cut into the proper size for the pen. The
pieces are then annealed and cleansed. The
maker’s name is neatly impressed on the metal;
and a cutting-tool forms the slit, although imperfectly
in this stage. The pen shape is given
by a convex punch pressing the plate into a
concave die. The pen is formed when the slit
is perfected. It has now to be hardened, and,
finally, cleansed and polished, by the simple
agency of friction in a cylinder. All the varieties
of form of the steel pen are produced by
the punch; all the contrivances of slits and
apertures above the nib, by the cutting-tool.
Every improvement has had for its object to
overcome the rigidity of the steel—to imitate
the elasticity of the quill, while bestowing upon
the pen a superior durability.

The perfection that may reasonably be demanded
in a steel pen has yet to be reached.
But the improvement in the manufacture is
most decided. Twenty years ago, to one who
might choose, regardless of expense, between
the quill pen and the steel, the best Birmingham
and London production was an abomination.
But we can trace the gradual acquiescence
of most men in the writing implement of
the multitude. Few of us, in an age when the
small economies are carefully observed, and
even paraded, desire to use quill pens at ten or
twelve shillings a hundred, as Treasury Clerks
once luxuriated in their use—an hour’s work,
and then a new one. To mend a pen, is troublesome
to the old, and even the middle-aged
man who once acquired the art; the young, for
[pg 680]
the most part, have not learned it. The most
painstaking and penurious author would never
dream of imitating the wondrous man who
translated Pliny with “one gray goose quill.”
Steel pens are so cheap, that if one scratches or
splutters, it may be thrown away, and another
may be tried. But when a really good one is
found, we cling to it, as worldly men cling to their
friends: we use it till it breaks down, or grows
rusty. We can do no more; we handle it as
Izaak Walton handled the frog upon his hook,
“as if we loved him.” We could almost fancy
some analogy between the gradual and decided
improvement of the steel pen—one of the new
instruments of education—and the effects of
education itself upon the mass of the people.
An instructed nation ought to present the same
gradually perfecting combination of strength with
elasticity. The favorites of fortune are like the
quill, ready made for social purposes, with a
little scraping and polishing. The bulk of the
community have to be formed out of ruder
and tougher materials—to be converted, welded,
and tempered into pliancy. The manners of
the great British family have decidedly improved
under culture—“emollit mores:” may
the sturdy self-respect of the race never be
impaired!


Snakes And Serpent Charmers.
(From Bentley’s Miscellany.)

At the present time there are at the London
Zoological Gardens two Arabs, who are
eminently skilled in what is termed “Snake-Charming.”
In this country, happily for ourselves,
we have but little practical acquaintance
with venomous serpents, and there is no scope
for the development of native skill in the art
referred to; the visit, therefore, of these strangers
is interesting, as affording an opportunity of
beholding feats which have hitherto been known
to us only by description. We propose, therefore,
to give some account of their proceedings.

Visitors to the Zoological Gardens will remark,
on the right hand side, after they have
passed through the tunnel, and ascended the
slope beyond, a neat wooden building in the
Swiss style. This is the reptile-house, and
while our readers are bending their steps
toward it, we will describe the performance of
the Serpent Charmers.

The names of these are Jubar-Abou-Haijab,
and Mohammed-Abou-Merwan. The former is
an old man, much distinguished in his native
country for his skill. When the French occupied
Egypt, he collected serpents for their
naturalists, and was sent for to Cairo to perform
before General Bonaparte. He described to us
the general, as a middle-sized man, very pale,
with handsome features, and a most keen eye.
Napoleon watched his proceedings with great
interest, made many inquiries, and dismissed
him with a handsome “backsheesh.” Jubar
is usually dressed in a coarse loose bernoose
of brown serge, with a red cap on his head.

The gift, or craft, of serpent-charming, descends
in certain families from generation to
generation; and Mohammed, a smart active
lad, is the old man’s son-in-law, although not
numbering sixteen years. He is quite an
Adonis as to dress, wearing a smart, richly
embroidered dark-green jacket, carried—hussar
fashion—over his right shoulder, a white loose
vest, full white trowsers, tied at the knee, scarlet
stockings and slippers, and a fez or red cap,
with a blue tassel of extra proportions on his
head. In his right ear is a ring, so large that
it might pass for a curtain ring.

Precisely as the clock strikes four, one of the
keepers places on a platform a wooden box containing
the serpents, and the lad Mohammed
proceeds to tuck his ample sleeves as far up as
possible, to leave the arms bare. He then takes
off his cloth jacket, and, opening the box, draws
out a large Cobra de Capello, of a dark copper
color: this he holds at arm’s length by the tail,
and after allowing it to writhe about in the air
for some time, he places the serpent on the floor,
still holding it as described. By this time the
cobra had raised his hood, very indignant at the
treatment he is receiving. Mohammed then
pinches and teases him in every way; at each
pinch the cobra strikes at him, but, with great
activity, the blow is avoided. Having thus
teased the snake for some time, Mohammed
rises, and placing his foot upon the tail, irritates
him with a stick. The cobra writhes, and
strikes sometimes at the stick, sometimes at his
tormentor’s legs, and again at his hands, all
which is avoided with the utmost nonchalance.
After the lapse of about ten minutes, Mohammed
coils the cobra on the floor, and leaves
him while he goes to the box, and draws out
another far fiercer cobra. While holding this
by the tail, Mohammed buffets him on the head
with his open hand, and the serpent, quite furious,
frequently seizes him by the forearm.
The lad merely wipes the spot, and proceeds to
tie the serpent like a necklace around his neck.
Then the tail is tied into a knot around the reptile’s
head, and again head and tail into a double
knot. After amusing himself in this way for
some time, the serpent is told to lie quiet, and
stretched on his back, the neck and chin being
gently stroked. Whether any sort of mesmeric
influence is produced we know not, but the
snake remains on its back, perfectly still, as if
dead. During this time the first cobra has remained
coiled up, with head erect, apparently
watching the proceedings of the Arab. After
a pause, the lad takes up the second cobra, and
carrying it to the first, pinches and irritates
both, to make them fight; the fiercer snake
seizes the other by the throat, and coiling round
him, they roll struggling across the stage. Mohammed
then leaves these serpents in charge of
Jubar and draws a third snake out of the box.
This he first ties in a variety of apparently impossible
knots, and then holding him at a little
distance from his face, allows the snake to strike
at it, just dodging back each time sufficiently
[pg 681]
far to avoid the blow. The serpent is then
placed in his bosom next his skin, and left there,
but it is not so easy after a time to draw it out
of its warm resting-place. The tail is pulled;
but, no! the serpent is round the lad’s body,
and will not come. After several unsuccessful
efforts, Mohammed rubs the tail briskly between
his two hands, a process which—judging
from the writhings of the serpent, which are
plainly visible—is the reverse of agreeable.
At last Mohammed pulls him hand-over-hand—as
the sailors say—and, just, as the head flies
out, the cobra makes a parting snap at his tormentor’s
face, for which he receives a smart
cuff on the head, and is then with the others
replaced in the box.

Dr. John Davy, in his valuable work on Ceylon,
denies that the fangs are extracted from the
serpents which are thus exhibited; and says
that the only charm employed is that of courage
and confidence—the natives avoiding the stroke
of the serpent with wonderful agility; adding,
that they will play their tricks with any hooded
snake, but with no other poisonous serpent.

In order that we might get at the truth, we
sought it from the fountain-head, and our questions
were thus most freely answered by Jubar-Abou-Haijab,
Hamet acting as interpreter:

Q. How are the serpents caught in the first
instance?

A. I take this adze (holding up a sort of
geological hammer mounted on a long handle)
and as soon as I have found a hole containing a
cobra, I knock away the earth till he comes
out or can be got at; I then take a stick in my
right hand, and seizing the snake by the tail
with the left, hold it at arm’s length. He keeps
trying to bite, but I push his head away with
the stick. After doing this some time I throw
him straight on the ground, still holding him by
the tail; I allow him to raise his head and try
to bite, for some time, in order that he may
learn how to attack, still keeping him off with
the stick. When this has been done long
enough, I slide the stick up to his head and fix
it firmly on the ground; then taking the adze,
and forcing open the mouth, I break off the
fangs with it, carefully removing every portion,
and especially squeezing out all the poison and
blood, which I wipe away as long as it continues
to flow; when this is done the snake is
harmless and ready for use.

Q. Do the ordinary jugglers, or only the
hereditary snake charmers catch the cobras?

A. We are the only persons who dare to
catch them, and when the jugglers want snakes
they come to us for them; with that adze
(pointing to the hammer) I have caught and
taken out the fangs of many thousands.

Q. Do you use any other snakes besides the
cobras for your exhibitions?

A. No; because the cobra is the only one
that will fight well. The cobra is always ready
to give battle, but the other snakes are sluggish,
only bite, and can’t be taught for our exhibitions.

Q. What do the Arabs do if they happen to
be bitten by a poisonous snake?

A. They immediately tie a cord tight round
the arm above the wound, and cut out the bitten
part as soon as possible—some burn it; they
then squeeze the arm downward, so as to press
out the poison, but they don’t suck it, because
it is bad for the mouth; however, in spite of all
this, they sometimes die.

Q. Do you think it possible that cobras could
be exhibited without the fangs being removed?

A. Certainly not, for the least scratch of their
deadly teeth would cause death, and there is not
a day that we exhibit that we are not bitten
and no skill in the world would prevent it.

Such were the particulars given us by a most
distinguished professor in the art of snake-charming,
and, therefore, they may be relied on
as correct; the matter-of-fact way in which he
acted, as well as related the snake-catching,
bore the impress of truth, and there certainly
would appear to be far less mystery about the
craft than has generally been supposed. The
way in which vipers are caught in this country
is much less artistic than the Arab mode. The
viper-catcher provides himself with a cleftstick,
and stealing up to the reptile when basking,
pins his head to the ground with the cleft, and
seizing the tail, throws the reptile into a bag.
As they do not destroy the fangs, these men are
frequently bitten in the pursuit of their business,
but their remedy is either the fat of vipers, or
salad oil, which they take inwardly, and apply
externally, after squeezing the wound. We are
not aware of any well-authenticated fatal case
in man from a viper bite, but it fell to our lot
some years ago to see a valuable pointer killed
by one. We were beating for game in a dry,
stony district, when suddenly the dog, who was
running beneath a hedgerow, gave a yelp and
bound, and immediately came limping up to us
with a countenance most expressive of pain; a
large adder was seen to glide into the hedgerow.
Two small spots of blood on the inner
side of the left foreleg, close to the body of the
dog marked the seat of the wound; and we did
our best to squeeze out the poison. The limb
speedily began to swell, and the dog laid down,
moaning and unable to walk. With some difficulty
we managed to carry the poor animal to
the nearest cottage, but it was too late. In
spite of oil and other remedies the body swelled
more and more, and he died in convulsions some
two hours after the receipt of the injury.

The Reptile-house is fitted up with much
attention to security and elegance of design;
arranged along the left side are roomy cages
painted to imitate mahogany and fronted with
plate-glass. They are ventilated by perforated
plates of zinc above, and warmed by hot water
pipes below. The bottoms of the cages are
strewed with sand and gravel, and in those which
contain the larger serpents strong branches of
trees are fixed. The advantage of the plate-glass
fronts is obvious, for every movement of
the reptiles is distinctly seen, while its great
[pg 682]
strength confines them in perfect safety. Each
cage is, moreover, provided with a pan of
water.

Except when roused by hunger, the Serpents
are generally in a state of torpor during the day,
but as night draws on, they, in common with
other wild denizens of the forest, are roused
into activity. In their native state the Boas
then lie in wait, coiled round the branches of
trees, ready to spring upon the antelopes and
other prey as they pass through the leafy glades;
and the smaller serpents silently glide from
branch to branch in quest of birds on which to
feed. As we have had the opportunity of seeing
the Reptile-house by night, we will describe the
strange scene.

About ten o’clock one evening during the last
spring, in company with two naturalists of
eminence, we entered that apartment. A small
lantern was our only light, and the faint illumination
of this, imparted a ghastly character to
the scene before us. The clear plate-glass
which faces the cages was invisible, and it was
difficult to believe that the monsters were in
confinement and the spectators secure. Those
who have only seen the Boas and Pythons, the
Rattlesnakes and Cobras, lazily hanging in festoons
from the forks of the trees in the dens, or
sluggishly coiled up, can form no conception of
the appearance and actions of the same creatures
at night. The huge Boas and Pythons were
chasing each other in every direction, whisking
about the dens with the rapidity of lightning,
sometimes clinging in huge coils round the
branches, anon entwining each other in massive
folds, then separating they would rush over and
under the branches, hissing and lashing their
tails in hideous sport. Ever and anon, thirsty
with their exertions, they would approach the
pans containing water and drink eagerly, lapping
it with their forked tongues. As our eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, we perceived
objects better, and on the uppermost branch of
the tree in the den of the biggest serpent, we
perceived a pigeon quietly roosting, apparently
indifferent alike to the turmoil which was going
on around, and the vicinity of the monster whose
meal it was soon to form. In the den of one of
the smaller serpents was a little mouse, whose
panting sides and fast-beating heart showed that
it, at least, disliked its company. Misery is
said to make us acquainted with strange bed-fellows,
but evil must be the star of that mouse
or pigeon whose lot it is to be the comrade and
prey of a serpent!

A singular circumstance occurred not long
since at the Gardens, showing that the mouse
at times has the best of it. A litter of rattlesnakes
was born in the Gardens—curious little
active things without rattles—hiding under
stones, or coiling together in complicated knots,
with their clustering heads resembling Medusa’s
locks. It came to pass that a mouse was put
into the cage for the breakfast of the mamma,
but she not being hungry, took no notice. The
poor mouse gradually became accustomed to its
strange companions, and would appear to have
been pressed by hunger, for it actually nibbled
away great part of the jaw of one of the little
rattlesnakes, so that it died! perhaps the first
instance of such a turning of the tables. An
interesting fact was proved by this, namely, that
these reptiles when young are quite defenseless,
and do not acquire either the power of injuring
others, or of using their rattles until their adolescence.

During the time we were looking at these
creatures, all sorts of odd noises were heard; a
strange scratching against the glass would be
audible; ’twas the Carnivorous Lizard endeavoring
to inform us that it was a fast-day with
him, entirely contrary to his inclination. A
sharp hiss would startle us from another quarter,
and we stepped back involuntarily as the lantern
revealed the inflated hood and threatening action
of an angry cobra. Then a rattlesnake would
take umbrage, and, sounding an alarm, would
make a stroke against the glass, intended for
our person. The fixed gaze, too, from the
brilliant eyes of the huge Pythons, was more
fascinating than pleasant, and the scene, taking
it all together, more exciting than agreeable.
Each of the spectators involuntarily stooped to
make sure that his trowsers were well strapped
down; and, as if our nerves were jesting, a
strange sensation would every now and then be
felt, resembling the twining of a small snake
about the legs. Just before leaving the house,
a great dor beetle which had flown in, attracted
by the light, struck with some force against our
right ear; startled indeed we were, for at the
moment our impression was that it was some
member of the Happy Family around us who
had favored us with a mark of his attention.

In feeding the larger serpents, the Boas and
Pythons, some care is necessary lest such an
accident should occur as that which befell Mr.
Cops, of the Lion Office in the Tower, some
years ago. Mr. Cops was holding a fowl to
the head of the largest of the five snakes which
were then there kept; the snake was changing
its skin, consequently, being nearly blind (for
the skin of the eye is changed with the rest),
it darted at the fowl but missed it, and seized
the keeper by the left thumb, coiling round his
arm and neck in a moment, and fixing itself by
its tail to one of the posts of its cage, thus
giving itself greater power. Mr. Cops, who
was alone, did not lose his presence of mind,
and immediately attempted to relieve himself
from the powerful constriction by getting at the
serpent’s head; but the serpent had so knotted
itself upon its own head, that Mr. Cops could
not reach it, and had thrown himself upon the
floor in order to grapple, with greater success,
with his formidable opponent, when fortunately,
two other keepers came in and rushed to the
rescue. The struggle even then was severe,
but at length they succeeded in breaking the
teeth of the serpent, and relieving Mr. Cops
from his perilous situation; two broken teeth
were extracted from the thumb; the wounds
[pg 683]
soon healed, and no further inconvenience followed.
Still more severe was the contest which
took place between a negro herdsman, belonging
to Mr. Abson, for many years Governor at
Fort William, on the coast of Africa. This man
was seized by a huge Python while passing
through a wood. The serpent fixed his fangs
in his thigh, but in attempting to throw himself
round his body, fortunately became entangled
with a tree, and the man being thus preserved
from a state of compression which would have
instantly rendered him powerless, had presence
of mind enough to cut with a large knife which
he carried about with him, deep gashes in the
neck and throat of his antagonist, thereby killing
him, and disengaging himself from his
frightful situation. He never afterward, however,
recovered the use of the limb, which had
sustained considerable injury from the fangs and
mere force of the jaws, and for many years
limped about the fort, a living example of the
prowess of these fearful serpents.

The true Boas, it is to be observed, are restricted
to America, the name Python being given
to the large serpents of Africa and India. It is
related by Pliny that the army of Regulus was
alarmed by a huge serpent one hundred and
twenty-three feet in length. This account is
doubtful; but there is a well-authenticated instance
of the destruction of a snake above sixty-two
feet long, while in the act of coiling itself
round the body of a man. The snakes at the
gardens will generally be found coiled and twined
together in large clusters, probably for the sake
of warmth. Dr. Carpenter knew an instance in
which no less than thirteen hundred of our English
harmless snakes were found in an old lime kiln!
The battûe which ensued can better be imagined
than described.

The cobras, the puff-adders, and some of the
other highly-venomous serpents are principally
found in rocky and sandy places, and very dangerous
they are. Mr. Gould, the eminent ornithologist,
had a most narrow escape of his life
when in the interior of Australia: there is a
serpent found in those arid wastes, whose bite
is fatal in an incredibly short time, and it springs
at an object with great force. Mr. Gould was
a little in advance of his party, when suddenly
a native who was with him screamed out, “Oh,
massa! dere big snake!” Mr. Gould started,
and putting his foot in a hole, nearly fell to the
ground. At that instant the snake made its
spring, and had it not been for his stumble,
would have struck him in the face; as it was,
it passed over his head, and was shot before it
could do any further mischief. It was a large
snake, of the most venomous sort, and the natives
gathered round the sportsman anxiously inquiring
if it had bitten him? Finding it had not, all said
they thought he was “good for dead,” when they
saw the reptile spring.

The expression “sting,” used repeatedly by
Shakspeare, as applied to snakes, is altogether
incorrect; the tongue has nothing to do with
the infliction of injury. Serpents bite, and the
difference between the harmless and venomous
serpents generally is simply this: the mouths
of the harmless snakes and the whole tribe of
boas are provided with sharp teeth, but no
fangs; their bite, therefore, is innocuous; the
poisonous serpents on the other hand, have two
poison-fangs attached to the upper jaw which
lie flat upon the roof of the mouth when not in
use, and are concealed by a fold of the skin.
In each fang is a tube which opens near the
point of the tooth by a fissure; when the creature
is irritated the fangs are at once erected.
The poison bag is placed beneath the muscles
which act on the lower jaw, so that when the
fangs are struck into the victim the poison is
injected with much force to the very bottom of
the wound.

But how do Boa Constrictors swallow goats
and antelopes, and other large animals whole?
The process is very simple; the lower jaw is
not united to the upper, but is hung to a long
stalk-shaped bone, on which it is movable, and
this bone is only attached to the skull by ligaments,
susceptible of extraordinary extension.
The process by which these serpents take and
swallow their prey has been so graphically
described in the second volume of the “Zoological
Journal,” by that very able naturalist and
graceful writer, W. J. Broderip, Esq., F.R.S.,
that we shall transcribe it, being able, from
frequent ocular demonstrations, to vouch for its
correctness. A large buck rabbit was introduced
into the cage of a Boa Constrictor of
great size: “The snake was down and motionless
in a moment. There he lay like a log
without one symptom of life, save that which
glared in the small bright eye twinkling in his
depressed head. The rabbit appeared to take
no notice of him, but presently began to walk
about the cage. The snake suddenly, but almost
imperceptibly, turned his head according
to the rabbit’s movements, as if to keep the
object within the range of his eye. At length
the rabbit, totally unconscious of his situation,
approached the ambushed head. The snake
dashed at him like lightning. There was a
blow—a scream—and instantly the victim was
locked in the coils of the serpent. This was
done almost too rapidly for the eye to follow;
at one instant the snake was motionless—the
next he was one congeries of coils round his
prey. He had seized the rabbit by the neck
just under the ear, and was evidently exerting
the strongest pressure round the thorax of the
quadruped; thereby preventing the expansion
of the chest, and at the same time depriving
the anterior extremities of motion. The rabbit
never cried after the first seizure; he lay with
his hind legs stretched out, still breathing with
difficulty, as could be seen by the motion of
his flanks. Presently he made one desperate
struggle with his hind legs; but the snake
cautiously applied another coil with such dexterity
as completely to manacle the lower extremities,
and in about eight minutes the rabbit
was quite dead. The snake then gradually and
[pg 684]
carefully uncoiled himself, and finding that his
victim moved not, opened his mouth, let go his
hold, and placed his head opposite the fore-part
of the rabbit. The boa, generally, I have observed,
begins with the head; but in this instance,
the serpent having begun with the fore-legs
was longer in gorging his prey than usual,
and in consequence of the difficulty presented
by the awkward position of the rabbit, the dilatation
and secretion of lubricating mucus were
excessive. The serpent first got the fore-legs
into his mouth; he then coiled himself round
the rabbit, and appeared to draw out the dead
body through his folds; he then began to dilate
his jaws, and holding the rabbit firmly in a
coil, as a point of resistance, appeared to exercise
at intervals the whole of his anterior muscles
in protruding his stretched jaws and lubricated
mouth and throat, at first against, and
soon after gradually upon and over his prey.
When the prey was completely engulfed the
serpent lay for a few moments with his dislocated
jaws still dropping with the mucus which
had lubricated the parts, and at this time he
looked quite sufficiently disgusting. He then
stretched out his neck, and at the same moment
the muscles seemed to push the prey further
downward. After a few efforts to replace the
parts, the jaws appeared much the same as
they did previous to the monstrous repast.”


The Magic Maze.
(From Colburn’s Monthly Magazine.)

The Germans are said to be a philosophical
and sagacious people, with a strong penchant
for metaphysics and mysticism. They
are certainly a leichtgläubiges
Volk, but, notwithstanding,
painstaking and persevering in
their search after truth. I know not whence it
arises—whether from temperament, climate, or
association—but it is very evident that a large
portion of their studies is recondite and unsatisfactory,
and incapable of being turned to any
practical or beneficial account. They meditate
on things which do not concern them; they
attempt to penetrate into mysteries which lie
without the pale of human knowledge. It has
been ordained, by an inscrutable decree of Providence,
that there are things which man shall
not know; but they have endeavored to draw
aside the vail which He has interposed as a
safeguard to those secrets, and have perplexed
mankind with a relation of their discoveries and
speculations. They have pretended to a knowledge
of the invisible world, and have assumed a
position scarcely tenable by the weight of argument
adduced in its defense. What has puzzled
the minds of the most erudite and persevering
men, I do not presume to decide. Instances
of the re-appearance of persons after
their decease, may or may not have occurred;
there may, for aught I know, be good grounds
for the belief in omens, warnings, wraiths,
second-sight, with many other descriptions of
supernatural phenomena. I attempt not to dispute
the point. The human mind is strongly
tinctured with superstition; it is a feeling common
to all nations and ages. We find it existing
among savages, as well as among people of
refinement; we read of it in times of antiquity,
as well as in modern and more enlightened
periods. This universality betokens the feeling
to be instinctive, and is an argument in favor of
the phenomena which many accredit, and vouch
to have witnessed.

I inherit many of the peculiarities of my
countrymen. I, too, have felt that deep and
absorbing interest in every thing appertaining
to the supernatural. This passion was implanted
in my breast at a very early age, by an
old woman, who lived with us as nurse. I
shall remember her as long as I live, for to her
may be attributed a very great portion of my
sufferings. She was an excellent story-teller. I
do not know whether she invented them herself,
but she had always a plentiful supply. My
family resided at that time in Berlin, where,
indeed, I was born. This old woman, when
she took me and my sister to bed of an evening,
kept us awake for hours and hours, by relating
to us tales which were always interesting, and
sometimes very frightful. Our parents were
not aware of this, or they never would have
suffered her to relate them to us. In the long
winter nights, when it grew quite dark at four
o’clock, she would draw her chair to the stove,
and we would cluster round her, and listen to
her marvelous stories. Many a time did my
limbs shake, many a time did I turn as pale as
death, and cling closely to her from fear, as I
sat listening with greedy ear to her narratives.
So powerful an effect did they produce, that I
dared not remain alone. Even in the broad
day-light, and when the sun was brightly shining
into every chamber, I was afraid to go upstairs
by myself; and so timid did I become,
that the least noise instantly alarmed me. That
old woman brought misery and desolation into
our house; she blasted the fondest hopes, and
threw a dark and dismal shadow over the
brightest and most cheerful places. Often and
often have I wished that she had been sooner
removed; but, alas! it was ordered otherwise.
She pretended to be very fond of us, and our
parents never dreamed of any danger in permitting
her to remain under their roof. We were
so delighted and captivated with her narratives,
that we implicitly obeyed her in every respect;
but she laid strong injunctions upon us, that we
were not to inform either our father or mother
of the nature of them. If we were alarmed at
any time, we always attributed it to some other
than the true cause; hence the injury she was
inflicting upon the family was unperceived. I
have sometimes thought that she was actuated
by a spirit of revenge, for some supposed injury
inflicted upon her, and that she had long contemplated
the misfortune into which she eventually
plunged my unhappy parents, and which
hurried them both to a premature grave.

I will briefly state the cause of the grievous
[pg 685]
change in our domestic happiness. My sister
was a year or two younger than myself, and, at
the time of which I speak, about seven years of
age. She had always been a gay, romping
child, till this old woman was introduced into
the family, and then she became grave, timid,
and reserved; she lost all that buoyancy of disposition,
that joyousness of heart, which were
common to her before. Methinks I now see
her as she was then—a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired
little creature, with soft, blue eyes, that sparkled
with animation, a mouth pursed into the pleasantest
smile, and a nose and chin exquisitely formed.
My sister, as I have already stated, altered much
after the old woman had become an inmate of
the family. She lost the freshness of her complexion,
the bright lustre of her eye, and was
often dejected and thoughtful. One night (I
shudder even now when I think of it), the wicked
old beldame told us, as usual, one of her frightful
stories, which had alarmed us exceedingly.
It related to our own house, which she declared
had at one time been haunted, and that the apparition
had been seen by several persons still
living. It appeared as a lady, habited in a green
silk dress, black velvet bonnet, with black feathers.
After she had concluded her narrative,
under some pretense or other, she left the room,
though we both strenuously implored her to remain;
for we were greatly afraid, and trembling
in every limb. She, however, did not heed our
solicitation, but said she would return in a few
minutes. There was a candle upon the table,
but it was already in the socket, and fast expiring.
Some ten or fifteen minutes elapsed,
and the chamber-door was quietly thrown open.
My hand shakes, and my flesh seems to creep
upon my bones, as I recall that horrid moment
of my past existence. The door was opened,
and a figure glided into the room. It seemed
to move upon the air, for we heard not its footsteps.
By the feeble and sickly light of the expiring
taper, we closely examined the appearance
of our extraordinary visitor. She had on a green
dress, black bonnet and feathers, and, in a word,
precisely corresponded with the appearance of
the apparition described by the wicked old nurse.
My sister screamed hysterically, and I fell into
a swoon. The household was disturbed, and in
a few minutes the servants and our parents were
by the bed-side. The old woman was among
them. I described, as well as I was able, what
had occurred; and my parents, without a moment’s
hesitation, laid the mysterious visitation
to the charge of the old woman; but she stoutly
denied it. My belief, however, to this day, is,
that she was concerned in it. My beloved sister
became a confirmed idiot, and died about two
years after that dreadful night.

My subsequent wretchedness may be traced
to this female, for she had already instilled into
my mind a love for the marvelous and supernatural.
I was not satisfied unless I was
reading books that treated of these subjects;
and I desired, like the astrologers of old, to
read the stars, and to be endowed with the
power of casting the horoscopes of my fellow-creatures.

When directed by my guardians to select a
profession, I chose that of medicine, as being
most congenial to my taste. I was accordingly
placed with a respectable practitioner, and in
due time sent to college, to perfect myself in
my profession. I found my studies dry and
wearisome, and was glad to relieve myself with
books more capable of interesting me than those
relating to medical subjects.

I had always attached great importance to
dreams, and to the various coincidences which
so frequently occur to us in life. I shall mention
a circumstance or two which occurred about this
time, and which made a very forcible impression
upon me. I dreamed one night that an intimate
friend of mine, then residing in India, had been
killed by being thrown from his horse. Not
many weeks elapsed, before I received intelligence
of his death, which occurred in the very
way I have described. I was so struck with
the coincidence, that I instituted further inquiry,
and ascertained that he had died on the same
night, and about the same hour on which I had
dreamed that the unfortunate event took place.
I reflected a good deal upon this occurrence.
Was it possible, I asked myself, that his disinthralled
spirit had the power of communicating
with other spirits, though thousands of miles
intervened? An event so strange I could not
attribute to mere chance. I felt convinced that
the information had been conveyed by design,
although the manner of its accomplishment I
could not comprehend.

A circumstance scarcely less remarkable happened
to me only a few days subsequently. I
had wandered a few miles into the country, and
at length found myself upon a rising eminence,
commanding a view of a picturesque little village
in the distance. Although I had at no period
of my life been in this part of the country, the
scene was not novel to me. I had seen it before.
Every object was perfectly familiar. The
mill, with its revolving wheel—the neat cottages,
with small gardens in front—and the little stream
of water that gently trickled past.

These matters gave a stronger impulse to my
reading, and I devoured, with the greatest voracity,
all books appertaining to my favorite subjects.
Indeed, I became so engrossed in my
employment, that I neglected my proper studies,
avoided all society, all exercise, and out-door
occupation. For weeks and weeks I shut my
self up in my chamber, and refused to see anybody.
I would sit for hours of a night, gazing
upon the stars, and wondering if they exercised
any control over the destinies of mankind. So
nervous did this constant study and seclusion
render me, that if a door were blown open by
a sudden blast of wind, I trembled, and became
as pale as death; if a withered bough fell from
a neighboring tree, I was agitated, and unable
for some seconds to speak; if a sudden footstep
was heard on the stairs, I anticipated that my
chamber-door would be immediately thrown
[pg 686]
open, and ere many seconds elapsed to be in the
presence of a visitor from the dark and invisible
world of shadows. I became pale and feverish,
my appetite failed me, and I felt a strong disinclination
to perform the ordinary duties of life.

My friends observed, with anxiety and disquietude,
my altered appearance; and I was
recommended to change my residence, and to
withdraw myself entirely from books. A favorable
locality, combining the advantages of pure
air, magnificent scenery, and retirement, was
accordingly chosen for me, in which it was determined
I should remain during the winter
months. It was now the latter end of September.

My future residence lay at the distance of
about ten German miles from Berlin. It was
a fine autumnal day, that I proceeded, in the
company of a friend, to take possession of my
new abode. Toward the close of the day we
found ourselves upon an elevated ground, commanding
an extensive and beautiful view of the
country for miles around. From this spot we
beheld the house, or rather castle (for it had
once assumed this character, although it was
now dismantled, and a portion only of the eastern
wing was inhabitable), that I was to occupy.
It stood in an extensive valley, through which a
broad and deep stream held its devious course—now
flowing smoothly and placidly along, amid
dark, overhanging trees—now dashing rapidly
and furiously over the rocks, foaming and roaring
as it fell in the most beautiful cascades.
The building stood on the margin of the stream,
and in the midst of thick and almost impenetrable
woods, that rendered the situation in the
highest degree romantic and captivating. The
scene presented itself to us under the most favorable
aspect. The sun was just setting behind
the distant hills, and his rays were tinging with
a soft, mellow light, the foliage of the trees, of
a thousand variegated colors. Here and there,
through the interstices of the trees, they fell
upon the surface of the water, thus relieving the
dark and sombre appearance of the stream.
The road we now traversed led, by a circuitous
route, into the valley. As we journeyed on, I
was more than ever struck with the beauty of
the scene. Dried leaves in many places lay
scattered upon the ground; but the trees were
still well laden with foliage, although I foresaw
they would be entirely stripped in a short time.
The evening was soft and mild; but occasionally
a gentle breeze would spring up, and cause,
for a moment, a slight rustling among the
trees, and then gradually die away. The sky
above our heads was serene and placid, presenting
one vast expanse of blue, relieved, here and
there, by a few light fleecy clouds. As we got
deeper into the valley, the road became bad and
uneven, and it was with much difficulty we
prevented our horses from stumbling. In one
or two instances we had to dismount and lead
them, the road in many places being dangerous
and precipitous. At length we gained the bottom
of the valley. A rude stone bridge was
thrown over the stream above described, over
which we led our steeds. Arrived at the other
side, we entered a long avenue of trees, sufficient
to admit of two horsemen riding abreast.
When we had gained the extremity of the
avenue, the road diverged to the left, and became
tortuous and intricate in its windings. It
was in a bad state of repair, for the building
had not been inhabited by any body but an old
woman for a great number of years. We at
length arrived in front of the entrance. As I
gazed upon the dilapidated structure, I did not
for a moment dream of the suffering and misery
I was to undergo beneath its roof. We dismounted
and gave our horses into the charge of
a man who worked about the grounds during
the day-time. We were no sooner admitted
into this peculiar-looking place, than a circumstance
occurred which plunged me into the
greatest distress of mind, and aroused a host of
the most painful and agonizing reminiscences.
I conceived the event to be ominous of disaster;
and so it proved. I recognized, in the woman
who admitted us, that execrable being who had
already so deeply injured my family, and to
whose infernal machinations I unhesitatingly ascribed
the idiocy and death of my dearly beloved
sister. She gazed earnestly upon me, and
seemed to recognize me. This discovery caused
me the greatest uneasiness. I hated the sight
of the woman; I loathed her; I shuddered
when I was in her presence; and a vague, undefinable
feeling took possession of me, which
seemed to suggest that she was something more
than mortal. I know not what evils I anticipated
from this discovery. I predicted, however,
nothing so awful, nothing so horrible, as what
actually befell me.

I took the earliest opportunity of speaking
alone with this woman.

“My good woman,” I said to her, “I shall
not suffer you to remain here at night.”

“Why not, sir?” she asked.

“There are certain insuperable objections,
the nature of which you may probably surmise.”

“Indeed, I do not.”

“Then your memory is short.”

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“It is not of any consequence.”

After some further altercation, she consented
to submit to the terms dictated to her.

On the following day, my friend Hoffmeister
returned to Berlin, where he had some business
to transact, on which depended much of his
future happiness. He promised to pay me
another visit in the course of a week or ten
days.

I spent the first three or four days very comfortably,
though I was still very nervous, and in
a weak state of health. On the morning of the
fifth day, the old woman (who had by some
means discovered my profession) asked me if I
required a subject for the purpose of dissection.
This was what I had long been seeking for,
but my efforts to obtain one had hitherto been
fruitless. I asked the sex, and she informed
[pg 687]
me it was a male. I was delighted with the
offer, and at once acquiesced in the terms. Toward
nightfall it was arranged that the corpse
should be conveyed to the castle.

I know not from what cause, but, during the
whole of the day, I was in a very abstracted
and desponding state of mind, and began to regret
that I had agreed to take the body through
the mediation of the old woman, whom I almost
conceived to be in league with Beelzebub himself.

The day had been exceedingly sultry, and toward
evening the sky became overcast with
huge masses of dark clouds. The wind, at intervals,
moaned fitfully, and as it swept through
the long corridors of the building, strongly resembled
the mournful and pitiful tones of a
human being in distress. The trees that stood
in front of the house ever and anon yielded to
the intermitting gusts of wind, and bowed their
heads as though in submission to a superior
power. There was no human being to be seen
out of doors, and the cattle, shortly before grazing
upon some distant hills, had already been
removed. The river flowed sluggishly past, its
brawling breaking occasionally upon the ear
when the wind was inaudible. Suddenly the
wind ceased, and large drops of rain began to
fall; presently afterward, it came down in torrents.
It was a fearful night. Frequent peals
of thunder smote upon the ear; now it seemed
to be at a distance, now immediately overhead.
Vivid flashes of lightning were at intervals
seen in the distant horizon, illumining for a
moment, with supernatural brilliancy, the most
minute and insignificant objects. In the midst
of the tempest, I fancied I heard a rumbling
noise at a distance. It grew more distinct; the
cause of it was rapidly approaching. I looked
earnestly out of the window, and I thought I
could discern a moving object between the interstices
of the trees. I was not mistaken. It
was the vehicle conveying the dead body. It
came along at a rapid pace. It was just in the
act of turning an angle of the road, when a tree,
of gigantic proportions, was struck by the electric
fluid to the ground. The horse shied, and
the car narrowly escaped being crushed beneath
its ponderous weight. The men drove up to
the entrance, and speedily took the box containing
the body from the car, and placed it in a
room which I showed them into. I directed
them to take the body out of the box, and place
it upon a deal board, which I had laid horizontally
upon a couple of trestles. The corpse was
accordingly taken out. It was that of a finely-grown
young man. I laid my hand upon it; it
was still warm, and I fancied I felt a slight
pulsation about the region of the heart. Anxious
to dismiss the men as soon as possible, and
fearing that the old woman might be imposing
upon me, I asked the price.

“Siebzig Thaler, mein Herr,” said the man.

“Danke, danke—tausendmal,” said he,
as I counted the money into his hand.

At this instant a vivid flash of lightning illumined, for a second or two, the livid and
ghastly corpse of the man, rendering the object
horrible to gaze upon.

“Gott im Himmel! was für ein schrecklicker
Stürm!” exclaimed the man to whom I had
paid the money.

In a few minutes the men departed, and I
stood at the window watching them, as they
drove furiously away. At length they disappeared
altogether from my view.

I was now alone in the house. The storm
was as furious as ever. I had never before felt
so wretched. I was restless and uneasy, and a
thousand dark thoughts flitted across my distracted
brain as I wandered from room to room.
It was already quite dark, and I was at least a
couple of miles distant from any living soul.
The frequent flashes of lightning, the loud peals
of thunder, the dead body of the man, and my
own nervous and superstitious temperament,
constituted a multitude of anxieties, fears, and
apprehensions, that might have caused the stoutest
heart to quail beneath their influence. I seated
myself in the sitting-room that had been provided
for me, and took up my meerschaum, and
endeavored to compose myself. It was, however,
in vain. I was exceedingly restless, and
I know not what vague and indefinable apprehensions
entered my imagination. Whenever I
have felt a presentiment of evil, it has invariably
been followed by some danger or difficulty. It
was so in the present instance. I drew the
curtains in front of the windows, for I could not
bear to look upon the storm that was raging
with unabated vehemence out of doors, and I
drew my chair closer to the fire, and sat for a
considerable time. At length, between ten and
eleven o’clock, I took from a small cabinet a
bottle containing some excellent French brandy.
I poured a portion of it into a tumbler, and diluted
it with warm water. I took two or three
copious draughts, which I thought imparted
new life to my frame.

I was in this way occupied, when a sudden
noise in a corner of the room caused a feeling
of horror to thrill through my whole system. I
sprang upon my legs in a moment; my eyes
stared wildly, and every limb in my body shook
as though with convulsions. For a moment, I
stood still, steadfastly fixing my eyes upon the
place from whence the noise proceeded. All
was quiet. I heard nothing save the beating
of the rain against the windows, and low peals
of distant thunder. I walked across the room,
and I discovered that a riding-whip had fallen
from the nail from which it had been suspended.
Satisfied that there was no occasion for alarm, I
resumed my seat, and indulged in fresh draughts
of brandy-and-water. A few minutes elapsed,
and a noise similar to the last filled me with
new apprehensions. I sprang again from my
seat. The pulses of my heart beat quickly. I
gazed wildly about me. I could see nothing—hear
nothing. I walked a few paces, and found
an empty powder-flask upon the floor; it had
fallen from a shelf upon which I had placed it
[pg 688]
in the morning. I was much alarmed; I reeled
like a drunken man, and my mind was filled
with the most horrible forebodings. I drank
the diluted spirit more freely than usual, and
stood awaiting the issue. Another article in a
few minutes fell from the wall. I now knew
what to expect. I had frequently read of this
species of disturbance before. It was what, is
called in Germany the Poltergeist. In a few
minutes, the greatest uproar manifested itself.
The pictures fell from the walls, the ornaments
from the shelves; the jugs, glasses, and bottles
leaped from the table; the chairs, &c., by some
unseen and infernal agency, were overturned.
I ran about like one beside himself; I tore my
hair with agony; I groaned with mental affliction;
and my heart cursed the devil incarnate
that had brought all this misery to pass. It
was the woman; I was convinced of it. She,
she alone, could conceive and hatch such monstrous
and nefarious stratagems. I knew not
what to do—whither to fly. The uproar continued.
In my distraction, I ran from place to
place. I entered the room where the corpse
lay. Merciful God! I discovered, by the glimmering
light from the other chamber, that it
had changed its position. I had laid it upon its
back. Its face was now turned downward!
My cup was full—my misery complete. I returned
to the room I had just quitted. The
disturbance had in some measure abated. I
was thankful that it was so, and I proceeded to
place the tables, chairs, &c., in their usual position.
While I was thus engaged, the tumult
commenced afresh. No sooner had I placed a
chair in an upright direction, than it was immediately
overturned; no sooner had I suspended
a picture from the wall, than it was again upon
the floor. What was I to do? How was I to
escape the horrible spells with which the archfiend
had encompassed me? I could not leave
the place on account of the storm; and even if
I had done so, it was not possible that I could
gain admittance into any habitation at that late
hour of the night. Wretch that I was! What
crime had I committed, wherein had I erred,
that I should be visited with so unaccountable
and terrible a calamity? My presence seemed
to arouse the malignity of the Poltergeist,
and I deemed it expedient to leave the room. I was
afraid to enter that in which the dead (?) man
lay, lest I should be exposed to further causes
for alarm. There was certainly a room in the
higher part of the building in which I had been
accustomed to sleep; but I dared not venture
there in my present state of mind. I entered
an adjourning corridor, and paced up and down
for a few minutes, but the air was chilly, and I
was in total darkness. The disturbance ceased
as soon as I had quitted the room. I could not
remain where I was, so I re-entered it, but my
return was only the signal for fresh disasters.
The uproar was resumed with tenfold energy.
However much my heart might revolt from it,
there was no other course open than to go into
the room where the dead body lay. In the
condition of one who is driven to the last stage
of desperation, I walked, with as much fortitude
as I could command, into that chamber. God
of Heaven! I had no sooner reached the threshold
than I started back with affright. I will
not dwell upon that horrible scene; I will not
minutely detail the agony I endured. The
corpse sat upright! I drew the chamber-door
quickly after me and staggered into the next
apartment. Powerless and overcome, I fell to
the ground.

When I recovered, it was day. The light
was streaming into the chamber, and the storm
had subsided. Fresh marvels were to be revealed.
I was no longer in the room in which
I had been on the preceding night. I was in
bed, in the chamber where I had hitherto slept!
How came I hither? I knew not. I pressed
my hand to my brow, and strove to collect my
scattered senses. I was bewildered and confused,
and could only account for the marvelous
transition to which I had been exposed, by
some remarkable agency, altogether intangible
to my senses, and utterly beyond the power of
my understanding to comprehend.

I descended, as soon as I was dressed, to
breakfast, of which I sparingly partook. I was
pale and agitated. My sitting-room was in its
usual state of order. I did not venture into
the other apartment, neither did I speak to the
woman touching the spectacles I had witnessed.

Hoffmeister returned in the evening, some
days sooner than he expected. He observed
my altered appearance, and said—

“Was fehlt dir? Du bist krank, nicht
wahr?”

“Nein; ich bin recht wohl, Gott sei dank.”

I could not, however, convince Hoffmeister
that nothing had happened. I was not disposed
to reveal to him what I had witnessed,
for I knew he would treat the matter with
unbecoming levity. His opinions were very
different from mine upon these subjects.

Hoffmeister appeared much depressed in
spirits himself. I inquired the cause, but he
evaded the question. I concluded that his journey
to Berlin had not been attended with satisfactory
results, for I could conjecture no other
cause for his unhappiness. We retired to rest
early, for Hoffmeister appeared fatigued. I
proposed that we should sleep together, which
my friend gladly assented to.

I was much surprised, when I awoke on the
following morning, to find myself alone. What
had become of Hoffmeister? Had he, too, been
under the domination of some evil power?
I knew he was not an early riser, and his
absence, therefore, astonished and agitated me.
I dressed myself hastily, and immediately went
in search of him. I wandered about the adjacent
grounds, but he was not there. I could
not rest till I had found him. I had known
him for many years, and had always loved and
esteemed him. He was, till lately, my constant
companion—my bosom-friend—in a word,
my alter ego.

I resolved to extend my search. I swiftly
[pg 689]
passed through the avenue of trees, crossed the
bridge, and it was not long before I had gained
the summit of the road that led into the valley.
I stood for a while gazing around me. I gazed
earnestly at the dilapidated and time-worn walls
of the old castle, in which I had witnessed so
many marvelous and horrible sights. I shuddered
when I reflected upon them. I resumed
my journey, and at length reached a village a
few miles distant from my former abode. I
walked quickly forward, and on my way met
several persons who saluted me, whom I did
not remember to have seen before. What could
they mean by taking such unwarrantable liberties
with me? They did not appear to be
drunk, nor to have any intention of insulting
me. It was odd—unaccountable. I hurried
on. My head began to swim; my eyes were
burning hot, and ready to start from their
sockets. I was wild—frantic.

I reached the shop of an apothecary, and
stepped in to ask for water, to quench my
thirst. The man smirked, and asked me how
I was. I told him, I did not know him; but
he persisted in saying he had been in my company
only a night or two before. I was confounded.
I seized the glass of water he held
in his hand, and took a hearty draught, and
precipitately departed. I traveled on. I was
bewildered—in a maze, from which I found it
impossible to extricate myself. I made inquiries
about my friend, but the people stared and
laughed, as though there was something extraordinary
about me. I wandered about till nightfall,
and at last found shelter in a cottage by
the road-side, which was inhabited by an infirm
old woman.

The next day I returned to the village. I
called upon a gentleman with whom I was intimately
acquainted. I thought he might be
able to give me some tidings of my friend.
When I was ushered into his presence he did
not know me. I was incredulous. Was I no
longer myself? Had I changed my identity?
Whence this mystery? I was unable to fathom
it. I handed my card to him; he looked at it,
and returned it, saying he did not know Mr.
Hoffmeister. The card was that of my friend.
How it had come into my possession I knew not.
I apologized for the error, and informed him that
my name was not Hoffmeister, but Heinrich
Gottlieb Langström. My surprise may be conceived,
when he informed me Langström—in
fact, that I myself was dead, and that my body
had been found in the stream that flowed past
the village the day previously! I was ready
to sink through the floor, and could not find
language to reply to the monstrous falsehood.
I rushed from his presence, feeling assured that
some conspiracy was afoot to drive me mad.
I must have become so, or I never would have
been exposed to the extraordinary delusion to
which I afterward became a victim.

I entered a house of public entertainment,
and determined to solve this dreadful enigma.
I was, unfortunately, acquainted with the doctrines
of Pythagoras, and, at the time to which
I refer, no doubt insane.

I requested to be shown into a room, where I
could arrange my dress. I was conducted into
a chamber, in which all things necessary for
that purpose were provided. My object, however,
was of greater consequence than this. I
wished to unravel the strange mystery that surrounded
me—to discover, in a word, whether
I were really myself, or some other person.
There was no way of freeing myself from this
horrible suspense and uncertainty than by examining
my features in the looking-glass. There
was one placed upon a dressing-table, but I
shrank from it as though it had been a demon.
I dreaded to approach it; I feared to look into it,
lest it should confirm all the vague and monstrous
misgivings that agitated my mind. I
regarded it as the arbiter of my destiny. It
possessed the power either to transport me with
happiness, or to plunge me into utter, irretrievable
misery. In that brief moment I endured
an age of agony and suspense. With a faltering
step, with a whirling brain, I advanced
toward the glass. I stood opposite to it; I
looked into it. Distraction! horror of horrors!
It was not my own face I beheld! I swooned—fell
backward.

When I recovered, I found myself in the arms
of a man, who bathed my temples with water.
I quickly made my escape from the house. I
was pale and haggard, like one stricken with
some sudden and grievous calamity. I fancied,
as I passed along, that the passengers whom I
met stared at me, laughed in my face, and
seemed to consider my misfortune a fit subject
for their mirth and ridicule. Every hubbub in
the street, every screeching voice that assailed
my ear, I conceived to be attributable to my
horrible transformation. I was afraid to look
around; I dared not arrest my progress for a
moment, lest any of the mocking fiends should
make sport of my unhappy situation, and drive
me to some act of desperation. On, on, I hurried.
I gained the fields. Thank Heaven!
the village lay at a distance behind me. The
haunts of men were no place for me. I was
something more than mortal. I had undergone
a change, of which I had never conceived myself
susceptible. I sped forward; naught could
impede my course. My only relief was in action.
Any thing to dissipate the thoughts that
flitted across my distracted brain. Bodily pain
might be endured—fatigue, hunger, any corporeal
suffering; but to think, was death—destruction.
Oh! could I have evaded thought
for one moment, what joy, what transport! I
fled onward; there was no time to pause—to
consider. The sun had already sunk behind
the hills, and night was about to spread her
mantle o’er the earth, when I threw myself
down, exhausted and overpowered. Slumber
sealed my eyes, and I lay upon the ground, an
outcast of men, an isolated and wretched being,
to whom the common lot of humanity had been
denied.

[pg 690]

I will hurry this painful narrative to a close.
I have but a vague idea of the events that occurred
during the next few weeks. I remember
being told, as I lay in bed, by a young woman
who attended me, that I had been found by
some workpeople, on the night above referred
to, in the vicinity of my former residence, and
conveyed thither, and that I had been attacked
by the brain fever, and that my life had been
despaired of by my medical attendant.

The body which had been found in the stream,
and which was supposed to be mine, was that
of my dear friend, Hoffmeister. In his agitation,
previously to his committing the dreadful
act of suicide, he had inadvertently mistaken
my garments for his own.

When I became convalescent, I determined
upon leaving, as soon as possible, the scene of
my recent suffering. Before doing so, I proceeded
to the village which I had previously
visited. I called upon the gentleman who had
not recognized me on a former occasion; but,
strange to say, he now remembered me perfectly,
and received me very kindly indeed. I
referred to the circumstance of our late interview,
but he had no recollection of it. While
we were thus conversing, a third person entered
the room, the very image of my friend, and
who, it appeared was his brother. An explanation
at once ensued.

These matters I have thought it necessary to
explain. There are, however, occurrences in
the narrative, of which I can give no solution,
though I may premise, that my conviction is,
that those which took place in the village, arose
from natural causes, with which I am nevertheless
unacquainted. The body of the man, who,
I have reason to believe, was not quite dead
when he was brought to me, I conveyed with
me to Berlin. The old woman I never again
beheld.


The Sun.
(From Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal.)

Of all the links in the stupendous chain of the
cosmos, the sun, next to our own planet, is
that which we are most concerned in knowing
well, while it is precisely that which we know
the least. This glorious orb has always been
involved in the deepest mystery. All that had
been revealed to us concerning it, till very recently,
was derived from the observations and
deductions of the elder Herschel. His discovery
of a double luminous envelopment, at times
partially withdrawn from various portions of
the sun’s surface, afforded, on the whole, a satisfactory
explanation of the numerous spots that are
always seen on his disk. This glimpse merely
of the external changes which happen on his surface
made up the sum of our knowledge of that
great luminary on which the animation of our
planetary system depends! One main cause
of this utter ignorance on the subject, besides
its own intrinsic difficulty, lay in the comparatively
slight attention it had always received
from astronomers generally. No individual observer
ever thought of devoting himself to the
solar phenomena alone, while the public observatories
confined themselves to merely observing
the sun’s culmination at noon, or to ascertaining
the exact duration of its eclipses.

We knew, from the observations of Cassini
and Herschel, that the spots on the sun’s disk
are not alike numerous every year; and Kunowsky
particularly drew the attention of astronomers
to the fact, that while in the years 1818
and 1819 very large and numerous ones appeared,
some visible even to the naked eye, very few, on
the contrary, and those of but trifling size, were
seen in the years 1822-1824. But it was reserved
for the indefatigable Schwabe of Dessau,
who has devoted himself for a long series of years
to this one single object, to establish the fact
of these spots observing a certain periodicity.
Among the results of his labors—for as yet we
have only his brief announcements to the scientific
world in the “Astronomical Notices”—are
the following: 1. That the recurrence of
the solar spots has a period of about ten years;
2. That the number of the single groups of one
year varies at the minimum time from twenty-five
to thirty, while in the maximum years they
sometimes rise to above three hundred; 3. That
with their greater abundance is combined also
a greater local extension and blackness of the
spots; 4. That at the maximum time, the sun,
for some years together, is never seen without
very considerable spots. The last maximum
appears to have been of a peculiarly rich character,
as, from February, 1837, till December,
1840, solar spots were visible on every day of
observation; while the number of groups in the
former of those years amounted to 333.

But if a single individual, by observations
continued unbroken for entire decenniums, has
thus revealed to us the most important fact
hitherto known relating to the sun, there are
other questions not less important which can
only find their solution in the careful observation
of a rarely-occurring interval of perhaps one or
two minutes. The splendor of the sun is so
amazingly great, as to preclude us entirely
from perceiving any object in his immediate
proximity unless projected before his disk as a
darkening object. At ten, or fifteen degrees
even from the sun, when this luminary is above
the horizon, all the fixed stars vanish from the
most powerful telescopes. We are therefore
in utter ignorance whether the space between
him and Mercury is occupied or not by some
other denizen of the planetary system. To
enable us to explore the sun’s immediate proximity,
we require a body that shall exclude his
rays from our atmosphere, and yet leave the
space round the sun open to our view. Such
an object can of course be neither a cloud nor
any terrestrial object, natural or artificial, since
parts of the atmosphere will exist behind it
which will be impinged on by the sun’s rays.
Only during a total eclipse can these conditions
be fulfilled, and even then but for a very brief
[pg 691]
interval, which may still be lost to the observer
through unfavorable weather or from too low a
position of the sun.

Notwithstanding that this rare and precarious
opportunity is the only possible one we possess
of becoming better acquainted with the physical
nature of the great luminary of day, astronomers
never availed themselves of it for any other
purpose than the admeasurement of the earth,
which might have been done as well, if not
better, during any planetary eclipse. This
error or indifference, whichever it may have
been, can not, however, be laid to the charge
of our living astronomers. The 8th of July,
1842—the day on which the last total eclipse
of the sun took place—witnessed the most distinguished
of these assembled for the purpose
of making, for the first time, observations calculated
to afford us some insight into this greatest
mystery of the celestial world. This eclipse
was total on a zone which traversed the north
of Spain, the south of France, the region of the
Alps and Styria, and a portion of Austria, Central
Russia and Siberia, terminating in China;
so that the observatories of Marseilles, Milan,
Venice, Padua, Vienna, and Ofen, all supplied
with excellent telescopes, and in full activity,
came within its range; while many astronomers,
at whose observatories the eclipse was
not visible, set out for places situated within
the zone just described. Thus Arago and two
of his colleagues repaired to Perpignan, Airy
to Turin, Schumacker to Vienna, Struve and
Sehidloffsky to Lipezk, and Stubendorff to
Koerakow. Most of them were favored by the
weather. Let us now see what the combined
endeavors of these practiced and well-furnished
observers have made us acquainted with.

First, as regards the obscurity, it was so
great, that five, seven, and in some cases as
many as ten stars were visible to the naked
eye. A reddish light was seen to proceed from
the horizon—that is, from those regions where
the darkness was not total—and by this light
print of a moderate size could, with a little
difficulty, be read. Such plants as usually
close their petals at night were seen in most
places to close them also during the eclipse.
The thermometer fell from 2 to 3 degrees of
Reaumur, and in the fields about Perpignan a
heavy dew fell. A change in the color of the
light, and consequently of the enlightened objects,
was noticed by many, although they were
not agreed in their description of it. But this
diversity may have been caused by the nature
of the air at different places being probably different,
and the degree of obscurity very unequal.
At Lipezk, where the eclipse lasted the longest,
being 3 minutes and 3 seconds, a darkness similar
to that of night set in, and there the eclipse
began exactly at noon.

The effect of the eclipse on the animal
creation was similar to what had been observed
before in the like circumstances: they ceased
eating; draught animals suddenly stood still;
domestic birds fled to the stables, or sought
other places of shelter; owls and bats flew
abroad, as if night had come on. Of three
lively linnets, kept in a cage, one dropped down
dead. The insect world too was greatly affected;
ants stopped in the midst of their labors,
and only resumed their course after the reappearance
of the sun; and bees retreated suddenly
to their hives. A general restlessness
pervaded the animal world; and only those
places which were situated more on the boundary
of the zone, and where the obscurity was
consequently less complete, formed an exception.

During the total eclipse, the dark moon which
covered the sun’s disk appeared surrounded with
a brilliant crown of light or halo. This halo
consisted of two concentric belts, of which the
inner one was the lightest, and the external less
brilliant, and gradually fading. In the direction
of the line which connected the point of the
commencement of the total eclipse with that of
its termination, two parabolic pencils of light—some
observers say several—appeared on the
halo. Within it also light intervolved veins
were observable. The breadth of the inner
halo was from 2 to 3 minutes; that of the external
one from 10 to 15 minutes; the pencils
of light, on the other hand, extended as far as
from 1 to 1½ degree; by some they were traced
even to 3 degrees. The color of the halo was
of a silvery white, and exhibited a violent undulating
or trembling motion, its general appearance
varying in the briefest space. The light
of the halo was intensest near the covered solar
rim. Its brilliance at Lipezk was so great, that
the naked eye could hardly look on it, and some
of the observers almost doubted whether the sun
had really altogether disappeared. At Vienna,
Milan, and Perpignan, on the contrary, the observers
found the light of the halo resembling
that of the moon toward its full. Bell, at Verona,
who found time to estimate its intensity,
ascertained it to be one-seventh of that of the
full moon. Its first traces were noticed from 3
to 5 seconds before the entrance of the entire
eclipse; in like manner, its last vestiges disappeared
only some seconds after the eclipse was
over. Vivid, however, as its light was, the halo
cast but an extremely faint shadow. Some, indeed,
who particularly directed their attention
to it, could not detect any. But this might
have been owing to those places on which the
shadows would have fallen being faintly illumined
by the reddish light of the horizon before
mentioned. In other respects, during the progress
of the eclipse, before and after its maximum,
not the least change was observable in
the uncovered part of the sun’s disk. The cusps
were as sharp and distinctly-marked as possible,
the lunar mountains were projected on the sun’s
surface with the most beautiful distinctness and
precision, and the color and brilliance of his disk,
in the proximity of the moon’s rim, were in no
way diminished or altered. In short, nothing
was seen which could be referred in the smallest
degree to a lunar atmosphere.

All these phenomena, striking as they were,
[pg 692]
were such as the assembled observers were prepared
for; for they were such as had already
been noticed during previous eclipses of the sun.
But there was one of quite a different character,
as mysterious as it was novel to them. This
was the appearance of large reddish projections
within the halo on the dark rim. The different
observers characterized it by the expressions—“red
clouds, volcanoes, flames, fire-sheaves,”
&c.; terms intended of course merely to indicate
the phenomenon, and not in any way to
explain it. The observers differed in their reports
both with respect to the number of these
“red clouds,” as well as to their apparent heights.
Arago stated that he observed two rose-colored
projections which seemed to be unchangeable,
and a minute high. His two colleagues also
saw them, but to them they seemed somewhat
larger. A fourth observer saw one of the projections
some minutes even after the eclipse was
over, while others perceived it with the naked
eye. Petit, at Montpellier remarked three protections,
and even found time to measure one of
them. It was 1-3/4 minute high. Littrow, at
Vienna, considered them to be as high again as
this; and stated “that the streaks were visible
before they became colored, and remained visible
also after their color had vanished.” The
light of these projections was soft and quiet, the
projections themselves sharp, and their form unchanging
till the moment of their extinction.
Schidloffsky, at Lipezk, thought he perceived a
rose-colored border on the moon in places where
these red clouds did not reach; but could not be
certain of the fact, on account of the shortness
of the time.

These projections or red clouds, mysterious
and unexpected as they were to men who directed
their attention for the first time to the
purely physical phenomena concerned, were in
fact, after all, nothing altogether new. The
descriptions given by astronomers of earlier
eclipses of the sun had been forgotten or overlooked.
Stannyan, for instance, in his relation
of that of the 20th May, 1706, says, “The
egress of the sun from the moon’s disk was preceded
on its left rim, during an interval of six
or seven seconds, by the appearance of a bloodred
streak;” and Nassenius, during a total eclipse
of the sun observed on the 13th of May, 1733,
mentions having seen “several red spots, three
or four in number, without the periphery of the
moon’s disk, one of them being larger than the
others, and consisting, as it were, of three parallel
parts inclining toward the moon’s disk.” It
is clear, therefore, that earlier observers had
witnessed the same phenomenon, although they
were unable to offer any explanation of it. It
seems, however, no unreasonable conclusion to
come to, that these projections or red clouds, as
well as the halo with its pencils of light before
spoken of, are something without the proper
solar photosphere, but not forming, as this does,
one connected mass of light. What further can
be known concerning this something must be
left to future ages to discover.


The Household Jewels.
(From Dickens’s Household Words.)

A traveler, from journeying
In countries far away,
Repassed his threshold at the close
Of one calm Sabbath day;
A voice of love, a comely face,
A kiss of chaste delight,
Were the first things to welcome him
On that blessed Sabbath night.
He stretched his limbs upon the hearth,
Before its friendly blaze,
And conjured up mixed memories
Of gay and gloomy days;
And felt that none of gentle soul,
However far he roam,
Can e’er forego, can e’er forget,
The quiet joys of home.
“Bring me my children!” cried the sire,
With eager, earnest tone;
“I long to press them, and to mark
How lovely they have grown;
Twelve weary months have passed away
Since I went o’er the sea,
To feel how sad and lone I was
Without my babes and thee.”
“Refresh thee, as ’tis needful,” said
The fair and faithful wife,
The while her pensive features paled,
And stirred with inward strife;
“Refresh thee, husband of my heart,
I ask it as a boon;
Our children are reposing, love;
Thou shalt behold them soon.”
She spread the meal, she filled the cup,
She pressed him to partake;
He sat down blithely at the board,
And all for her sweet sake;
But when the frugal feast was done,
The thankful prayer preferred,
Again affection’s fountain flowed;
Again its voice was heard.
“Bring me my children, darling wife
I’m in an ardent mood;
My soul lacks purer aliment,
I long for other food;
Bring forth my children to my gaze,
Or ere I rage or weep,
I yearn to kiss their happy eyes
Before the hour of sleep.”
“I have a question yet to ask;
Be patient, husband dear.
A stranger, one auspicious morn,
Did send some jewels here;
Until to take them from my care,
But yesterday he came,
And I restored them with a sigh:
—Dost thou approve or blame?”
“I marvel much, sweet wife, that thou
Shouldst breathe such words to me;
Restore to man, resign to God,
Whate’er is lent to thee;

[pg 693]

Restore it with a willing heart,
Be grateful for the trust;
Whate’er may tempt or try us, wife,
Let us be ever just.”
She took him by the passive hand.
And up the moonlit stair,
She led him to their bridal bed,
With mute and mournful air;
She turned the cover down, and there,
In grave-like garments dressed,
Lay the twin children of their love,
In death’s serenest rest.
“These were the jewels lent to me,
Which God has deigned to own;
The precious caskets still remain,
But, ah, the gems are flown;
But thou didst teach me to resign
What God alone can claim;
He giveth and he takes away,
Blest be His holy name!”
The father gazed upon his babes,
The mother drooped apart,
While all the woman’s sorrow gushed
From her o’erburdened heart;
And with the striving of her grief,
Which wrung the tears she shed.
Were mingled low and loving words
To the unconscious dead.
When the sad sire had looked his fill,
He vailed each breathless face,
And down in self-abasement bowed,
For comfort and for grace;
With the deep eloquence of woe,
Poured forth his secret soul,
Rose up, and stood erect and calm,
In spirit healed and whole.
“Restrain thy tears, poor wife,” he said,
“I learn this lesson still,
God gives, and God can take away,
Blest be His holy will!
Blest are my children, for they live
From sin and sorrow free,
And I am not all joyless, wife,
With faith, hope, love, and thee.”

The Tea-Plant.
(From Hogg’s Instructor.)

Hid behind the monster wall that screens in
the land of the Celestials from the prying
eye of the “barbarian,” the Tea-plant, in common
with many things peculiar to those regions,
remained long unknown to Europeans, and the
snatches of information brought home by early
travelers concerning it, were, in too many cases,
of that questionable and contradictory kind, so
characteristic, even in the present day, of the
writings of those who travel in Eastern lands.
Tea has now become a general article of domestic
consumption in every household of our
country having any pretension to social comfort,
as well as in that of every other civilized nation,
and, indeed, the tea-table has no mean influence
in refining the manners and promoting the social
intercourse of a people. Important, however,
as this universal beverage has become as an
essential requisite to the social and physical
comfort of all classes and conditions of civilized
society, yet our knowledge of the plant from
which it is produced is still very imperfect;
and this, notwithstanding the fact that we have
had tea-plants growing in our hothouses since
the year 1768. Speaking of the introduction
of the plant to this country, Hooker says—“It
was not till after tea had been used as a beverage
for upwards of a century in England, that
the shrub which produces it was brought alive
to this country. More than one botanist had
embarked for the voyage to China—till lately a
protracted and formidable undertaking—mainly
in the hope of introducing a growing tea-tree to
our greenhouses. No passage across the desert,
no Waghorn-facilities, no steam-ship assisted the
traveler in those days. The distance to and
from China, with the necessary time spent in
that country, generally consumed nearly three
years! Once had the tea-tree been procured
by Osbeck, a pupil of Linnæus, in spite of the
jealous care with which the Chinese forbade its
exportation; and when near the coast of England,
a storm ensued, which destroyed the
precious shrubs. Then the plan of obtaining
berries was adopted, and frustrated by the heat
of the tropics, which spoiled the oily seeds, and
prevented their germination. The captain of a
Swedish vessel hit upon a good scheme: having
secured fresh berries, he sowed these on board
ship, and often stinted himself of his daily allowance
of water for the sake of the young plants;
but, just as the ship entered the English Channel,
an unlucky rat attacked his cherished charge
and devoured them all!” So much, then, for
the early attempts to introduce the tea-shrub to
Europe: often, indeed, is the truth exemplified
that

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gee.”

The Chinese tea-plants are neat-growing
shrubs, with bright glossy green leaves, not
unlike those of the bay; or a more exact similitude
will be found in the garden camellia, with
the leaves of which, however, many of our readers
may not have acquaintance, although the
flowers are well known, being extensively used
in decorating the female dress for the ball-room
in the winter season. The tea-plants are nearly
allied to the camellia, and belong to the same
natural order: indeed, one species of the latter—the
Camellia sasanqua of botanists—is cultivated
in the tea-grounds of China, on account of
its beautiful flowers, which are said to impart
fragrance and flavor to other teas.

Comparatively few scientific naturalists have
had sufficient opportunities of studying the tea-producing
plants in their native habitats, or even
in the cultivated grounds of China, and consequently
a great difference of opinion has all
along existed, as to whether tea is obtained
from one, two, or more distinct species of Thea.
This question is getting day by day more involved
[pg 694]
as new facts come to light; and, indeed,
cultivation seems to have altered the original
character of some forms of the plant so much,
that the subject bids fair to remain an open
question among European botanists for ages to
come. The two tea-plants which have been
long grown in British gardens, and universally
supposed, until within the last few years, to be
the only kinds in existence, are the Thea bohea
and the Thea viridis. The former was, until
recently, very generally believed to produce the
black tea of commerce, and the latter the green
tea; but recent travelers have clearly shown
that both black and green tea may be, and are,
obtained from the same plant. The difference
is caused by the mode of preparation; but it
will be afterward seen that very important discrepancies
occur between the accounts of this
operation given by different observers. Certain
it is, that the extreme caution with which the
Chinese attempt to conceal a knowledge of their
peculiar arts and manufactures from European
visitors—and in none is their anxiety to do so
more strikingly evinced than in the case of the
culture and preparation of tea—tends greatly to
frustrate the endeavors of the scientific traveler
to acquire accurate information on this point.

In the present state of our knowledge, it is
quite impossible to say how many species or
varieties of the tea-plant are grown in China.
They are now believed to be numerous, although
the two kinds to which we have referred are
those most extensively cultivated. They have
long been allowed to rank as distinct species in
botanical books, and grown as such in our greenhouses;
but some acute botanists have, at various
times, suggested that they might be merely
varieties of one plant. Such was the opinion of
the editor of the “Botanical Magazine,” when
he figured and described the Bohea variety
(t. 998). Professor Balfour (“Manual of Botany,”
§ 793) enumerates three species—the two
already mentioned, and one called Thea Assamica,
being the one chiefly cultivated at the
tea-grounds of Assam. Most of our readers
may be aware that the cultivation and manufacture
of tea has been successfully introduced
to Northern India. A “Report on the Government
Tea Plantations in Kumaon and Gurwahl,
by W. Jameson, Esq., the superintendent of the
Botanical Gardens in the North-Western Provinces,”5
has just reached us. In that report—to
which we will have occasion afterward to refer—there
are “two species, and two well marked
varieties” described. Some of these do not appear
to have been at all noticed by other writers,
although, from specimens of the plants, which
we have examined, from the tea-grounds, they
appear sufficiently distinct to warrant their being
ranked as separate species; and there are,
indeed, some botanists who would at once set
them down as such.

Having disposed of the question of species in
such manner as the unsatisfactory state of botanical
knowledge on this point will admit, we shall
now proceed to communicate some information
respecting the culture of the tea-plant, and the
manner in which its leaves are made available
for the production of the beverage of which the
female portion of the community, and more particularly
old wives (of both sexes), are believed
to be so remarkably fond.

The tea-plants are grown in beds conveniently
formed for the purpose of irrigating in dry
weather, and for plucking the leaves when required.
The Chinese sow the seed thus:
“Several seeds are dropped into holes four or
five inches deep, and three or four feet apart,
shortly after they ripen, or in November and
December; the plants rise up in a cluster when
the rains come on. They are seldom transplanted,
but, sometimes, four to six are put
quite close, to form a fine bush.” In the government
plantations of Kumaon and Gurwahl, more
care seems to be bestowed in the raising of the
plants, whereby the needless expenditure of
seeds in the above method is saved. The seeds
ripen in September or October, and in elevated
districts, sometimes so late as November. In
his report, Mr. Jameson mentions that, when
ripe, the seeds are sown in drills, eight to ten
inches apart from each other, the ground having
been previously prepared by trenching and
manuring. If the plants germinate in November,
they are protected from the cold by a
“chupper,” made of bamboo and grass—a small
kind of bamboo, called the ringal, being found
in great abundance on the hills, at an elevation
of 6000 to 7000 feet, and well adapted for the
purpose; these chuppers are removed throughout
the day, and replaced at night. In April and
May, they are used for protecting the young
plants from the heat of the sun, until the rains
commence. When the plants have attained a
sufficient size they are transplanted with great
care, a ball of earth being attached to their roots.
They require frequent waterings, if the weather
be dry. During the rains grass springs up
around them with great rapidity, so as to render
it impossible, with the usual number of hands,
to keep the grounds clean. The practice, therefore,
is merely to make a “golah” or clear space
round each plant, these being connected with
small water channels, in order to render irrigation
easy in times of drought. The plants do
not require to be pruned until the fifth year, the
plucking of leaves generally tending to make
them assume the basket shape, the form most to
be desired to procure the greatest quantity of
leaves. Irrigation seems absolutely essential
for the profitable cultivation of the tea-plant,
although, on the other hand, land liable to be
flooded during the rains, and upon which water
lies for any length of time, is quite unsuitable
for its growth. The plant seems to thrive in a
great variety of soils, but requires the situation
to be at a considerable altitude above the sea
level.

According to Mr. Jameson, the season for
[pg 695]
picking the leaves commences in April and
continues until October, the number of gatherings
varying, according to the nature of the
season, from four to seven. So soon as the new
and young leaves have appeared in April, the
first plucking takes place. “A certain division
of the plantation is marked off, and to each man
a small basket is given, with instructions to
proceed to a certain point, so that no plant may
be passed over. On the small basket being
filled, the leaves are emptied into another large
one, which is put in some shady place, and in
which, when filled, they are conveyed to the
manufactory. The leaves are generally plucked
with the thumb and forefinger. Sometimes the
terminal part, of a branch having four or five
young leaves attached, is plucked off.” The old
leaves, being too hard to curl, are rejected as of
no use; but all new and fresh leaves are indiscriminately
collected.

The manufacture of the different varieties of
tea has been the subject of much difference of
opinion. It has been supposed by some writers,
as we have already mentioned, that green tea
was solely obtained from the Thea viridis, and
black tea from the Thea bohea, while others
have asserted, that the different kinds of the
manufactured article are equally produced by
both plants. Facts seem now to be quite in
favor of the latter opinion, and, indeed, Mr.
Fortune, while on his first botanical mission on
account of the Horticultural Society of London,
ascertained, by visiting the different parts of the
coast of China, that the Bohea plant was converted
into both black and green tea in the south
of China, but that in all the northern provinces
he found only Thea viridis grown, and equally
converted into both kinds of tea. Mr. Ball (the
late inspector of teas to the East India Company
in China), in a work entitled “An Account of
the Cultivation and Manufacture of Tea in
China,” fully confirms the fact that both the
green and black teas are prepared from the
same plant, and that the differences depend
entirely on the processes of manufacture. It is,
of course, possible that particular varieties of
the same plant, grown in certain soils and situations,
may be preferred by the Chinese manufacturers
for the preparation of the black and
green teas, and the various kinds of both known
in commerce. It has been stated by some that
the young leaves are taken for green tea, and
the older ones for the black varieties; this is the
popular notion on the subject, but probably it
has no foundation.

Although it now seems somewhat generally
agreed that both green and black teas are made
from the leaves of the same plant, yet the various
writers on the subject are at considerable
variance as to the mode in which the difference
of appearance is brought about. Some assert
that the black being the natural colored tea, the
beautiful green tinge is given to the green tea
by means of substances used for the purpose of
dyeing it; while others hold that the green hue
depends entirely on the method of roasting.

Among the formers Mr. Fortune, whose account
of the “Chinese Method of Coloring Green
Tea,” as observed by him, is published in a former
number of the Instructor (No. 240,
page 91). From that account, it would appear that
the coloring substances used are gypsum, indigo,
and Prussian blue, and “for every hundred
pounds of green tea which are consumed in
England or America, the consumer really eats
more than half a pound” of these substances.
We hope now to present our tea-drinking readers
with a more pleasing picture than this; to
show that indeed there is not “death in the
cup,” nor aught else to be feared. We therefore
proceed to explain the modes of manufacture,
as detailed by Mr. Ball. And, firstly, the
manufacture of black tea. The leaves, on being
gathered, are exposed to the air, until they
wither and “become soft and flaccid.” In this
state they soon begin to emit a slight degree of
fragrance, when they are sifted, and then tossed
about with the hands in large trays. They are
then collected into a heap, and covered with a
cloth, being now “watched with the utmost
care, until they become spotted and tinged with
red, when they also increase in fragrance, and
must be instantly roasted, or the tea would be
injured.” In the first roasting, the fire, which
is prepared with dry wood, is kept exceedingly
brisk; but “any heat may suffice which produces
the crackling of the leaves described by
Kæmpfer.” The roasting is continued till the
leaves give out a fragrant smell, and become
quite flaccid, when they are in a fit state to be
rolled. The roasting and rolling are often a
third, and sometimes even a fourth time repeated,
and, indeed, the process of rolling is continued
until the juices can no longer be freely
expressed. The leaves are then finally dried
in sieves placed in drying-tubs, over a charcoal
fire in a common chafing-dish. The heat dissipates
much of the moisture, and the leaves begin
to assume their black appearance. Smoke
is prevented, and the heat moderated, by the
ash of charcoal or burnt “paddy-husk” being
thrown on the fire. “The leaves are then
twisted, and again undergo the process of drying,
twisting, and turning as before; which is
repeated once or twice more, until they become
quite black, well-twisted, and perfectly dry and
crisp.”

According to Dr. Royle, there are only two
gatherings of the leaves of green tea in the year;
the first beginning about the 20th of April, and
the second at the summer solstice. “The green
tea factors universally agree that the sooner the
leaves of green tea are roasted after gathering
the better; and that exposure to the air is unnecessary,
and to the sun injurious.” The iron
vessel in which the green tea is roasted is called
a kuo. It is thin, about sixteen inches in diameter,
and set horizontally (that for Twankey obliquely)
in a stove of brickwork, so as to have a
depth of about fifteen inches. The fire is prepared
with dry wood, and kept very brisk; the
heat becomes intolerable, and the bottom of the
[pg 696]
kuo even red-hot, though this is not essential.
About half a pound of leaves are put in at one
time, a crackling noise is produced, much steam
is evolved from the leaves, which are quickly
stirred about; at the end of every turn they are
raised about six inches above the surface of the
stove, and shaken on the palm of the hand, so
as to separate them, or to disperse the steam.
They are then suddenly collected into a heap,
and passed to another man, who stands in readiness
with a basket to receive them. The process
of rolling is much the same as that employed
in the rolling of black tea, the leaves taking
the form of a ball. After the balls are shaken
to pieces, the leaves are also rolled between the
palms of the hands, so that they may be twisted
regularly, and in the same direction. They are
then spread out in sieves, and placed on stands
in a cool room.

For the second roasting the fire is considerably
diminished, and charcoal used instead of
wood, and the leaves constantly fanned by a boy
who stands near. When the leaves have lost
so much of their aqueous and viscous qualities
as to produce no sensible steam, they no longer
adhere together, but, by the simple action of the
fire, separate and curl of themselves. When
taken from the kuo, they appear of a dark olive
color, almost black; and after being sifted, they
are placed on stands as before.

For the third roasting, which is in fact the
final drying, the heat is not greater than what
the hand can bear for some seconds without much
inconvenience. “The fanning and the mode of
roasting were the same as in the final part of the
second roasting. It was now curious to observe
the change of color which gradually took place
in the leaves, for it was in this roasting that they
began to assume that bluish tint, resembling the
bloom on fruit, which distinguishes this tea, and
renders its appearance so agreeable.”

The foregoing being the general mode of
manufacturing green or Hyson tea, it is then separated
into different varieties, as Hyson, Hyson-skin,
young Hyson, and gunpowder, by sifting,
winnowing, and fanning, and some varieties by
further roasting.

This account of the preparation of green tea
is directly opposed to that given by Mr. Fortune,
before referred to, wherein it is mentioned that
the coloring of green tea is effected by the admixture
of indigo, gypsum, &c. It would appear
that both modes are practiced in China;
and, with the editor of the “Botanical Gazette,”
we may ask, Is it not possible that genuine green
tea is free from artificial coloring matter, and
that the Chinese, with their usual imitative propensity
(exercised, as travelers tell us, in the
manufacture of wooden hams, &c, for exportation),
may prepare an artificial green tea, since
this fetches a higher price than the black? If
this be not the case, then we have a difficulty
in accounting for the origin of the green teas;
“there must have been green teas for the foreigners
to become acquainted with and acquire a
preference for, or there could not have been a
demand for it.” We think Mr. Jameson throws
some additional light on the subject when he remarks,
in the course of his observations on the
manufacture of green tea, “To make the bad or
light-colored leaves marketable, they undergo
an artificial process of coloring; but this I have
prohibited, in compliance with the orders of the
Court of Directors, and therefore do not consider
this tea at present fit for the market.” In a foot-note
he adds, “In China, this process, according
to the statement of the tea-manufacturers, is carried
on to a great extent.” Whether the process
of coloring is confined solely to the light-colored
leaves of green tea, or extended to other inferior
sorts, we have no means of judging, amid such
a variety of discordant statements.

After the tea is thoroughly dried, in the manner
above detailed, it is carefully hand-picked,
all the old or badly curled, and also light-colored
leaves being removed, as well as any leaves of
different varieties that may have got intermixed
with it. Being now quite dry, it is ready to be
packed, which is done in a very careful manner.
The woods used for making the boxes in Northern
India (according to Mr. Jameson) are toon,
walnut, and saul (Shorea robusta), all coniferous
(pine) woods being unfit for the purpose, on account
of their pitchy odor. The tea is firmly
packed in a leaden box, and soldered down, being
covered with paper, to prevent the action of air
through any unobserved holes that might exist in
the lead; this leaden box is contained in the
wooden one, which it is made exactly to fit.
The tea being now ready to go into the hands
of the merchant, we need carry our observations
no farther, as every housewife will know better
than we can tell her how to manage her own
tea-pot. We will, therefore, conclude our remarks
by submitting the following statistical
note of the imports of tea into the United Kingdom
in the year 1846, with the view of showing
its commercial importance—

Black tea, about43,000,000 lbs.
Green tea, about13,000,000 lbs.
Total56,000,000 lbs.

Anecdotes Of Dr. Chalmers.

Some curious Anecdotes of Dr. Chalmers are
given in the new volume of his life, now on
the point of publication. Immediately upon his
translation to Glasgow a most enthusiastic attachment
sprung up between Chalmers, who
was then some thirty-five years of age, and
Thomas Smith, the son of his publisher, a young
man still in his minority. It was more like a
first love than friendship. The friends met
regularly by appointment, or in case of absence,
daily letters were interchanged. The young
man died in the course of a few months. A
ring containing his hair was given to Chalmers;
and it is noted as a singular fact, showing the
intense and lasting nature of his attachment, that
the ring, after having been long laid aside, was
resumed and worn by him a few months before
his death, a period of more than thirty years….

[pg 697]

His keen practical talents did not altogether
shield him from attempts at imposition. “On
one occasion,” he writes, “a porter half-drunk
came up to me, and stated that two men were
wanting to see me. He carried me to a tavern,
where it turned out that there was a wager between
these two men whether this said porter
was correct in his knowledge of me. I was so
revolted at his impertinency, that I made the
ears of all who were in the house ring with a
reproof well said and strong; and so left them
a little astounded, I have no doubt.”…. On
another occasion, while busily engaged one forenoon
in his study, he was interrupted by the entrance
of a visitor. The doctor began to look
grave at the interruption; but was propitiated
by his visitor telling him that he called under
great distress of mind. “Sit down, sir; be
good enough to be seated,” said the doctor, looking
up eagerly, and turning full of interest from
his writing table. The visitor explained to him
that he was troubled with doubts about the Divine
origin of the Christian religion; and being kindly
questioned as to what these were, he gave among
others what is said in the Bible about Melchisedec
being without father and without mother,
&c. Patiently and anxiously Dr. Chalmers sought
to clear away each successive difficulty as it was
stated. Expressing himself as if greatly relieved
in mind, and imagining that he had gained his
end—“Doctor,” said the visitor, “I am in great
want of a little money at present, and perhaps
you could help me in that way” At once the
object of his visit was seen. A perfect tornado
of indignation burst upon the deceiver, driving
him in very quick retreat from the study to the
street door, these words escaping among others—“Not
a penny, sir! not a penny! It’s too
bad! it’s too bad! and to haul in your hypocrisy
upon the shoulders of Melchisedek!….” A
discussion arose among the superintendents of
his Sabbath-schools whether punishment should
ever be resorted to. One of them related an
instance of a boy whom he had found so restless,
idle, and mischievous, that he was on the point
of expelling him, when the thought occurred to
him to give the boy an office. The candles used
in the school-room were accordingly put under
care of the boy; and from that hour he became
a diligent scholar. Another superintendent then
related his experience. He had been requested
to take charge of a school that had become so
unruly and unmanageable that it had beaten off
every teacher that had gone to it. “I went,”
said the teacher, “and told the boys, whom I
found all assembled, that I had heard a very bad
account of them, that I had come out for the
purpose of doing them good, that I must have
peace and attention, that I would submit to no
disturbance, and that, in the first place, we must
begin with prayer. They all stood up, and I
commenced, and certainly did not forget the injunction—Watch
and pray. I had not proceeded
two sentences, when one little fellow gave his
neighbor a tremendous dig in the side; I instantly
stepped forward and gave him a sound cuff
on the side of his head. I never spoke a word,
but stepped back, concluded the prayer, taught
for a month, and never had a more orderly
school.” Dr. Chalmers enjoyed the discussion
exceedingly; and decided that the question as
to punishment and non-punishment stood just
where it was before, “inasmuch as it had been
found that the judicious appointment of candle-snuffer-general
and a good cuff on the lug had
been about equally efficacious.”…. Among
the most ardent admirers of the doctor’s eloquence,
was Mr. Young, professor of Greek.
Upon one occasion, he was so electrified that he
leaped up from his seat upon the bench near the
pulpit, and stood, breathless and motionless,
gazing at the preacher till the burst was over,
the tears all the while came rolling down his
cheeks. Upon another occasion, forgetful of
time and place—fancying himself perhaps in the
theatre—he rose and made a loud clapping of
his hands in an ecstasy of admiration and delight….
He was no exception to the saying
that a prophet is not without honor save
among his own countrymen. When he preached
in London his own brother James never went to
hear him. One day, at the coffee-house which
he frequented, the brother was asked by some
one who was ignorant of the relationship, if he
had heard this wonderful countryman and namesake
of his, “Yes,” said James, somewhat drily,
“I have heard him.” “And what did you think
of him?” “Very little indeed,” was the reply.
“Dear me,” exclaimed the inquirer, “When
did you hear him?” “About half an hour after
he was born,” was the cool answer of the brother….
When he preached at his native place,
so strong was the feeling of his father against
attending any but his own parish church, or so
feeble was his desire to hear his son, that, although
the churches of the two parishes of
Eastern and Western Anstruther stood but a
few hundred yards apart, the old man would not
cross the separating burn in order to hear him.


The Pleasures Of Illness.
(From the People’s Journal.)

Every body knows the pleasures of health;
but there are very few, if any, who can
appreciate those of illness. Doubtless many
people will feel inclined to laugh at the suggestion,
but we beg that we may not be prejudged.
There is positive pleasure to be derived even
from every variety—and there is a choice—of
sickness, if we would only put faith in the idea,
and then strive to realize it. You may smile,
but we are very serious, recollecting especially
that the subject is rather a painful one, for
which reason it behoves us to begin by treating
it philosophically.

The best thing that people can do when they
are suffering pain, either acute or otherwise, is—if
they can not readily overcome it—to endeavor
to forget it; simply because the mere
effort, earnestly made and persevered in, will
materially assist whatever more direct and efficient
[pg 698]
means may be adopted to get rid of it.
Brooding over any bodily suffering only gives it
encouragement, inasmuch as the mind is then
actively assisting the ailment of the body; but
let us make the most of a temporary cessation
from the infliction, and there is a probability of
its being dispelled altogether. Now the pleasure
of getting rid of pain is undeniable, and,
having achieved that, the best thing we can do
to render the cessation permanent is to enjoy a
sound sleep, which, though a very simple and
ordinary gratification at other times, then becomes
an extreme luxury, such, indeed, as we
never should have known except through the
instrumentality of the suffering that preceded it.
The same may be said of many of the remedies
that are used for the alleviation of pain: a hot
bath, local applications of an exceedingly cold
nature, or a delicious draught for cooling fever
and quenching thirst—a draught like that of
hock and soda-water—a draught “worthy of
Xerxes, the great king,” and not to be equaled
by sherbet “sublimed with snow;” but then
you must (oh, what a pleasure for a king!)
“get very drunk,” says Byron, in order thoroughly
to enjoy it. You see our author so
highly appreciated the pleasures of illness that
he actually advises us to make ourselves ill;
and that, too, in a most vulgar and degrading
manner, in order that we may unreservedly
revel in them. But, perhaps, the poet only
meant to satirize the excessive proneness of all
human beings—and kings have been noted for
this quite as much as any—to bring pain upon
themselves by some wanton or provoked indiscretion.

No pleasure can compensate for acute and
long-endured suffering; but in all eases of illness
unattended by pain, the pleasure to be derived
is considerably greater than might be
imagined. In fact, no one ever thinks of being
able to enjoy an illness, for which reason we
shall endeavor to show our readers not only the
practicability of the idea, but how they are to
set about realizing it. Let us take the most
common kind of malady there is unattended by
actual pain, a cold; a cold all over you, as
violent as you please—such, in fact, as is “not
to be sneezed at,” one that will confine you to
your bed, compel you to take medicine, and restrict
you to broth and barley-water. There
you are, then, ill; happy fellow! very ill! you
have not the least conception how much you
are to be envied. The mere fact of being in
such a condition, renders you an object of anxiety
and interest. Every body in the house is
ready to wait upon you, and all you have to do
is to lie still and enjoy your bed, while other
people are bustling about the house, or out of
doors all day, undergoing the fatigue and irksomeness
of their ordinary avocations. You are
ill—you are to do nothing—not even to get up
to breakfast, but to have it brought to you in
bed; a luxury which it is probable you may
have often been tempted to enjoy in the winter,
though your philosophy enabled you to overcome
it. Now you are not only compelled to indulge
in it, but are made an object of sympathy on
that account; it is so very lamentable to see
you propped up with pillows, and cosily encased
in flannel around the throat and shoulders.
You are not to be hurried over your breakfast,
there is no office to go to; nothing to be
thought of but the enjoyment of your tea and
toast, which you may sip and munch as leisurely
as you please, while reading a magazine or
newspaper. At length breakfast is over, and
you have become tired of reading; down go
the pillows to their usual position, and after
some gentle hand has smoothed and placed
them comfortably, you sink back upon them,
overwhelmed by a most delightful sense of
mental and bodily indolence. What a blessing
it is to have escaped the ordeal of shaving,
even for one morning! only think of that;
and remember also how the warmth of the
bed will encourage the growth of your beard,
compelling you of course to send for the barber
when you have got well enough to leave your
room again. Hark! there’s a knock at the
door—somebody you don’t want to see, probably;
“Master’s very poorly, and obliged to keep
his bed.” Ha! ha! Keep his bed, eh?—no
such thing; it’s the bed that keeps him—snug
and warm, and in a blessed state of exemption
from all annoyances, and you must not be subjected
to any such infliction; no, you are very
ill. You abandon yourself to the idea, nestle
your head luxuriously in the pillow, pull the bed
clothes over your chin, and fall into a delightful
dose. You awake feverish, perhaps, and thirsty.
Well, there is some barley-water at your bedside,
delicately flavored with a little lemon juice
and sugar; a sort of primitive punch, pleasant
to the palate, and not at all likely to prove provocative
of headache. You raise a tumblerful
to your lips, and drink with intense gusto. What
a pleasure it is! well worth coming into the
world to enjoy, if one was to die the next minute;
but you are not going to die yet, don’t suppose
it—you are only being favored with an opportunity
of enjoying the pleasures of illness. But
you are so feverish, you say; so much the better.
Now, just endeavor to recall to mind the wildest
fiction, either in prose or poetry that you have
ever read, something very pleasing and highly
imaginative—a fairy tale will be as good as any.
Go to sleep thinking of it, and you will dream—dream,
said we? we were wrong, for the fiction
will become a glorious reality; and so it does!
but, alas! you awake, once more return to the
vulgar commonplaces of mundane existence.
A sharp rap at the bedroom door makes you
farther conscious that you have only been reveling
in what is termed a delusion; but never
mind, here comes some one to console you—another
corporeality like yourself, intent on feeding
you with chicken-broth, and batter-pudding;
much more substantial fare than the fairies would
have given you, and extremely enjoyable now
that you are ill, though at any other time you
would have turned up your nose at it. Oh, it’s
[pg 699]
a fine thing is illness for teaching people not to
let the palate become irritated by luxurious
living! “Very nice,” eh, “but you would
have liked a basin of mulligatawny better, and
some wine-sauce with the pudding?” Shocking
depravity! the pleasures of illness are simple,
and you must learn to enjoy them as well as
those of health; it’s all habit. Many medicines
would be found extremely palatable if we were not
prejudiced against them. Now, black draughts,
you “can’t bear them;” and yet they are much
nicer than castor-oil. Why, what’s the matter?
you’ve upset all the broth over that beautifully
white counterpane! Delicate stomach, yours,
very. Come, try the pudding; and don’t let
your imagination combine any medicinal sauce
with it. You have eaten it all; that’s right.
Now, allow us to suggest that a little very ripe
fruit will not hurt you—an orange, or some
strawberries if in season. But you must not lie
there and allow your mind to get either into a
wearisome state of vacuity or unpleasant reflection.
Send for a book from the library—some
novel that you have never read; and if it is too
much trouble to read it yourself, get some one
to read it to you. It is a capital plan always to
endeavor to forget an illness by means of some
quiet and absorbing enjoyment. You are fond
of music, for instance; and if you hear any good
band strike up in the street we recommend you
by all means to detain them. You will get up,
perhaps, in the evening, and prepare yourself
for a refreshing night’s rest by having your bed
made; should a friend drop in who can give you
a game of chess or cribbage be sure to avail
yourself of the opportunity, if you feel inclined
for such recreation. Do not sit up late, or get
into any exciting conversation; but go calmly
and quietly to bed, take your basin of gruel,
swallow your pills, lay your head on the pillow,
and go to sleep. To-morrow it is most probable
that you will be well, or only sufficiently indisposed
to render it prudent that you should stop
at home, when you will indulge in a stronger
and more relishing diet; pass the day in a dreamy
state of inactivity, or enjoy yourself vivaciously
in any reasonable manner you may think
proper.

Perhaps, gentle reader, you may have endured
prolonged and severe attacks of bodily
suffering—perhaps you will tell us that we have
not been depicting illness at all, but merely indisposition.
You would have had us pick out
from the pages of the “Lancet” a thrilling account
of torture under the knife, and then made
us rack our ingenuity to discover, if possible,
some pleasure contingent upon that. You might
as well expect us to write an article on the
pleasure of being hanged. We will, however,
say this much as regards every degree of illness:
that there is scarcely any that does not admit of
some mitigating gratification. The mere circumstance
of being watched and most carefully
tended by those we love, the kindness with which
they bear our peevishness, and the desire they
display to do every thing they can either to
alleviate our pain or to conduce to our convalescence,
are pleasures such as illness alone can
afford, and must ever merit the highest appreciation,
not only because we either are or ought
to be duly impressed with them at the time, but
for the farther and more substantial reason that
they become delightful reminiscences and bonds
of affection forever after. It is an excellent
thing, morally and socially, is illness, and only
requires that we endeavor to make the best instead
of the worst of it; and therein lies the
whole serious purport of this paper, which we
have thought fit to write in as light a style as
possible, knowing that the subject, though interesting
to all, is very far from being generally
palatable.


Obstructions To The Use Of The
Telescope.

It has been long known, both from theory and
in practice, that the imperfect transparency
of the earth’s atmosphere, and the unequal refraction
which arises from differences of temperature,
combine to set a limit to the use of high
magnifying powers in our telescopes. Hitherto,
however, the application of such high powers was
checked by the imperfections of the instruments
themselves; and it is only since the construction
of Lord Rosse’s telescope that astronomers have
found that, in our damp and variable climate, it
is only during a few days of the year that telescopes
of such magnitude can use successfully
the high magnifying powers which they are
capable of bearing. Even in a cloudless sky,
when the stars are sparkling in the firmament,
the astronomer is baffled by influences which
are invisible, and while new planets and new
satellites are being discovered by instruments
comparatively small, the gigantic Polyphemus
lies slumbering in his cave, blinded by thermal
currents, more irresistible than the firebrand of
Ulysses. As the astronomer, however, can not
command a tempest to clear his atmosphere, nor
a thunder storm to purify it, his only alternative
is to remove his telescope to some southern
climate, where no clouds disturb the serenity
of the firmament, and no changes of temperature
distract the emanations of the stars. A fact has
been recently mentioned, which entitles us to
anticipate great results from such a measure.
The Marquis of Ormonde is said to have seen
from Mount Etna, with his naked eye, the satellites
of Jupiter. If this be true, what discoveries
may we not expect, even in Europe, from a large
reflector working above the grosser strata of our
atmosphere. This noble experiment of sending
a large reflector to a southern climate has been
but once made in the history of science. Sir
John Herschel transported his telescopes and his
family to the south of Africa, and during a voluntary
exile of four years’ duration he enriched
astronomy with many splendid discoveries.—Sir
David Brewster.

[pg 700]


Monthly Record Of Current Events.

The Political Incidents of the past month have
been interesting and important. Congress,
after spending eight or nine months in most
animated discussion of the principles, results,
and relations of various subjects growing out of
Slavery in the Southern States, has enacted several
provisions of very great importance to the
whole country. The debates upon these topics,
especially in the Senate, have been exceedingly
able, and have engrossed public attention to an
unusual degree. The excitement which animated
the members of Congress gradually extended
to those whom they represented, and a
state of feeling had arisen which was regarded,
by many judicious and experienced men, as full
of danger to the harmony and well-being, if not
to the permanent existence, of the American
Union. The action of Congress during the
month just closed, concludes the controversy
upon these questions, and for the time, at least,
prevents vigorous and effective agitation of the
principles which they involved. What that
action has been we shall state with as much
detail and precision as our readers will desire.

In the last number of the New Monthly
Magazine, we chronicled the action of the
Senate upon several of the bills now referred to.
They were sent of course to the House of Representatives,
and that body first took up the
bill establishing the boundary of Texas, and
giving her ten millions of dollars in payment of
her claim to the portion of New Mexico which
the bill requires her to relinquish. Mr. Boyd,
of Kentucky, moved as an amendment, to attach
to it the bills for the government of Utah and
New Mexico, substantially as they had passed
the Senate, both being without any anti-slavery
proviso. He subsequently withdrew that portion
of the amendment relating to Utah; and
an effort was made by Mr. Ashmun to cut off
the remainder of the amendment by the previous
question, but the House refused by a vote
of 74 ayes to 107 nays. The subject was discussed
with a good deal of animation for several
days. On the 4th of September, a motion
to lay the bill on the table was defeated—ayes
30, nays 169. A motion to refer the bill to the
Committee of the Whole, which was considered
equivalent to its rejection, was then carried—ayes
109, nays 99;—but a motion to reconsider
that vote was immediately passed—ayes 104,
nays 98;—and the House then refused to refer
the bill to the Committee of the Whole by a
vote of 101 ayes and 103 nays. Mr. Clingman,
of North Carolina, moved an amendment to
divide California, and erect the southern part of
it into the territory of Colorado;—but this was
rejected—ayes 69, nays 130. The question
was then taken on the amendment, organizing
a territorial government for New Mexico, and
was lost—ayes 98, nays 106. The question
then came up on ordering the Texas Boundary
bill to a third reading, and the House refused
to do so by a vote of 80 ayes and 126 nays.
Mr. Boyd immediately moved to reconsider
that vote, and on the 5th that motion passed—ayes
131, nays 75. Mr. Grinell, of Massachusetts
then moved to reconsider the vote by
which Mr. Boyd’s amendment had been rejected,
and this was carried by a vote of 106 to 99.
An amendment, offered by Mr. Featherston,
of Virginia, to strike out all after the enacting
clause, and to make the Rio Grande, from its
mouth to its source, the boundary of Texas,
was rejected by a vote of 71 in favor to 128
against it. The amendment of Mr. Boyd was
then passed by a vote of 106 ayes and 99 noes;
and the question was then taken on ordering
the bill, as amended, to a third reading. It was
lost by a vote of 99 ayes to 107 noes. Mr.
Howard, of Texas, who had voted against the
bill, immediately moved a reconsideration of
the vote. The Speaker decided that the motion
was not in order, inasmuch as a reconsideration
had once been had. Mr. Howard appealed
from the decision, and contended that the former
vote was simply to reconsider the vote on the
original bill, whereas this was to reconsider the
vote on the bill as amended by Mr. Boyd.—On
the fifth, the House reversed the Speaker’s decision,
123 to 83,—thus bringing up again the
proposition to order the bill to a third reading.
Mr. Howard moved the previous question, and
his motion was sustained, 103 to 91;—and the
bill was then ordered to a third reading by a
vote of 108 to 98. The bill was then read a
third time, and finally passed by a vote of 108
ayes to 98 nays.—As this bill is one of marked
importance, we add, as a matter of record, the
following analysis of the vote upon it:—the
names of Democrats are in Roman letter, Whigs
in italics, and members of the Free Soil party
in small capitals:—

Ayes.—Indiana, Albertson, W.J. Brown, Dunham,
Fitch, Gorman, McDonald, Robinson.—Alabama, Alston,
W.R.W. Cobb, Hilliard.—Tennessee, Anderson, Ewing,
Gentry, I.G. Harris, A. Johnson, Jones, Savage, F.P.
Stanton, Thomas, Watkins, Williams.—New YORK, Anrews,
Bokee, Briggs, Brooks, Duer, McKissock, Nelson,
Phænix, Rose, Schermerhorn, Thurman, Underhill, White—Iowa,
Leffler.—Rhode-Island, Geo. G. King.—Missouri,
Bay, Bowlin, Green, Hall.—Virginia, Bayly,
Beale, Edmunson, Haymond, McDowell, McMullen, Martin,
Parker.—Kentucky, Boyd, Breck, G.A. Caldwell, J.L.
Johnson, Marshall, Mason, McLean, Morehead, R.H.
Stanton, John B. Thompson.—Maryland, Bowie, Hammond,
Kerr, McLane.—Michigan, Buel.—Florida, E.C.
Cabell.—Delaware, J.W. Houston.—Pennsylvania,
Chester Butler, Casey, Chandler, Dimmick, Gilmore, Levin,
Job Mann, McLanahan, Pitman, Robbins, Ross, Strong,
[pg 701]
James Thompson.—North Carolina, R.C. Caldwell,
Deherry, Outlaw, Shepperd, Stanly.—Ohio, Disney, Hoagland,
Potter, Taylor, Whittlesey.—Massachusetts, Duncan,
Eliot, Grinnell.—Maine, Fuller, Gerry, Littlefield.—Illinois,
Thomas L. Harris, McClernand, Richardson,
Young.—New-Hampshire, Hibbard, Peaslee, Wilson.—Texas,
Howard, Kaufman.—Georgia, Owen, Toombs,
Welborn.—New Jersey, Wildrick.

Nays.—New York, Alexander, Bennett, Burrows,
Clark, Conger, Gott, Holloway, W.T. Jackson, John A.
King, Preston King, Matteson, Putnam, Reynolds, Ramsey,
Sackett, Schoolcraft, Silvester.—Massachusetts, Allen,
Fowler, Horace Mann, Rockwell.—North Carolina,
Clingman, Daniel, Venable.—Virginia, Averett, Holiday,
Mead, Millson, Powell, Seddon.—Illinois, Baker, Wentworth.—Michigan,
Bingham, Sprague.—Alabama, Bowdon,
S.W. Harris, Hubbard, Inge.—Mississippi, A.G.
Brown, Featherston, McWillie, Jacob Thompson.—South
Carolina, Burt, Colcock, Holmes, Orr, Wallace, Woodward,
McQueen.—Connecticut, Thomas B. Butler, Waldo,
Booth.—Ohio, Cable, Campbell, Cartter, Corwin,
Crowell, Nathan Evans, Giddings, Hunter, Morris, Olds,
Root, Schenck, Sweetzer, Vinton.—Pennsylvania, Calvin,
Dickey, Howe, Moore, Ogle, Reed, Thaddeus Stevens.—Wisconsin,
Cole, Doty, Durkee.—Rhode Island,
Dìxon.—Georgia, Haralson, Jos. W. Jackson.—Indiana,
Harlan, Julian, McGaughey.—Vermont, Hebard, Henry,
Meacham, Peck.—Arkansas, Robert W. Johnson.—New
Jersey, James G. King, Newell, Van Dyke.—Louisiana,
La Sere, Morse.—Maine, Otis, Sawtelle, Stetson.—Missouri,
Phelps.—New Hampshire, TUCK.

This analysis shows that there voted

For The Bill:
Northern Whigs: 24
Southern Whigs: 25-49
Northern Democrats: 32
Southern Democrats: 27-59
Total: 108.

Against The Bill:
Northern Whigs: 44
Southern Whigs: 1-45
Northern Democrats: 13
Southern Democrats: 30-43
Total: 98.

The bill thus passed in the House was sent
to the Senate; and on the 9th that body, by a
vote of 31 to 10, concurred in the amendment
which the House had made to it; and it became,
by the signature of the President, the
law of the land.

On Saturday the 7th, the House took up the
bill from the Senate admitting California into
the Union. Mr. Thompson, of Mississippi,
moved an amendment, making the parallel of
36° 30′ the southern boundary of California,
which was rejected—yeas 71, nays 134. The
main question was then taken, and the bill, admitting
California, passed—yeas 150, nays 56.—On
the same day the bill from the Senate
organizing a territorial government for Utah
was taken up, and Mr. Wentworth, of Illinois,
moved to amend it by inserting a clause prohibiting
the existence of slavery within the territory.
This was lost—ayes 69, nays 78. Mr.
Fitch, of Indiana, moved an amendment, declaring
that the Mexican law prohibiting slavery,
should remain in full force in the territory:
after some discussion this was rejected—ayes
51, nays 85. Several other amendments were
introduced and lost, and the bill finally passed
by a vote of 97 ayes and 85 nays.

The bill to facilitate the recovery of Fugitive
slaves was taken up in the Senate on the 20th
of August. Mr. Dayton submitted an amendment
providing for a trial by jury of the question,
whether the person who may be claimed, is
or is not a fugitive slave. After some debate,
the amendment was rejected by a vote of ayes
11, nays 27, as follows:

Ayes—Messrs. Chase, Davis of Massachusetts, Dayton,
Dodge of Wisconsin, Greene, Hamlin, Phelps, Smith,
Upham, Walker, Winthrop—11.

Nays.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Benton,
Berrien, Butler, Cass, Davis of Mississippi, Dawson,
Dodge of Iowa, Downs, Houston, Jones, King, Mangum,
Mason, Morton, Pratt, Rusk, Sebastian, Soulé, Sturgeon,
Turney, Underwood, Wales, and Yulee—27.

On the 22d, Mr. Pratt, of Maryland, submitted
an amendment, the effect of which would
have been to make the United States responsible
in damages for fugitive slaves that might not be
recovered. This was rejected by a vote of 10
to 27. Mr. Davis, of Massachusetts, offered
an amendment extending the right of habeas
corpus to free colored citizens arriving in vessels
at Southern ports, who may be imprisoned there
without any alleged offense against the law.
This amendment, after debate, was rejected—ayes
13, nays 25. The original bill was then
ordered to a third reading by a vote of 27 ayes
to 12 nays, as follows:

Ayes.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Bell, Berrien,
Butler, Davis of Mississippi, Dawson, Dodge of Iowa,
Downs, Foote, Houston, Hunter, Jones, King, Mangum,
Mason, Pearce, Rusk, Sebastian, Soulé, Spruance, Sturgeon,
Turney, Underwood, Wales, and Yulee—27.

Nays.—Messrs. Baldwin, Bradbury, Chase, Cooper,
Davis of Massachusetts, Dayton, Dodge of Wisconsin,
Greene, Smith, Upham, Walker, and Winthrop—12.

On the 26th the bill had its third reading and
was finally passed. On the 12th of September
the House of Representatives took up the bill,
and after some slight debate, passed it, under
the operation of the previous question, by a vote
of 109 ayes to 75 nays.

On the 3d of September the Senate proceeded
to the consideration of the bill abolishing the
Slave-trade in the District of Columbia. Mr
Foote of Mississippi offered a substitute placing
the control of the whole matter in the hands of
the Corporate Authorities of Washington and
Georgetown. To this Mr. Pearce of Maryland,
in committee of the whole, moved an amendment
punishing by fine and imprisonment any
person who shall induce or attempt to induce
slaves to run away, and giving the corporate
authorities power to remove free negroes from
the District. The first portion of the amendment
was passed, ayes 26, nays 15, and the
second ayes 24, nays 18. Mr. Foote then
withdrew his substitute.—On the 10th the
consideration of the bill was resumed. Mr.
Seward moved to substitute a bill abolishing
Slavery in the District of Columbia and appropriating
$200,000 to indemnify the owners of
slaves who might thus be enfranchised—the
claims to be audited and adjusted by the Secretary
of the Interior: and submitting the law to
the people of the District. The amendment
[pg 702]
gave rise to a warm debate and on the 12th
was rejected, ayes 5, nays 46. The amendments
offered by Mr. Pearce, and passed in
committee of the whole, were non-concurred in
by the Senate on the 14th, and the bill on the
same day was ordered to be engrossed for a third
reading, by a vote of 32 to 19. On the 16th it
was read a third time and finally passed, ayes
33, nays 19, as follows:

Ayes.—Messrs. Baldwin, Benton, Bright, Cass, Chase,
Clarke, Clay, Cooper, Davis of Mass., Dayton, Dickinson,
Dodge of Wisconsin, Dodge of Iowa, Douglas, Ewing,
Felch, Frémont, Greene, Gwin, Hale, Hamlin, Houston,
Jones, Norris, Seward, Shields, Spruance, Sturgeon, Underwood,
Wales, Walker, Whitcomb, and Winthrop—33.

Nays.—Messrs. Atchison, Badger, Barnwell, Bell, Berrien,
Butler, Davis of Mississippi, Dawson, Downs, Hunter,
King, Mangum, Mason, Morton, Pratt, Sebastian, Soulé,
Turney, and Yulee—19.

It was taken up in the House of Representatives
on the 15th and passed by a vote of 124 to 47.

By the action of Congress during the past
month, therefore, bills have been passed upon
all the topics which have agitated the country
during the year. The bill in regard to the
Texas boundary provides that the northern line
shall run on the line of 36° 30′ from the meridian
of 100° to 103° of west longitude—thence
it shall run south to the 32d parallel of latitude,
and on that parallel to the Rio del Norte, and
in the channel of that river thence to its mouth.
The State of Texas is to cede to the United
States all claims to the territory north of that
line, and to relinquish all claim for liability for
her debts, &c., and is to receive from the United
States as a consideration the sum of ten millions
of dollars. The law will, of course, have no
validity unless assented to by the State of Texas.
No action upon this subject has been taken by
her authorities. Previous to the passage of the
bill, the Legislature of the State met in special
session called by Governor Bell, and received
from him a long and elaborate message in regard
to the attempt made, under his direction, to extend
the laws and jurisdiction of Texas over the Santa
Fé district of New Mexico, and to the resistance
which he had met from the authorities of the
Federal Government. After narrating the circumstances
of the case, he urges the necessity
of asserting, promptly and by force, the claim
of Texas to the territory in question. He recommends
the enactment of laws authorizing the
Executive to raise and maintain two regiments
of mounted volunteers for the Expedition. A bill
was introduced in conformity with this recommendation;
but of its fate no reliable intelligence
has yet been received.—A resolution was introduced
into the Texas Legislature calling upon
the governor for copies of any correspondence
he might have had with other states of the Confederacy,
but it was not passed. A letter has
been published from General Quitman, Governor
of Mississippi, stating that in case of a
collision between the authorities of Texas and
those of the United States, he should deem it
his duty to aid the former.—Hon. Thos. J.
Rusk, whose term as U.S. Senator expires with
the present session, has been re-elected by the
Legislature of Texas receiving 56 out of 64
votes. He voted in favor of the bill of adjustment,
and his re-election by so large a majority
is looked upon as indicating a disposition on the
part of the authorities to accept the terms proposed.—Both
Houses of Congress have agreed
to adjourn on the 30th of September.

Intelligence from the Mexican Boundary
Commission has been received to the 31st of
August, on which day they were at Indianola,
Texas. There was some sickness among the
members of the corps, but every thing looked
promising.—Hon. William Duer, member of
Congress from the Oswego District, New York,
has declined a re-election, in a letter in which
he vindicates the bills passed by Congress, and
earnestly urges his constituents not to encourage
or permit any further agitation among them
of questions connected with slavery. Hon. E.G.
Spaulding, from the Erie District, and Hon.
George Ashmun, of Massachusetts, also decline
a re-election.—Captain Ammin Bey, of the
Turkish Navy, arrived at New York on the
13th, in the United States ship Erie, being sent
out by his Government as special Commissioner
to collect information and make personal observations
of the character, resources, and condition
of the United States. He is a gentleman
of ability, education, and experience and has
been employed by his Government on various
confidential missions. He was the secret agent
of Turkey on the frontiers of Hungary during
the recent struggle of that gallant people with
Austria and Russia. He has been warmly
received here, and enjoys every facility for
prosecuting the objects of his mission. Congress
has appropriated $10,000 toward defraying
the expenses of his mission.—Hon. A.H.H.
Stuart, of Virginia, has been appointed
Secretary of the Interior, to fill the vacancy
caused by the resignation of Mr. M’Kennan.
He has accepted the appointment and entered
upon the duties of the office. Mr. M’Kennan
resigned on finding, from an experience of a
day, that his health was not adequate to the
performance of the duties of the place. Mr.
Stuart has been a member of Congress, where
he was universally recognized as a man of
ability, assiduity, and character.—Mr. Conrad,
of Louisiana, on accepting the office of
Secretary of War, addressed a letter to his constituents,
explaining and justifying the course
he had taken in Congress. He said that opinions
on the subject of the extension of slavery
might be classified as follows: 1. There are
those who seek, through the direct agency of
the Federal Government, to introduce slavery
into this territory. 2. Those who wish, by the
same means, to prevent this introduction. 3.
Those who resist any interference with the
question by the Federal Government, and would
leave to the inhabitants of the country the exclusive
right to decide it. He claims to belong
to the latter class. The Union, he says, is too
[pg 703]
great a blessing to be staked upon any game of
hazard, and the prolongation of the controversy
upon the subject of slavery, he deems in itself a
calamity “It alarms the South and agitates
the North; it alienates each from the other, and
augments the number and influence of those
who wage an endless war against slavery, and
whom this discussion has raised to a political
importance which, without it, they never could
have attained.”—Dr. Henry Nes, member
of Congress from the Fifteenth District of Pennsylvania,
died at his residence in York on the
10th.—Several American citizens residing in
Paris, having observed in the London papers an
account of a gross insult said to have been offered
to Hon. Mr. Barringer, United States Minister
at Madrid, by General Narvaez at Naples,
wrote to him, assuring him of the cordial response
upon which he might count to such
measures of redress as he should choose to
adopt. Mr. Barringer replied by declaring
the whole story to be false in every particular.
In all his personal and official intercourse with
him, he says, General Narvaez had been most
courteous and respectful.—An election for
state officers was held in Vermont on the first
Tuesday of September, which resulted in the
choice of Charles R. Williams (Whig) for
Governor, and the re-election of Hon. Messrs.
Hebard and Meacham to Congress, from
the Second and Third Districts. Thomas Bartlett,
jun., Democrat, was elected in the Fourth
District, and no choice was effected in the First.—Professor
J.W. Webster was executed
at Boston on the 30th of August, pursuant to
his sentence, for the murder of Dr. Parkman.
He died with great firmness and composure,
professing and evincing the most heartfelt penitence
for his crime.—Intelligence has been
received of the death of the Reverend Adoniram
Judson, D.D., who is known to all the
world as the oldest and one of the most laborious
missionaries in foreign lands. He left
the United States for Calcutta in 1812, and has
devoted the whole of his life since that time to
making Christianity known in Burmah. He
translated the Bible into the language of the
country, besides compiling a Dictionary of it, and
performing an immense amount of other literary
labor in addition to the regular preaching of the
gospel and the discharge of other pastoral duties.
He returned to this country in 1847, and married
Miss Emily Chubbuck, with whom he soon
returned to his field of labor. His health for
the past few months has been gradually declining,
and during the last spring it had become so
seriously impaired that a sea voyage was deemed
essential to its restoration. He accordingly
embarked on board the French bark, Aristide
Marie, for the Isle of Bourbon, on the 3d of
April; but his disease made rapid advances,
and after several days of intense agony, he died
on the 12th, and his body was committed to the
deep on the next day. Dr. Judson was attached
to the Baptist Church, but his memory will
be held in the profoundest veneration, as his
labors have been cheered and sustained, by
Christians of all denominations. He was a man
of ability, of learning, and of intense devotion to
the welfare of his fellow-men.—Bishop H.B.
Bascom, of the Methodist Episcopal Church
South, died at Louisville, Ky., on the 8th of
September, after an illness of some months’
continuance. He was in many respects one of
the most influential and distinguished members
of the large denomination to which he belonged.
He enjoyed a very wide reputation for eloquence
and was universally regarded, by all who ever
heard him, as one of the most brilliant and
effective of American orators. His person was
large and commanding, his voice sonorous and
musical, and his manner exceedingly impressive.
His style was exceedingly florid, and elaborate,
and his discourses abounded in the most adventurous
flights of fancy and imagination. He
shared the merits and the faults of what is generally
and pretty correctly known as the Southern
and Western style of eloquence, and always
spoke with great effect. His labors in the service
of the church have been long, arduous, and
successful. He has exerted a wide influence
and has exerted it in behalf of the noblest and
most important of all interests. His death occasions
profound and universal regret.—John
Inman, Esq., favorably known to the country as
a literary man, and as editor of the New York
Commercial Advertiser, died at his residence in
New York, on the 30th of August, after a lingering
illness of several months. Mr. Inman
was educated for the bar, and practiced law for
some years in New York; but left the profession
for the more congenial labors of literature. He
was engaged for some years upon the New
York Mirror, and soon after became associated
with Colonel Stone, in the editorial conduct
of the Commercial. Upon the death of that
gentleman in 1847, Mr. Inman became the
principal editor, and held that post, discharging
its duties with ability, skill, and unwearied assiduity,
until failing health compelled him to relinquish
it during the last spring. He wrote
frequently for the reviews and magazines, and
sustained confidential relations, as critic and
literary adviser, to the house of Harper and
Brothers. He was a man of decided talent, of
extensive information, great industry and of unblemished
character. He died at the age of 47.

The most exciting event of the month has
been the arrival of the celebrated Swedish
vocalist, Jenny Lind. She reached New York
in the Steamer Atlantic on the 1st of September,
and was received by a demonstration of
popular enthusiasm which has seldom been
equaled in this country. More than twenty
thousand people gathered upon the wharf where
she landed, and crowded the streets through
which she passed. She gave her first concert
at Castle Garden, in New York, on the evening
of the 12th, and this was rapidly followed by
five others at the same place. The number of
persons present on each occasion could not have
[pg 704]
been less then seven thousand. The receipts
on the first night were about thirty thousand
dollars, and Jenny Lind immediately bestowed
ten thousand upon several of the worthiest charities
of New York City. The enthusiasm which
she excites seems fully justified not more by
her superiority as an artist than by her personal
qualities and character. Of her life a brief but
spirited sketch, from the graceful pen of her
distinguished countrywoman, Miss Bremer,
will be found in another part of this Magazine.
Her charities are already well known and honored
wherever there are hearts to glow at deeds
of enlightened benevolence. A young woman,
who has not yet seen thirty years, she has already
bestowed upon benevolent objects half a
million of dollars, not inherited or won at a
throw, but the fruit of a life of severe and disheartening
toil, and has appropriated to the
benefit of her native country the profits which
she will reap from the willing soil of America.
As an artist she has powers which are met
with but once or twice in a generation. Her
voice is in itself a wonder, and unlike most
wonders is beautiful to a degree which causes
those who come under its influence to forget
surprise in pleasure. It is compared to all
things beautiful under the sun by those whose
grateful task it is to set its attractions forth in
detail: to the flood of melody from the nightingale’s
throat, to light, to water which flows
from a pure and inexhaustible spring. We shall
be content to say that it appears to us almost
the ideal of a beautiful sound. It would puzzle
the nicest epicure of the ear, we think, to say
in what respect he would have its glorious
quality modified. He might object possibly at
first to the slightest shade of huskiness which
appears sometimes in its lower tones, or to an
equally slight sharpness in the very highest, but
if he listened long he would surely forget to
object. The purely musical quality of Jenny
Lind’s voice is its crowning charm and excellence,
in comparison with which its great extent,
brilliance, and acquired flexibility are of
but secondary worth. Its lowest tone can be
felt at a distance and above, or rather through,
all noisy obstacles and surroundings, whether
they be vocal or instrumental. Another of its
chief charms is its seeming inexhaustibility. It
pours forth in a pellucid flood of sound, and
always produces the impression that there is
more yet, amply more, to meet all the demands
of the singer.

M’lle Lind’s vocalization is to the ordinary
ear beyond criticism. Her intended effects are
so completely attained, and attained with such
apparent ease and consciousness of power, that
the hearer does not think of questioning whether
they could be better in themselves or better
performed, but gives himself up to this unalloyed
enjoyment. Her intervals are taken with
a certainty and firmness which can not be attained
by an instrument, so nicely, so rigidly
accurate is her ear, and so absolute is her
power over her organ. Her abilities have been
best displayed in the first aria sung by the
Queen of Night in Mozart’s Zauberflöte,
and by a taking Swedish Herdsman’s Song. In the
former she vocalizes freely above the lines for
many bars, and in one passage takes the astonishing
note F in alt. with perfect intonation. In
the latter, which contains some very difficult
and unmelodic intervals, her performance is
marked with the same ease and accuracy which
appear in her simplest ballad, and the effect of
echo which she produces is to be equaled only
by Nature herself. M’lle Lind’s shake is probably
the most equal and brilliant ever heard.
There are some critics and amateurs who object
to her manner of delivering her voice and to
her unimpassioned style; but although these
objections seem to have no little weight, their
consideration would involve a deeper investigation
of questions of pure Art than we are at
present prepared for, and are content to offer
our homage, with that of the rest of the world,
to the Genius and Benevolence which are united
in her fascinating, though, we must say, not
beautiful person.

The Gallery of the American Art-Union
was re-opened for the season in New York on
the 4th of September, Jenny Lind honoring
the occasion by her presence. The collection
is unusually large and excellent. It already
numbers over 300 pictures, several of which
are among the best productions of their authors.
The number and variety of works of art to be
distributed among the members at the coming
anniversary will be greater than ever before.
The rapid and wonderful growth of this institution
is in the highest degree honorable to the
country, and affords marked evidence of the
energy and spirit with which its affairs have
been conducted. We understand that the subscription
list is already larger by some thousands
than ever before at the same time.

The Literary Intelligence of the month
is devoid of any features of startling interest.
G.P.R. James, Esq. has commenced in Boston
a series of six Lectures upon the History of
Civilization, and will probably repeat them in
New York and other American cities. The
subject is one with which Mr. James has made
himself familiar in the ordinary course of his
studies for his historical novels; and he will
undoubtedly bring to its methodical discussion
a clear and sound judgment, liberal views, and
his characteristic felicity and picturesqueness
of description and narrative. The lectures are
new, and are delivered for the first time in this
country.—All who are interested in Classical
Education will welcome the appearance of the
edition of Freund’s Lexicon of the Latin Language,
upon which Professor Andrews has
been engaged for several years. The original
work consists of four octavo volumes, averaging
about 1100 pages each, which were eleven
years in passing through the press, viz., from
1834 to 1845. By the adoption of various typographical
expedients, such as adding another
[pg 705]
column to the page, and using smaller type,
the whole will be comprised in a single volume,
an improvement which, while it diminishes the
cost, adds greatly to the convenience with which
it may be used. This Lexicon is intended to
give an account of all the Latin words found in
the writings of the Romans from the earliest
times to the fall of the Western Empire, as
well as those from the Greek and other languages.
The grammatical inflexions, both
regular and irregular, of each word, are accurately
pointed out; and the etymologies are
made to embrace the results of modern scholarship
in that department as specifically applicable
to the Latin language, without invading
the proper province of comparative philology.
To the definitions, as the most important department
of lexicography, particular attention
has been given; and the primary, the transferred,
the tropical, and the proverbial uses of
words are carefully arranged in the order of
their development; the shades of difference in
the meanings and uses of synonymous terms are
pointed out. Special attention has been given
to the chronology of words, i.e., to the time
when they were in use, and they are designated
accordingly as belonging to all periods of the
language, or as “ante-classic,” “quite classic,”
“Ciceronian,” “Augustan,” “post-Augustan,”
“post-classic,” or “late Latin,” as the case
may be. The student is also informed whether
a word is used in prose or poetry, or in both,
whether it is of common or rare occurrence,
&c, &c.; and each of its uses is illustrated
by a copious selection of examples, with a
reference in every instance to the chapter, section,
and verse where found. To those familiar
with the subject, this brief description of the
work will suffice to show its vast superiority
over every dictionary of the Latin language at
present in use among us, and how much may be
expected in aid of the cause of sound learning
from its introduction into our seminaries and colleges.
It will appear from the press of the Harpers
very soon.—“The History of the United
States of America, from the adoption of the
Federal Constitution to the end of the Sixteenth
Congress, in three volumes,” is the title of a
new work by Mr. Hildreth, whose three volumes,
bringing down the history of the United
States to the adoption of the Federal Constitution
are already favorably known to the public.
The present volumes, the first of which is already
in press, are intended to embrace a fully
authentic and impartial history of the two great
parties of Federalists and Republicans, or Democrats,
as they were sometimes called, by which
the country was divided and agitated for the
first thirty years and upward subsequent to the
adoption of the Federal Constitution. The volume
now in press is devoted to the administration
of Washington, a subject of great interest
and importance, since, during that period, not
only were all the germs of the subsequent party
distinctions fully developed, but because the
real character and operation of the Federal
Government, from that day to this, was mainly
determined by the impress given to it while
Washington remained at the head of affairs.
This subject, treated with the candor, discrimination,
industry, and ability which Mr. Hildreth’s
volumes already published give us a
right to expect, can hardly fail to attract and
reward a large share of public attention.—An
Astronomical Expedition has been sent out by
the United States Government to Santiago,
Chili, for the purpose of making astronomical
observations. It is under the charge of Lieut.
J.M. Gillis, of the Navy, one of the ablest
astronomers of his age now living. The Chilian
Government has received the expedition
with great cordiality, and has availed itself of
the liberal offer of the United States Government
to admit several young men to instruction
in the Observatory, by designating three persons
for that object. Letters from Lieut. G.
show that he is prosecuting his labors with unwearied
zeal and assiduity—having, up to the
1st of June, catalogued nearly five thousand
stars. Humboldt, in a letter to a friend, which
has been published, expresses a high opinion of
Lieut. Gillis, and of the expedition in which
he is engaged. In the same letter he speaks
in warm terms of the great ability and merit,
in their several departments, of Ticknor,
Prescott,
Fremont, Emory,
Gould, and other
literary and scientific Americans.

From California our intelligence is to the 15th
of August, brought by the steamer Ohio, which
reached New York on the 22d ult. The most important
item relates to a deplorable collision which
has occurred between persons claiming lands under
titles derived from Capt. Sutter, and others
who had taken possession of them and refused to
leave. Capt. Sutter held them under his Spanish
grant, the validity of which, so far as the territory
in question is concerned, is disputed. Attempts
to eject the squatters, in accordance with the
decision of the courts, were forcibly resisted at
Sacramento City on the 14th of August, and a
riot was the result, in which several persons on
both sides were killed, and others severely
wounded. Several hundred were engaged in
the fight. As this occurred just upon the eve
of the steamer’s departure, the issue of the contest
is unknown. There is reason to fear that
the difficulties to which it gives rise may not be
very soon or very easily settled. Among those
killed were Mr. Bigelow, Mayor of Sacramento
City, Mr. Woodland, an auctioneer, and Dr.
Robinson, the President of the Squatter Association.—The
news from the mines continues
to be encouraging. In the southern mines the
dry season had so far advanced that the Stanislaus
and Tuolumne rivers were in good working
condition, and yielded good returns. Details
are given from the various localities showing
that the gold has been by no means exhausted.
From the northern mines similar accounts are
received.—The total amount received for
duties by the Collector at San Francisco from
[pg 706]
November 12, 1849, to June 30, 1850, was
$889,542.—During the passage of the steamer
Panama from San Francisco to Panama the
cholera broke out, and seventeen of the passengers
died. It was induced by excessive indulgence
in fruit at Acupulco.—Rev. Horatio
Southgate D.D., formerly Missionary Bishop
at Constantinople, has been chosen Bishop of
the Protestant Episcopal Church for the Diocese
of California.—In Sonora the difficulties which
had broken out in consequence of the tax on
foreign miners had been obviated, and order was
restored.—Mining operations are prosecuted
with the greatest vigor and energy, and were
yielding a good return. Companies were formed
for carrying on operations more thoroughly than
has been usual, and new locations have been
discovered which promise to be very fertile.

From Oregon there is no news of interest,
though our intelligence comes down to the 25th
of July. Business was prosperous. Gold is
said to have been discovered on Rogue’s river,
and companies had been formed to profit by the
discovery. A treaty of peace has been negotiated
with the Indians by Gov. Lane.

From Jamaica we hear of the death of Gen.
Herard, ex-President of Hayti, who has been
residing in Jamaica for several years. The
season has been favorable for the crops, and the
harvests of fruit were very abundant. There
had been several very severe thunderstorms,
and several lives had been lost from lightning.
Efforts are made to promote the culture of cotton
upon the island.

From New Mexico Major R.H. Weightman
arrived at St. Louis, Aug. 22d, having been
elected U.S. Senator by the state Legislature.
He was on his way to Washington where he
has since arrived. His colleague was Hon.
F.A. Cunningham. In the popular canvass
the friends of a state government carried every
county except one, over those who desired a
territorial organization. A conflict of authority
had occurred between the newly elected state
officers and the Civil and Military Governor,
the latter refusing to transfer the authority to
the former until New Mexico should be admitted
as a state. A voluminous correspondence upon
the subject between the two governors has been
published.—The Indians at the latest dates were
still committing the grossest outrages in all parts
of the country. The crops were fine and
promising.

In England the month has been signalized
by no event of special interest or importance.
The incident which has attracted most attention
grew out of the visit to England of General
Haynau, the commander of the Austrian armies
during the war with Hungary, who acquired
for himself a lasting and infamous notoriety by
the horrible cruelty which characterized his
campaigns and his treatment of prisoners who
fell into his hands. His proclamations, threatening
butchery and extermination to every village
any of whose inhabitants should furnish aid
or countenance to the Hungarians, and the inhuman
barbarity with which they were put in
execution, must be fresh in the public memory,
as it certainly was in that of the people of London.
It seems that, during his stay in London,
General Haynau visited the great brewery establishment
of Messrs. Barclay & Co. On presenting
himself, accompanied by two friends, at
the door, they were required, as was customary,
to register their names. On looking at the
books, the clerks discovered the name and rank
of their visitor, and his presence and identity
were soon known throughout the establishment.
The workmen began to shout after him, and
finally to follow and assail him with denunciations
and dirt; and before he had crossed the
yard he found himself completely beset by a
mob of coal-heavers, draymen, brewers’ men, and
others, who shouted “Down with the Austrian
butcher!” and hustled him about with a good
deal of violence and considerable injury to his
person. Fully realizing the peril of his position,
he ran from the mob, and took refuge in a
hotel, concealing himself in a secluded room
from his pursuers, who ransacked the whole
house, until the arrival of a strong police force
put an end to the mob and the General’s peril.
The leading papers, especially those in the Tory
interest, speak of this event in the most emphatic
terms of denunciation. The Liberal
journals exult in the popular spirit which it
evinced, while they regret the disregard of law
and order which attended it.

Parliament was prorogued on the 15th of
August by the Queen in person, to the 25th of
October. The ceremonial was unusually splendid.
The Queen tendered her thanks for the
assiduity and care which had marked the business
of the session, and expressed her satisfaction
with the various measures which had been
consummated. In approving of the Colonial
Government Act, she said it would always be
gratifying to her to extend the advantages of
republican institutions to colonies inhabited by
men who are capable of exercising, with benefit
to themselves, the privileges of freedom: she
looks for the most beneficial consequences, also,
from the act extending the elective franchise in
Ireland.—Previous to the prorogation, Parliament
transacted very little business of much interest
to our readers. Marlborough House was
set apart for the residence of the Prince of
Wales when he shall need it, and meantime it
is to be used for the exhibition of the Vernon
pictures. Lord Brougham created something
of a sensation in the House of Lords on the 2d,
by complaining that all savings in the Civil List
should accrue to the nation, and not to the
royal privy purse,—as the spirit of the constitution
required the Sovereign to have no private
means, but to be dependent wholly on the nation.
His movement excited a good deal of feeling,
and was very warmly censured by all the Lords
who spoke upon it, as betraying an eagerness
[pg 707]
to pry into the petty details of private expenditures
unworthy of the House, and indelicate
toward the Sovereign. Lord Brougham resented
these censures with bitterness, and reproached
the Whigs with having changed their sentiments
and their conduct since they had tasted
the sweets of office. This course, he said, showed
most painfully that absolute prostration of
the understanding which takes place, even in
the minds of the bravest, when the word
“prince” is mentioned in England.—We
mentioned in our last number the presentation
of a petition concerning the Liverpool waterworks,
many of the signatures to which were
found to be forgeries. The case was investigated
by the Lords, and the presenters of the
petition, Mr. C. Cream and Mr. M.A. Gage,
were declared to have been guilty of a breach
of privilege, and sent to Newgate for a fort-night.—Lord
Campbell, on the 14th, expressed
the opinion, “as one of the judges of
the land,” that the new regulations forbidding
the delivery or transit of letters on Sunday, had
a tendency, so far as the administration of justice
was concerned, to obstruct works of necessity
and mercy. The regulations have been
essentially modified.—The bill concerning
parliamentary voters in Ireland, after passing
the House of Lords with the rate requisite for
franchise at £15, was amended in the Commons
by substituting £12;—the amendment
was concurred in by the Lords, and in that form
the bill became a law. The effect of it will be
to add some two hundred thousand to the number
of voters in the kingdom.—Lord John
Russell, in reply to a question from Mr. Hume,
explained the nature of the British claims on
Tuscany for injuries sustained by British subjects
after the revolt of Leghorn, and the occupation
of that city by an Austrian corps acting
as auxiliaries to the Grand Duke. After all
resistance was over, it seems, that corps plundered
a number of houses, and among them
houses belonging to British residents, and conspicuously
marked as such by the British consul.
The amount claimed was £1530.—Complaint
was made in the Commons by Mr.
Bernal, of the defective state of the regulations
for the immigration of Africans into the West
Indies. He said that contracts were now limited
to one year, which often caused serious loss
to the employer. He thought the evil might
be remedied by making the contract for three
years. He was told in reply that Lord Grey
had already sanctioned contracts for three years
in British Guiana and Trinidad, and would, of
course, be quite prepared to do so in Jamaica.
The immigration of free labor from Africa had
proved a failure; but this was not the case with
the immigration of Coolies. Many requests had
been made to renew it, and arrangements had
been made to comply with those requests. Arrangements
had also been made, in consequence
of communications with Dr. Gutzlaff, for introducing
free Chinese immigrants into Trinidad.
The Tenant-right conference of Ireland held
its session on the 6th in Dublin. The attendance
of delegates was large. Resolutions were
adopted declaring that a fair valuation of rent
between landlord and tenant was indispensable,
that the tenant should not be disturbed so long
as he pays the rent fixed; that no further rent
shall be recoverable by process of law; and
that an equitable valuation for rent should
divide between landlord and tenant the net profits
of cultivation. A tenant league is to be
formed.—A dinner was given by the Fishmongers’
Company of London to the Ministers
on the 1st. Lord Brougham was present, and
excited attention and mirth by his way of testing
the sentiments of the Company on matters
of public reform. If they applauded what he
was about to say, they were reformers, as of
old: if not, it would show that they had been
corrupted. He was made a Fishmonger in
1820, and he hoped the Company were not
ashamed of what they did in favor of an oppressed
queen against an aggressive king and
his minions of ministers. The remark was not
applauded, whereupon Lord B. drew his fore
gone conclusion:—“Ah, I see;—you are far
from having the same feeling you had in 1820.
Honors corrupt manners—being in power is a
dangerous thing to public virtue.”—The report
of the Railway Commissioners for 1849
states that in course of the year the Board had
sanctioned the opening of 869 miles of new
railway—630 in England, 108 in Scotland, and
131 in Ireland—making the total extent of
railway communication at the end of the year,
5996 miles, of which 4656 are in England, 846
in Scotland, and 494 in Ireland.—The Queen
left on the 22d for a short visit to the King of
the Belgians at Ostend. She was received with
great enthusiasm, and returned the next day—Prince
Albert completed his thirty-first
year on the 26th of August. The Queen left
town on the 27th for Scotland.—Sir George
Anderson has been appointed Governor of Ceylon,
in place of Lord Torrington, who has been
recalled.—The American steamer Pacific arrived
at New York at half-past six P.M., on
Saturday, the 21st ult., having left Liverpool at
two P.M. on the 11th. She thus made the passage
in ten days, four and a half hours: this is
by several hours the quickest voyage ever made
between the two ports.

From France the only news of general interest
relates to the tour of the President
through the provinces. The Assembly had
previously broken up, there not being a quorum
present on the 9th. It was to re-assemble on
the 11th of November. A Committee of Surveillance
was to sit during the recess. On the
12th, the President started on his tour. He
had given several military banquets, which,
from their imperial aspect, and the political
spirit manifested by the guests, created a great
sensation. On one of these occasions, a dinner
was given to the officers of a portion of the garrison
of Paris; it is told, that after the company
[pg 708]
left the table, they adjourned into the garden to
smoke their cigars; and there Louis Napoleon
seeing a musket, took it up, and went through
the manual exercise with great dexterity, to the
great delight of the sergeants and corporals,
who shouted “Vive le petit Corporal!” (the
Emperor’s pet-name among the soldiers) with
great enthusiasm. During his tour, which was
unattended by any very noticeable incident, he
made very liberal distribution of crosses of honor,
sometimes accompanied by gratuities to old officers
and soldiers of the imperial army. He had a
most brilliant reception at Lyons, where he spent
a day, and was entertained at a grand dinner by
the Chamber of Commerce. At Besançon he
had a less gracious reception: at a ball given
to him in the evening a mob broke into the
room, shouting “Vive la Republique,” and
creating great confusion. The President left the
room, which was cleared by General Castellane
at the point of the bayonet. At several
other places demonstrations were made of a
similar character, but much less violent.

Louis Phillipe, late King of France, died
on the 26th of August, at Claremont, England,
where he has resided since he became an
exile. His health had gradually failed since he
first left France, but it was not until the 24th,
that he became fully sensible of the gravity of
his disease. On that day he was carried out
into the open air, and was present at dinner
with his family, although he ate nothing. During
the night he was restless, and was informed
by the queen that his medical attendants despaired
of his recovery. The next morning, the
doctor, on being asked his opinion, hesitated.
“I understand,” says the king, “you bring me
notice to quit.” To Col. Dumas he dictated a
last page of his memoirs, which terminated a
recital in which he had been engaged for the
last four months. The king then sent for his
chaplain, with whom he had a long interview.
He repeatedly expressed his readiness for death,
which came upon him at eight o’clock on the
morning of Monday, the 26th. Louis Phillipe
was born in Paris, Oct. 6, 1773, and was
the eldest son of Phillipe Joseph, Duke of Orleans,
known to the world by the sobriquet of
Phillipe Egalité. His education was intrusted
to Madame de Genlis, under whose direction he
made himself familiar with the English, German,
and Italian languages, and with the ordinary
branches of scientific knowledge. In 1792,
being then Duke de Chartres, he made his first
campaign against the Austrians, fighting at
Valmy and Jemappes. His father was executed
January 21, 1793, and he was summoned with
Gen. Dumouriez, before the Committee of Public
Safety, seven months after. Both, however,
fled, and escaped to Austria. Retiring to
private life, and refusing the offer of Austria,
he was joined by his sister Adelaide and their
former preceptress, and repaired to Zurich,
whence, however, he was soon compelled to
make his escape. He became greatly straitened
for means, and, finally, found protection in
the house of M. de Montesquion, at Baumgarten,
where he remained until the end of 1794,
when he quitted the place, and resolved to go to
the United States. He was compelled to abandon
this project from lack of funds, and traveled
on foot through Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.
Negotiations were now opened on the part of
the Directory, who had in vain attempted to discover
the place of his exile, to induce him to go
to the United States, promising, in the event of
his compliance, that the condition of the Duchess
D’Orleans should be ameliorated, and that his
younger brothers should be permitted to join
him. Through the agency of M. Westford, of
Hamburg, this letter was conveyed to the duke,
who at once accepted the terms offered, and
sailed from the mouth of the Elbe in the American,
taking with him his servant Baudoin. He
departed on the 24th of September, 1796, and
arrived in Philadelphia after a passage of twenty-seven
days. In the November following, the
young prince was joined by his two brothers,
after a stormy passage from Marseilles; and the
three brothers remained at Philadelphia during
the winter. They afterward visited Mount
Vernon, where they became intimate with General
Washington; and they soon afterward
traveled through the western country, and after
a long and fatiguing journey they returned to
Philadelphia; proceeding afterward to New
Orleans, and, subsequently, by an English ship,
to Havanna. The disrespect of the Spanish
authorities at the Havanna, soon compelled
them to depart, and they proceeded to the
Bahama Islands, where they were treated with
much kindness by the Duke of Kent, who, however,
did not feel authorized to give them a
passage to England in a British frigate. They,
accordingly, embarked for New York, and
thence sailed to England in a private vessel,
arriving at Falmouth in February, 1800. After
proceeding to London they took up their residence
at Twickenham, where for some time
they enjoyed comparative quiet, being treated
with distinction by all classes of society. Their
time was now principally spent in study, and no
event of any importance disturbed their retreat,
until the death of the Duke de Montpensier,
on the 18th of May, 1807. The Count Beaujolais
soon afterward proceeded to Malta, where
he died in 1808. The Duke of Orleans now
quitted Malta, and went to Messina, in Sicily,
accepting an invitation from King Ferdinand.
During his residence at Palermo he gained the
affections of the Princess Amelia, and was married
to her in 1809. No event of any material
importance marked the life of the young couple
until the year 1814, when it was announced in
Palermo that Napoleon had abdicated the throne,
and that the restoration of the Bourbon family
was about to take place. The duke sailed immediately,
and arrived in Paris on the 18th of
May, where, in a short time, he was in the enjoyment
of the honors to which he was so well
entitled. The return of Napoleon in 1815, soon
disturbed his tranquillity; and, having sent his
[pg 709]
family to England, he proceeded, in obedience
to the command of Louis XVIII., to take the
command of the army of the north. He remained
in this situation until the 24th of March,
1815, when he resigned his command to the
Duke de Treviso and retired to Twickenham.
On the return of Louis, after the hundred days—in
obedience to the ordinance issued, requiring
all the princes of the blood to take their seats in
the Chamber of Peers—the duke returned to
France in 1815; and, by his liberal sentiments,
rendered himself so little agreeable to the administration,
that he returned to England, where
he remained until 1817. In that year he returned
to France, continuing now in a private
capacity, as he was not a second time summoned
to sit in the Chamber of Peers. For some years
after this period the education of his family
deeply engaged his attention; and while the
Duke of Orleans was thus pursuing a career
apart from the court, a new and unexpected
scene was opened in the drama of his singularly
eventful and changeful life. In 1830 that revolution
occurred in France which eventuated in the
elevation of the Duke of Orleans to the throne.
The cause of the elder branch of the Bourbons
having been pronounced hopeless, the king in
effect being discrowned, and the throne rendered
vacant, the Provisional Government which had
risen out of the struggle, and in which Laffitte,
Lafayette, Thiers, and other politicians, had taken
the lead, turned toward the Duke of Orleans,
whom it was proposed, in the first instance, to
invite to Paris, to become Lieutenant-general of
the kingdom, and afterward, in a more regular
manner, to become King. The Duke of Orleans,
during the insurrection, had been residing in
seclusion at his country seat, and, if watching
the course of events, apparently taking no active
part in dethroning his kinsman. M. Thiers and
M. Scheffer were appointed to conduct the negotiation
with the duke, and visited Neuilly for
the purpose. The duke, however, was absent,
and the interview took place with the duchess
and Princess Adelaide, to whom they represented
the danger with which the nation was menaced,
and that anarchy could only be averted by the
prompt decision of the duke to place himself at
the head of the new constitutional monarchy.
M. Thiers expressed his conviction “that nothing
was left the Duke of Orleans but a choice of
dangers; and that, in the existing state of things,
to recoil from the possible perils of royalty was
to run full upon the republic and its inevitable
violences.” The substance of the communication
having been made known to the duke, on a
day’s consideration he acceded to the request,
and at noon on the 31st came to Paris to accept
the office which had been assigned to him. On
the 2d of August the abdication of Charles X. and
his son was placed in the hands of the Lieutenant-general,
the abdication, however, being in favor
of the Duke of Bordeaux. On the 7th the Chamber
of Deputies declared the throne vacant; and
on the 8th the Chamber went in a body to the
Duke of Orleans, and offered him the Crown on
the terms of a revised charter. His formal acceptance
of the offer took place on the 9th. From
the accession of Louis Philippe as King of the
French, in 1830, his life is universally known.
His reign was marked by sagacity and upright
intentions. He committed the unpardonable
error, however, of leaving the people entirely out
of his account, and endeavored to fortify himself
by allying his children to the reigning families of
Europe. He married his eldest son Ferdinand,
Duke of Orleans (born 1810) to the Princess
Helen of Mecklenburg-Schwerin; his daughter
Louisa (born 1812) to Leopold, King of the
Belgians; his son Louis, Duke of Nemours
(born 1814) to the Princess Victoria of Saxe
Coburg Gotha; his daughter Clementina (born
1817) to Prince Augustus of Saxe Coburg
Gotha; his son Francis, Prince of Joinville
(born 1818) to the Princess Frances Caroline,
of Brazil; his son the Duke of Aumale (born
1822) to the Princess Caroline, of Salerno, and
his son Antony, Duke of Montpensier (born
1824) to Louisa, sister and heir presumptive of
the reigning Queen of Spain. But these royal
alliances served him not in the day of his distress.
The fatal 24th of February came, and
swept away the throne he had taken so much
pains to consolidate, and he signed his act of
abdication, accepting the regency of the Duchess
of Orleans. His subsequent fate is familiar to
all. His flight from Paris to the sea-shore; his
escape in disguise to England; his kind reception
in that country, are well known. Claremont
was given him as an abode, and there, with the
exception of occasional visits to Richmond and
St. Leonard’s, Louis Philippe continued to reside.
There, too, he breathed his last on Monday
morning, the 26th of August, in the 77th
year of his age. His death excited general
comment, but was universally regarded as an
event of no political importance.—A very
imposing review of the French fleet at the harbor
of Cherbourg, took place on the 7th inst.
A great number of the English nobility and
gentlemen were present by special invitation,
and a magnificent display was made of British
yachts. An immense concourse of people was
in attendance, and the President, Prince Louis
Napoleon, was received with distinguished
honors. The parting salute at sunset, when over
two thousand pieces of ordnance crashed forth
with a simultaneous roar, was highly effective.—The
trade of Paris is said to be unusually
brisk this season. Wheat is abundant and all
the harvests yield good returns, though fears are
entertained that the quality of the vintage may
be inferior.—The
proceedings of the General
Councils of sixty-four of the eighty-five departments
of France are now known.—Forty-seven
have pronounced in favor of the revision of the
actual constitution. Seven have rejected resolutions
recommending the revision, and ten have
declined the expression of an opinion upon the
subject. Only three have declared themselves
in favor of an extension and continuance of the
power now confided to Louis Napoleon Bonaparte.
[pg 710]
Nearly all have expressly desired that
the revision should be effected in the mode and
time prescribed by the constitution itself.

The Literary Intelligence from abroad
lacks special interest. The Magazines for September
contain nothing worthy of mention,
which will not be found in the foregoing pages
of this number. Bulwer commences a new
novel in Blackwood, the opening chapters of
which are here reprinted. It is in continuation
of “The Caxtons,” and promises to be exceedingly
interesting. It will, of course, be given
to our readers as rapidly as it appears. Our
opening paper this month is a spirited and eloquent
notice of Wordsworth, evidently from
the popular and effective pen of Gilfillan,
who is a constant contributor to the London
Eclectic Review from which it is taken. “David
Copperfield” by Dickens, and “Pendennis” by
Thackeray, draw toward their end, and our
readers may therefore anticipate new productions
from their pens ere long.—The question
whether an American can hold a copyright in
England comes up before the English Courts in
a suit brought by Murray for interference with
his rights by a publisher who has issued an
edition of Washington Irving. It is stated that
Irving has received from the Murrays the sum
of £9767 for the English copyrights of his
various works.—The Gallery of Paintings of
the King of Holland has been sold at auction
and the returns are stated at $450,000. The
Emperor of Russia, and the Marquis of Hertford
in England, were extensive purchasers.
Two portraits of Vandyke were bought by the
latter at 63,000 florins.—Lamartine writes
to the Debats from Marseilles, denying, so far
as he is concerned, the truth of statements contained
in Mr. Croker’s article in the London
Quarterly upon the flight of Louis Phillipe. He
has commenced the publication of a new volume
of “Confidences” in the feuilleton
of the Presse.—The
Household Narrative in its summary of
English Literary Intelligence, notices the appearance
of an elaborate work on Tubular Bridges
by Mr. Edwin Clark, with a striking folio of
illustrative drawings and lithographs. Also of an
Essay in two goodly octavos on Ancient Egypt
under the Pharaohs, by Mr. Kenrick, full of learning,
yet full of interest, because grafting on the ascertained
old history all the modern elucidations
of travelers and artists, critics and interpreters.
It appears to be but a portion of a contemplated
work comprehending a complete history of those
countries of the East whose civilization preceded
and influenced that of Greece; and to our proper
understanding of which, the discovery of the
hieroglyphic character, and such researches as
those of Mr. Layard, have lately contributed an
entire new world of information. Another book
remarkable for the precision and completeness
of its knowledge, is Doctor Latham’s Natural
History of the Varieties of Man, a very important
contribution to the literature of ethnology;
and with this is connected in subject, though
not in any other kind of merit, an eccentric
fragment on the Races of Man, by Dr. Robert
Knox.—Mrs. Jameson has published a second
series of her Poetry of Sacred and Legendary
Art, in a volume of Legends of the Monastic
Orders, similarly illustrated; and nothing can
be more graceful than this lady’s treatment of a
subject which has not much that is graceful in
itself.—To biography, a new volume of the
Life of Chalmers has been the most interesting
addition. A Life of Ebenezer Elliott, by his
son-in-law, possesses also some interest; and,
with a little less of the biographer and more of
the biography, would have been yet more successful.
In English fiction, a semi-chartist
novel called Alton Locke, full of error and
earnestness, and evidently by a University
man of the so-called Christian Socialist school,
is the most noticeable work of the kind that
has lately appeared. The other romances
of the month have been translations from the
German and French. The Two Brothers is
somewhat in the school of Miss Bremer; and
Stella and Vanessa is a novel by a graceful
French writer, very agreeably translated by
Lady Duff Gordon, of which the drift is to excuse
Swift for his conduct to Mrs. Johnson
and Miss Vanhomrigh. The subject is curious,
and the treatment (for a Frenchman) not less
so. Nothing painful or revolting is dwelt upon,
and if it does not satisfy it fails to offend.—The
London Morning Chronicle has an extended
and elaborate review of Mr. Ticknor’s
great “History of Spanish Literature,” in which
it pays the highest possible compliments to the
accomplished author. “The masterly sweep
of his general grasp,” it says, “and the elaborated
finish of his constituent sketches, silence
the caviller at the very outset, and enforce him
to respectful study, while the unaffected ease
of the style, lively but not flippant, charms the
attention, and not seldom disguises the amount
of research and indigation which has been bestowed
upon each stage of the history.” It
closes its review with this emphatic praise:
“this History will at once take its position as
the standard book of reference upon Spanish
literature, but it will not take the cold honors
of the shelf usually accorded to such volumes,
for it will not only be consulted but read. We
cordially congratulate our American friends
upon possessing a compatriot who is able to
make such a contribution to English literature—we
are not aware that we are equally fortunate.”—The
third series of Southey’s Common-Place
Book has just appeared. Unlike
the former series, which consisted of selections
of rare and striking passages, and so possessed
a general and independent value, the present
volume consists mainly of brief notes or references
to important passages in a great variety
of works, bearing upon the subjects of Civil
and Ecclesiastical History, Biography, and Literature
in general. The references are so
brief, and the works referred to so rare, that
the book will prove of little service except to
[pg 711]
those who have access to large public libraries.
Probably not one book in ten of those referred
to is to be found in any library in this
country. The volume, however, furnishes evidence
still stronger than the others, of the
wonderful extent, variety, and accuracy of
Southey’s reading; it shows that he was a sort
of living library, a walking study; he read almost
every thing that appeared, and methodized,
and laid up in his mind all that was worth
preserving, of what he read, and thus gained a
super-eminence of information which has rarely
been surpassed. The third volume of his Common-Place
Book is not altogether destitute
of those quaint and singular selections which
gave so rare a charm to those that preceded.—The
North British Review for the current
quarter, from which we gave some extracts in
our September number, has an article upon the
disputed claims of Messrs. Stephenson & Fairbairn
to the credit of having invented the Tubular
bridge. If the facts upon which the reasonings
of the reviewer are based, are correctly stated,
there can be no doubt that a large, perhaps the
larger share of the credit due to this greatest
triumph of modern engineering, belongs to William
Fairbairn, of Manchester, by whom all the
experiments were undertaken that demonstrated
the practicability of the undertaking, and proved
that a square form was much stronger than the
elliptical one, which was originally proposed.
Mr. Fairbairn, it is stated, showed conclusively
by actual experiment, in opposition to the opinion
of Mr. Stephenson, that suspension chains, as an
additional means of support, were not needed,
thus avoiding an outlay of some £200,000.
Successful as the experiment has been in a
scientific point of view, the railroad of which
this bridge forms a link, has been most unfortunate
in a pecuniary aspect. The stock consists
of two kinds, the original, and preferential.
In July, 1850, the former was selling at a loss
of £72 10s., and the latter at a loss of £33 6s.
8d. on every £100, involving a total loss to the
stockholders of £1,764,000.—The Barbarigo
Gallery at Venice, celebrated for ages for its
rich collection, especially of the works of Titian,
has been purchased by the court of Russia for
560,000 francs, or £22,400 sterling. A new
singer, Madame Fiorentini, has appeared at Her
Majesty’s Theatre in London, who attracts considerable
attention. She is a native of Seville,
and married to Mr. Jennings, an English officer.
She received her musical education in London,
and made her first public appearance at Berlin
only twelve months since.—The telegraphic
wires between Dover and Calais, or rather Cape
Grinez, have been laid and got into operation.
Dispatches have been received in this country
which were sent from Paris to London by this
means. Thirty miles of wire, incased in a
strong coating of gutta percha, have been imbedded,
as far as this could possibly be done, in
the bottom of the channel, by means of leaden
weights. It remains now to be seen whether
the precautions taken are sufficient to protect
the wire from the ravages of the ocean’s denizens,
the assaults of ships’ anchors, and the shifting
sands which are known to underlie the Straits
of Dover.—A duel took place at Perigueux between
MM. Chavoix and Dupont, in which
the latter was killed. The latter was editor of
a paper called Echo de Vesone, and had offended
M. Chavoix, a wealthy proprietor, by severe
strictures on his conduct. Both were members
of the Assembly. They fought with pistols at
twenty-five paces. M. Chavoix won the throw
for the choice of position, and M. Dupont for
first fire. Dupont fired and missed. Chavoix,
declaring that he could not see clearly, waited
till the smoke of his adversary’s discharge passed,
and fired at an interval of some seconds. His
ball struck the forehead of Dupont, who fell stark
dead upon the plain without uttering a cry or a
groan.—The distinguished French Novelist
M. Balzac died at Paris on the 18th of August,
aged 51. He was in many important respects,
the foremost of French writers. He was
originally a journeyman printer at Tours, his
native place. His earlier works obtained a fair
measure of success, but it was not until after
many years’ apprenticeship, either anonymously
or under assumed cognomens, that he ventured
to communicate his name to the public. And
no sooner was the name given than it became
popular—and in a little while famous—famous
not in France alone, but all over Europe. His
success was almost as brilliant as that of Walter
Scott himself. In addition to his romances,
Balzac wrote some theatrical pieces, and for a
while edited and contributed a good deal to the
Revue Parisienne. Since the revolution Balzac
published nothing, but was engaged in visiting
the battle-fields of Germany and Russia, and in
piling up materials for a series of volumes, to
be entitled Scenes de la Vie Militaire. He
leaves behind several MS. works, partially or
wholly completed. His design was to make all
his romances form one great work, under the
title of the Comedíe Humaine,—the whole being
a minute dissection of the different classes of
French society. Only a little while before his
death, he stated that, in what he had done, he
had but half accomplished his task. Next to
his great celebrity, the most remarkable feature
in his career is a strong passion which he formed
for a Russian countess, and which, after
years of patient suffering, he had the satisfaction
of having rewarded by the gift of the lady’s
hand. Shortly after his marriage—which took
place some two years ago—he was attacked
with a disease of the heart, and that carried him
off. He and his wife had only been a few
months in Paris when this sad event took place.
His funeral was celebrated with a good deal
of ceremony, and an eloquent funeral oration
was pronounced by M. Victor Hugo.—Sir
Martin Archer Shee, President of the Royal
Academy, died at Brighton on the 19th, in his
80th year. He was elected to the above office
in 1830, on the death of Sir Thomas Lawrence,
when he received the honor of knighthood. He
[pg 712]
retired in 1845 from the active duties of the
office, which have been since performed by Mr.
Turner.—The late Sir Robert Peel has
left directions in his will for the early publication
of his political memoirs, and has ordered
that the profits arising from the publication
shall be given to some public institution for the
education of the working classes. He has confided
the task of preparing these memoirs to
Lord Mahon and Mr. Cardwell.

In the settlement of German affairs little
progress has yet been made by the Congress at
Frankfort. At a meeting on the 8th of August,
at which Count Thun, the Austrian plenipotentiary,
presided, it was decided that Austria
should formally invite all the members of the
Bund to assemble at Frankfort on the 1st of
September next. A circular note of the 18th
of August, in which the Minister-President reiterates
the assurances so solemnly given in the
circular of the 19th July, that it is the earnest
wish of Austria to make such reforms in the
Act of Confederation as may be required by the
recent change of circumstances in Germany,
and may conduce to the unity of the common
fatherland, was accordingly dispatched with the
Frankfort summons to the different courts on
the 15th. It remains to be seen whether Prussia
and the League will accept this proposal.—The
third meeting of the General Peace
Congress commenced at Frankfort on the 22d
of August. There were some two thousand
delegates in attendance, mostly from England,
France, the United States, and Germany. Gen.
Haynau was present for a time. Resolutions
were submitted, discussed, and adopted, deprecating
a resort to arms, and urging the propriety
and expediency of settling all international
differences by arbitration. Dr. Jaup presided,
and speeches were made by delegates from
every nation. Among the most prominent representatives
from the United States were Elihu
Burritt, Professor Cleaveland, Dr. Hitchcock, and
George Copway, an Indian chief; Mr. Cobden, of
England, and Cormenin and Girardin, of France
were also in attendance. The session lasted
three days.

In Piedmont a great sensation has been
produced by a collision with the papal power.
The Sardinian Minister of Finance, the Cavalière
Santa Rosa, who had supported the ministry in
passing the law which rendered the clergy
amenable to the civil courts, being on his death-bed,
was refused the sacrament by the monks,
under the direction of Franzoni the Archbishop
of Turin. At his funeral such excitement was
manifested by the people, that to avoid an actual
outbreak, the monks were ordered to leave the
city, and the possessions of their order were sequestered.
In the search through their house,
documents were found which inculpated the
Archbishop Franzoni himself, and he was consequently
arrested and imprisoned in the fortress
of Fenestrelles. Both Austria and France, however,
have interfered; and, in consequence, the
editor of L’Opinione, a liberal journal, has been
banished from the Sardinian States. It is stated
that Lord Palmerston has addressed to the Court
of the Vatican a most energetic note, in which
he cautions it against adopting violent measures
toward Sardinia, and persevering in the
system hitherto pursued by the Pope with regard
to that Government.

A letter from Rome, of the 20th, in the Constitutionnel,
states that several persons have been
arrested there for a supposed conspiracy to assassinate
the Pope, on Assumption day, by throwing
crystal balls filled with explosive substances
into his carriage when on his way to church to
pronounce the benediction. The discovery of
the plot prevented all danger. There was some
agitation on the following Sunday, as it was
supposed that there had been a plot against the
Austrian Ambassador, on the anniversary of the
birth of the Emperor. A strong armed force
was placed near his palace to protect it, and in
the evening some arrests were made.

A continuance of heavy rain in Belgium on
the 15th, 16th, and 17th has produced disastrous
inundations in various parts of that country. At
Antwerp there was a tremendous storm of rain,
wind, and thunder. The lightning struck several
buildings; many of the streets were under water,
and large trees were uprooted in the neighboring
country. At Ghent a large sugar manufactory
was destroyed by lightning, and people
were killed by it in different places. A great
part of the city of Brussels and the neighboring
villages were under water for nearly two days;
and many houses were so much damaged that
they fell, and a number of persons perished.
Near Charleroi all the fields were submerged,
and the injury done to the crops was immense.
At Valenciennes the Scheldt overflowed, inundating
the neighboring country, and causing
vast devastation. The damage done to the
crops has produced a rise in the price of flour.
Many bridges have been swept away, and
the injury done to the railways has been immense.

From Schleswig Holstein, we learn that
the continued rains have prevented all renewal
of operations in the field. The Danes have established
a permanent camp near Ramstedt, and
the marshes in that vicinity have been completely
flooded. The Emperor of Russia has created
General Krogh, the Danish Commander-in-Chief,
Knight of the Order of St. Anne of the
first class, for the distinguished bravery and
prudence which he displayed in the engagements
of the 24th and 25th of July, at Idstedt.

[pg 713]


Literary Notices.

Rural Hours, by A Lady, published by G.P.
Putnam, is an admirable volume, the effect of
which is like a personal visit to the charming
scenes which the writer portrays with such a
genuine passion for nature, and so much vivacity
and truthfulness of description. Without the faintest
trace of affectation, or even the desire to present
the favorite surroundings of her daily life in
overdone pictures, she quietly jots down the sights
and sounds, and odorous blossomings of the seasons
as they pass, and by this intellectual honesty
and simplicity, has given a peculiar charm
to her work, which a more ambitious style of
composition would never have been able to command.
Her eye for nature is as accurate as
her enthusiasm is sincere. She dwells on the
minute phenomena of daily occurrence in their
season with a just discrimination, content with
clothing them in their own beauty, and never
seeking to increase their brilliancy by any artificial
gloss. Whoever has a love for communing
with nature in the “sweet hour of prime,”
or in the “still twilight,” for watching the varied
glories of the revolving year, will be grateful to
the writer of this picturesque volume for such a
fragrant record of rural experience. The author
is stated to be a daughter of Cooper, the distinguished
American novelist, and she certainly
exhibits an acuteness of observation, and a vigor
of description, not unworthy of her eminent
parentage.

A new edition of the Greek and English
Lexicon, by Professor Edward Robinson (Harper
and Brothers) will be received with lively
satisfaction by the large number of Biblical
students in this country and in England who
are under such deep obligations to the previous
labors of Dr. Robinson in this department of
philology. The work exhibits abundant evidence
of the profound and discriminating research,
the even more than German patience of
labor, the rigid impartiality, and the rare critical
acumen for which the name of the author is
proverbial wherever the New-Testament Lexicography
is made the object of earnest study.
Since the publication of the first edition, fourteen
years since, which was speedily followed by
three rival editions in Great Britain, and two
abridgments, the science of Biblical philology
has made great progress; new views have been
developed by the learned labors of Wahl, Bretschneider,
Winer, and others; the experience of
the author in his official duties for the space of
ten years, had corrected and enlarged his own
knowledge; he had made a personal exploration
of many portions of the Holy Land; and under
these circumstances, when he came to the revision
of the work, he found that a large part
of it must be re-written, and the remainder submitted
to such alterations, corrections, and improvements,
as were almost as laborious as the
composition of a new Lexicon. The plan of the
work in its present enlarged form, embraces
the etymology of each word given—the logical
deduction of all its significations, which occur
in the New Testament—the various combinations
of verbs and adjectives—the different forms
and inflections of words—the interpretation of
difficult passages—and a reference to every passage
of the New Testament in which the word
is found. No scholar can examine the volume,
without a full conviction of the eminent success
with which this comprehensive plan has been
executed, and of the value of the memorial here
presented to the accuracy and thoroughness of
American scholarship. The practical use of
the work will be greatly facilitated by the clearness
and beauty of the Greek type on which it
is printed, being an admirable specimen of the
Porson style.

The Berber, or Mountaineer of the Atlas, by
William S. Mayo, M.D., published by G.P.
Putnam, is toned down to a very considerable
degree from the high-colored pictures which
produced such a dazzling effect in Kaloolah, the
work by which the author first became known
to the public. The scene is laid in Morocco,
affording the writer an occasion for the use of a
great deal of geographical and historical lore,
which is introduced to decided advantage as a
substantial back-ground to the story, which, in
itself, possesses a sustained and powerful interest.
Dr. Mayo displays a rare talent in individualizing
character: his groups consist of
distinct persons, without any confused blundering
or repetition; he is not only a painter of
manners, but an amateur of passion; and hence
his admirable descriptions are combined with
rapid and effective touches, which betray no
ordinary insight into the subtle philosophy of
the heart. The illusion of the story is sometimes
impaired by the introduction of the novelist
in the first person, a blemish which we
should hardly have looked for in a writer who is so
obviously well acquainted with the resources of
artistic composition as the author of this volume.

Harper and Brothers have issued the Fifth
Part of The Life and Correspondence of Robert
Southey, which brings the biography down to
the fifty-fifth year of his age, and to the close
of the year 1828. The next number will complete
the work, which has sustained a uniform
interest from the commencement, presenting a
charming picture of the domestic habits, literary
enterprises, and characteristic moral features
of its eminent subject. Mr. Southey’s
connection with the progress of English literature
during the early part of the present century,
his strong political predilections, the extent and
variety of his productions, and his singular devotion
to a purely intellectual life, make his
biography one of the most entertaining and
instructive records that have recently been published
in this department of letters. His son,
Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, by whom the
work is edited, has acquitted himself of his task
[pg 714]
with admirable judgment and modesty, never
obtruding himself on the notice of the reader,
and leaving the correspondence, which, in fact,
forms a continuous narrative, to make its natural
impression, without weakening its force by
superfluous comment. The present number contains
several letters to our distinguished countryman,
George Ticknor, Esq., of Boston,
which will be read with peculiar interest on
account of their free remarks on certain American
celebrities, and their criticisms on some of
the popular productions of American literature.

Among the late valuable theological publications,
is The Works of Joseph Bellamy, D.D.,
with a Memoir of his Life and Character, by
Tryon Edwards, issued by the Doctrinal Tract
and Book Society, Boston, in two volumes. As
models of forcible reasoning, and of ingenious
and subtle analysis, the theological disquisitions
of Dr. Bellamy have seldom been surpassed, and
their reproduction in the present form will be
grateful to many readers who have not been seduced
by the excitements of the age from their
love of profound and acute speculation. The
memoir prefixed to these volumes gives an interesting
view of the life of a New England
clergyman of the olden time.

Adelaide Lindsay, from the prolific and vigorous
pen of Mrs. Marsh, the author of “Two
Old Men’s Tales,” “The Wilmingtons,” &c,
forms the one hundred and forty—seventh number
of Harper and Brothers’ “Library of Select
Novels.”

Popular Education; for the Use of Parents
and Teachers (Harper and Brothers), is the title
of a volume by Ira Mayhew, prepared in accordance
with a resolution of the Legislature of
Michigan, and discussing the subject, in its
multifarious aspects and relations, with a thoroughness,
discrimination, and ability, which can
not fail to make it a work of standard authority
in the department to which it is devoted. The
author has been Superintendent of Public Instruction
in the State of Michigan; his official
position has put him in possession of a great
amount of facts and statistics in relation to the
subject; he is inspired with a noble zeal in the
cause of education; and in the production of
this volume, has given a commendable proof of
his industry, good sense, and thorough acquaintance
with an interest on which he rightly judges
that the future prosperity of the American Republic
essentially depends.

C.S. Francis and Co. have published The
Poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning in a
beautiful edition of two volumes, including
“The Seraphim, with other Poems,” as first
published in England in 1838, and the contents
of the previous American edition. This edition
is introduced with a Critical Essay, by H.T.
Tuckerman, taken from his “Thoughts on the
Poets,” presenting in refined and tasteful language,
a discriminating view of Mrs. Browning’s
position among the living poets of England.
Mr. Tuckerman makes use of no extravagant
encomium in his estimate of her powers; his
remarks are less enthusiastic than critical; and,
indeed, the more ardent admirers of Mrs. Browning
would deem them of too subdued a tone, and
deficient in an adequate appreciation of her peculiar
boldness, originality, and beauty. The
edition now presented to the public will be
thankfully accepted by the wide circle which
has learned to venerate Mrs. Browning’s genius,
and will serve to extend the healthful interest
cherished by American readers in the most
remarkable poetess of modern times.

The Companion; After Dinner Table Talk,
by Chetwood Evelyn, Esq. (New York: G.P.
Putnam), is the title of a popular compilation
from favorite English authors, prepared with a
good deal of tact and discrimination, and forming
an appropriate counterpart to The Lift for
the Lazy, published some time since by the
same house.

George P. Putnam has just issued The Deer
Slayer, by J. Fenimore Cooper, being the
first volume of the author’s revised edition of
The Leather Stocking Tales.

Among the swarm of Discourses and Funeral
Orations, occasioned by the death of the late
President Taylor, we have seen none of a more
striking character than The Sermon delivered at
the Masonic Hall, Cincinnati, by T.H. Stockton.
It presents a series of glowing and impressive
pictures of public life in Washington,
of the tombs of the departed Presidents, of eminent
American statesmen now no more, of the
progress of discovery in this country, and of the
march of improvement in modern times. The
too florid character of some portions of the Discourse
is amply redeemed by the spirit of wise
patriotism and elevated religion with which it
is imbued, while it has the rare merit of being
entirely free from the commonplaces of the pulpit.
In a note to this discourse, it is stated that
the author is desirous of forming a collection of
Sermons, Orations, Addresses, &c., on the death
of General Taylor, and that editors and speakers
will confer a favor on him by forwarding
him a copy of their several publications.

The Relations of the American Scholar to his
Country and his Times (Baker and Scribner), is
the title of an Address delivered by Henry J.
Raymond, before the Associate Alumni of the
University of Vermont, maintaining the doctrine
that educated men, instead of retiring from the
active interests and contending passions of the
world, to some fancied region of serene contemplation,
are bound to share in the struggle,
the competition, the warfare of society. This
is argued, with a variety of illustrations, from
the character of the education of the scholar, as
combining theory and practice, and from the
peculiar tendencies of American society, now in
a state of rapid fermentation and development.
Mr. Raymond endeavors to do justice both to
the Conservative and Radical elements, which
are found in our institutions and national character,
and to discuss those difficult problems
in a spirit of moderation, and without passion.
Of the literary character of this production, the
[pg 715]
writer of the present notice can speak with
more propriety in another place.

The Recent Progress of Astronomy, by Elias
Loomis (Harper and Brothers), exhibits the
most important astronomical discoveries made
within the last ten years, with special reference
to the condition of the science in the United
States. Among the topics treated in detail,
are the discovery of the planet Neptune, the addition
to our knowledge of comets, with a full
account of Miss Mitchell’s comet, the new stars
and nebulae, the determination of longitude by
the electric telegraph, the manufacture of telescopes
in the United States, and others of equal
interest both to men of science and the intelligent
reader in general. Professor Loomis displays
a singularly happy talent in bringing the
results of scientific investigation to the level of
the common mind, and we predict a hearty
welcome to his little volume, as a lucid and
delightful compendium of valuable knowledge.
The author states in the Preface, that “he has
endeavored to award equal and exact justice
to all American astronomers; and if any individual
should feel that his labors in this department
have not been fairly represented, he is
requested to furnish in writing a minute account
of the same,” and he shall receive amends in a
second edition of the work.

Professor Loomis’s Mathematical Course
has met with signal favor at the hands of the best
instructors in our higher institutions of learning.
New editions of his Algebra and
the Geometry
have recently been issued; and a new volume
on Analytical Geometry, and
the Calculus, completing
the course, will soon appear.

Truth and Poetry, from my own Life, or the
Autobiography of Goethe, edited by Parke Godwin,
is issued in a second edition by George P.
Putnam, with a preface, showing the plagiarisms
which have been committed on it in a pretended
English translation from the original, by
one John Oxenford. This enterprising person
has made a bold appropriation of the American
version, with only such changes as might serve
the purpose of concealing the fraud. In addition
to this felonious proceeding, he charges
the translation to which he has helped himself
so freely, with various inaccuracies, not only
stealing the property, but giving it a bad name.
The work of the American editor has thus
found a singular, but effectual guarantee for its
value, and is virtually pronounced to be a translation
incapable of essential improvement. With
the resources possessed by Mr. Godwin, in his
own admirable command both of the German
and of the English language, and the aid of the
rare scholarship in this department of letters of
Mr. Charles A. Dana and
Mr. John S. Dwight,
to whom a portion of the work was intrusted, he
could not fail to produce a version which would
leave little to be desired by the most fastidious
critic. It is unnecessary to speak of the merits
of the original, which is familiar to all who have
the slightest tincture of German literature. As
a history of the progress of literary culture in
Germany, as well as of the rich development of
Goethe’s own mind, it is one of the most instructive,
and at the same time, the most entertaining
biographies in any language.

Daniel Adee has republished, in a cheap
form, the twenty-first part of Braithwaite’s
Retrospect of Practical Medicine and Surgery, a
work richly entitled to a place in every physician’s
library.

Domestic History of the Revolution, by Mrs.
Ellet (Baker and Scribner), follows the thread
of the Revolutionary drama, unfolding many
agreeable and often touching incidents, which
have not been brought to light before, and illustrating
the manners and society of that day, in
connection with the great struggle for national
life. The researches of the author in collecting
materials for “The Women of the Revolution,”
have put her in possession of a variety of domestic
details and anecdotes, illustrative of the state
of the country at different intervals, which she
has used with excellent effect in the composition
of this volume. Without indulging in fanciful
embellishment, she has confined herself to the
simple facts of history, rejecting all traditional
matter, which is not sustained by undoubted
authority. The events of the war in the upper
districts of South Carolina, are described at
length, as, in the opinion of Mrs. Ellet, no history
has ever yet done justice to that portion of
the country, nor to the chivalrous actors who
there signalized themselves in the Revolutionary
contest.

D. Appleton and Company have published an
interesting volume of American biography, entitled
Lives of Eminent Literary and Scientific
Men, by James Wynne, M.D., comprising memoirs
of Franklin, President Edwards, Fulton,
Chief Justice Marshall, Rittenhouse, and Eli
Whitney. They are composed in a tone of
great discrimination and reserve, and scarcely
in a single estimate come up to the popular
estimation of the character described. Doctor
Franklin and President Edwards, especially, are
handled in a manner adapted to chill all enthusiasm
which may have been connected with their
names. Nor does the scientific fame of Robert
Fulton gather any new brightness under the
author’s hands. This cool dissection of the
dead may not be in accordance with the public
taste, but in justice to the author, it should be
borne in mind that he is a surgeon by profession.

The same house has issued an edition of
Cicero’s Select Orations, with Notes, by Professor
E.A. Johnson, in which liberal use has been
made of the most recent views of eminent German
philologists. The volume is highly creditable
to the industry and critical acumen of the
Editor, and will prove a valuable aid to the
student of the classics.

Lady Willoughby’s Diary is reprinted by A.S.
Barnes and Co., New York—the first American
edition of a volume unrivaled for its sweetness
and genuine pathos.

The Young Woman’s Book of Health, by Dr.
William A. Alcott, published by Tappan,
[pg 716]
Whittemore, and Co., Boston, is an original
summary of excellent physiological precepts,
expressed with the simplicity and distinctness
for which the author is celebrated.

Songs of Labor and Other Poems is the title
of a new volume by John G. Whittier, published
by Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, Boston,
containing the spirited lyrics which have already
gained a large share of favor in the public journals.

Poems of the Heart, by
George W. Nicholson,
(G. S. Appleton, Philadelphia), is the “last
production of the author’s boyhood,” and exhibits
the most decided marks of its origin.

The Mariner’s Vision is the title of a Poem
by T.L. Donnelly, Philadelphia, evidently
written with little preparation, but showing
some traces of poetic talent, which may ripen
into excellence at a future day.

A beautiful reprint of Æsop’s Fables, edited
by Rev. Thomas Garnes, with more than Fifty
Illustrations from Tennial’s designs has been
issued by Robert B. Collins, New York, in a
style of superb typography, which can not fail
to command the admiration of the amateur.

The volume before us awakens recollections
of “by-gone days,” in the Publishers of this
Magazine, upon which we love to dwell. Æsop’s
Fables was among the first books which passed
through our press. Some thirty years since,
we printed an edition of it for the late Evert
Duyckinck, Esq. (father of the present accomplished
editors of the Literary World), one of
the leading booksellers and publishers of his day,
and, in every sense, “a good man and true,” as
well as one of our earliest and best friends.
His memory to us is precious—his early kindness
will ever live in our recollection.

The name of Collins (publisher of the present
edition), has been so long and closely associated
with the book trade in this country, that we
apprehend the public may feel some interest in
a short sketch of the rise and progress of this
most respectable publishing firm. Isaac Collins,
a member of the Society of Friends, was
the founder of the house. He originally came
from Virginia, and commenced the printing and
bookselling business in the city of Trenton, New
Jersey, about the close of the Revolutionary War,
where he printed the first quarto Bible published
in America. This Bible was so highly esteemed
for its correctness, that the American Bible
Society was at some pains to obtain a copy,
from which to print their excellent editions of
the Scriptures. It would take too much space
to follow the various changes in the firm, under
the names of Isaac Collins, Isaac Collins & Son,
Collins, Perkins & Co., Collins & Co., down to
the establishment of the house of Collins & Hannay,
about the close of the last war. This concern
was composed of Benjamin S. Collins
(the son of Isaac), and Samuel Hannay, who
had been educated for the business by the old
house of Collins & Co. The enterprise, liberality,
and industry of this firm soon placed them
at the head of the book trade in the city of New
York, where they are still remembered with
respect and esteem by the thousands of customers
scattered all over our immense country, and
with affection and gratitude by many whose
fortunes were aided, and whose credit was established,
by their generous confidence and timely
aid. Mr. Benjamin S. Collins is now living in
dignified retirement, on his farm in Westchester
County. Several other members of the family,
formerly connected with the bookselling business,
have also retired with a competency, and are now
usefully devoting their time and attention to the
promotion of the various charitable institutions
of the country. Mr. Hannay died about a year
since—and here we may be permitted to record
our grateful memory of one of the best men, and
one of the most enterprising booksellers ever
known in our country. His exceeding modesty
prevented his marked and excellent qualities from
being much known out of the small circle of his immediate
friends—but by them he is remembered
with feelings of love and veneration. The house
of Collins & Hannay became subsequently B.
& S. Collins; Collins, Keese, & Co.; Collins,
Brother, & Co.; and Collins & Brother; now
at last Robert B. Collins, the publisher of the
work under notice. We trust he may pursue
the path to fortune with the same honorable
purposes, by the same honorable means, and
with the same gratifying result, which signalized
the efforts of his worthy predecessors.
Nor are the names of the printer and stereotyper
of the present volume without a fraternal
interest. The printer, Mr. Van Norden,
one of our early and highly esteemed associates,
may now be termed a typographer of the old
school. The quality of his work is good evidence
that he is entitled to the reputation, which has
been long accorded to him, of being one of the
best printers in the country. The stereotyper
of this work, our old friend Smith, is by no
means a novice in his department. We are
glad to see that he, too, so ably maintains his
long-established reputation. May the publisher,
the printer, and the stereotyper of this edition
of Æsop, ever rejoice in the sunshine of prosperity,
and may their shadows never be less!

Geo. P. Putnam has published a work entitled
New Elements of Geometry, by Seba Smith,
which can not fail to attract the notice of the
curious reader, on account of the good faith and
evident ability with which it sustains what must
be regarded by all orthodox science as a system
of enormous mathematical paradoxes. The
treatise is divided into three parts, namely, The
Philosophy of Geometry, Demonstrations in
Geometry, and Harmonies of Geometry. In
opposition to the ancient geometers, by whom
the definitions and axioms of the science were
fixed, Mr. Smith contends that the usual division
of magnitudes into lines, surfaces, and solids is
without foundation, that every mathematical line
has a breadth, as definite, as measurable, and
as clearly demonstrable as its length, and that
every mathematical surface has a thickness, as
definite, as measurable, and as clearly demonstrable
[pg 717]
as its length or breadth. The neglect
of this fact has hitherto prevented a perfect understanding
of the true relation between numbers,
magnitudes, and forms. Hence, the barrenness
of modern analytical speculation, which
has been complained of by high authorities, the
mathematical sciences having run into a luxuriant
growth of foliage, with comparatively small
quantities of fruit. This evil Mr. Smith supposes
will be avoided by adopting the principle,
that as the measurement of extension is the
object of geometry, lines without breadth, and
surfaces without thickness, are imaginary things,
of which this rigid and exact science can take
no cognizance. Every thing which comes
within the reach of geometry must have extension,
must have magnitude, must occupy
a portion of space, and accordingly must have
extension in every direction from its centre.
Hence, as there is but one kind of quantity
in geometry, lines, surfaces, and solids must
have identically the same unit of comparison,
and must be always perfect measures of each
other. The unit may be infinitely varied in
size—it being the name or representative of
any assumed magnitude to which it is applied—but
it always represents a magnitude of a definite
form, and hence a magnitude which has an
extension in every direction from its centre,
and consequently represents not only one in
length, but also one in breadth, and one in
thickness. One inch, for example, in pure
geometry, is always one cubic inch, but when
used to measure a line, or extension in one
direction, we take only one dimension of the
unit, namely, the linear edge of the cube, and
thus the operation not demanding either the
breadth or the thickness of the unit, geometers
have fallen into the error of supposing that a
line is length without any breadth. These are
the leading principles on which Mr. Smith
attempts the audacious task of rearing a new
fabric of geometrical science, without regard to
the wisdom of antiquity or the universal traditions
of the schools. To us outside barbarians in the
mysteries of mathematics, we confess that the
work has the air of an ingenious paradox; but
we must leave it to the professors to decide
upon its claims to be a substitute for Euclid,
Playfair, and Legendre. Every one who has a
fondness for dipping into these recondite subjects
will perceive in Mr. Smith’s volume the marks
of profound research, of acute and subtle powers
of reasoning, and of genuine scientific enthusiasm,
combined with a noble freedom of thought, and
a rare intellectual honesty. For these qualities,
it is certainly entitled to a respectful mention
among the curiosities of literature, whatever
verdict may be pronounced on the scientific
claims of the author by a jury of his peers.

Little and Brown, Boston, have issued an interesting
work by the Nestor of the New England press,
Joseph T. Buckingham, entitled Specimens
of Newspaper Literature, with Personal Memoirs,
Anecdotes and Reminiscences, which comes
with a peculiar propriety from his veteran pen.
The personal experience of the author, in connection
with the press, extends over a period of
more than fifty years, during a very considerable
portion of which time he has been at the head
of a leading journal in Boston, and in the enjoyment
of a wide reputation, both as a bold and
vigorous thinker, and a pointed, epigrammatic,
and highly effective writer. In this last respect,
indeed, few men in any department of literature
can boast of a more familiar acquaintance with
the idiomatic niceties of our language, or a
more skillful mastery of its various resources,
than the author of the present volumes. His influence
has been sensibly felt, even among the
purists of the American Athens, and under the
very droppings of the Muses’ sanctuary at Cambridge,
in preserving the “wells of English undefiled”
from the corruptions of rash innovators
on the wholesome, recognized canons of language.
His sarcastic pen has always been a terror to
evil doers in this region of crime. In the work
before us, we should have been glad of a larger
proportion from the author himself, instead of
the copious extracts from the newspapers of old
times, which, to be sure, have a curious antiquarian
interest, but which are of too remote a
date to command the attention of this “fast”
generation. The sketches which are given
of several New England celebrities of a past
age are so natural and spicy, as to make
us wish that we had more of them. Materials
for a third volume, embracing matters of a more
recent date, we are told by the author, are not
wanting; we sincerely hope that he will permit
them to see the light; and especially that the
call for this publication may not be defeated by
an event, as he intimates, “to which all are
subject—an event which may happen to-morrow,
and must happen soon.”

A new edition of Edward Everett’s Orations
and Speeches, in two large and elegant
octavos, has been published by Little and Brown,
including in the first volume the contents of the
former edition, and in the second volume, the
addresses delivered on various occasions, since
the year 1836. In an admirably-written Preface
to the present edition, Mr. Everett gives a
slight, autobiographical description of the circumstances
in which his earlier compositions
had their origin, and in almost too deprecatory
a tone, apologizes for the exuberance of style
and excess of national feeling with which they
have sometimes been charged. In our opinion,
this appeal is uncalled for, as we can nowhere
find productions of this class more distinguished
for a virginal purity of expression, and grave
dignity of thought. As a graceful, polished,
and impressive rhetorician, it would be difficult
to name the superior of Mr. Everett, and had he
not been too much trammeled by the scruples
of a fastidious taste, with his singular powers
of fascination, he would have filled a still broader
sphere than that which he has nobly won in the
literature of his country. We gratefully welcome
the announcement with which the preface
concludes, and trust that it will be carried into
[pg 718]
effect at an early date. “It is still my purpose,
should my health permit, to offer to the public
indulgence a selection from a large number of
articles contributed by me to the North American
Review, and from the speeches, reports,
and official correspondence, prepared in the discharge
of the several official stations which I
have had the honor to fill at home and abroad.
Nor am I wholly without hope that I shall be
able to execute the more arduous project to
which I have devoted a good deal of time for
many years, and toward which I have collected
ample materials—that of a systematic treatise
on the modern law of nations, more especially
in reference to those questions which have been
discussed between the governments of the United
States and Europe since the peace of 1783.”

Echoes of the Universe is the title of a work
by Henry Christmas, reprinted by A. Hart,
Philadelphia, containing a curious store of speculation
and research in regard to the more
mystical aspects of religion, with a strong tendency
to pass the line which divides the sphere
of legends and fictions from the field of well-established
truth. The author is a man of learning
and various accomplishments; he writes in
a style of unusual sweetness and simplicity; his
pages are pervaded with reverence for the wonders
of creation; and with a singular freedom
from the skeptical, destructive spirit of the day,
he is startled by no mystery of revelation, however
difficult of comprehension by the understanding.
The substance of this volume was
originally delivered in the form of letters to an
Episcopal Missionary Society in England. It
is now published in a greatly enlarged shape,
with the intention of presenting the truths of
religion in an interesting aspect to minds that
are imbued with the spirit of modern cultivation.
Among the Echoes that proceed from the world
of matter, the author includes those that are
uttered by the solar system, the starry heavens,
the laws of imponderable fluids, the discoveries
of geology, and the natural history of Scripture.
To these, he supposes, that parallel Echoes may
be found from the world of Spirit, such as the
appearance of a Divine Person, recorded in
Sacred History, the visitations of angels and
spirits of an order now higher than man, the
apparitions of the departed spirits of saints,
the cases recorded of demoniacal possession,
and the manner in which these narratives
are supported and explained by reason and
experience. The seen and the unseen, the
physical and the immaterial, according to the
author, will thus be shown to coincide, and the
Unity of the Voice proved by the Unity of the
Echo. This is the lofty problem of the volume,
and if it is not solved to the satisfaction of every
reader, it will not be for the want of a genial
enthusiasm and an adamantine faith on the part
of the author.

The same house has published a neat edition
of Miss Benger’s popular Memoir of Anne
Boleyn.

A new work by W. Gilmore Simms, entitled
The Lily and Totem, (Baker and Scribner, New
York) consists of the romantic legends connected
with the establishment of the Huguenots in
Florida, embroidered upon a substantial fabric
of historical truth, with great ingenuity and
artistic effect. The basis of the work is laid
in authentic history; facts are not superseded
by the romance; all the vital details of the
events in question are embodied in the narrative
but when the original record is found to be deficient
in interest, the author has introduced such
creations of his own as he judged in keeping
with the subject, and adapted to picturesque
impression. It was his first intention to have
made the experiment of Coligny in the colonization
of Florida, the subject of a poem; but dreading
the want of sympathy in the mass of readers,
he decided on the present form, as more adapted
to the popular taste, though perhaps less in accordance
with the character of the theme. With
his power of graphic description, and the mild
poetical coloring which he has thrown around
the whole narrative, Mr. Simms will delight the
imaginative reader, while his faithful adherence
to the spirit of the history renders him an instructive
guide through the dusky and faded
memorials of the past. One of the longest
stories in the volume is the “Legend of Guernache,”
a record of love and sorrow, scarcely
surpassed in sweetness and beauty by any thing
in the romance of Indian history.

Reminiscences of Congress, by Charles W.
March, (Baker and Scribner, New York), is
principally devoted to the personal and political
history of Daniel Webster, of whom it relates
a variety of piquant anecdotes, and at the same
time giving an analysis of his most important
speeches on the floor of Congress. The leading
statesmen of the United States, without reference
to party, are made to sit for their portraits,
and are certainly sketched with great boldness
of delineation, though, in some cases, the free
touches of the artist might be accused of caricature.
Among the distinguished public men who
are introduced into this gallery are John Q.
Adams, Clay, Calhoun, Benton, Jackson, and
Van Buren, whose features can not fail to be
recognized at sight, however twisted, in some
respects, they may be supposed to be by their
respective admirers. Mr. March has had ample
opportunities for gaining a familiar acquaintance
with the subjects he treats; his observing
powers are nimble and acute; without any remarkable
habits of reflection, he usually rises to
the level of his theme; and with a command of
fluent and often graceful language, his style, for
the most part, is not only readable but eminently
attractive.

A new and greatly enlarged edition of Mental
Hygeine, by William Sweetser, has been published
by Geo. P. Putnam—a volume which discusses
the reciprocal influence of the mental
and physical conditions, with clearness, animation,
and good sense. It is well adapted for
popular reading, no less than for professional use.

[pg 719]


Autumn Fashions.

Illustration.

Fig. 1. Evening Costume.

Evening Dresses. White is generally adopted for the evening toilet. Muslin,
tulle, and barege
form elegant and very beautiful textures for this description of dress. They are
decorated with festooned flounces, cut in deep square vandykes; the muslins are
richly embroidered. A barege, trimmed with narrow
ruches of white silk ribbon, placed upon the edge,
has the appearance of being pinked at the edge. Those of white
barege covered with bouquets of flowers, are
extremely elegant, trimmed with three deep flounces, finished at the edge with a
chicoree of green ribbon forming a wave; the same
description of chicoree may be placed upon the top
of the flounces. Corsage a la Louis XV., trimmed
with ruches to match. For dresses of
tulle, those with double skirts are most in vogue.
Those composed of Brussels tulle with five skirts,
each skirt being finished with a broad hem, through which passes a pink ribbon, are
extremely pretty. The skirts are all raised at the sides with a large moss rose
encircled with its buds, the roses diminishing in size toward the upper part. These
skirts are worn over a petticoat of a lively pink silk, so that the color shows through
the upper fifth skirt. As to the corsage, they all resemble each other; the Louis
XV. and Pompadour being those only at present in fashion.

Illustration.

Fig. 2. Morning Costume.

A very beautiful evening dress is represented by fig. 1, which shows a front and
back view. It is a pale lavender dress of striped satin; the body plaited
diagonally, both back and front, the plaits meeting
[pg 720]
in the centre. It has a small jacquette, pointed at the back as well as the front; plain sleeve
reaching nearly to the elbow, finished by a lace ruffle, or frill of the same. The skirt is long
and full, and has a rich lace flounce at the bottom. The breadths of satin are put together so
that the stripes meet in points at the seams.
Head dress, with lace lappets.

Fig. 2 represents an elegant style of
body, worn over a skirt of light lavender
silk, with three flounces, each edged with
a double rûche, trimmed with narrow ribbon.
The body is of embroidered muslin,
the small skirt of which is trimmed with
two rows of lace; the sleeves are wide;
they are three-quarter length and are
trimmed with three rows of lace and rosettes
of pink satin ribbon. This is for a
morning costume.

Another elegant style of morning home
dress, is composed of Valenciennes cambric;
the corsage plaited or fulled, so as
to form a series of crossway fullings, which
entirely cover the back and front of the
bust, the centre of which is ornamented
with a petit décolletté in the
shape of a lengthened heart; the same
description of centre-piece is placed
at the back, where it is closed by
means of buttons and strings, ingeniously
hidden by the fullings. The
lower part of the body forms but a
slight point, and is round and stiffened,
from which descends a châtelaine,
formed by a wreath of plumetis,
descending to the edge of the dress,
and bordered on each
side with a large inlet,
gradually widening toward
the lower part of
the skirt.

Fashionable Colors. It is almost impossible to state which colors most prevail, all are so
beautifully blended and intermixed; those, however, which seem most in demand are maroon,
sea-green, blue, pensée, &c.


Footnotes

1.
Now it is fate. July,
1850.
2.
——From
swaddling-clothes,
Dying begins at birth.
3.
The honest and uncompromising spirit in which
these papers oppose the sanitary movement, has led
some people to imagine that there is satire meant in
them. The best way to answer this suspicion, is to print
here so much as we can find space for of the speech of
Alderman Lawrence, reported in the “Times” one Saturday.
It will be seen that the tone of his eloquence,
and that of ours, differ but little; and that the present
writer resembles the learned Alderman (who has succeeded,
however, on a far larger scale) in his attempt
miscere stultitiam consiliis brevem. The noble city lord
remarked: “The fact was, that the sanitary schemes
were got up; talk was made about cholera, and people
became alarmed. Now, it was said that burial-grounds
were highly injurious to health, and a great cry had been
raised against them. He did not know such to be the
fact, that they were injurious to health. He did not believe
one word about it. There were many persons who
lived by raising up bugbears of this description in the present
day, and those persons were always raising up some
new crotchet or another.” After giving his view of the
new interments bill, he asked, “Was it likely that the
public would put up with the idea even of thus having
the remains of their friends carried about the country?
Was it likely that the Government would be permitted
thus to spread perhaps pestilence and fever?” There!
If you want satire, could you have a finer touch than that
last sentence? There is a bone to pick, and marrow in
it too.
4.
In
the ventilation of large buildings destined to admit
a throng, it may be also advantageous to the ægritudinary
cause if heat be at all times considered a sufficient agent.
5.
Calcutta,
1848. This report is also published in the
“Journal of the Agricultural and Horticultural Society
of India,” vol. vi. part 2.

Scroll to Top