[Pg 1]

HARPER’S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XXVI.—JULY, 1852.—Vol. V.

THE ARMORY AT SPRINGFIELD
BY JACOB ABBOTT

GENERAL VIEW.

SPRINGFIELD.

The Connecticut river flows through the State
of Massachusetts, from north to south, on a
line about half way between the middle of the
State and its western boundary. The valley
through which the river flows, which perhaps
the stream itself has formed, is broad and fertile,
and it presents, in the summer months of the
year, one widely extended scene of inexpressible
verdure and beauty. The river meanders through
a region of broad and luxuriant meadows which
are overflowed and enriched by an annual inundation.
These meadows extend sometimes
for miles on either side of the stream, and are
adorned here and there with rural villages, built
wherever there is a little elevation of land—sufficient
to render human habitations secure.
The broad and beautiful valley is bounded on
either hand by an elevated and undulating country,
with streams, mills, farms, villages, forests,
and now and then a towering mountain, to vary
and embellish the landscape. In some cases a
sort of spur or projection from the upland country
projects into the valley, forming a mountain
summit there, from which the most magnificent
views are obtained of the beauty and fertility of
the surrounding scene.

There are three principal towns upon the
banks of the Connecticut within the Massachusetts
lines: Greenfield on the north—where the
river enters into Massachusetts from between
New Hampshire and Vermont—Northampton at
the centre, and Springfield on the south. These
towns are all built at points where the upland
approaches near to the river. Thus at Springfield
the land rises by a gentle ascent from near
the bank of the stream to a spacious and beautiful
plain which overlooks the valley. The town
is built upon this declivity. It is so enveloped
in trees that from a distance it appears simply
like a grove with cupolas and spires rising above
the masses of forest foliage; but to one within
it, it presents every where most enchanting pictures
of rural elegance and beauty. The streets
are avenues of trees. The houses are surrounded
by gardens, and so enveloped in shrubbery
that in many cases they reveal themselves to the
passer-by only by the glimpse that he obtains
of a colonnade or a piazza, through some little
vista which opens for a moment and then closes
again as he passes along. At one point, in ascending
from the river to the plain above, the
tourist stops involuntarily to admire the view[Pg 2]
which opens on either side, along a winding and
beautiful street which here crosses his way. It
is called Chestnut-street on the right hand, and
Maple-street on the left—the two portions receiving
their several names from the trees with
which they are respectively adorned. The branches
of the trees meet in a dense and unbroken
mass of foliage over the middle of the street, and
the sidewalk presents very precisely the appearance
and expression of an alley in the gardens
of Versailles.

THE ARMORY GROUNDS.

On reaching the summit of the ascent, the
visitor finds himself upon an extended plain, with
streets of beautiful rural residences on every hand,
and in the centre a vast public square occupied
and surrounded by the buildings of the Armory.
These buildings are spacious and elegant in their
construction, and are arranged in a very picturesque
and symmetrical manner within the square,
and along the streets that surround it. The
grounds are shaded with trees; the dwellings
are adorned with gardens and shrubbery. Broad
and neatly-kept walks, some graveled, others
paved, extend across the green or along the line
of the buildings, opening charming vistas in every
direction. All is quiet and still. Here and there
a solitary pedestrian is seen moving at a distance
upon the sidewalk, or disappearing among the
trees at the end of an avenue; and perhaps the
carriage of some party of strangers stands waiting
at a gate. The visitor who comes upon this
scene on a calm summer morning, is enchanted
by the rural beauty that surrounds him, and by
the air of silence and repose which reigns over
it all. He hears the distant barking of a dog,
the voices of children at play, or the subdued
thundering of the railway-train crossing the river
over its wooden viaduct, far down the valley—and
other similar rural sounds coming from a
distance through the calm morning air—but all
around him and near him is still. Can it be possible,
he asks, that such a scene of tranquillity
and loveliness can be the outward form and embodiment
of a vast machinery incessantly employed
in the production of engines of carnage
and death?

It is, however, after all, perhaps scarcely proper
to call the arms that are manufactured by the
American government, and stored in their various
arsenals, as engines of carnage and destruction.
They ought, perhaps, to be considered
rather as instruments of security and peace; for
their destination is, as it would seem, not to be
employed in active service in the performance of
the function for which they are so carefully prepared;
but to be consigned, when once finished,
to eternal quiescence and repose. They protect
by their existence, and not by their action; but
in order that this, their simple existence, should
be efficient as protection, it is necessary that the
instruments themselves should be fitted for their
work in the surest and most perfect manner.
And thus we have the very singular and extraordinary
operation going on, of manufacturing
with the greatest care, and with the highest possible[Pg 3]
degree of scientific and mechanical skill, a
vast system of machinery, which, when completed,
all parties concerned most sincerely hope
and believe will, in a great majority of cases, remain
in their depositories undisturbed forever.
They fulfill their vast function by their simple
existence—and thus, though in the highest degree
useful, are never to be used.

THE BUILDINGS.

The general appearance of the buildings of the
Armory is represented in the engraving placed
at the head of this article. The point from which
the view is taken, is on the eastern side of the
square—that is, the side most remote from the
town. The level and extended landscape seen
in the distance, over the tops of the buildings, is
the Connecticut valley—the town of Springfield
lying concealed on the slope of the hill, between
the buildings and the river. The river itself, too,
is concealed from view at this point by the masses
of foliage which clothe its banks, and by the configuration
of the land.

The middle building in the foreground, marked
by the cupola upon the top of it, is called the
Office. It contains the various counting-rooms
necessary for transacting the general business
of the Armory, and is, as it were, the seat and
centre of the power by which the whole machinery
of the establishment is regulated. North
and south of it, and in a line with it, are two
shops, called the North and South Filing Shops,
where, in the several stories, long ranges of workmen
are found, each at his own bench, and before
his own window, at work upon the special
operation, whatever it may be, which is assigned
to him. On the left of the picture is a building
with the end toward the observer, two stories
high in one part, and one story in the other
part. The higher portion—which in the view
is the portion nearest the observer—forms the
Stocking Shop, as it is called; that is the shop
where the stocks are made for the muskets, and
fitted to the locks and barrels. The lower portion
is the Blacksmith’s Shop. The Blacksmith’s
Shop is filled with small forges, at which
the parts of the lock are forged. Beyond the
Blacksmith’s Shop, and in a line with it, and
forming, together with the Stocking Shop and
the Blacksmith’s Shop, the northern side of the
square, are several dwelling-houses, occupied as
the quarters of certain officers of the Armory.
The residence of the Commanding Officer, however,
is not among them. His house stands on
the west side of the square, opposite to the end
of the avenue which is seen opening directly before
the observer in the view. It occupies a very
delightful and commanding situation on the brow
of the hill, having a view of the Armory buildings
and grounds upon one side, and overlooking
the town and the valley of the Connecticut on
the other.

A little to the south of the entrance to the
Commanding Officer’s house, stands a large edifice,
called the New Arsenal. It is the building
with the large square tower—seen in the view
in the middle distance, and near the centre of the[Pg 4]
picture. This building is used for the storage
of the muskets during the interval that elapses
from the finishing of them to the time when they
are sent away to the various permanent arsenals
established by government in different parts of
the country, or issued to the troops. Besides
this new edifice there are two or three other
buildings which are used for the storage of finished
muskets, called the Old Arsenals. They
stand in a line on the south side of the square,
and may be seen on the left hand, in the view.
These buildings, all together, will contain about
five hundred thousand muskets. The New Arsenal,
alone, is intended to contain three hundred
thousand.

THE WATER SHOPS.

THE MIDDLE WATER SHOPS.

Such is the general arrangement of the Arsenal
buildings, “on the hill.” But it is only the
lighter work that is done here. The heavy operations,
such as rolling, welding, grinding, &c.,
are all performed by water-power. The stream
which the Ordnance Department of the United
States has pressed into its service to do this
work, is a rivulet that meanders through a winding
and romantic valley, about half a mile south
of the town. On this stream are three falls, situated
at a distance perhaps of half a mile from
each other. At each of these falls there is a
dam, a bridge, and a group of shops. They are
called respectively the Upper, Middle, and Lower
Water Shops. The valley in which these
establishments are situated is extremely verdant
and beautiful. The banks of the stream are
adorned sometimes with green, grassy slopes,
and sometimes with masses of shrubbery and
foliage, descending to the water. The road
winds gracefully from one point of view to another,
opening at every turn some new and attractive
prospect. The shops and all the hydraulic
works are very neatly and very substantially
constructed, and are kept in the most perfect
order: so that the scene, as it presents itself
to the party of visitors, as they ride slowly
up or down the road in their carriage, or saunter
along upon the banks of the stream on foot, forms
a very attractive picture.

THE MUSKET BARREL.

The fundamental, and altogether the most important
operation in the manufacture of the
musket, is the formation of the barrel; for it is
obvious, that on the strength and perfection of
the barrel, the whole value and efficiency of the
weapon when completed depends. One would
suppose, that the fabrication of so simple a thing
as a plain and smooth hollow tube of iron, would
be a very easy process; but the fact is, that so
numerous are the obstacles and difficulties that
are in the way, and so various are the faults, latent
and open, into which the workman may allow
his work to run, that the forming of the barrel
is not only the most important, but by far the
most difficult of the operations at the Armory—one
which requires the most constant vigilance
and attention on the part of the workman, during
the process of fabrication, and the application of
multiplied tests to prove the accuracy and correctness
of the work at every step of the progress
of it, from beginning to end.

The barrels are made from plates of iron, of
suitable form and size, called scalps or barrel
plates. These scalps are a little more than two
feet long, and about three inches wide. The
barrel when completed, is about three feet six
inches long, the additional length being gained
by the elongating of the scalp under the hammer
during the process of welding. The scalps
are heated, and then rolled up over an iron rod,
and the edges being lapped are welded together,[Pg 5]
so as to form a tube of the requisite dimensions—the
solid rod serving to preserve the cavity
within of the proper form. This welding
of the barrels is performed at a building among
the Middle Water Shops. A range of tilt hammers
extend up and down the room, with forges
in the centre of the room, one opposite to each
hammer, for heating the iron. The tilt hammers
are driven by immense water-wheels, placed beneath
the building—there being an arrangement
of machinery by which each hammer may be connected
with its moving power, or disconnected
from it, at any moment, at the pleasure of the
workman. Underneath the hammer is an anvil.
This anvil contains a die, the upper surface of
which, as well as the under surface of a similar
die inserted in the hammer, is formed with a
semi-cylindrical groove, so that when the two
surfaces come together a complete cylindrical
cavity is formed, which is of the proper size to
receive the barrel that is to be forged. The
workman heats a small portion of his work in
his forge, and then standing directly before the
hammer, he places the barrel in its bed upon the
anvil, and sets his hammer in motion, turning
the barrel round and round continually under
the blows. Only a small portion of the seam is
closed at one heat, eleven heats being required
to complete the work. To effect by this operation
a perfect junction of the iron, in the overlapping
portions, so that the substance of iron shall
be continuous and homogeneous throughout, the
same at the junction as in every other part, without
any, the least, flaw, or seam, or crevice, open
or concealed, requires not only great experience
and skill, but also most unremitting and constant
attention during the performance of the work.
Should there be any such flaw, however deeply
it may be concealed, and however completely all
indications of it may be smoothed over and covered
up by a superficial finishing, it is sure to be
exposed at last, to the mortification and loss of
the workman, in the form of a great gaping rent,
which is brought out from it under the inexorable
severity of the test to which the work has
finally to be subjected.

THE WELDING ROOM.

RESPONSIBILITY OF THE WORKMEN.

We say to the loss as well as to the mortification
of the workman, for it is a
principle that pervades the whole
administration of this establishment,
though for special reasons
the principle is somewhat modified
in its application to the welder,
as will hereafter be explained,
that each workman bears the
whole loss that is occasioned by
the failure of his work to stand
its trial, from whatever cause the
failure may arise. As a general
rule each workman stamps every
piece of work that passes through
his hands with his own mark—a
mark made indelible too—so that
even after the musket is finished,
the history of its construction can
be precisely traced, and every
operation performed upon it, of
whatever kind, can be carried
home to the identical workman
who performed it. The various
parts thus marked are subject
to very close inspection, and to
very rigid tests, at different periods, and whenever
any failure occurs, the person who is found
to be responsible for it is charged with the
loss. He loses not only his own pay for the
work which he performed upon the piece in
question, but for the whole value of the piece
at the time that the defect is discovered. That
is, he has not only to lose his own labor, but
he must also pay for all the other labor expended
upon the piece, which through the fault
of his work becomes useless. For example, in
the case of the barrel, there is a certain amount
of labor expended upon the iron, to form it into
scalps, before it comes into the welder’s hands.
Then after it is welded it must be bored and
turned, and subjected to some other minor operations
before the strength of the welding can be
proved. If now, under the test that is applied
to prove this strength—a test which will be explained
fully in the sequel—the work gives way,
and if, on examination of the rent, it proves to
have been caused by imperfection in the welding,
and not by any original defect in the iron,
the welder, according to the general principle
which governs in this respect all the operations
of the establishment, would have to lose
not only the value of his own labor, in welding
the barrel, but that of all the other operations
which had been performed upon it, and
which were rendered worthless by his agency.
It is immaterial whether the misfortune in such
cases is occasioned by accident, or carelessness,
or want of skill. In either case the workman
is responsible. This rule is somewhat[Pg 6]
relaxed in the case of the welder, on whom it
would, perhaps, if rigidly enforced, bear somewhat
too heavily. In fact many persons might
regard it as a somewhat severe and rigid rule in
any case—and it would, perhaps, very properly
be so considered, were it not that this responsibility
is taken into the account in fixing the rate
of wages; and the workmen being abundantly
able to sustain such a responsibility do not complain
of it. The system operates on the whole
in the most salutary manner, introducing, as it
does, into every department of the Armory, a
spirit of attention, skill, and fidelity, which marks
even the countenances and manners of the workmen,
and is often noticed and spoken of by visitors.
In fact none but workmen of a very high
character for intelligence, capacity, and skill
could gain admission to the Armory—or if admitted
could long maintain a footing there.

The welders are charged one dollar for every
barrel lost through the fault of their work. They
earn, by welding, twelve cents for each barrel;
so that by spoiling one, they lose the labor which
they expend upon eight. Being thus rigidly accountable
for the perfection of their work, they
find that their undivided attention is required
while they are performing it; and, fortunately
perhaps for them, there is nothing that can well
divert their attention while they are engaged at
their forges, for such is the incessant and intolerable
clangor and din produced by the eighteen
tilt hammers, which are continually breaking out
in all parts of the room, into their sudden paroxysms
of activity, that every thing like conversation
in the apartment is almost utterly excluded.
The blows of the hammers, when the
white-hot iron is first passed under them and
the pull of the lever sets them in motion, are inconceivably
rapid, and the deafening noise which
they make, and the showers of sparks which
they scatter in every direction around, produce
a scene which quite appalls many a lady visitor
when she first enters upon it, and makes her
shrink back at the door, as if she were coming
into some imminent danger. The hammers
strike more than six hundred blows in a minute,
that is more than ten in every second; and the
noise produced is a sort of rattling thunder, so
overpowering when any of the hammers are in
operation near to the observer, that the loudest
vociferation uttered close to the ear, is wholly
inaudible. Some visitors linger long in the
apartment, pleased with the splendor and impressiveness
of the scene. Others consider it
frightful, and hasten away.

FINISHING OPERATIONS.—BORING.

From the Middle Water Shops, where this
welding is done, the barrels are conveyed to the
Upper Shops, where the operations of turning,
boring and grinding are performed. Of course
the barrel when first welded is left much larger
in its outer circumference, and smaller in its
bore, than it is intended to be when finished, in
order to allow for the loss of metal in the various
finishing operations. When it comes from the
welder the barrel weighs over seven pounds:[Pg 7]
when completely finished it weighs but about
four and a half pounds, so that nearly one half
of the metal originally used, is cut away by the
subsequent processes.

The first of these processes is the boring out
of the interior. The boring is performed in certain
machines called boring banks. They consist
of square and very solid frames of iron, in
which, as in a bed, the barrel is fixed, and there
is bored out by a succession of operations performed
by means of certain tools which are
called augers, though they bear very little resemblance
to the carpenter’s instrument so named.
These augers are short square bars of steel, highly
polished, and sharp at the edges—and placed
at the ends of long iron rods, so that they may
pass entirely through the barrel to be bored by
them, from end to end. The boring parts of these
instruments, though they are in appearance only
plain bars of steel with straight and parallel
sides, are really somewhat smaller at the outer
than at the inner end, so that, speaking mathematically,
they are truncated pyramids, of four
sides, though differing very slightly in the diameters
of the lower and upper sections.

The barrels being fixed in the boring bank,
as above described, the end of the shank of
the auger is inserted into the centre of a wheel
placed at one end of the bank, where, by means
of machinery, a slow rotary motion is given to
the auger, and a still slower progressive motion
at the same time. By this means the auger
gradually enters the hollow of the barrel, boring
its way, or rather enlarging its way by its
boring, as it advances. After it has passed
through it is withdrawn, and another auger, a
very little larger than the first is substituted in
its place; and thus the calibre of the barrel is
gradually enlarged, almost to the required dimensions.

Almost, but not quite; for in the course of
the various operations which are subsequent to
the boring, the form of the interior of the work
is liable to be slightly disturbed, and this makes
it necessary to reserve a portion of the surplus
metal within, for a final operation. In fact the
borings to which the barrel are subject, alternate
in more instances than one with other operations,
the whole forming a system far too nice and
complicated to be described fully within the
limits to which we are necessarily confined in
such an article as this. It is a general principle
however that the inside work is kept always in
advance of the outside, as it is the custom with
all machinists and turners to adopt the rule that
is so indispensable and excellent in morals, namely,
to make all right first within, and then to
attend to the exterior. Thus in the case of the
musket barrel the bore is first made correct.
Then the outer surface of the work is turned
and ground down to a correspondence with it.
The reverse of this process, that is first shaping
the outside of it, and then boring it out within,
so as to make the inner and outer surfaces to
correspond, and the metal every where to be of
equal thickness, would be all but impossible.

[Pg 8]

TURNING.

After the boring, then, of the barrel, comes
the turning of the outside of it. The piece is
supported in the lathe by means of mandrels inserted
into the two ends of it, and there it slowly
revolves, bringing all parts of its surface successively
under the action of a tool fixed firmly
in the right position for cutting the work to its
proper form. Of course the barrel has a slow
progressive as well as rotary motion during this
process, and the tool itself, with the rest in which
it is firmly screwed, advances or recedes very
regularly and gradually, in respect to the work,
as the process goes on, in order to form the
proper taper of the barrel in proceeding from
the breech to the muzzle. The main work however
in this turning process is performed by the
rotation of the barrel. The workman thus treats
his material and his tools with strict impartiality.
In the boring, the piece remains at rest, and the
tool does its work by revolving. In the turning,
on the other hand, the piece must take its part
in active duty, being required to revolve against
the tool, while the tool itself remains fixed
in its position in the rest.

Among the readers of this article there
will probably be many thousands who have
never had the opportunity to witness the
process of turning or boring iron, and to
them it may seem surprising that any tool
can be made with an edge sufficiently enduring
to stand in such a service. And it
is indeed true that a cutting edge destined
to maintain itself against iron must be of
very excellent temper, and moreover it must
have a peculiar construction and form, such
that when set in its proper position for
service, the cutting part shall be well supported,
so to speak, in entering the metal,
by the mass of the steel behind it. It is
necessary, too, to keep the work cool by a
small stream of water constantly falling
upon the point of action. The piece to be
turned, moreover, when of iron, must revolve
very slowly; the process will not go
on successfully at a rapid rate; though in
the case of wood the higher the speed at
which the machinery works, within certain
limits, the more perfect the operation. In
all these points the process of turning
iron requires a very nice adjustment; but when
the conditions necessary to success are all properly
fulfilled, the work goes on in the most perfect
manner, and the observer who is unaccustomed
to witness the process is surprised
to see the curling and continuous shaving of
iron issuing from the point where the tool is
applied, being cut out there as smoothly and
apparently as easily as if the material were
lead.

THE STRAIGHTENING.

One of the most interesting and curious parts of
the process of the manufacture of the barrel, is the
straightening of it. We ought, perhaps, rather to
say the straightenings, for it is found necessary
that the operation should be several times performed.
For example, the barrel must be straightened
before it is turned, and then, inasmuch as in the
process of turning it generally gets more or less
sprung, it must be straightened again afterward.
In fact, every important operation performed upon
the barrel is likely to cause some deflection in
it, which requires to be subsequently corrected,
so that the process must be repeated several
times. The actual work of straightening, that
is the mechanical act that is performed, is very
simple—consisting as it does of merely striking
a blow. The whole difficulty lies in determining
when and where the correction is required. In
other words, the making straight is very easily and
quickly done; the thing attended with difficulty
is to find out when and where the work is crooked;
for the deflections which it is thus required
to remedy, are so extremely slight, that all ordinary
modes of examination would fail wholly
to detect them; while yet they are sufficiently
great to disturb very essentially the range and
direction of the ball which should issue from the
barrel, affected by them.

STRAIGHTENING THE BARRELS.

The above engraving represents the workman
in the act of examining the interior of a
barrel with a view to ascertaining whether it be
straight. On the floor, in the direction toward
which the barrel is pointed, is a small mirror, in
which the workman sees, through the tube, a
reflection of a certain pane of glass in the window.
The pane in question is marked by a diagonal
line, which may be seen upon it, in the view,
passing from one corner to the other. This diagonal
line now is reflected by the mirror into the
bore of the barrel, and then it is reflected again
to the eye of the observer; for the surface of the
iron on the inside of the barrel is left in a most
brilliantly polished condition, by the boring and
the operations connected therewith. Now the[Pg 9]
workman, in some mysterious way or other, detects
the slightest deviation from straightness in
the barrel, by the appearance which this reflection
presents to his eye, as he looks through the
bore in the manner represented in the drawing.
He is always ready to explain very politely to his
visitor exactly how this is done, and to allow the
lady to look through the tube and see for herself.
All that she is able to see, however, in such
cases is a very resplendent congeries of concentric
rings, forming a spectacle of very dazzling
brilliancy, which pleases and delights her, though
the mystery of the reflected line generally remains
as profound a mystery after the observation
as before. This is, in fact, the result which
might have been expected, since it is generally
found that all demonstrations and explanations
relating to the science of optics and light, addressed
to the uninitiated, end in plunging them
into greater darkness than ever.

The only object which the mirror upon the
floor serves, in the operation, is to save the workman
from the fatigue of holding up the barrel,
which it would be necessary for him to do at
each observation, if he were to look at the window
pane directly. By having a reflecting surface
at the floor he can point the barrel downward,
when he wishes to look through it, and this
greatly facilitates the manipulation. There is a
rest, too, provided for the barrel, to support it
while the operator is looking through. He plants
the end of the tube in this rest, with a peculiar
grace and dexterity, and then, turning it round
and round, in order to bring every part of the
inner surface to the test of the reflection, he accomplishes
the object of his scrutiny in a moment,
and then recovering the barrel, he lays it across
a sort of anvil which stands by his side, and
strikes a gentle blow upon it wherever a correction
was found to be required. Thus the operation,
though it often seems a very difficult one
for the visitor to understand, proves a very easy
one for the workman to perform.

OLD MODE OF STRAIGHTENING.

In former times a mode altogether different
from this was adopted to test the interior rectitude
of the barrel. A very slender line, formed
of a hair or some similar substance, was passed
through the barrel—dropped through, in fact, by
means of a small weight attached to the end of
it. This line was then drawn tight, and the
workman looking through, turned the barrel round
so as to bring the line into coincidence successively
with every portion of the inner surface.
If now there existed any concavity in any part
of this surface, the line would show it by the distance
which would there appear between the line
itself and its reflection in the metal. The present
method, however, which has now been in use
about thirty years, is found to be far superior to
the old one; so much so in fact that all the
muskets manufactured before that period have
since been condemned as unfit for use, on account
mainly of the crookedness of the barrels.
When we consider, however, that the calculation
is that in ordinary engagements less than one out[Pg 10]
of every hundred of the balls that are discharged
take effect; that is, that ninety-nine out of
every hundred go wide of the mark for which
they are intended, from causes that must be
wholly independent of any want of accuracy in
the aiming, it would seem to those who know
little of such subjects, that to condemn muskets
for deviating from perfect straightness by less
than a hair, must be quite an unnecessary nicety.
The truth is, however, that all concerned in
the establishment at Springfield, seem to be animated
by a common determination, that whatever
may be the use that is ultimately to be made
of their work, the instrument itself, as it comes
from their hands, shall be absolutely perfect;
and whoever looks at the result, as they now attain
it, will admit that they carry out their determination
in a very successful manner.

CINDER HOLES.

Various other improvements have been made
from time to time in the mode of manufacturing
and finishing the musket, which have
led to the condemnation or alteration of those
made before the improvements were introduced.
A striking illustration of this is afforded
by the case of what are called cinder holes. A
cinder hole is a small cavity left in the iron at
the time of the manufacture of it—the effect,
doubtless, of some small development of gas
forming a bubble in the substance of the iron.
If the bubble is near the inner surface of the barrel
when it is welded, the process of boring and
finishing brings it into view, in the form of a
small blemish seen in the side of the bore. At
a former period in the history of the Armory, defects
of this kind were not considered essential,
so long as they were so small as not to weaken
the barrel. It was found, however, at length that
such cavities, by retaining the moisture and other
products of combustion resulting from the discharge
of the piece, were subject to corrosion,
and gradual enlargement, so as finally to weaken
the barrel in a fatal manner. It was decided
therefore that the existence of cinder holes in a
barrel should thenceforth be a sufficient cause
for its rejection, and all the muskets manufactured
before that time have since been condemned and
sold; the design of the department being to retain
in the public arsenals only arms of the most
perfect and unexceptionable character.

At the present time, in the process of manufacturing
the barrels, it is not always found necessary
to reject a barrel absolutely in every case
where a cinder hole appears. Sometimes the
iron may be forced in, by a blow upon the outside,
sufficiently to enable the workman to bore
the cinder hole out entirely. This course is always
adopted where the thickness of the iron
will allow it, and in such cases the barrel is
saved. Where this can not be done, the part
affected is sometimes cut off, and a short barrel
is made, for an arm called a musketoon.

THE GRINDING.

After the barrel is turned to nearly its proper
size it is next to be ground, for the purpose of
removing the marks left by the tool in turning,[Pg 11]
and of still further perfecting its form. For this
operation immense grindstones, carried by machinery,
are used, as seen in the engraving.
These stones, when in use, are made to revolve
with great rapidity—usually about four hundred
times in a minute—and as a constant stream of
water is kept pouring upon the part where the
barrel is applied in the grinding, it is necessary
to cover them entirely with a wooden case, as
seen in the engraving, to catch and confine the
water, which would otherwise be thrown with
great force about the room. The direct action
therefore of the stone upon the barrel in the
process of grinding is concealed from view.

GRINDING.

The workman has an iron rod with a sort of
crank-like handle at the end of it, and this rod
he inserts into the bore of the barrel which he
has in hand. The rod fits into the barrel closely,
and is held firmly by the friction, so that by
means of the handle to the rod, the workman
can turn the barrel round and round continually
while he is grinding it, and thus bring the action
of the stone to bear equally upon every part, and
so finish the work in a true cylindrical form. One
of these rods, with its handle, may be seen lying
free upon the stand on the right of the picture.
The workman is also provided with gauges which
he applies frequently to the barrel at different
points along its length, as the work goes on, in
order to form it to the true size and to the proper
taper. In the act of grinding he inserts the barrel
into a small hole in the case, in front of the
stone, and then presses it hard against the surface
of the stone by means of the iron lever behind
him. By leaning against this lever with
greater or less exertion he can regulate the
pressure of the barrel against the stone at pleasure.
In order to increase his power over this
lever he stands upon a plate of iron which is
placed upon the floor beneath him, with projections
cast upon it to hold his feet by their friction;
the moment that he ceases to lean against
the lever, the inner end of it is drawn back by
the action of the weight seen hanging down by
the side of it, and the barrel is immediately released.

The workman turns the barrel continually,
during the process of grinding, by means of the
handle, as seen in the drawing, and as the stone
itself is revolving all the time with prodigious
velocity, the work is very rapidly, and at the
same time very smoothly and correctly performed.

DANGER.

It would seem too, at first thought, that this
operation of grinding must be a very safe as well
as a simple one; but it is far otherwise. This
grinding room is the dangerous room—the only
dangerous room, in fact, in the whole establishment.
In the first place, the work itself is often
very injurious to the health. The premises are
always drenched with water, and this makes the
atmosphere damp and unwholesome. Then there
is a fine powder, which, notwithstanding every
precaution, will escape from the stone, and contaminate
the air, producing very serious tendencies
to disease in the lungs of persons who breathe
it for any long period. In former times it was
customary to grind bayonets as well as barrels;
and this required that the face of the stone should
be fluted, that is cut into grooves of a form suitable
to receive the bayonet. This fluting of the
stone, which of course it was necessary continually
to renew, was found to be an exceedingly
unhealthy operation, and in the process of grinding,
moreover, in the case of bayonets, the workman
was much more exposed than in grinding
barrels, as it was necessary that a portion of the
stone should be open before him and that he
should apply the piece in hand directly to the
surface of it. From these causes it resulted,[Pg 12]
under the old system, that bayonets, whatever
might have been their destination in respect to
actual service against an enemy on the field,
were pretty sure to be the death of all who were
concerned in making them.

The system, however, so far as relates to the
bayonet is now changed. Bayonets are now
“milled,” instead of being ground; that is, they
are finished by means of cutters formed upon the
circumference of a wheel, and so arranged that by
the revolution of the wheel, and by the motion
of the bayonet in passing slowly under it, secured
in a very solid manner to a solid bed, the
superfluous metal is cut away and the piece
fashioned at once to its proper form, or at least
brought so near to it by the machine, as to require
afterward only a very little finishing. This
operation is cheaper than the other, and also
more perfect in its result; while at the same
time it is entirely free from danger to the workman.

No mode, however, has yet been devised for
dispensing with the operation of grinding in the
case of the barrel; though the injury to the
health is much less in this case than in the other.

BURSTING OF GRINDSTONES.

There is another very formidable danger connected
with the process of grinding besides the
insalubrity of the work; and that is the danger
of the bursting of the stones in consequence of
their enormous weight and the immense velocity
with which they are made to revolve. Some
years since a new method of clamping the stone,
that is of attaching it and securing it to its axis,
was adopted, by means of which the danger of
bursting is much diminished. But by the mode
formerly practiced—the mode which in fact still
prevails in many manufacturing establishments
where large grindstones are employed—the danger
was very great, and the most frightful accidents
often occurred. In securing the stone to
its axis it was customary to cut a square hole
through the centre of the stone, and then after
passing the iron axis through this opening, to
fix the stone upon the axis by wedging it up
firmly with wooden wedges. Now it is well
known that an enormous force may be exerted
by the driving of a wedge, and probably in many
cases where this method is resorted to, the stone
is strained to its utmost tension, so as to be on
the point of splitting open, before it is put in
rotation at all. The water is then let on, and
the stone becomes saturated with it—which
greatly increases the danger. There are three
ways by which the water tends to promote the
bursting of the stone. It makes it very much
heavier, and thus adds to the momentum of its
motion, and consequently to the centrifugal force.
It also makes it weaker, for the water penetrates
the stone in every part, and operates to soften,
as it were, its texture. Then finally it swells
the wedges, and thus greatly increases the force
of the outward strain which they exert at the
centre of the stone. When under these circumstances
the enormous mass is put in motion, at
the rate perhaps of five or six revolutions in a[Pg 13]
second, it bursts, and some enormous fragment,
a quarter or a third of the whole, flies up through
the flooring above, or out through a wall, according
to the position of the part thrown off, at
the time of the fracture. An accident of this
kind occurred at the Armory some years since.
One fragment of the stone struck the wall of the
building, which was two or three feet thick, and
broke it through. The other passing upward,
struck and fractured a heavy beam forming a
part of the floor above, and upset a work-bench
in a room over it, where several men were working.
The men were thrown down, though fortunately
they were not injured. The workman
who had been grinding at the stone left his station
for a minute or two, just before the catastrophe,
and thus his life too was saved.

POLISHING.

We have said that the grinding room is the
only dangerous room in such an establishment
as this. There is one other process than grinding
which was formerly considered as extremely
unhealthy, and that is the process of polishing.
The polishing of steel is performed by means of
what are called emery wheels, which are wheels
bound on their circumference by a band of leather,
to which a coating of emery, very finely pulverized,
is applied, by means of a sizing of glue.
These wheels, a large number of which are
placed side by side in the same room, are made
to revolve by means of machinery, with an inconceivable
velocity, while the workmen who
have the polishing to do, taking their stations,
each at his own wheel, on seats placed there for
the purpose, and holding the piece of work on
which the operation is to be performed, in their
hands, apply it to the revolving circumference
before them. The surface of the steel thus applied,
receives immediately a very high polish—a
stream of sparks being elicited by the friction,
and flying off from the wheel opposite to the
workman.

Now although in these cases the workman
was always accustomed to take his position at
the wheel in such a manner as to be exposed as
little as possible to the effects of it, yet the air
of the apartment, it was found, soon became
fully impregnated with the fine emery dust, and
the influence of it upon the lungs proved very
deleterious. There is, however, now in operation
a contrivance by means of which the evil is
almost entirely remedied. A large air-trunk is
laid beneath the floor, from which the air is
drawn out continually by means of a sort of fan
machinery connected with the engine. Opposite
to each wheel, and in the direction to which the
sparks and the emery dust are thrown, are openings
connected with this air-trunk. By means
of this arrangement all that is noxious in the
air of the room is drawn out through the openings
into the air-trunk, and so conveyed away.

The sparks produced in such operations as
this, as in the case of the collision of flint and
steel, consist of small globules of melted metal,
cut off from the main mass by the force of the
friction, and heated to the melting point at the[Pg 14]
same time. These metallic scintillations were not
supposed to be the cause of the injury that was
produced by the operation of polishing, as formerly
practiced. It was the dust of the emery
that produced the effect, just as in the case of
the grinding it was the powder of the stone, and
not the fine particles of iron.

The emery which is used in these polishing
operations, as well as for a great many similar
purposes in the arts, is obtained by pulverizing
an exceedingly hard mineral that is found in
several of the islands of the Grecian Archipelago,
in the Mediterranean. In its native state it
appears in the form of shapeless masses, of a
blackish or bluish gray color, and it is prepared
for use by being pulverized in iron mortars.
When pulverized it is washed and sorted into
five or six different degrees of fineness, according
to the work for which it is wanted. It is
used by lapidaries for cutting and polishing
stones, by cutlers for iron and steel instruments,
and by opticians for grinding lenses. It is ordinarily
used in the manner above described, by
being applied to the circumference of a leathern
covered wheel, by means of oil or of glue. Ladies
use bags filled with it, for brightening their
needles.

Emery is procured in Spain, and also in
Great Britain, as well as in the Islands of the
Mediterranean.

PROVING.

THE PROVING HOUSE.

When the barrels are brought pretty nearly
to their finished condition, they are to be proved,
that is to be subjected to the test of actual trial
with gunpowder. For this proving they are
taken to a very strong building that is constructed
for the purpose, and which stands behind the
Stocking Shop. Its place is on the right in the
general view of the Armory buildings, and near
the foreground—though that view does not extend
far enough in that direction to bring it in.
The exterior appearance of this building is represented
in the above engraving. It is made
very strong, being constructed wholly of timber,
in order to enable it to resist the force of the
explosions within. There are spacious openings
in lattice work, in the roof and under the eaves
of the building, to allow of the escape of the
smoke with which it is filled at each discharge;
for it is customary to prove a large number of
barrels at a time. The barrels are loaded with a
very heavy charge, so as to subject them to much
greater strain than they can ever be exposed to
in actual service. The building on the left, in
the engraving, is used for loading the barrels,
and for cleaning and drying them after they are
proved. The shed attached to the main building,
on the right hand, contains a bank of clay,
placed there to receive the bullets, with which
the barrels are charged.

[Pg 15]

The arrangement of the interior of this building,
as well as the manner in which the proving
is performed, will be very clearly understood by
reference to the engraving below.

INTERIOR OF THE PROVING HOUSE.

On the right hand end of the building, and
extending quite across it from side to side, is a
sort of platform, the upper surface of which is
formed of cast-iron, and contains grooves in
which the muskets are placed when loaded, side
by side. A train of gunpowder is laid along the
back side of this platform, so as to form a communication
with each barrel. The train passes
out through a hole in the side of the building
near the door. The bank of clay may be seen
sloping down from within its shed into the room
on the left. The artist has represented the scene
as it appears when all is ready for the discharge.
The barrels are placed, the train is laid, and the
proof-master is just retiring and closing the door.
A moment more and there will be a loud and
rattling explosion; then the doors will be opened,
and as soon as the smoke has cleared away
the workman will enter and ascertain the result.
About one in sixty of the barrels are found to
burst under the trial.

The pieces that fail are all carefully examined
with a view to ascertain whether the giving way
was owing to a defect in the welding, or to some
flaw, or other bad quality, in the iron. The appearance
of the rent made by the bursting will
always determine this point. The loss of those
that failed on account of bad welding is then
charged to the respective operatives by whom
the work was done, at a dollar for each one so
failing. The name of the maker of each is
known by the stamp which he put upon it at
the time when it passed through his hands.

The barrels that stand this first test are afterward
subjected to a second one in order to make
it sure that they sustained no partial and imperceptible
injury at the first explosion. This done
they are stamped with the mark of approval, and
so sent to the proper departments to be mounted
and finished.

TESTING THE BAYONETS.

The bayonets, and all the other parts of which
the musket is composed are subjected to tests, different
in character indeed, but equally strict and
rigid in respect to the qualities which they are
intended to prove, with that applied to the barrel.
The bayonet is very carefully gauged and measured
in every part, in order to make sure that
it is of precisely the proper form and dimensions.
A weight is hung to the point of it to try its
temper, and it is sprung by the strength of the
inspector, with the point of it set into the floor,
to prove its elasticity. If it is found to be[Pg 16]
tempered too high it breaks; if too low it bends.
In either case it is condemned, and the workman
through whose fault the failure has resulted is
charged with the loss.

THE FORGING.

The number of pieces which are used in making
up a musket is forty-nine, each of which has
to be formed and finished separately. Of these
there are only two—viz., the sight and what is
called the cone-seat, a sort of process connected
with the barrel—that are permanently attached
to any other part; so that the musket can at any
time be separated into forty-seven parts, by simply
turning screws, and opening springs, and
then put together again as before. Most of
these parts are such that they are formed in the
first instance by being forged or rather swedged,
and are afterward trimmed and finished in lathes,
and milling engines, or by means of files. Swedging,
as it is called, is the forming of irregular
shapes in iron by means of dies of a certain
kind, called swedges, one of which is inserted
in the anvil, in a cavity made for the purpose,
and the other is placed above it. Cavities are
cut in the faces of the swedges, so that when
they are brought together, with the end of the
iron rod out of which the article to be formed
between them, the iron is made to assume the
form of the cavities by means of blows of the
hammer upon the upper swedge. In this way
shapes are easily and rapidly fashioned, which it
would be impossible to produce by blows directed
immediately upon the iron.

THE BLACKSMITH’S SHOP.

The shop where this swedging work is done
at the Armory contains a great number of forges,
one only of which however is fully represented
in the engraving. The apparatus connected
with these forges, differing in each according
to the particular operation for which each is intended,
is far too complicated to be described in
this connection. It can only be fully understood
when seen in actual operation under the hands
of the workman. The visitor however who has
the opportunity to see it thus, lingers long before
each separate forge, pleased with the ingenuity
of the contrivances which he witnesses, and admiring
the wonderful dexterity of the workman.
There is no appearance of bellows at any of
these works. The air is supplied to the fires
by pipes ascending through the floor from a fan
blower, as it is called, worked by machinery arranged
for the purpose below.

THE STOCKING SHOP.

The Stocking Shop, so called, is the department
in which the stocks to which the barrel
and the lock are to be attached, are formed and
finished. The wood used for gun stocks in this
country is the black walnut, and as this wood
requires to be seasoned some years before it is
used, an immense store of it is kept on hand at[Pg 17]
the Armory—sufficient in fact for four years’
consumption. The building in which this material
is stored may be seen on the right hand
side in the general view placed at the head of
this article. It stands off from the square, and
behind the other buildings. The operations conducted
in the stocking shop are exceedingly attractive
to all who visit the establishment. In
fact it happens here as it often does in similar
cases, that that which it is most interesting to
witness is the least interesting to be described.
The reason is that the charm in these processes
consists in the high perfection and finish of the
machines, in the smoothness, grace, and rapidity
of their motions, and in the seemingly miraculous
character of the performances which they
execute. Of such things no mere description
can convey any adequate idea. They must be
seen to be at all appreciated.

A gun stock, with all the innumerable cavities,
grooves, perforations, and recesses necessary
to be made in it, to receive the barrel, the
lock, the bands, the ramrod, and the numerous
pins and screws, all of which require a separate
and peculiar modification of its form, is perhaps
as irregular a shape as the ingenuity of man
could devise—and as well calculated as any
shape could possibly be to bid defiance to every
attempt at applying machinery to the work of
fashioning it. The difficulties however in the
way of such an attempt, insurmountable as they
would at first sight seem, have all been overcome,
and every part of the stock is formed, and
every perforation, groove, cavity, and socket is
cut in it by machines that do their work with a
beauty, a grace, and a perfection, which awaken
in all who witness the process, a feeling of astonishment
and delight.

The general principle on which this machinery
operates, in doing its work, may perhaps be
made intelligible to the reader by description.
The action is regulated by what are called patterns.
These patterns are models in iron of
the various surfaces of the stock which it is intended
to form. Let us suppose, for example,
that the large cavity intended to receive the lock
is to be cut. The stock on which the operation
is to be performed is placed in its bed in the
machine, and over it, pendant from a certain
movable frame-work of polished steel above, is
the cutting tool, a sort of bit or borer, which is
to do the work. This borer is made to revolve
with immense velocity, and is at the same time
susceptible of various other motions at the pleasure
of the workman. It may be brought down
upon the work, and moved there from side to
side, so as to cut out a cavity of any required
shape; and such is the mechanism of the machine
that these vertical and lateral motions may
be made very freely without at all interfering
with the swift rotation on which the cutting
power of the tool depends. This is effected by
causing the tool to revolve by means of small
machinery within its frame, while the frame and
all within it moves together in the vertical and
lateral motions.

[Pg 18]

Now if this were all, it is plain that the cutting
of the cavity in the stock would depend
upon the action of the workman, and the form
given to it would be determined by the manner
in which he should guide the tool in its lateral
motions, and by the depth to which he should
depress it. But this is not all. At a little distance
from the cutter, and parallel to it is another
descending rod, which is called the guide; and
this guide is so connected with the cutting tool,
by means of a very complicated and ingenious
machinery, that the latter is governed rigidly and
exactly in all its movements by the motion of
the former. Now there is placed immediately
beneath the guide, what is called the pattern,
that is a cavity in a block of iron of precisely the
form and size which it is intended to give to the
cavity in the wooden stock. All that the workman
has to do therefore, when the machine is
put in motion is to bring the guide down into
the pattern and move it about the circumference
and through the centre of it. The cutting tool
imitating precisely the motions of the guide, enters
the wood, and cutting its way in the most
perfect manner and with incredible rapidity, forms
an exact duplicate of the cavity in the pattern.
The theory of this operation is sufficiently curious
and striking—but the wonder excited by it
is infinitely enhanced by seeing the work done.
It is on this principle substantially that all the
machines of the Stocking Shop are constructed;
every separate recess, perforation, or groove of
the piece requiring of course its own separate
mechanism. The stocks are passed from one
of these engines to another in rapid succession,
and come out at last, each one the perfect fac-simile
of its fellow.

DIVISION OF LABOR.

We have said that the number of separate
parts which go to compose a musket is forty-nine;
but this by no means denotes the number
of distinct operations required in the manufacture
of it—for almost every one of these forty-nine
parts is subject to many distinct operations,
each of which has its own name, is assigned to
its own separate workman, and is paid for distinctly
and by itself, according to the price put
upon it in the general tariff of wages. The
number of operations thus separately named,
catalogued and priced, is three hundred and
ninety-six.

These operations are entirely distinct from
one another—each constituting, as it were, in
some sense a distinct trade, so that it might be
quite possible that no one man in the whole
establishment should know how to perform any
two of them. It is quite certain, in fact, that
no man can perform any considerable number
of them. They are of very various grades in
respect to character and price—from the welding
of the barrel which is in some points of
view the highest and most responsible of all,
down to the cutting out of pins and screws of
the most insignificant character. They are all
however regularly rated, and the work that is
performed upon them is paid for by the piece.

[Pg 19]

ASSEMBLING THE MUSKET.

ASSEMBLING THE MUSKET.

When the several parts are all finished, the
operation of putting them together so as to
make up the musket from them complete, is
called “assembling the musket.” The workman
who performs this function has all the
various parts before him at his bench, arranged
in boxes and compartments, in regular order,
and taking one component from this place, and
another from that, he proceeds to put the complicated
piece of mechanism together. His bench
is fitted up expressly for the work which he is
to perform upon it, with a vice to hold without
marring, and rests to support without confining,
and every other convenience and facility which
experience and ingenuity can suggest. With
these helps, and by means of the dexterity which
continued practice gives him, he performs the
work in a manner so adroit and rapid, as to excite
the wonder of every beholder. In fact it is
always a pleasure to see any thing done that is
done with grace and dexterity, and this is a
pleasure which the visitor to the Armory has an
opportunity to enjoy at almost every turn.

The component parts of the musket are all
made according to one precise pattern, and thus
when taken up at random they are sure to come
properly together. There is no individual fitting
required in each particular case. Any barrel
will fit into any stock, and a screw designed
for a particular plate or band, will enter the
proper hole in any plate or band of a hundred
thousand. There are many advantages which
result from this precise conformity to an established
pattern in the components of the musket.
In the first place the work of manufacturing it
is more easily performed in this way. It is always
the tendency of machinery to produce similarity
in its results, and thus although where
only two things are to be made it is very difficult
to get them alike, the case is very different
where there is a call for two hundred thousand.
In this last case it is far easier and cheaper to
have them alike than to have them different;
for in manufacturing on such a scale a machinery
is employed, which results in fashioning[Pg 20]
every one of its products on the precise model
to which the inventor adapted the construction
of it. Then, besides, a great convenience and
economy results from this identity of form in the
component parts of the musket, when the arms
are employed in service. Spare screws, locks,
bands, springs, &c., can be furnished in quantities,
and sent to any remote part of the country
wherever they are required; so that when any
part of a soldier’s gun becomes injured or broken,
its place can be immediately supplied by a new
piece, which is sure to fit as perfectly into the
vacancy as the original occupant. Even after a
battle there is nothing to prevent the surviving
soldiers from making up themselves, out of a
hundred broken and dismantled muskets, fifty
good ones as complete and sound as ever, by rejecting
what is damaged, and assembling the
uninjured parts anew.

To facilitate such operations as these the
mechanism by which the various parts of the
musket are attached to each other and secured
in their places, is studiously contrived with a
view to facilitating in the highest degree the
taking of them apart, and putting them together.
Each soldier to whom a musket is served is provided
with a little tool, which, though very simple
in its construction, consists of several parts
and is adapted to the performance of several
functions. With the assistance of this tool the
soldier sitting on the bank by the roadside, at a
pause in the middle of his march, if the regulations
of the service would allow him to do so,
might separate his gun into its forty-seven components,
and spread the parts out upon the grass
around him. Then if any part was doubtful he
could examine it. If any was broken he could
replace it—and after having finished his inspection
he could reconstruct the mechanism, and
march on as before.

It results from this system that to make any
change, however slight, in the pattern of the
musket or in the form of any of the parts of it,
is attended with great difficulty and expense.
The fashion and form of every one of the
component portions of the arm, are very exactly
and rigidly determined by the machinery
that is employed in making it, and any alteration,
however apparently insignificant, would
require a change in this machinery. It becomes
necessary, therefore, that the precise pattern
both of the whole musket and of all of its
parts, once fixed, should remain permanently
the same.

The most costly of the parts which lie before
the workman in assembling the musket is the
barrel. The value of it complete is three dollars.
From the barrel we go down by a gradually
descending scale to the piece of smallest
value, which is a little wire called the ramrod
spring wire—the value of which is only one
mill; that is the workman is paid only one dollar
a thousand for the manufacture of it. The
time expended in assembling a musket is about
ten minutes, and the price paid for the work is
four cents.

[Pg 21]

THE ARSENAL.

THE NEW ARSENAL.

The New Arsenal, which has already been
alluded to in the description of the general view
of the Arsenal grounds, is a very stately edifice.
It is two hundred feet long, seventy feet wide,
and fifty feet high. It is divided into three
stories, each of which is calculated to contain
one hundred thousand muskets, making three
hundred thousand in all. The muskets when
stored in this arsenal are arranged in racks set
up for the purpose along the immense halls,
where they stand upright in rows, with the glittering
bayonets shooting up, as it were, above.
The visitors who go into the arsenal walk up
and down the aisles which separate the ranges
of racks, admiring the symmetry and splendor
of the display.

The Arsenal has another charm for visitors
besides the beauty of the spectacle which the
interior presents—and that is the magnificent
panorama of the surrounding country, which is
seen from the summit of the tower. This tower,
which occupies the centre of the building, is
about ninety feet high—and as it is about thirty
feet square, the deck at the top furnishes space
for a large party of visitors to stand and survey
the surrounding country. Nothing can be imagined
more enchanting than the view presented
from this position in the month of June. The
Armory grounds upon one side, and the streets
of the town upon the other lie, as it were, at the
feet of the spectator, while in the distance the
broad and luxuriant valley of the Connecticut is
spread out to view, with its villages, its fields,[Pg 22]
its groves, its bridges, its winding railways, and
its serpentine and beautiful streams.

THE ADMINISTRATION OF THE ARMORY.

QUARTERS OF THE COMMANDING OFFICER.

The manufacture of muskets being a work
that pertains in some sense to the operations of
the army, should be, for that reason, under
military rule. On the other hand, inasmuch as
it is wholly a work of mechanical and peaceful
industry, a civil administration would seem to
be most appropriate for it. There is, in fact, a
standing dispute on this subject both in relation
to the Armory at Springfield and to that at Harper’s
Ferry, among those interested in the establishments,
and it is a dispute which, perhaps,
will never be finally settled. The Springfield
Armory is at this time under military rule—the
present commanding officer, Colonel Ripley,
having been put in charge of it about ten years
ago, previous to which time it was under civil
superintendence. At the time of Col. Ripley’s
appointment the works, as is universally acknowledged,
were in a very imperfect condition,
compared with the present state. On entering
upon the duties of his office, the new incumbent
engaged in the work of improvement with great
resolution and energy, and after contending for
several years with the usual obstacles and difficulties
which men have to encounter in efforts[Pg 23]
at progress and reform, he succeeded in bringing
the establishment up to a state of very high
perfection; and now the order, the system, the
neatness, the almost military exactness and decorum
which pervade every department of the
works are the theme of universal admiration.
The grounds are kept in the most perfect condition—the
shops are bright and cheerful, the
walls and floors are every where neat and clean,
the machinery and tools are perfect, and are all
symmetrically and admirably arranged, while the
workmen are well dressed, and are characterized
by an air of manliness, intelligence, and thrift,
that suggests to the mind of the visitor the idea
of amateur mechanics, working with beautiful
tools, for pleasure.

And yet the men at first complained, sometimes,
of the stringency of rules and regulations
required to produce these results. These rules
are still in force, though now they are very generally
acquiesced in. No newspapers of any kind
can be taken into the shops, no tobacco or intoxicating
drinks can be used there, no unnecessary
conversation is allowed, and the regulations in
respect to hours of attendance, and to responsibility
for damaged work are very definite and
strict. But even if the workmen should be
disposed in any case to complain of the stringency
of these requirements, they can not but
be proud of the result; for they take a very
evident pleasure in the gratification which every
visitor manifests in witnessing the system, the
order, the neatness, and the precision that every
where prevail.

Nothing can be more admirably planned, or
more completely and precisely executed than the
system of accounts kept at the offices, by which
not only every pecuniary transaction, but also,
as would seem, almost every mechanical operation
or act that takes place throughout the establishment
is made a matter of record. Thus
every thing is checked and regulated. No piece,
large or small, can be lost from among its hundreds
of fellows without being missed somewhere
in some column of figures—and the whole
history of every workman’s doings, and of every
piece of work done, is to be found recorded. Ask
the master-armorer any questions whatever about
the workings of the establishment, whether relating
to the minutest detail, or to most comprehensive
and general results, and he takes down
a book and shows you the answer in some column
or table.

After all, however, this neatness, precision,
and elegance in the appearance and in the daily
workings of an establishment like this, though
very agreeable to the eye of the observer, constitute
a test of only secondary importance in
respect to the actual character of the administration
that governs it. To judge properly on
this point, the thing to be looked at is the actual
and substantial results that are obtained. The
manufacture of muskets is the great function of
the Armory, and not the exhibition of beautiful
workshops, and curious processes in mechanics
for the entertainment of visitors. When we inquire,[Pg 24]
however, into the present arrangement of
this establishment, in this point of view, the
conclusion seems to be still more decidedly in
its favor than in the other. The cost of manufacturing
each musket immediately before the
commencement of the term of the present commander
was about seventeen dollars and a half.
During the past year it has been eight dollars
and three quarters, and yet the men are paid
better wages now per day, or, rather, they are
paid at such rates for their work, that they can
earn more now per day, than then. The saving
has thus not been at all made from the pay of
the workmen, but wholly from the introduction
of new and improved modes of manufacture,
better machines, a superior degree of order, system,
and economy in every department, and other
similar causes. How far the improvements which
have thus been made are due to the intrinsic
qualities of military government, and how far
to the personal efficiency of the officer in this
case intrusted with the administration of it, it
might be somewhat difficult to decide.

In fact, when judging of the advancement
made during a period of ten years, in an establishment
of this kind, at the present age of the
world, some considerable portion of the improvement
that is manifested is due, doubtless, to the
operation of those causes which are producing
a general progress in all the arts and functions
of social life. The tendency of every thing is
onward. Every where, and for all purposes,
machinery is improving, materials are more and
more easily procured, new facilities are discovered
and new inventions are made, the results of
which inure to the common benefit of all mankind.
It is only so far as an establishment like
the Armory advances at a more rapid rate than
that of the general progress of the age, that any
special credit is due to those who administer its
affairs. It always seems, however, to strangers
visiting the Armory and observing its condition,
that these general causes will account for but a
small portion of the results which have been attained
in the management of it, during the past
ten years.

CONCLUSION.

As was stated at the commencement of the
article, it is only a small part of the hundreds
of thousands of muskets manufactured, that are
destined ever to be used. Some portion of the
whole number are served out to the army, and
are employed in Indian warfare, others are destined
to arm garrisons in various fortresses and
military posts, where they are never called to
any other service than to figure in peaceful
drillings and parades. Far the greater portion,
however, are sent away to various parts of the
country, to be stored in the national arsenals,
where they lie, and are to lie, as we hope, forever,
undisturbed, in the midst of scenes of rural
beauty and continued peace. The flowers bloom
and the birds sing unmolested around the silent
and solitary depositories, where these terrible
instruments of carnage and destruction unconsciously
and forever repose.

[Pg 25]

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.[A]
BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

PEACE WITH ENGLAND.

It was the first great object of Napoleon, immediately
upon his accession to power, to
reconcile France with Europe, and to make peace
with all the world. France was weary of war.
She needed repose, to recover from the turmoil
of revolution. Napoleon, conscious of the necessities
of France, was consecrating Herculean energies
for the promotion of peace. The Directory,
by oppressive acts, had excited the indignation
of the United States. Napoleon, by a course of
conciliation, immediately removed that hostility,
and, but a short time before the treaty of Luneville,
ratified a treaty of amity between France
and the United States. The signature of this
treaty was celebrated with great rejoicings at the
beautiful country seat which Joseph, who in consequence
of his marriage was richer than his
brother, had purchased at Morfontaine. Napoleon,
accompanied by a brilliant party, met the
American commissioners there. The most elegant
decorations within the mansion and in the
gardens, represented France and America joined
in friendly union. Napoleon presented the following
toast: “The memory of the French and
the Americans who died on the field of battle for
the independence of the New World.” Lebrun,
the Second Consul, proposed, “The union of
America with the Northern powers, to enforce
respect for the liberty of the seas.” Cambaceres
gave for the third toast, “The successor of Washington.”
Thus did Napoleon endeavor to secure
the friendship of the United States.

About this time Pope Pius VI. died, and the
Cardinals met to choose his successor. The respect
with which Napoleon had treated the Pope,
and his kindness to the emigrant priests, during
the first Italian campaign, presented so strong a
contrast with the violence enjoined by the Directory,
as to produce a profound impression
upon the minds of the Pope and the Cardinals.

The Bishop of Imola was universally esteemed
for his extensive learning, his gentle virtues,
and his firm probity. Upon the occasion of the
union of his diocese with the Cisalpine Republic,
he preached a very celebrated sermon, in
which he spoke of the conduct of the French in
terms highly gratifying to the young conqueror.
The power of Napoleon was now in the ascendant.
It was deemed important to conciliate his
favor. “It is from France,” said Cardinal Gonsalvi,
“that persecutions have come upon us for
the last ten years. It is from France, perhaps,
that we shall derive aid and consolation for the
future. A very extraordinary young man, one
very difficult as yet to judge, holds dominion
there at the present day. His influence will soon
be paramount in Italy. Remember that he protected
the priests in 1797. He has recently conferred
funeral honors upon Pius VI.” These[Pg 26]
were words of deep foresight. They were appreciated
by the sagacious Cardinals. To conciliate
the favor of Napoleon, the Bishop of Imola
was elected to the pontifical chair as Pope Pius
VII.

Naples had been most perfidious in its hostility
to France. The Queen of Naples was a proud
daughter of Maria Theresa, and sister of the
Emperor of Austria and of the unfortunate Marie
Antoinette. She surely must not be too severely
condemned for execrating a revolution which
had consigned her sister to the dungeon and to
the guillotine. Naples, deprived of Austrian aid,
was powerless. She trembled under apprehension
of the vengeance of Napoleon. The King
of Austria could no longer render his sister any
assistance. She adopted the decisive and romantic
expedient of proceeding in person, notwithstanding
the rigor of the approaching winter,
to St. Petersburg, to implore the intercession
of the Emperor Paul. The eccentric monarch,
flattered by the supplication of the beautiful
queen, immediately espoused her cause, and dispatched
a messenger to Napoleon, soliciting
him, as a personal favor, to deal gently with
Naples. The occurrence was, of course, a triumph
and a gratification to Napoleon. Most
promptly and courteously he responded to the
appeal. It was indeed his constant study at this
time, to arrest the further progress of the revolution,
to establish the interests of France upon
a basis of order and of law, and to conciliate the
surrounding monarchies, by proving to them
that he had no disposition to revolutionize their
realms. A word from him would have driven the
King and Queen of Naples into exile, and would
have converted their kingdom into a republic.
But Napoleon refused to utter that word, and sustained
the King of Naples upon his throne.

The Duke of Parma, brother of the King of
Spain, had, through the intercession of Napoleon,
obtained the exchange of his duchy, for the
beautiful province of Tuscany. The First Consul
had also erected Tuscany into the kingdom
of Etruria, containing about one million of inhabitants.
The old duke, a bigoted prince, inimical
to all reform, had married his son (a feeble,
frivolous young man) to the daughter of his
brother, the King of Spain. The kingdom of
Etruria was intended for this youthful pair.
Napoleon, as yet but thirty years of age, thus
found himself forming kingdoms and creating
kings. The young couple were in haste to ascend
the throne. They could not, however, do
this until the Duke of Parma should die or abdicate.
The unaccommodating old duke refused
to do either. Napoleon, desirous of producing a
moral impression in Paris, was anxious to crown
them. He therefore allowed the duke to retain
Parma until his death, that his son might be
placed upon the throne of Etruria. He wished
to exhibit the spectacle, in the regicide metropolis
of France, of a king created and enthroned
by France. Thus he hoped to diminish the antipathy
to kings, and to prepare the way for that
restoration of the monarchical power which he[Pg 27]
contemplated. He would also thus conciliate
monarchical Europe, by proving that he had no
design of overthrowing every kingly throne. It
was indeed adroitly done. He required, therefore,
the youthful princes to come to Paris, to
accept the crown from his hands, as in ancient
Rome vassal monarchs received the sceptre from
the Cæsars. The young candidates for monarchy
left Madrid, and repaired to the Tuileries, to be
placed upon the throne by the First Consul.
This measure had two aspects, each exceedingly
striking. It frowned upon the hostility of the
people to royalty, and it silenced the clamor
against France, as seeking to spread democracy
over the ruins of all thrones. It also proudly
said, in tones which must have been excessively
annoying to the haughty legitimists of Europe,
“You kings must be childlike and humble. You
see that I can create such beings as you are.”
Napoleon, conscious that his glory elevated him
far above the ancient dynasty, whose station he
occupied, was happy to receive the young princes
with pomp and splendor. The versatile Parisians,
ever delighted with novelty, forgot the
twelve years of bloody revolutions, which had
overturned so many thrones, and recognizing, in
this strange spectacle, the fruits of their victories,
and the triumph of their cause, shouted
most enthusiastically, “Long live the king!”
The royalists, on the other hand, chagrined and
sullen, answered passionately, “Down with
kings!” Strange reverse! yet how natural!
Each party must have been surprised and bewildered
at its own novel position. In settling the
etiquette of this visit, it was decided that the
young princes should call first upon Napoleon,
and that he should return their call the next day.
The First Consul, at the head of his brilliant
military staff, received the young monarch with
parental kindness and with the most delicate
attentions, yet with the universally recognized
superiorities of power and glory. The princes
were entertained at the magnificent chateau of
Talleyrand at Neuilly, with most brilliant festivals
and illuminations. For a month the capital
presented a scene of most gorgeous spectacles.
Napoleon, too entirely engrossed with the cares
of empire to devote much time to these amusements,
assigned the entertainment of his guests
to his ministers. Nevertheless he endeavored to
give some advice to the young couple about to
reign over Etruria. He was much struck with
the weakness of the prince, who cherished no
sense of responsibility, and was entirely devoted
to trivial pleasures. He was exceedingly interested
in the mysteries of cotillions, of leap-frog, and
of hide-and-go-seek—and was ever thus trifling
with the courtiers. Napoleon saw that he was
perfectly incapable of governing, and said to one
of his ministers, “You perceive that they are
princes, descended from an ancient line. How
can the reins of government be intrusted to such
hands? But it was well to show to France this
specimen of the Bourbons. She can judge if
these ancient dynasties are equal to the difficulties
of an age like ours.” As the young king[Pg 28]
left Paris for his dominions, Napoleon remarked
to a friend, “Rome need not be uneasy. There
is no danger of his crossing the Rubicon.” Napoleon
sent one of his generals to Etruria with
the royal pair, ostensibly as the minister of
France, but in reality as the viceroy of the First
Consul. The feeble monarch desired only the
rank and splendor of a king, and was glad to be
released from the cares of empire. Of all the
proud acts performed by Napoleon during his
extraordinary career, this creation of the Etruscan
king, when viewed in all its aspects, was perhaps
the proudest.

Madame de Montesson had become the guilty
paramour of the Duke of Orleans, grandfather of
Louis Phillipe. She was not at all ashamed of
this relation, which was sanctioned by the licentiousness
of the times. Proud even of this alliance
with a prince of the blood, she fancied that
it was her privilege, as the only relative of the
royal line then in Paris, to pay to the King and
Queen of Etruria such honors as they might be
gratified in receiving from the remains of the old
court society. She therefore made a brilliant
party, inviting all the returned emigrants of illustrious
birth. She even had the boldness to invite
the family of the First Consul, and the distinguished
persons of his suite. The invitation was
concealed from Napoleon, as his determination
to frown upon all immorality was well known.
The next morning Napoleon heard of the occurrence,
and severely reprimanded those of his
suite who had attended the party, dwelling with
great warmth upon the impropriety of countenancing
vice in high places. Savary, who attended
the party, and shared in the reprimand, says, that
Madame de Montesson would have been severely
punished had it not been for the intervention of
Josephine, who was ever ready to plead for mercy.

Napoleon having made peace with continental
Europe, now turned his attention earnestly to
England, that he might compel that unrelenting
antagonist to lay down her arms. “France,”
said he, “will not reap all the blessings of a pacification,
until she shall have a peace with England.
But a sort of delirium has seized on that
government, which now holds nothing sacred.
Its conduct is unjust, not only toward the French
people, but toward all the other powers of the
Continent. And when governments are not just
their authority is short-lived. All the continental
powers must force England to fall back into the
track of moderation, of equity, and of reason.”
Notwithstanding this state of hostilities it is
pleasant to witness the interchange of the courtesy
of letters. Early in January of 1801, Napoleon
sent some very valuable works, magnificently
bound, as a present to the Royal Society
of London. A complimentary letter accompanied
the present, signed—Bonaparte, President of
the National Institute, and First Consul of France.
As a significant intimation of his principles, there
was on the letter a finely-executed vignette, representing
Liberty sailing on the ocean in an
open shell with the following motto:

England claimed the right of visiting and
searching merchant ships, to whatever nation
belonging, whatever the cargoes, wherever the
destination. For any resistance of this right, she
enforced the penalty of the confiscation of both
ship and cargo. She asserted that nothing was
necessary to constitute a blockade but to announce
the fact, and to station a vessel to cruise
before a blockaded port. Thus all the nations of
the world were forbidden by England to approach
a port of France. The English government strenuously
contended that these principles were in
accordance with the established regulations of
maritime law. The neutral powers, on the other
hand, affirmed that these demands were an usurpation
on the part of England, founded on power,
unsanctioned by the usages of nations, or by the
principles of maritime jurisprudence. “Free
ships,” said they, “make free goods. The flag
covers the merchandise. A port is to be considered
blockaded only when such a force is stationed
at its mouth as renders it dangerous to
enter.”

Under these circumstances, it was not very difficult
for Napoleon to turn the arms of the united
world against his most powerful foe. England had
allied all the powers of Europe against France.
Now Napoleon combined them all in friendly
alliance with him, and directed their energies
against his unyielding and unintimidated assailant.
England was mistress of the seas. Upon
that element she was more powerful than all
Europe united. It was one great object of the
British ministry to prevent any European power
from becoming the maritime rival of England.
Napoleon, as he cast his eye over his magnificent
empire of forty millions of inhabitants, and surveyed
his invincible armies, was excessively annoyed
that the fifteen millions of people, crowded
into the little island of England, should have undisputed
dominion over the whole wide world of
waters. The English have ever been respected,
above all other nations, for wealth, power, courage,
intelligence, and all stern virtues; but they
never have been beloved. The English nation is
at the present moment the most powerful, the
most respected, and the most unpopular upon the
surface of the globe. Providence deals in compensations.
It is perhaps unreasonable to expect
that all the virtues should be centred in one
people. “When,” exclaimed Napoleon, “will
the French exchange their vanity for a little
pride?” It may be rejoined, “When will the
English lay aside their pride for a little vanity—that
perhaps more ignoble, but certainly better-natured
foible?” England, abandoned by all her
allies, continued the war, apparently because her
pride revolted at the idea of being conquered into
a peace. And in truth England had not been
vanquished at all. Her fleets were every where
triumphant. The blows of Napoleon, which fell
with such terrible severity upon her allies, could
not reach her floating batteries. The genius of
Napoleon overshadowed the land. The genius
of Pitt swept the seas. The commerce of France
was entirely annihilated. The English navy, in[Pg 30]
the utter destitution of nobler game, even pursued
poor French fishermen, and took away their
haddock and their cod. The verdict of history
will probably pronounce that this was at least a
less magnificent rapacity than to despoil regal
and ducal galleries of the statues of Phidias and
the cartoons of Raphael.

England declared France to be in a state of
blockade, and forbade all the rest of the world
from having any commercial intercourse with
her. Her invincible fleet swept all seas. Wherever
an English frigate encountered any merchant
ship, belonging to whatever nation, a shot was
fired across her bows as a very emphatic command
to stop. If the command was unheeded
a broadside followed, and the peaceful merchantman
became lawful prize. If the vessel stopped,
a boat was launched from the frigate, a young
lieutenant ascended the sides of the merchantman,
demanded of the captain the papers, and
searched the ship. If he found on board any
goods which he judged to belong to France, he
took them away. If he could find any goods
which he could consider as munitions of war,
and which in his judgment the ship was conveying
to France, the merchantman, with all its
contents was confiscated. Young lieutenants in
the navy are not proverbial for wasting many
words in compliments. They were often overbearing
and insolent. England contended that
these were the established principles of maritime
law. All the nations of Europe, now at peace
with France, excessively annoyed at this right
of search, which was rigorously enforced, declared
it to be an intolerable usurpation on the part of
England. Russia, Prussia, Denmark, Sweden,
Holland, France, and Spain united in a great
confederacy to resist these demands of the proud
monarch of the seas. The genius of Napoleon
formed this grand coalition. Paul of Russia,
now a most enthusiastic admirer of the First
Consul, entered into it with all his soul. England
soon found herself single-handed against
the world in arms. With sublime energy the
British ministry collected their strength for the
conflict. Murmurs, however, and remonstrances
loud and deep pervaded all England. The opposition
roused itself to new vigor. The government,
in the prosecution of this war, had
already involved the nation in a debt of millions
upon millions. But the pride of the English
government was aroused. “What! make peace
upon compulsion!” England was conscious of
her maritime power, and feared not the hostility
of the world. And the world presented a wide
field from which to collect remuneration for her
losses. She swept the ocean triumphantly.
The colonies of the allies dropped into her hand,
like fruit from the overladen bough. Immediately
upon the formation of this confederacy,
England issued an embargo upon every vessel
belonging to the allied powers, and also orders
were issued for the immediate capture of any
merchant vessels, belonging to these powers,
wherever they could be found. The ocean instantly
swarmed with English privateersmen.[Pg 31]
Her navy was active every where. There had
been no proclamation of war issued. The merchants
of Europe were entirely unsuspicious of
any such calamity. Their ships were all exposed.
By thousands they were swept into the
ports of England. More than half of the ships,
belonging to the northern powers, then at sea,
were captured.

Russia, Denmark, and Sweden, had a large
armament in the Baltic. A powerful English
fleet was sent for its destruction. The terrible
energies of Nelson, so resplendent at Aboukir,
were still more resplendent at Copenhagen. A
terrific conflict ensued. The capital of Denmark
was filled with weeping and woe, for thousands
of her most noble sons, the young and the joyous,
were weltering in blood. “I have been,”
said Nelson, “in above a hundred engagements;
but that of Copenhagen was the most terrible of
them all.”

In the midst of this terrific cannonade, Nelson
was rapidly walking the quarter-deck, which was
slippery with blood and covered with the dead,
who could not be removed as fast as they fell.
A heavy shot struck the main-mast, scattering
the splinters in every direction. He looked upon
the devastation around him, and, sternly smiling,
said, “This is warm work, and this day may be
the last to any of us in a moment. But mark
me, I would not be elsewhere for thousands.”
This was heroic, but it was not noble. It was
the love of war, not the love of humanity. It
was the spirit of an Indian chieftain, not the
spirit of a Christian Washington. The commander-in-chief
of the squadron, seeing the
appalling carnage, hung out the signal for discontinuing
the action. Nelson was for a moment
deeply agitated, and then exclaimed to a
companion, “I have but one eye. I have a right
to be blind sometimes.” Then, putting the glass
to his blind eye, he said, “I really don’t see the
signal. Keep mine for closer battle still flying.
That is the way I answer such signals. Nail
mine to the mast.” The human mind is so
constituted that it must admire heroism. That
sentiment is implanted in every generous breast
for some good purpose. Welmoes, a gallant
young Dane, but seventeen years of age, stationed
himself on a small raft, carrying six guns with
twenty-four men, directly under the bows of
Nelson’s ship. The unprotected raft was swept
by an incessant storm of bullets from the English
marines. Knee deep in the dead this fearless
stripling continued to keep up his fire to the
close of the conflict. The next day, Nelson met
him at a repast at the palace. Admiring the
gallantry of his youthful enemy, he embraced
him with enthusiasm, exclaiming to the Crown
Prince, “He deserves to be made an admiral.”
“Were I to make all my brave officers admirals,”
replied the Prince, “I should have no captains
or lieutenants in my service.”

By this battle the power of the confederacy
was broken. At the same time, the Emperor
Paul was assassinated in his palace, by his
nobles, and Alexander, his son, ascended the[Pg 32]
throne. When Napoleon heard of the death of
Paul, it is said that he gave utterance, for the
first time in his life, to that irreverent expression,
“Mon Dieu” (My God), which is ever upon the
lips of every Frenchman. He regarded his death
as a great calamity to France and to the world.
The eccentricities of the Emperor amounted almost
to madness. But his enthusiastic admiration
for Napoleon united France and Russia in
a close alliance.

The nobles of Russia were much displeased
with the democratic equality which Napoleon
was sustaining in France. They plotted the
destruction of the king, and raised Alexander to
the throne, pledged to a different policy. The
young monarch immediately withdrew from the
maritime confederacy, and entered into a treaty
of peace with England. These events apparently
so disastrous to the interests of France, were
on the contrary highly conducive to the termination
of the war. The English people, weary of
the interminable strife, and disgusted with the
oceans of blood which had been shed, more and
more clamorously demanded peace. And England
could now make peace without the mortification
of her pride.

Napoleon was extremely vigilant in sending
succor to the army in Egypt. He deemed it
very essential in order to promote the maritime
greatness of France, that Egypt should be retained
as a colony. His pride was also enlisted
in proving to the world that he had not transported
forty-six thousand soldiers to Egypt in
vain. Vessels of every description, ships of war,
merchantmen, dispatch-boats, sailed almost daily
from the various ports of Holland, France, Spain,
Italy, and even from the coast of Barbary, laden
with provisions, European goods, wines, munitions
of war, and each taking a file of French
newspapers. Many of these vessels were captured.
Others, however, escaped the vigilance
of the cruisers, and gave to the colony most
gratifying proof of the interest which the First
Consul took in its welfare. While Napoleon
was thus daily endeavoring to send partial relief
to the army in Egypt, he was at the same time
preparing a vast expedition to convey thither a
powerful reinforcement of troops and materials
of war. Napoleon assembled this squadron at
Brest, ostensibly destined for St. Domingo. He
selected seven of the fastest sailing ships, placed
on board of them five thousand men and an ample
supply of all those stores most needed in
Egypt. He ordered that each vessel should
contain a complete assortment of every individual
article, prepared for the colony, so that in the
event of one vessel being captured, the colony
would not be destitute of the precise article
which that vessel might otherwise have contained.
He also, in several other places, formed
similar expeditions, hoping thus to distract the
attention of England, and compel her to divide
her forces to guard all exposed points. Taking
advantage of this confusion, he was almost certain
that some of the vessels would reach Egypt.
The plan would have been triumphantly successful,[Pg 33]
as subsequent events proved, had the naval
commanders obeyed the instructions of Napoleon.
A curious instance now occurred, of what may
be called the despotism of the First Consul.
And yet it is not strange that the French people
should, under the peculiar circumstances, have
respected and loved such despotism. The following
order was issued to the Minister of Police:
“Citizen Minister—Have the goodness to address
a short circular to the editors of the fourteen
journals, forbidding the insertion of any article,
calculated to afford the enemy the slightest clew
to the different movements which are taking
place in our squadrons, unless the intelligence
be derived from the official journal.” Napoleon
had previously through the regularly constituted
tribunals, suppressed all the journals in Paris,
but fourteen. The world has often wondered
why France so readily yielded to the despotism
of Napoleon. It was because the French were
convinced that dictatorial power was essential
to the successful prosecution of the war; and
that each act of Napoleon was dictated by the
most wise and sincere patriotism. They were
willing to sacrifice the liberty of the press,
that they might obtain victory over their enemies.

The condition of England was now truly
alarming. Nearly all the civilized world was in
arms against her. Her harvests had been cut
off, and a frightful famine ravaged the land.
The starving people were rising in different parts
of the kingdom, pillaging the magnificent country
seats of the English aristocracy, and sweeping
in riotous mobs through the cities. The
masses in England and in Ireland, wretchedly
perishing of hunger, clamored loudly against
Pitt. They alleged that he was the cause of all
their calamities—that he had burdened the nation
with an enormous debt and with insupportable
taxes—that by refusing peace with France, he
had drawn all the continental powers into hostility
with England, and thus had deprived the
people of that food from the Continent which
was now indispensable for the support of life.
The opposition, seeing the power of Pitt shaken,
redoubled their blows. Fox, Tiernay, Grey,
Sheridan, and Holland renewed their attacks with
all the ardor of anticipated success. “Why,” said
they, “did you not make peace with France,
when the First Consul proposed it before the
battle of Marengo? Why did you not consent
to peace, when it was again proposed after that
battle? Why did you refuse consent to separate
negotiation, when Napoleon was willing to enter
into such without demanding the cessation of
hostilities by sea?” They contrasted the distress
of England with the prosperity of France.
“France,” said they, “admirably governed, is
at peace with Europe. In the eyes of the world,
she appears humane, wise, tranquil, evincing
the most exemplary moderation after all her
victories.” With bitter irony they exclaimed,
“What have you now to say of this young Bonaparte,
of this rash youth who, according to the
ministerial language, was only doomed to enjoy[Pg 34]
a brief existence, like his predecessors, so ephemeral,
that it did not entitle him to be treated
with?”

Pitt was disconcerted by the number of his
enemies, and by the clamors of a famishing people.
His proud spirit revolted at the idea of
changing his course. He could only reiterate
his argument, that if he had not made war against
revolutionary France, England would also have
been revolutionized. There is an aspect of moral
sublimity in the firmness with which this distinguished
minister breasted a world in arms. “As
to the demand of the neutral powers,” said he,
“we must envelop ourselves in our flag, and
proudly find our grave in the deep, rather than
admit the validity of such principles in the maritime
code of nations.” Though Pitt still retained
his numerical majority in the Parliament, the
masses of the people were turning with great
power against him, and he felt that his position
was materially weakened. Under these circumstances,
Pitt, idolized by the aristocracy, execrated
by the democracy, took occasion to send in
his resignation. The impression seemed to be
universal, that the distinguished minister, perceiving
that peace must be made with France,
temporarily retired, that it might be brought
about by others, rather than by himself. He
caused himself, however, to be succeeded by Mr.
Addington, a man of no distinguished note, but
entirely under his influence. The feeble intellect
of the King of England, though he was one
of the most worthy and conscientious of men,
was unequal to these political storms. A renewed
attack of insanity incapacitated him for
the functions of royalty. Mr. Pitt, who had been
prime minister for seventeen years, became by
this event virtually the king of England, and Mr.
Addington was his minister.

Napoleon now announced to the world his determination
to struggle hand to hand with England,
until he had compelled that government
to cease to make war against France. Conscious
of the naval superiority of his foes, he avowed
his resolve to cross the channel with a powerful
army, march directly upon London, and thus
compel the cabinet of St. James’s to make peace.
It was a desperate enterprise; so desperate that
to the present day it is doubted whether Napoleon
ever seriously contemplated carrying it into
effect. It was, however, the only measure Napoleon
could now adopt. The naval superiority
of England was so undeniable, that a maritime
war was hopeless. Nelson, in command of the
fleet of the channel, would not allow even a
fishing boat to creep out from a French cove.
Napoleon was very desirous of securing in his
favor the popular opinion of England, and the
sympathies of the whole European public. He
prepared with his own hand many articles for
the “Moniteur,” which were models of eloquent
and urgent polemics, and which elicited admiration
from readers in all countries. He wrote in
the most respectful and complimentary terms of
the new English ministry, representing them as
intelligent, upright, and well-intentioned men.[Pg 35]
He endeavored to assure Europe of the unambitious
desires of France, and contrasted her
readiness to relinquish the conquests which she
had made, with the eager grasp with which the
English held their enormous acquisitions in India,
and in the islands of the sea. With the utmost
delicacy, to avoid offending the pride of Britain,
he affirmed that a descent upon England would
be his last resource, that he fully appreciated the
bravery and the power of the English, and the
desperate risks which he should encounter in
such an undertaking. But he declared that
there was no other alternative left to him, and
that if the English ministers were resolved that
the war should not be brought to a close, but by
the destruction of one of the two nations, there
was not a Frenchman who would not make the
most desperate efforts to terminate this cruel
quarrel to the glory of France. “But why,”
exclaimed he, in words singularly glowing and
beautiful, but of melancholy import, “why place
the question on this last resort? Wherefore
not put an end to the sufferings of humanity?
Wherefore risk in this manner the lot of two
great nations? Happy are nations when, having
arrived at high prosperity, they have wise governments,
which care not to expose advantages
so vast, to the caprices and vicissitudes of a single
stroke of fortune.” These most impressive
papers, from the pen of the First Consul, remarkable
for their vigorous logic and impassioned
eloquence, produced a deep impression upon all
minds. This conciliatory language was accompanied
by the most serious demonstrations of
force upon the shores of the Channel. One
hundred thousand men were upon the coasts of
France, in the vicinity of Boulogne, preparing
for the threatened invasion. Boats without
number were collected to transport the troops
across the narrow channel. It was asserted
that by taking advantage of a propitious moment
immediately after a storm had scattered the English
fleet, France could concentrate such a force
as to obtain a temporary command of the channel,
and the strait could be crossed by the invaders.
England was aroused thoroughly, but
not alarmed. The militia was disciplined, the
whole island converted into a camp. Wagons
were constructed for the transportation of troops
to any threatened point. It is important that
the reader should distinguish this first threat of
invasion in 1801, from that far more powerful
naval and military organization executed for the
same purpose in 1804, and known under the
name of the Camp of Boulogne.

Not a little uneasiness was felt in England
respecting the temporary success of the great
conqueror. Famine raged throughout the island.
Business was at a stand. The taxes were enormous.
Ireland was on the eve of revolt. The
mass of the English people admired the character
of Napoleon; and, notwithstanding all the
efforts of the government, regarded him as the
foe of aristocracy and the friend of popular
rights. Nelson, with an invincible armament,
was triumphantly sweeping the Channel, and a[Pg 36]
French gun-boat could not creep round a head-land
without encountering the vigilance of the
energetic hero. Napoleon, in escaping from
Egypt, had caught Nelson napping in a lady’s
lap. The greatest admirers of the naval hero,
could not but smile, half-pleased that, under the
guilty circumstances, he had met with the misadventure.
He was anxious, by a stroke of romantic
heroism, to obliterate this impression from
the public mind. The vast flotilla of France,
most thoroughly manned and armed under the
eye of Napoleon, was anchored at Boulogne, in
three divisions, in a line parallel to the shore.
Just before the break of day on the 4th of August,
the fleet of Nelson, in magnificent array,
approached the French flotilla, and for sixteen
hours rained down upon it a perfect tornado of
balls and shells. The gun-boats were, however,
chained to one another, and to the shore. He
did not succeed in taking a single boat, and retired
mortified at his discomfiture, and threatening
to return in a few days to take revenge.
The French were exceedingly elated that in a
naval conflict they had avoided defeat. As they
stood there merely upon self-defense, victory
was out of the question.

The reappearance of Nelson was consequently
daily expected, and the French, emboldened
by success, prepared to give him a warm reception.
Twelve days after, on the 16th of August,
Nelson again appeared with a vastly increased
force. In the darkness of the night he filled his
boats with picked men, to undertake one of the
most desperate enterprises on record. In four
divisions, with muffled oars, this forlorn hope,
in the silence of midnight, approached the French
flotilla. The butchery, with swords, hatchets,
bayonets, bullets, and hand grenades, was hideous.
Both parties fought with perfect fury.
No man seemed to have the slightest regard for
limb or life. England was fighting for, she
knew not what. The French were contending
in self-defense. For four long hours of midnight
gloom, the slaughter continued. Thousands
perished. Just as the day was dawning
upon the horrid scene the English retired, repulsed
at every point, and confessing to a defeat.
The result of these conflicts diminished the confidence
of the English in Nelson’s ability to
destroy the preparations of Napoleon, and increased
their apprehension that the French might
be enabled by some chance, to carry the war of
invasion to their own firesides.

“I was resolved,” said Napoleon, afterward,
“to renew, at Cherbourg, the wonders of Egypt.
I had already raised in the sea my pyramid. I
would also have had my Lake Mareotis. My
great object was to concentrate all our maritime
forces, and in time they would have been immense,
in order to be able to deal out a grand
stroke at the enemy. I was establishing my
ground so as to bring the two nations, as it
were, body to body. The ultimate issue could not
be doubtful; for we had forty millions of French
against fifteen millions of English. I would have
terminated the strife by a battle of Actium.”

[Pg 37]

One after another of the obstacles in the way
of peace now gradually gave way. Overtures
were made to Napoleon. He accepted the advances
of England with the greatest eagerness
and cordiality. “Peace,” said he, “is easily
brought about, if England desires it.” On the
evening of the 21st of October the preliminaries
were signed in London. That very night a
courier left England to convey the joyful intelligence
to France. He arrived at Malmaison,
the rural retreat of Napoleon, at four o’clock in
the afternoon of the next day. At that moment
the three Consuls were holding a government
council. The excitement of joy, in opening the
dispatches, was intense. The Consuls ceased
from their labors, and threw themselves into
each other’s arms in cordial embraces. Napoleon,
laying aside all reserve, gave full utterance
to the intense joy which filled his bosom. It
was for him a proud accomplishment. In two
years, by his genius and his indefatigable exertions
he had restored internal order to France,
and peace to the world. Still, even in this moment
of triumph, his entire, never wavering devotion
to the welfare of France, like a ruling
passion strong even in death, rose above his
exultation. “Now that we have made a treaty
of peace with England,” said Cambaceres, “we
must make a treaty of commerce, and remove all
subjects of dispute between the two countries.”
Napoleon promptly replied, “Not so fast! The
political peace is made. So much the better.
Let us enjoy it. As to a commercial peace we
will make one, if we can. But at no price will I
sacrifice French industry. I remember the misery
of 1786.” The news had been kept secret in
London for twenty-four hours, that the joyful
intelligence might be communicated in both capitals
at the same time. The popular enthusiasm
both in England and France bordered almost
upon delirium. It was the repose of the Continent.
It was general, universal peace. It was
opening the world to the commerce of all nations.
War spreads over continents the glooms of the
world of woe; while peace illumines them with
the radiance of Heaven. Illuminations blazed
every where. Men, the most phlegmatic, met
and embraced each other with tears. The people
of England surrendered themselves to the
most extraordinary transports of ardor. They
loved the French. They adored the hero, the
sage, the great pacificator, who governed France.
The streets of London resounded with shouts,
“Long live Bonaparte.” Every stage-coach
which ran from London, bore triumphant banners,
upon which were inscribed, Peace with
France. The populace of London rushed to the
house of the French negotiator. He had just
entered his carriage to visit Lord Hawkesbury,
to exchange ratifications. The tumultuous throng
of happy men unharnessed his horses and dragged
him in triumph, in the delirium of their joy
rending the skies with their shouts. The crowd
and the rapturous confusion at last became so
great that Lord Vincent, fearing some accident,
placed himself at the head of the amiable mob,[Pg 38]
as it triumphantly escorted and conveyed the
carriage from minister to minister.

A curious circumstance occurred at the festival
in London, highly characteristic of the honest
bluntness, resolution, and good nature of
English seamen. The house of M. Otto, the
French minister, was most brilliantly illuminated.
Attracted by its surpassing splendor a vast crowd
of sailors had gathered around. The word concord
blazed forth most brilliantly in letters of
light. The sailors, not very familiar with the
spelling-book, exclaimed, “Conquered! not so,
by a great deal. That will not do.” Excitement
and dissatisfaction rapidly spread. Violence
was threatened. M. Otto came forward
himself most blandly, but his attempts at explanation
were utterly fruitless. The offensive
word was removed, and amity substituted. The
sailors, fully satisfied with the amende honorable,
gave three cheers and went on their way rejoicing.

In France the exultation was, if possible, still
greater than in England. The admiration of
Napoleon, and the confidence in his wisdom and
his patriotism were perfectly unbounded. No
power was withheld from the First Consul which
he was willing to assume. The nation placed
itself at his feet. All over the Continent Napoleon
received the honorable title of “The Hero
Pacificator of Europe.” And yet there was a
strong under-current to this joy. Napoleon was
the favorite, not of the nobles, but of the people.
Even his acts of despotic authority were most
cordially sustained by the people of France, for
they believed that such acts were essential for
the promotion of their welfare. “The ancient
privileged classes and the foreign cabinets,” said
Napoleon, “hate me worse than they did Robespierre.”
The hosannas with which the name
of Bonaparte was resounding through the cities
and the villages of England fell gloomily upon
the ears of Mr. Pitt and his friends. The freedom
of the seas was opening to the energetic genius
of Napoleon, an unobstructed field for the maritime
aggrandizement of France. The British
minister knew that the sleepless energies of Napoleon
would, as with a magician’s wand, call
fleets into existence to explore all seas. Sorrowfully
he contemplated a peace to which the
popular voice had compelled him to yield, and
which in his judgment boded no good to the
naval superiority of England.

It was agreed that the plenipotentiaries, to settle
the treaty definitively, should meet at Amiens,
an intermediate point midway between London
and Paris. The English appointed as their minister
Lord Cornwallis. The Americans, remembering
this distinguished general at Brandywine,
Camden, and at the surrender of Yorktown,
have been in the habit of regarding him as an
enemy. But he was a gallant soldier, and one
of the most humane, high-minded, and estimable
of men. Frankly he avowed his conviction that
the time had arrived for terminating the miseries
of the world by peace. Napoleon has paid a
noble tribute to the integrity, urbanity, sagacity,[Pg 39]
and unblemished honor of Lord Cornwallis.
Joseph Bonaparte was appointed by the First
Consul embassador on the part of France. The
suavity of his manners, the gentleness of his
disposition, his enlightened and liberal political
views, and the Christian morality which, in those
times of general corruption, embellished his conduct,
peculiarly adapted him to fulfill the duties of
a peace-maker. Among the terms of the treaty
it was agreed that France should abandon her
colony in Egypt, as endangering the English
possessions in India. In point of fact, the French
soldiers had already, by capitulation, agreed to
leave Egypt, but tidings of the surrender had
not then reached England or France. The most
important question in these deliberations was
the possession of the Island of Malta. The
power in possession of that impregnable fortress
had command of the Mediterranean. Napoleon
insisted upon it, as a point important above all
others, that England should not retain Malta.
He was willing to relinquish all claim to it himself,
and to place it in the hands of a neutral
power; but he declared his unalterable determination
that he could by no possibility consent
that it should remain in the hands of England.
At last England yielded, and agreed to evacuate
Malta, and that it should be surrendered to the
Knights of St. John.

This pacification, so renowned in history both
for its establishment and for its sudden and disastrous
rupture, has ever been known by the name
of the Peace of Amiens. Napoleon determined
to celebrate the joyful event by a magnificent
festival. The 10th of November, 1801, was
the appointed day. It was the anniversary of
Napoleon’s attainment of the consular power.
Friendly relations having been thus restored between
the two countries, after so many years
of hostility and carnage, thousands of the English
flocked across the channel and thronged
the pavements of Paris. All were impatient to
see France, thus suddenly emerging from such
gloom into such unparalleled brilliancy; and
especially to see the man, who at that moment
was the admiration of England and of the world.
The joy which pervaded all classes invested this
festival with sublimity. With a delicacy of courtesy
characteristic of the First Consul, no carriages
but those of Lord Cornwallis were allowed
in the streets on that day. The crowd
of Parisians, with most cordial and tumultuous
acclamations, opened before the representative
of the armies of England. The illustrious Fox
was one of the visitors on this occasion. He
was received by Napoleon with the utmost consideration,
and with the most delicate attentions.
In passing through the gallery of sculpture, his
lady pointed his attention to his own statue
filling a niche by the side of Washington and
Brutus. “Fame,” said Napoleon, “had informed
me of the talents of Fox. I soon found that
he possessed a noble character, a good heart,
liberal, generous, and enlightened views. I considered
him an ornament to mankind, and was
much attached to him.” Every one who came[Pg 40]
into direct personal contact with the First Consul
at this time, was charmed with his character.

Nine deputies from Switzerland, the most able
men the republic could furnish, were appointed
to meet Napoleon, respecting the political arrangements
of the Swiss cantons. Punctual to
the hour the First Consul entered a neat spacious
room, where there was a long table covered with
green baize. Dr. Jones of Bristol, the intimate
friend of several of these deputies, and who was
with them in Paris at the time, thus describes
the interview. “The First Consul entered, followed
by two of his ministers, and after the
necessary salutation, sat down at the head of
the table, his ministers on each side of him.
The deputies then took their seats. He spread
out before them a large map as necessary to the
subject of their deliberations. He then requested
that they would state freely any objection
which might occur to them in the plan which
he should propose. They availed themselves
of the liberty, and suggested several alterations
which they deemed advantageous to France and
Switzerland. But from the prompt, clear, and
unanswerable reasons which Napoleon gave in
reply to all their objections, he completely convinced
them of the wisdom of his plans. After
an animated discussion of ten hours, they candidly
admitted that he was better acquainted
with the local circumstances of the Swiss cantons,
and with what would secure their welfare
than they were themselves. During the whole
discussion his ministers did not speak one word.
The deputies afterward declared that it was their
decided opinion that Napoleon was the most extraordinary
man whom they had met in modern
times, or of whom they had read in ancient history.”
Said M. Constant and M. Sismondi, who
both knew Napoleon well, “The quickness of
his conception, the depth of his remarks, the
facility and propriety of his eloquence, and above
all the candor of his replies and his patient silence,
were more remarkable and attractive than
we ever met with in any other individual.”

“What your interests require,” said Napoleon,
at this time, “is: 1. Equality of rights among
the whole eighteen cantons. 2. A sincere and
voluntary renunciation of all exclusive privileges
on the part of patrician families. 3. A federative
organization, where every canton may find itself
arranged according to its language, its religion,
its manners, and its interests. The central government
remains to be provided for, but it is of
much less consequence than the central organization.
Situated on the summit of the mountains
which separate France, Italy, and Germany,
you participate in the disposition of all these
countries. You have never maintained regular
armies, nor had established, accredited agents at
the courts of the different governments. Strict
neutrality, a prosperous commerce, and family
administration, can alone secure your interests,
or be suited to your wishes. Every organization
which could be established among you, hostile
to the interests of France, would injure you in
the most essential particulars.” This was commending[Pg 41]
to them a federative organization similar
to that of the United States, and cautioning
them against the evil of a centralization of power.
No impartial man can deny that the most profound
wisdom marked the principles which Napoleon
suggested to terminate the divisions with
which the cantons of Switzerland had long been
agitated. “These lenient conditions,” says Alison,
“gave universal satisfaction in Switzerland.”
The following extract from the noble
speech which Napoleon pronounced on the formation
of the constitution of the confederacy,
will be read by many with surprise, by all with
interest.

“The re-establishment of the ancient order
of things in the democratic cantons is the best
course which can be adopted, both for you and
me. They are the states whose peculiar form
of government render them so interesting in the
eyes of all Europe. But for this pure democracy
you would exhibit nothing which is not to be
found elsewhere. Beware of extinguishing so
remarkable a distinction. I know well that this
democratic system of administration has many
inconveniences. But it is established. It has
existed for centuries. It springs from the circumstances,
situation, and primitive habits of
the people, from the genius of the place, and can
not with safety be abandoned. You must never
take away from a democratic society the practical
exercise of its privileges. To give such
exercise a direction consistent with the tranquillity
of the state is the part of true political
wisdom. In ancient Rome the votes were counted
by classes, and they threw into the last class
the whole body of indigent citizens, while the
first contained only a few hundred of the most
opulent. But the populace were content, and,
amused with the solicitation of their votes, did
not perceive the immense difference in their relative
value.” The moral influence which France
thus obtained in Switzerland was regarded with
extreme jealousy by all the rival powers. Says
Alison, who, though imbued most strongly with
monarchical and aristocratic predilections, is the
most appreciative and impartial of the historians
of Napoleon, “His conduct and language on this
occasion, were distinguished by his usual penetration
and ability, and a most unusual degree
of lenity and forbearance. And if any thing
could have reconciled the Swiss to the loss of
their independence, it must have been the wisdom
and equity on which his mediation was
founded.”

The English who visited Paris, were astonished
at the indications of prosperity which the
metropolis exhibited. They found France in a
very different condition from the hideous picture
which had been described by the London journals.
But there were two parties in England.
Pitt and his friends submitted with extreme reluctance
to a peace which they could not avoid.
Says Alison, “But while these were the natural
feelings of the inconsiderate populace, who are
ever governed by present impressions, and who
were for the most part destitute of the information[Pg 42]
requisite to form a rational opinion on the
subject, there were many men, gifted with greater
sagacity and foresight, who deeply lamented the
conditions by which peace had been purchased,
and from the very first prophesied that it could
be of no long endurance. They observed that
the war had been abruptly terminated, without
any one object being gained for which it was
undertaken; that it was entered into in order
to curb the ambition, and to stop the democratic
propagandism of France.” These “many men
gifted with greater sagacity,” with William Pitt
at their head, now employed themselves with
sleepless vigilance and with fatal success to
bring to a rupture a peace which they deemed
so untoward. Sir Walter Scott discloses the
feelings with which this party were actuated, in
the observations, “It seems more than probable
that the extreme rejoicing of the rabble of London,
at signing the preliminaries, their dragging
about the carriage of Lauriston, and shouting
‘Bonaparte forever,’ had misled the ruler of
France into an opinion that peace was indispensably
necessary to England. He may easily
enough have mistaken the cries of a London
mob for the voice of the British people.”

In the midst of all these cares, Napoleon was
making strenuous efforts to restore religion to
France. It required great moral courage to prosecute
such a movement. Nearly all the generals
in his armies were rank infidels, regarding every
form of religion with utter contempt. The religious
element, by nature, predominated in the
bosom of Napoleon. He was constitutionally
serious, thoughtful, pensive. A profound melancholy
ever overshadowed his reflective spirit.
His inquisitive mind pondered the mysteries of
the past and the uncertainties of the future.
Educated in a wild country, where the peasantry
were imbued with religious feelings, and having
been trained by a pious mother, whose venerable
character he never ceased to adore, the sight of
the hallowed rites of religion revived in his sensitive
and exalted imagination the deepest impressions
of his childhood. He had carefully
studied, on his return from Egypt, the New Testament,
and appreciated and profoundly admired
its beautiful morality. He often conversed with
Monge, Lagrange, Laplace, sages whom he honored
and loved, and he frequently embarrassed
them in their incredulity, by the logical clearness
of his arguments. The witticisms of Voltaire,
and the corruptions of unbridled sin, had
rendered the purity of the gospel unpalatable to
France. Talleyrand, annoyed by the remembrance
of his own apostasy, bitterly opposed what
he called “the religious peace.” Nearly all the
supporters and friends of the First Consul condemned
every effort to bring back that which
they denominated the reign of superstition. Napoleon
honestly believed that the interests of
France demanded that God should be recognized
and Christianity respected by the French nation.

“Hear me,” said Napoleon one day earnestly
to Monge. “I do not maintain these opinions
through the positiveness of a devotee, but from[Pg 43]
reason. My religion is very simple. I look at
this universe, so vast, so complex, so magnificent,
and I say to myself that it can not be the
result of chance, but the work, however intended,
of an unknown, omnipotent being, as superior
to man as the universe is superior to the finest
machines of human invention. Search the philosophers,
and you will not find a more decisive
argument, and you can not weaken it. But this
truth is too succinct for man. He wishes to
know, respecting himself and respecting his future
destiny, a crowd of secrets which the universe
does not disclose. Allow religion to inform
him of that which he feels the need of knowing,
and respect her disclosures.”

One day when this matter was under earnest
discussion in the council of state, Napoleon said,
“Last evening I was walking alone, in the
woods, amid the solitude of nature. The tones
of a distant church bell fell upon my ear. Involuntarily
I felt deep emotion. So powerful is
the influence of early habits and associations. I
said to myself, If I feel thus, what must be the
influence of such impressions upon the popular
mind? Let your philosophers answer that, if
they can. It is absolutely indispensable to have
a religion for the people. It will be said that I
am a Papist. I am not. I am convinced that a
part of France would become Protestant, were I
to favor that disposition. I am also certain that
the much greater portion would continue Catholic;
and that they would oppose, with the greatest
zeal, the division among their fellow-citizens.
We should then have the Huguenot wars over
again, and interminable conflicts. But by reviving
a religion which has always prevailed in the
country, and by giving perfect liberty of conscience
to the minority, all will be satisfied.”

On another occasion he remarked, “What
renders me most hostile to the establishment of
the Catholic worship, are the numerous festivals
formerly observed. A saint’s-day is a day of
idleness, and I do not wish for that. People must
labor in order to live. I shall consent to four
holidays during the year, but to no more. If the
gentlemen from Rome are not satisfied with that,
they may take their departure.” The loss of time
appeared to him such a calamity, that he almost
invariably appointed any indispensable celebration
upon some day previously devoted to festivity.

The new pontiff was attached to Napoleon by
the secret chain of mutual sympathy. They had
met, as we have before remarked, during the
wars of Italy. Pius VII., then the bishop of
Imola, was surprised and delighted in finding in
the young republican general, whose fame was
filling Europe, a man of refinement, of exalted
genius, of reflection, of serious character, of unblemished
purity of life, and of delicate sensibilities,
restraining the irreligious propensities of
his soldiers, and respecting the temples of religion.
With classic purity and eloquence he
spoke the Italian language. The dignity and
decorum of his manners, and his love of order,
were strangely contrasted with the recklessness[Pg 44]
of the ferocious soldiers with whom he was surrounded.
The impression thus produced upon
the heart of the pontiff was never effaced. Justice
and generosity are always politic. But he
must indeed be influenced by an ignoble spirit
who hence infers, that every act of magnanimity
is dictated by policy. A legate was sent by the
Pope to Paris. “Let the holy father,” said Napoleon,
“put the utmost confidence in me. Let
him cast himself into my arms, and I will be for
the church another Charlemagne.”

Napoleon had collected for himself a religious
library of well chosen books, relating to the organization
and the history of the church, and to
the relations of church and state. He had ordered
the Latin writings of Bossuet to be translated
for him. These works he had devoured in those
short intervals which he could glean from the
cares of government. His genius enabled him,
at a glance, to master the argument of an author,
to detect any existing sophistry. His memory,
almost miraculously retentive, and the philosophical
cast of his mind, gave him at all times the
perfect command of these treasures of knowledge.
He astonished the world by the accuracy,
extent, and variety of his information upon all
points of religion. It was his custom, when
deeply interested in any subject, to discuss it
with all persons from whom he could obtain information.
With clear, decisive, and cogent arguments
he advocated his own views, and refuted
the erroneous systems successively proposed to
him. It was urged upon Napoleon, that if he
must have a church, he should establish a French
church, independent of that of Rome. The poetic
element was too strong in the character of Napoleon
for such a thought. “What!” he exclaimed,
“shall I, a warrior, wearing sword and
spurs, and doing battle, attempt to become the
head of a church, and to regulate church discipline
and doctrine. I wish to be the pacificator
of France and of the world, and shall I become
the originator of a new schism, a little more absurd
and not less dangerous than the preceding
ones. I must have a Pope, and a Pope who will
approximate men’s minds to each other, instead
of creating divisions; who will reunite them,
and give them to the government sprung from
the revolution, as a price for the protection that
he shall have obtained from it. For this purpose
I must have the true Pope, the Catholic, Apostolic,
and Roman Pope, whose seat is at the
Vatican. With the French armies and some
deference, I shall always be sufficiently his master.
When I shall raise up the altars again, when
I shall protect the priests, when I shall feed them,
and treat them as ministers of religion deserve
to be treated in every country, he will do what
I ask of him, through the interest he will have
in the general tranquillity. He will calm men’s
minds, reunite them under his hand, and place
them under mine. Short of this there is only a
continuation and an aggravation of the desolating
schism which is preying on us, and for me an
immense and indelible ridicule.”

The Pope’s legate most strenuously urged[Pg 45]
some of the most arrogant and exclusive assumptions
of the papal church. “The French people
must be allured back to religion,” said Napoleon,
“not shocked. To declare the Catholic religion
the religion of the state is impossible. It is contrary
to the ideas prevalent in France, and will
never be admitted. In place of this declaration
we can only substitute the avowal of the fact,
that the Catholic religion is the religion of the majority
of Frenchmen. But there must be perfect
freedom of opinion. The amalgamation of wise
and honest men of all parties is the principle of
my government. I must apply that principle to
the church as well as to the state. It is the only
way of putting an end to the troubles of France,
and I shall persist in it undeviatingly.”

Napoleon was overjoyed at the prospect, not
only of a general peace with Europe, but of religious
peace in France. In all the rural districts,
the inhabitants longed for their churches and
their pastors, and for the rites of religion. In the
time of the Directory, a famous wooden image
of the Virgin had been taken from the church at
Loretto, and was deposited in one of the museums
of Paris, as a curiosity. The sincere Catholics
were deeply wounded and irritated by this act,
which to them appeared so sacrilegious. Great
joy was caused both in France and Italy, when
Napoleon sent a courier to the Pope, restoring
this statue, which was regarded with very peculiar
veneration. The same embassador carried the
terms of agreement for peace with the church.
This religious treaty with Rome was called “The
Concordat.” The Pope, in secular power, was
helpless. Napoleon could, at any moment, pour
a resistless swarm of troops into his territories.
As the French embassador left the Tuileries, he
asked the First Consul for his instructions. “Treat
the Pope,” said Napoleon, magnanimously, “as
if he had two hundred thousand soldiers.” The
difficulties in the way of an amicable arrangement
were innumerable. The army of France
was thoroughly infidel. Most of the leading
generals and statesmen who surrounded Napoleon,
contemplated Christianity in every aspect
with hatred and scorn. On the other hand, the
Catholic Church, uninstructed by misfortune,
was not disposed to abate in the least its arrogant
demands, and was clamorous for concessions
which even Napoleon had not power to
confer. It required all the wisdom, forbearance,
and tact of the First Consul to accomplish this
reconciliation. Joseph Bonaparte, the accomplished
gentleman, the sincere, urbane, sagacious,
upright man, was Napoleon’s corps de reserve in
all diplomatic acts. The preliminaries being
finally adjusted, the Pope’s legation met at the
house of Joseph Bonaparte, and on the 15th of
July, 1801, this great act was signed. Napoleon
announced the event to the Council of State.
He addressed them in a speech an hour and a
half in length, and all were struck with the precision,
the vigor, and the loftiness of his language.
By universal consent his speech was
pronounced to be eloquent in the highest degree.
But those philosophers, who regarded it as the[Pg 46]
great glory of the revolution, that all superstition,
by which they meant all religion, was swept
away, in sullen silence yielded to a power which
they could not resist. The people, the millions
of France, were with Napoleon.

The following liberal and noble sentiments
were uttered in the proclamation by which Napoleon
announced the Concordat to the French
people: “An insane policy has sought, during
the revolution, to smother religious dissensions
under the ruins of the altar, under the ashes of
religion itself. At its voice all those pious solemnities
ceased, in which the citizens called
each other by the endearing name of brothers,
and acknowledged their common equality in the
sight of Heaven. The dying, left alone in his
agonies, no longer heard that consoling voice,
which calls the Christian to a better world. God
Himself seemed exiled from the face of nature.
Ministers of the religion of peace, let a complete
oblivion vail over your dissensions, your misfortunes,
your faults. Let the religion which
unites you, bind you by indissoluble cords to the
interests of your country. Let the young learn
from your precepts, that the God of Peace is also
the God of Arms, and that He throws his shield
over those who combat for the liberties of France.
Citizens of the Protestant Faith, the law has
equally extended its solicitude to your interests.
Let the morality, so pure, so holy, so brotherly,
which you profess, unite you all in love to your
country, and in respect for its laws; and, above
all, never permit disputes on doctrinal points to
weaken that universal charity which religion at
once inculcates and commands.”

To foreign nations the spectacle of France,
thus voluntarily returning to the Christian faith,
was gratifying in the highest degree. It seemed
to them the pledge of peace and the harbinger of
tranquillity. The Emperor of Russia, and the
King of Prussia publicly expressed their joy at
the auspicious event. The Emperor of Austria
styled it “a service truly rendered to all Europe.”
The serious and devout, in all lands, considered
the voluntary return of the French people to
religion, from the impossibility of living without
its precepts, as one of the most signal triumphs
of the Christian faith.

On the 11th of April, 1802, the event was
celebrated by a magnificent religious ceremony
in the cathedral of Nôtre Dame. No expense
was spared to invest the festivity with the utmost
splendor. Though many of the generals and
the high authorities of the State were extremely
reluctant to participate in the solemnities of the
occasion, the power and the popularity of the
First Consul were so great, that they dared not
make any resistance. The cathedral was crowded
with splendor. The versatile populace, ever
delighted with change and with shows, were
overjoyed. General Rapp, however, positively
refused to attend the ceremony. With the
bluntness of a soldier, conscious that his well-known
devotion to the First Consul would procure
for him impunity, he said, “I shall not attend.
But if you do not make these priests your[Pg 47]
aids or your cooks, you may do with them as you
please.”

As Napoleon was making preparations to go
to the cathedral, Cambaceres entered his apartment.

“Well,” said the First Consul, rubbing his
hands in the glow of his gratification, “we go to
church this morning. What say they to that in
Paris?”

“Many persons,” replied Cambaceres, “propose
to attend the first representation in order
to hiss the piece, should they not find it amusing.”

“If any one,” Napoleon firmly replied, “takes
it into his head to hiss, I shall put him out of the
door by the grenadiers of the consular guard.”

“But what if the grenadiers themselves,”
Cambaceres rejoined, “should take to hissing,
like the rest?”

“As to that I have no fear,” said Napoleon.
“My old mustaches will go here to Notre Dame,
just as at Cairo, they would have gone to the
mosque. They will remark how I do, and seeing
their general grave and decent, they will be
so, too, passing the watchword to each other,
Decency.”

“What did you think of the ceremony?” inquired
Napoleon of General Delmas, who stood
near him, when it was concluded. “It was a
fine piece of mummery,” he replied; “nothing
was wanting but the million of men who have
perished to destroy that which you have now re-established.”
Some of the priests, encouraged
by this triumphant restoration of Christianity,
began to assume not a little arrogance. A celebrated
opera dancer died, not in the faith. The
priest of St. Roche refused to receive the body
into the church, or to celebrate over it the rites
of interment. The next day Napoleon caused
the following article to be inserted in the Moniteur.
“The curate of St. Roche, in a moment
of hallucination, has refused the rites of burial
to Mademoiselle Cameroi. One of his colleagues,
a man of sense, received the procession into the
church of St. Thomas, where the burial service
was performed with the usual solemnities. The
archbishop of Paris has suspended the curate of
St. Roche for three months, to give him time to
recollect that Jesus Christ commanded us to pray
even for our enemies. Being thus recalled by
meditation to a proper sense of his duties, he
may learn that all these superstitious observances,
the offspring of an age of credulity or of crazed
imaginations, tend only to the discredit of true
religion, and have been proscribed by the recent
concordat of the French Church.” The most
strenuous exertions were made by the clergy to
induce Napoleon publicly to partake of the sacrament
of the Lord’s Supper. It was thought that
his high example would be very influential upon
others. Napoleon nobly replied, “I have not
sufficient faith in the ordinance to be benefited
by its reception; and I have too much faith in
it to allow me to be guilty of sacrilege. We are
well as we are. Do not ask me to go farther.
You will never obtain what you wish. I will[Pg 48]
not become a hypocrite. Be content with what
you have already gained.”

It is difficult to describe the undisguised delight
with which the peasants all over France
again heard the ringing of the church-bells upon
the Sabbath morning, and witnessed the opening
of the church-doors, the assembling of the congregations
with smiles and congratulations, and
the repose of the Sabbath. Mr. Fox, in conversation
with Napoleon, after the peace of
Amiens, ventured to blame him for not having
authorized the marriage of priests in France.
“I then had,” said Napoleon, in his nervous
eloquence, “need to pacify. It is with water
and not with oil that you must extinguish theological
volcanoes. I should have had less difficulty
in establishing the Protestant religion in
my empire.”

The magistrates of Paris, grateful for the inestimable
blessings which Napoleon had conferred
upon France, requested him to accept the
project of a triumphal monument to be erected
in his honor at a cost of one hundred thousand
dollars. Napoleon gave the following reply. “I
view with grateful acknowledgments those sentiments
which actuate the magistrates of the city
of Paris. The idea of dedicating monumental
trophies to those men who have rendered themselves
useful to the community is a praiseworthy
action in all nations. I accept the offer of the
monument which you desire to dedicate to me.
Let the spot be designated. But leave the labor
of constructing it to future generations, should
they think fit thus to sanction the estimate which
you place upon my services.”

There was an indescribable fascination about
the character of Napoleon, which no other man
ever possessed, and which all felt who entered
his presence. Some military officers of high
rank, on one occasion, in these days of his early
power, agreed to go and remonstrate with him
upon some subject which had given them offense.
One of the party thus describes the interview.

“I do not know whence it arises, but there is
a charm about that man, which is indescribable
and irresistible. I am no admirer of him. I
dislike the power to which he has risen. Yet I
can not help confessing that there is a something
in him, which seems to speak that he is born to
command. We went into his apartment determined
to declare our minds to him very freely;
to expostulate with him warmly, and not to depart
till our subjects of complaint were removed.
But in his manner of receiving us, there was a
certain something, a degree of fascination, which
disarmed us in a moment; nor could we utter
one word of what we had intended to say. He
talked to us for a long time, with an eloquence
peculiarly his own, explaining, with the utmost
clearness and precision, the necessity for steadily
pursuing the line of conduct he had adopted.
Without contradicting us in direct terms, he
controverted our opinions so ably, that we had
not a word to say in reply. We left him, having
done nothing else but listen to him, instead
of expostulating with him; and fully convinced,[Pg 49]
at least for the moment, that he was in the right,
and that we were in the wrong.”

The merchants of Rouen experienced a similar
fascination, when they called to remonstrate
against some commercial regulations which Napoleon
had introduced. They were so entirely
disarmed by his frankness, his sincerity, and
were so deeply impressed by the extent and the
depth of his views, that they retired, saying,
“The First Consul understands our interests
far better than we do ourselves.” “The man,”
says Lady Morgan, “who, at the head of a vast
empire, could plan great and lasting works, conquer
nations, and yet talk astronomy with La
Place, tragedy with Talma, music with Cherubini,
painting with Gerrard, vertu with Denon,
and literature and science with any one who
would listen to him, was certainly out of the roll
of common men.”

Napoleon now exerted all his energies for the
elevation of France. He sought out and encouraged
talent wherever it could be found. No
merit escaped his princely munificence. Authors,
artists, men of science were loaded with honors
and emoluments. He devoted most earnest attention
to the education of youth. The navy,
commerce, agriculture, manufactures, and all
mechanic arts, secured his assiduous care. He
labored to the utmost, and with a moral courage
above all praise, to discountenance whatever was
loose in morals, or enervating or unmanly in
amusements or taste. The theatre was the most
popular source of entertainment in France. He
frowned upon all frivolous and immodest performances,
and encouraged those only which
were moral, grave, and dignified. In the grandeur
of tragedy alone he took pleasure. In his
private deportment he exhibited the example of
a moral, simple, and toilsome life. Among the
forty millions of France, there was not to be
found a more temperate and laborious man.
When nights of labor succeeded days of toil, his
only stimulus was lemonade. He loved his own
family and friends, and was loved by them with
a fervor which soared into the regions of devotion.
Never before did mortal man secure such
love. Thousands were ready at any moment to
lay down their lives through their affection for
him. And that mysterious charm was so strong
that it has survived his death. Thousands now
live who would brave death in any form from
love for Napoleon.

PECULIAR HABITS OF DISTINGUISHED AUTHORS.

Among the curious facts which we find in
perusing the biographies of great men, are
the circumstances connected with the composition
of the works which have made them immortal.

For instance, Bossuet composed his grand
sermons on his knees; Bulwer wrote his first
novels in full dress, scented; Milton, before
commencing his great work, invoked the influence
of the Holy Spirit, and prayed that his lips
might be touched with a live coal from off the[Pg 50]
altar; Chrysostom meditated and studied while
contemplating a painting of Saint Paul.

Bacon knelt down before composing his great
work, and prayed for light from Heaven. Pope
never could compose well without first declaiming
for some time at the top of his voice, and
thus rousing his nervous system to its fullest
activity.

Bentham composed after playing a prelude
on the organ, or while taking his “ante-jentacular”
and “post-prandial” walks in his garden—the
same, by the way, that Milton occupied.
Saint Bernard composed his Meditations amidst
the woods; he delighted in nothing so much as
the solitude of the dense forest, finding there,
he said, something more profound and suggestive
than any thing he could find in books. The
storm would sometimes fall upon him there,
without for a moment interrupting his meditations.
Camoens composed his verses with the
roar of battle in his ears; for, the Portuguese
poet was a soldier, and a brave one, though a
poet. He composed others of his most beautiful
verses, at the time when his Indian slave
was begging a subsistence for him in the streets.
Tasso wrote his finest pieces in the lucid intervals
of madness.

Rousseau wrote his works early in the morning;
Le Sage at mid-day; Byron at midnight.
Hardouin rose at four in the morning, and wrote
till late at night. Aristotle was a tremendous
worker; he took little sleep, and was constantly
retrenching it. He had a contrivance by which
he awoke early, and to awake was with him to
commence work. Demosthenes passed three
months in a cavern by the sea-side, in laboring
to overcome the defects of his voice. There he
read, studied, and declaimed.

Rabelais composed his Life of Gargantua at
Bellay, in the company of Roman cardinals, and
under the eyes of the Bishop of Paris. La Fontaine
wrote his fables chiefly under the shade
of a tree, and sometimes by the side of Racine
and Boileau. Pascal wrote most of his Thoughts
on little scraps of paper, at his by-moments.
Fenelon wrote his Telemachus in the palace of
Versailles, at the court of the Grand Monarque,
when discharging the duties of tutor to the
Dauphin. That a book so thoroughly democratic
should have issued from such a source,
and been written by a priest, may seem surprising.
De Quesnay first promulgated his notion
of universal freedom of person and trade,
and of throwing all taxes on the land—the germ,
perhaps, of the French Revolution—in the boudoir
of Madame de Pompadour!

Luther, when studying, always had his dog
lying at his feet—a dog he had brought from
Wartburg, and of which he was very fond. An
ivory crucifix stood on the table before him, and
the walls of his study were stuck round with
caricatures of the Pope. He worked at his desk
for days together without going out; but when
fatigued, and the ideas began to stagnate in his
brain, he would take his flute or his guitar with
him into the porch, and there execute some musical[Pg 51]
fantasy (for he was a skillful musician),
when the ideas would flow upon him again as
fresh as flowers after summer’s rain. Music
was his invariable solace at such times. Indeed
Luther did not hesitate to say, that after theology,
music was the first of arts. “Music,” said
he, “is the art of the prophets; it is the only
other art, which, like theology, can calm the
agitation of the soul, and put the devil to flight.”
Next to music, if not before it, Luther loved
children and flowers. That great gnarled man
had a heart as tender as a woman’s.

Calvin studied in his bed. Every morning at
five or six o’clock, he had books, manuscripts,
and papers, carried to him there, and he worked
on for hours together. If he had occasion to go
out, on his return he undressed and went to bed
again to continue his studies. In his later years
he dictated his writings to secretaries. He rarely
corrected any thing. The sentences issued
complete from his mouth. If he felt his facility
of composition leaving him, he forthwith quitted
his bed, gave up writing and composing, and
went about his out-door duties for days, weeks,
and months together. But so soon as he felt
the inspiration fall upon him again, he went
back to his bed, and his secretary set to work
forthwith.

Cujas, another learned man, used to study
when laid all his length upon the carpet, his
face toward the floor, and there he reveled amidst
piles of books which accumulated about him.
The learned Amyot never studied without the
harpsichord beside him; and he only quitted the
pen to play it. Bentham, also, was extremely
fond of the piano-forte, and had one in nearly
every room in his house.

Richelieu amused himself in the intervals of
his labor, with a squadron of cats, of whom he
was very fond. He used to go to bed at eleven
at night, and after sleeping three hours, rise and
write, dictate or work, till from six to eight
o’clock in the morning, when his daily levee
was held. This worthy student displayed an
extravagance equaling that of Wolsey. His
annual expenditure was some four millions of
francs, or about £170,000 sterling!

How different the fastidious temperance of
Milton! He drank water and lived on the humblest
fare. In his youth he studied during the
greatest part of the night; but in his more advanced
years he went early to bed—by nine
o’clock—rising to his studies at four in summer
and five in winter. He studied till mid-day;
then he took an hour’s exercise, and after dinner
he sang and played the organ, or listened to
others’ music. He studied again till six, and
from that hour till eight he engaged in conversation
with friends who came to see him. Then he
supped, smoked a pipe of tobacco, drank a glass
of water, and went to bed. Glorious visions
came to him in the night, for it was then, while
lying on his couch, that he composed in thought
the greater part of his sublime poem. Sometimes
when the fit of composition came strong
upon him, he would summon his daughter to[Pg 52]
his side, to commit to paper that which he had
composed.

Milton was of opinion that the verses composed
by him between the autumnal and spring
equinoxes were always the best, and he was
never satisfied with the verses he had written
at any other season. Alfieri, on the contrary,
said that the equinoctial winds produced a state
of almost “complete stupidity” in him. Like
the nightingales he could only sing in summer.
It was his favorite season.

Pierre Corneille, in his loftiest flights of imagination,
was often brought to a stand-still for
want of words and rhyme. Thoughts were
seething in his brain, which he vainly tried to
reduce to order, and he would often run to his
brother Thomas “for a word.” Thomas rarely
failed him. Sometimes, in his fits of inspiration,
he would bandage his eyes, throw himself
on a sofa, and dictate to his wife, who almost
worshiped his genius. Thus he would pass
whole days, dictating to her his great tragedies;
his wife scarcely venturing to speak, almost
afraid to breathe. Afterward, when a tragedy
was finished, he would call in his sister Martha,
and submit it to her judgment; as Moliere used
to consult his old housekeeper about the comedies
he had newly written.

Racine composed his verses while walking
about, reciting them in a loud voice. One day,
when thus working at his play of Mithridates,
in the Tuileries Gardens, a crowd of workmen
gathered around him, attracted by his gestures;
they took him to be a madman about to throw
himself into the basin. On his return home
from such walks, he would write down scene
by scene, at first in prose, and when he had
thus written it out, he would exclaim, “My
tragedy is done,” considering the dressing of
the acts up in verse as a very small affair.

Magliabecchi, the learned librarian to the
Duke of Tuscany, on the contrary, never stirred
abroad, but lived amidst books, and almost lived
upon books. They were his bed, board, and
washing. He passed eight-and-forty years in
their midst, only twice in the course of his life
venturing beyond the walls of Florence; once
to go two leagues off, and the other time three
and a half leagues, by order of the Grand Duke.
He was an extremely frugal man, living upon
eggs, bread, and water, in great moderation.

The life of Liebnitz was one of reading, writing,
and meditation. That was the secret of his
prodigious knowledge. After an attack of gout,
he confined himself to a diet of bread and milk.
Often he slept in a chair; and rarely went to
bed till after midnight. Sometimes he was
months without quitting his seat, where he
slept by night and wrote by day. He had an
ulcer in his right leg which prevented his walking
about, even had he wished to do so.

The chamber in which Montesquieu wrote his
Spirit of the Laws, is still shown at his old ancestral
mansion; hung about with its old tapestry
and curtains; and the old easy chair in which the
philosopher sat is still sacredly preserved there.[Pg 53]
The chimney-jamb bears the mark of his foot,
where he used to rest upon it, his legs crossed,
when composing his books. His Persian Letters
were composed merely for pastime, and were
never intended for publication. The principles
of Laws occupied his life. In the study of these
he spent twenty years, losing health and eye-sight
in the pursuit. As in the case of Milton,
his daughter read for him, and acted as his secretary.
In his Portrait of himself, he said—”I
awake in the morning rejoiced at the sight of
day. I see the sun with a kind of ecstasy, and
for the rest of the day I am content. I pass the
night without waking, and in the evening when
I go to bed, a kind of numbness prevents me indulging
in reflections. With me, study has been
the sovereign remedy against disgust of life,
having never had any vexation which an hour’s
reading has not dissipated. But I have the disease
of making books, and of being ashamed
when I have made them.”

Rousseau had the greatest difficulty in composing
his works, being extremely defective in
the gift of memory. He could never learn six
verses by heart. In his Confessions he says—”I
studied and meditated in bed, forming sentences
with inconceivable difficulty; then, when I
thought I had got them into shape, I would rise
to put them on paper. But lo! I often entirely
forgot them during the process of dressing!”
He would then walk abroad to refresh himself by
the aspect of nature, and under its influence his
most successful writings were composed. He
was always leaving books which he carried about
with him at the foot of trees, or by the margin of
fountains. He sometimes wrote his books over
from beginning to end, four or five times, before
giving them to the press. Some of his sentences
cost him four or five nights’ study. He thought
with difficulty, and wrote with still greater. It
is astonishing that, with such a kind of intellect,
he should have been able to do so much.

The summer study of the famous Buffon, at
Montbar, is still shown, just as he left it. It is
a little room in a pavilion, reached by mounting
a ladder, through a green door with two folds.
The place looks simplicity itself. The apartment
is vaulted like some old chapel, and the
walls are painted green. The floor is paved with
tiles. A writing-table of plain wood stands in
the centre, and before it is an easy chair. That
is all! The place was the summer study of
Buffon. In winter, he had a warmer room within
his house, where he wrote his Natural History.
There, on his desk, his pen still lies, and by the
side of it, on his easy chair, his red dressing-gown
and cap of gray silk. On the wall near to
where he sat, hangs an engraved portrait of Newton.
There, and in his garden cabinet, he spent
many years of his life, studying and writing
books. He studied his work entitled Epoques de
la Nature for fifty years, and wrote it over eighteen
times before publishing it! What would our galloping
authors say to that?

Buffon used to work on pages of five distinct
columns, like a ledger. In the first column he[Pg 54]
wrote out the first draught; in the second he
corrected, added, pruned, and improved; thus
proceeding until he had reached the fifth column,
in which he finally wrote out the result of his
labor. But this was not all. He would sometimes
re-write a sentence twenty times, and was
once fourteen hours in finding the proper word
for the turning of a period! Buffon knew nearly
all his works by heart.

On the contrary, Cuvier never re-copied what
he had once written. He composed with great
rapidity, correctness, and precision. His mind
was always in complete order, and his memory
was exact and extensive.

Some writers have been prodigiously laborious
in the composition of their works. Cæsar
had, of course, an immense multiplicity of business,
as a general, to get through; but he had
always a secretary by his side, even when on
horseback, to whom he dictated; and often he
occupied two or three secretaries at once. His
famous Commentaries are said to have been composed
mostly on horseback.

Seneca was very laborious. “I have not a
single idle day,” said he, describing his life,
“and I give a part of every night to study. I
do not give myself up to sleep, but succumb to
it. I have separated myself from society, and
renounced all the distractions of life.” With
many of these old heathens, study was their religion.

Pliny the Elder read two thousand volumes in
the composition of his Natural History. How to
find time for this? He managed it by devoting
his days to business and his nights to study. He
had books read to him while he was at meals;
and he read no book without making extracts.
His nephew, Pliny the Younger, has given a
highly interesting account of the intimate and
daily life of his uncle.

Origen employed seven writers while composing
his Commentaries, who committed to paper
what he dictated to them by turns. He was so
indefatigable in writing that they gave him the
name of Brass Bowels! Like Philip de Comines,
Sully used to dictate to four secretaries at a time,
without difficulty.

Bossuet left fifty volumes of writings behind
him, the result of unintermitting labor. The pen
rarely quitted his fingers. Writing became habitual
to him, and he even chose it as a relaxation.
A night-lamp was constantly lit beside him, and
he would rise at all hours to resume his meditations.
He rose at about four o’clock in the
morning during summer and winter, wrapped
himself in his loose dress of bear’s skin, and set
to work. He worked on for hours, until he felt
fatigued, and then went to bed again, falling
asleep at once. This life he led for more than
twenty years. As he grew older, and became
disabled for hard work, he began translating the
Psalms into verse, to pass time. In the intervals
of fatigue and pain, he read and corrected
his former works.

Some writers composed with great rapidity,
others slowly and with difficulty. Byron said of[Pg 55]
himself, that though he felt driven to write, and
he was in a state of torture until he had fairly
delivered himself of what he had to say, yet that
writing never gave him any pleasure, but was
felt to be a severe labor. Scott, on the contrary,
possessed the most extraordinary facility; and
dashed off a great novel of three volumes in about
the same number of weeks.

“I have written Catiline in eight days,” said
Voltaire; “and I immediately commenced the
Henriade.” Voltaire was a most impatient writer,
and usually had the first half of a work set
up in type before the second half was written.
He always had several works in the course of
composition at the same time. His manner of
preparing a work was peculiar. He had his first
sketch of a tragedy set up in type, and then rewrote
it from the proofs. Balzac adopted the
same plan. The printed form enabled them to
introduce effects, and correct errors more easily.

Pascal wrote most of his thoughts on little
scraps of paper, at his by-moments of leisure.
He produced them with immense rapidity. He
wrote in a kind of contracted language—like
short hand—impossible to read, except by those
who had studied it. It resembled the impatient
and fiery scratches of Napoleon; yet, though
half-formed, the characters have the firmness
and precision of the graver. Some one observed
to Faguere (Pascal’s editor), “This work (deciphering
it) must be very fatiguing to the eyes.”
“No,” said he, “it is not the eyes that are fatigued,
so much as the brain.”

Many authors have been distinguished for the
fastidiousness of their composition—never resting
satisfied, but correcting and re-correcting to
the last moment. Cicero spent his old age in
correcting his orations; Massillon in polishing
his sermons; Fenelon corrected his Telemachus
seven times over.

Of thirty verses which Virgil wrote in the
morning, there were only ten left at night. Milton
often cut down forty verses to twenty. Buffon
would condense six pages into as many paragraphs.
Montaigne, instead of cutting down,
amplified and added to his first sketch. Boileau
had great difficulty in making his verses. He
said—”If I write four words, I erase three of
them;” and at another time—”I sometimes hunt
three hours for a rhyme!”

Some authors were never satisfied with their
work. Virgil ordered his Æneid to be burnt.
Voltaire cast his poem of The League into the
fire. Racine and Scott could not bear to read
their productions again. Michael Angelo was
always dissatisfied; he found faults in his greatest
and most admired works.

Many of the most admired writings were never
intended by their authors for publication. Fenelon,
when he wrote Telemachus, had no intention
of publishing it. Voltaire’s Correspondence
was never intended for publication, and yet it is
perused with avidity; whereas his Henriade, so
often corrected by him, is scarcely read. Madame
de Sevigní, in writing to her daughter those
fascinating letters descriptive of the life of the[Pg 56]
French Court, never had any idea of their publication,
or that they would be cited as models of
composition and style. What work of Johnson’s
is best known? Is it not that by Boswell, which
contains the great philosopher’s conversation?—that
which he never intended should come to
light, and for which we have to thank Bozzy.

There is a great difference in the sensitiveness
of authors to criticism. Sir Walter Scott
passed thirteen years without reading what the
critics or reviewers said of his writings; while
Byron was sensitive to an excess about what
was said of him. It was the reviewers who stung
him into his first work of genius—English Bards
and Scotch Reviewers. Racine was very sensitive
to criticism; and poor Keats was “snuffed
out by an article.” Moliere was thrown into a
great rage when his plays were badly acted.
One day, after Tartuffe had been played, an actor
found him stamping about as if mad, and beating
his head, crying—”Ah! dog! Ah! butcher!”
On being asked what was the matter, he replied—”Don’t
be surprised at my emotion! I have
just been seeing an actor falsely and execrably
declaiming my piece; and I can not see my children
maltreated in this horrid way, without suffering
the tortures of the damned!” The first time
Voltaire’s Artemise was played, it was hissed.
Voltaire, indignant, sprang to his feet in his box,
and addressed the audience! At another time,
at Lausanne, where an actress seemed fully to
apprehend his meaning, he rushed upon the stage
and embraced her knees!

A great deal might be said about the first failures
of authors and orators. Demosthenes stammered,
and was almost inaudible, when he first
tried to speak before Philip. He seemed like a
man moribund. Other orators have broken down,
like Demosthenes, in their first effort. Curran
tried to speak, for the first time, at a meeting of
the Irish Historical Society; but the words died
on his lips, and he sat down amid titters—an individual
present characterizing him as orator
Mum. Boileau broke down as an advocate, and
so did Cowper, the poet. Montesquieu and Bentham
were also failures in the same profession,
but mainly through disgust with it. Addison,
when a member of the House of Commons, once
rose to speak, but he could not overcome his
diffidence, and ever after remained silent.

OSTRICHES.
HOW THEY ARE HUNTED.

The family of birds, of which the ostrich
forms the leading type, is remarkable for
the wide dispersion of its various members; the
ostrich itself spreads over nearly the whole of
the burning deserts of Africa—the Cassowary
represents it amid the luxuriant vegetation of
the Indian Archipelago. The Dinornis, chief
of birds, formerly towered among the ferns of
New Zealand, where the small Apteryx now
holds its place; and the huge Æpyornis strode
along the forests of Madagascar. The Emu is
confined to the great Australian continent, and
the Rhea to the southern extremity of the western[Pg 57]
hemisphere; while nearer home we find the
class represented by the Bustard, which, until
within a few years, still lingered upon the least
frequented downs and plains of England.

With the Arabs of the desert, the chase of the
ostrich is the most attractive and eagerly sought
of the many aristocratic diversions in which they
indulge. The first point attended to, is a special
preparation of their horses. Seven or eight days
before the intended hunt, they are entirely deprived
of straw and grass, and fed on barley
only. They are only allowed to drink once a
day, and that at sunset—the time when the water
begins to freshen: at that time also they are
washed. They take long daily exercises, and
are occasionally galloped, at which time care is
taken that the harness is right, and suited to
the chase of the ostrich. “After seven or eight
days,” says the Arab, “the stomach of the horse
disappears, while the chest, the breast, and the
croup remain in flesh; the animal is then fit to
endure fatigue.” They call this training techaha.
The harness used for the purpose in question
is lighter than ordinary, especially the stirrups
and saddle, and the martingale is removed.
The bridle, too, undergoes many metamorphoses;
the mountings and the ear-flaps are taken away,
as too heavy. The bit is made of a camel rope,
without a throat-band, and the frontlet is also
of cord, and the reins, though strong, are very
light. The period most favorable for ostrich-hunting
is that of the great heat; the higher
the temperature the less is the ostrich able to
defend himself. The Arabs describe the precise
time as that, when a man stands upright, his
shadow has the length only of the sole of his
foot.

Each horseman is accompanied by a servant
called zemmal, mounted on a camel, carrying
four goat-skins filled with water, barley for the
horse, wheat-flour for the rider, some dates, a
kettle to cook the food, and every thing which
can possibly be required for the repair of the
harness. The horseman contents himself with
a linen vest and trowsers, and covers his neck
and ears with a light material called havuli, tied
with a strip of camel’s hide; his feet are protected
with sandals, and his legs with light gaiters
called trabag. He is armed with neither
gun nor pistol, his only weapon being a wild
olive or tamarind stick, five or six feet long,
with a heavy knob at one end.

Before starting, the hunters ascertain where
a large number of ostriches are to be found.
These birds are generally met with in places where
there is much grass, and where rain has recently
fallen. The Arabs say, that where the ostrich
sees the light shine, and barley getting ready,
wherever it may be, thither she runs, regardless
of distance; and ten days’ march is nothing to
her; and it has passed into a proverb in the
desert, of a man skillful in the care of flocks,
and in finding pasturage, that he is like the ostrich,
where he sees the light there he comes.

The hunters start in the morning. After one
or two days’ journey, when they have arrived[Pg 58]
near the spot pointed out, and they begin to perceive
traces of their game, they halt and camp.
The next day, two intelligent slaves, almost entirely
stripped, are sent to reconnoitre; they
each carry a goat-skin at their side, and a little
bread; they walk until they meet with the ostriches,
which are generally found in elevated
places. As soon as the game is in view, one
lies down to watch, the other returns to convey
the information. The ostriches are found in
troops, comprising sometimes as many as sixty:
but at the pairing time they are more scattered,
three or four couple only remaining together.

The horsemen, guided by the scout, travel
gently toward the birds; the nearer they approach
the spot the greater is their caution, and
when they reach the last ridge which conceals
them from the view of their game, they dismount,
and two creep forward to ascertain if they are
still there. Should such be the case, a moderate
quantity of water is given to the horses, the baggage
is left, and each man mounts, carrying at
his side a chebouta, or goat-skin. The servants
and camels follow the track of the horsemen,
carrying with them only a little corn and water.

The exact position of the ostriches being
known, the plans are arranged; the horsemen
divide and form a circle round the game at such
a distance as not to be seen. The servants wait
where the horsemen have separated, and as soon
as they see them at their posts, they walk right
before them; the ostriches fly, but are met by
the hunters, who do nothing at first but drive
them back into the circle; thus their strength
is exhausted by being made to continually run
round in the ring. At the first signs of fatigue
in the birds, the horsemen dash in—presently
the flock separates; the exhausted birds are
seen to open their wings, which is a sign of
great exhaustion; the horsemen, certain of their
prey, now repress their horses; each hunter selects
his ostrich, runs it down, and finishes it by
a blow on the head with the stick above mentioned.
The moment the bird falls the man
jumps off his horse, and cuts her throat, taking
care to hold the neck at such a distance from
the body, as not to soil the plumage of the wings.
The male bird, while dying, utters loud moans,
but the female dies in silence.

When the ostrich is on the point of being
overtaken by the hunter, she is so fatigued, that
if he does not wish to kill her, she can easily be
driven with the stick to the neighborhood of the
camels. Immediately after the birds have been
bled to death, they are carefully skinned, so that
the feathers may not be injured, and the skin is
then stretched upon a tree, or on a horse, and
salt rubbed well into it. A fire is lit, and the
fat of the birds is boiled for a long time in kettles;
when very liquid, it is poured into a sort
of bottle made of the skin of the thigh and leg
down to the foot, strongly fastened at the bottom;
the fat of one bird is usually sufficient to
fill two of these legs; it is said that in any other
vessel the fat would spoil. When, however, the
bird is breeding, she is extremely lean, and is[Pg 59]
then hunted only for the sake of her feathers.
After these arrangements are completed, the
flesh is eaten by the hunters, who season it well
with pepper and flour.

While these proceedings are in progress, the
horses are carefully tended, watered, and fed
with corn, and the party remain quiet during
forty-eight hours, to give their animals rest;
after that they either return to their encampment,
or embark in new enterprises.

To the Arab the chase of the ostrich has a
double attraction—pleasure and profit; the price
obtained for the skins well compensates for the
expenses. Not only do the rich enjoy the pursuit,
but the poor, who know how to set about
it, are permitted to participate in it also. The
usual plan is for a poor Arab to arrange with
one who is opulent for the loan of his camel,
horse, harness, and two-thirds of all the necessary
provisions. The borrower furnishes himself
the remaining third, and the produce of the
chase is divided in the same proportions.

The ostrich, like many other of the feathered
tribe, has a great deal of self-conceit. On fine
sunny days a tame bird may be seen strutting
backward and forward with great majesty, fanning
itself with its quivering, expanded wings,
and at every turn seeming to admire its grace,
and the elegance of its shadow. Dr. Shaw says
that, though these birds appear tame and tractable
to persons well-known to them, they are
often very fierce and violent toward strangers,
whom they would not only endeavor to push
down by running furiously against them, but
they would peck at them with their beaks, and
strike with their feet; and so violent is the blow
that can be given, that the doctor saw a person
whose abdomen had been ripped completely open
by a stroke from the claw of an ostrich.

To have the stomach of an ostrich has become
proverbial, and with good reason; for this bird
stands enviably forward in respect to its wonderful
powers of digestion, which are scarcely
inferior to its voracity. Its natural food consists
entirely of vegetable substances, especially
grain; and the ostrich is a most destructive enemy
to the crops of the African farmers. But
its sense of taste is so obtuse, that scraps of
leather, old nails, bits of tin, buttons, keys,
coins, and pebbles, are devoured with equal relish;
in fact, nothing comes amiss. But in this
it doubtless follows an instinct: for these hard
bodies assist, like the gravel in the crops of our
domestic poultry, in grinding down and preparing
for digestion its ordinary food.

There was found by Cuvier in the stomach
of an ostrich that died at Paris, nearly a pound
weight of stones, bits of iron and copper, and
pieces of money worn down by constant attrition
against each other, as well as by the action
of the stomach itself. In the stomach of one of
these birds which belonged to the menagerie of
George the Fourth, there were contained some
pieces of wood of considerable size, several large
nails, and a hen’s egg entire and uninjured, perhaps
taken as a delicacy from its appetite becoming[Pg 60]
capricious. In the stomach of another,
beside several large cabbage-stalks, there were
masses of bricks of the size of a man’s fist.
Sparrman relates that he saw ostriches at the
Cape so tame that they went loose to and from
the farm, but they were so voracious as to swallow
chickens whole, and trample hens to death,
that they might tear them in pieces afterward
and devour them; and one great barrel of a bird
was obliged to be killed on account of an awkward
habit he had acquired of trampling sheep
to death. But perhaps the most striking proof
of the prowess of an ostrich in the eating way,
is that afforded by Dr. Shaw, who saw one swallow
bullet after bullet as fast as they were pitched,
scorching hot, from the mould.

A DULL TOWN.

Putting up for the night in one of the chiefest
towns of Staffordshire, I find it to be by
no means a lively town. In fact, it is as dull
and dead a town as any one could desire not to
see. It seems as if its whole population might
be imprisoned in its Railway Station. The Refreshment-room
at that station is a vortex of dissipation
compared with the extinct town-inn, the
Dodo, in the dull High-street.

Why High-street? Why not rather Low-street,
Flat-street, Low-spirited-street, Used-up-street?
Where are the people who belong to
the High-street? Can they all be dispersed over
the face of the country, seeking the unfortunate
Strolling Manager who decamped from the
mouldy little theatre last week, in the beginning
of his season (as his play-bills testify), repentantly
resolved to bring him back, and feed him,
and be entertained? Or, can they all be gathered
to their fathers in the two old church-yards
near to the High-street—retirement into which
church-yards appears to be a mere ceremony,
there is so very little life outside their confines,
and such small discernible difference between
being buried alive in the town, and buried dead
in the town-tombs? Over the way, opposite to
the staring blank bow windows of the Dodo, are
a little ironmonger’s shop, a little tailor’s shop
(with a picture of the fashions in the small window
and a bandy-legged baby on the pavement
staring at it)—a watchmaker’s shop, where all
the clocks and watches must be stopped, I am
sure, for they could never have the courage to
go, with the town in general, and the Dodo in
particular, looking at them. Shade of Miss Linwood,
erst of Leicester-square, London, thou art
welcome here, and thy retreat is fitly chosen! I
myself was one of the last visitors to that awful
storehouse of thy life’s work, where an anchorite
old man and woman took my shilling with a solemn
wonder, and conducting me to a gloomy sepulchre
of needlework dropping to pieces with
dust and age, and shrouded in twilight at high
noon, left me there, chilled, frightened, and alone.
And now, in ghostly letters on all the dead walls
of this dead town, I read thy honored name, and
find, that thy Last Supper, worked in Berlin Wool,
invites inspection as a powerful excitement!

[Pg 61]

Where are the people who are bidden with so
much cry to this feast of little wool? Where are
they? Who are they? They are not the bandy-legged
baby studying the fashions in the tailor’s
window. They are not the two earthy plow-men
lounging outside the saddler’s shop, in the
stiff square where the Town Hall stands, like a
brick-and-mortar private on parade. They are
not the landlady of the Dodo in the empty bar,
whose eye had trouble in it and no welcome,
when I asked for dinner. They are not the
turnkeys of the Town Jail, looking out of the
gateway in their uniforms, as if they had locked
up all the balance (as my American friends would
say) of the inhabitants, and could now rest a little.
They are not the two dusty millers in the
white mill down by the river, where the great
water-wheel goes heavily round and round, like
the monotonous days and nights in this forgotten
place. Then who are they? for there is no
one else. No; this deponent maketh oath and
saith that there is no one else, save and except
the waiter at the Dodo, now laying the cloth. I
have paced the streets, and stared at the houses,
and am come back to the blank bow-window of
the Dodo; and the town-clock strikes seven, and
the reluctant echoes seem to cry, “Don’t wake
us!” and the bandy-legged baby has gone home
to bed.

If the Dodo were only a gregarious bird—if it
had only some confused idea of making a comfortable
nest—I could hope to get through the
hours between this and bed-time, without being
consumed by devouring melancholy. But the
Dodo’s habits are all wrong. It provides me
with a trackless desert of sitting-room, with a
chair for every day in the year, a table for every
month, and a waste of sideboard where a lonely
China vase pines in a corner for its mate long
departed, and will never make a match with the
candlestick in the opposite corner if it live till
doomsday. The Dodo has nothing in the larder.
Even now, I behold the Boots returning with my
sole in a piece of paper; and with that portion
of my dinner, the Boots, perceiving me at the
blank bow-window, slaps his leg as he comes
across the road, pretending it is something else.
The Dodo excludes the outer air. When I
mount up to my bed-room, a smell of closeness
and flue gets lazily up my nose like sleepy snuff.
The loose little bits of carpet writhe under my
tread, and take wormy shapes. I don’t know
the ridiculous man in the looking-glass, beyond
having met him once or twice in a dish-cover—and
I can never shave him to-morrow morning!
The Dodo is narrow-minded as to towels; expects
me to wash on a freemason’s apron without
the trimming; when I ask for soap, gives
me a stony-hearted something white, with no
more lather in it than the Elgin marbles. The
Dodo has seen better days, and possesses interminable
stables at the back—silent, grass-grown,
broken-windowed, horseless.

This mournful bird can fry a sole, however,
which is much. Can cook a steak, too, which is
more. I wonder where it gets its Sherry! If[Pg 62]
I were to send my pint of wine to some famous
chemist to be analyzed, what would it turn out
to be made of? It tastes of pepper, sugar, bitter
almonds, vinegar, warm knives, any flat drink,
and a little brandy. Would it unman a Spanish
exile by reminding him of his native land at all?
I think not. If there really be any townspeople
out of the church-yards, and if a caravan of them
ever do dine, with a bottle of wine per man, in
this desert of the Dodo, it must make good for
the doctor next day!

Where was the waiter born? How did he
come here? Has he any hope of getting away
from here? Does he ever receive a letter, or
take a ride upon the railway, or see any thing
but the Dodo? Perhaps he has seen the Berlin
Wool. He appears to have a silent sorrow on
him, and it may be that. He clears the table;
draws the dingy curtains of the great bow-window,
which so unwillingly consent to meet, that
they must be pinned together; leaves me by the
fire with my pint decanter, and a little thin funnel-shaped
wine-glass, and a plate of pale biscuits—in
themselves engendering desperation.

No book, no newspapers! I left the Arabian
Nights in the railway carriage, and have nothing
to read but Bradshaw, and “that way madness
lies.” Remembering what prisoners and shipwrecked
mariners have done to exercise their
minds in solitude, I repeat the multiplication
table, the pence table, and the shilling table:
which are all the tables I happen to know.
What if I write something? The Dodo keeps
no pens but steel pens; and those I always
stick through the paper, and can turn to no
other account.

What am I to do? Even if I could have the
bandy-legged baby knocked up and brought here,
I could offer him nothing but sherry, and that
would be the death of him. He would never
hold up his head again, if he touched it. I
can’t go to bed, because I have conceived a mortal
hatred for my bedroom; and I can’t go away
because there is no train for my place of destination
until morning. To burn the biscuits will
be but a fleeting joy; still it is a temporary relief,
and here they go on the fire!

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[B]

CHAPTER X.—Continued.

Randal walked home slowly. It was a cold
moonlit night. Young idlers of his own years
and rank passed him by, on their way from the
haunts of social pleasure. They were yet in the
first fair holiday of life. Life’s holiday had gone
from him forever. Graver men, in the various
callings of masculine labor—professions, trade,
the state—passed him also. Their steps might
be sober, and their faces careworn; but no step
had the furtive stealth of his—no face the same
contracted, sinister, suspicious gloom. Only
once, in a lonely thoroughfare, and on the opposite
side of the way, fell a foot-fall, and glanced[Pg 63]
an eye, that seemed to betray a soul in sympathy
with Randal Leslie’s.

And Randal, who had heeded none of the other
passengers by the way, as if instinctively, took
note of this one. His nerves crisped at the noiseless
slide of that form, as it stalked on from lamp
to lamp, keeping pace with his own. He felt a
sort of awe, as if he had beheld the wraith of
himself; and ever, as he glanced suspiciously at
the arranger, the stranger glanced at him. He
was inexpressibly relieved when the figure turned
down another street and vanished.

That man was a felon, as yet undetected. Between
him and his kind there stood but a thought—a
vail air-spun, but impassable, as the vail of
the Image at Sais.

And thus moved and thus looked Randal Leslie,
a thing of dark and secret mischief—within
the pale of the law, but equally removed from
man by the vague consciousness that at his heart
lay that which the eyes of man would abhor and
loathe. Solitary amidst the vast city, and on
through the machinery of Civilization, went the
still spirit of Intellectual Evil.

CHAPTER XI

Early the next morning Randal received two
notes—one from Frank, written in great agitation,
begging Randal to see and propitiate his
father, whom he feared he had grievously offended;
and then running off, rather incoherently,
into protestations that his honor as well as his
affections were engaged irrevocably to Beatrice,
and that her, at least, he could never abandon.

And the second note was from the Squire himself—short,
and far less cordial than usual—requesting
Mr. Leslie to call on him.

Randal dressed in haste, and went at once to
Limmer’s hotel.

He found the Parson with Mr. Hazeldean, and
endeavoring in vain to soothe him. The Squire
had not slept all night, and his appearance was
almost haggard.

“Oho! Mr. young Leslie,” said he, throwing
himself back in his chair as Randal entered—”I
thought you were a friend—I thought you were
Frank’s adviser. Explain, sir; explain.”

“Gently, my dear Mr. Hazeldean,” said the
Parson. “You do but surprise and alarm Mr.
Leslie. Tell him more distinctly what he has to
explain.”

Squire.—”Did you or did you not tell me or
Mrs. Hazeldean, that Frank was in love with
Violante Rickeybockey?”

Randal (as in amaze).—”I! Never, sir! I
feared, on the contrary, that he was somewhat
enamored of a very different person. I hinted
at that possibility. I could not do more, for I
did not know how far Frank’s affections were seriously
engaged. And indeed, sir, Mrs. Hazeldean,
though not encouraging the idea that your
son could marry a foreigner and a Roman Catholic,
did not appear to consider such objections insuperable,
if Frank’s happiness were really at
stake.”

[Pg 64]

Here the poor Squire gave way to a burst of
passion, that involved, in one tempest, Frank,
Randal, Harry herself, and the whole race of
foreigners, Roman Catholics, and women. While
the Squire himself was still incapable of hearing
reason, the Parson, taking aside Randal, convinced
himself that the whole affair, so far as Randal
was concerned, had its origin in a very natural
mistake; and that while that young gentleman
had been hinting at Beatrice, Mrs. Hazeldean
had been thinking of Violante. With considerable
difficulty he succeeded in conveying
this explanation to the Squire, and somewhat appeasing
his wrath against Randal. And the Dissimulator,
seizing his occasion, then expressed so
much grief and astonishment at learning that
matters had gone as far as the Parson informed
him—that Frank had actually proposed to Beatrice,
been accepted, and engaged himself, before
even communicating with his father; he declared
so earnestly, that he could never conjure such
evil—that he had had Frank’s positive promise
to take no step without the sanction of his parents;
he professed such sympathy with the
Squire’s wounded feelings, and such regret at
Frank’s involvement, that Mr. Hazeldean at last
yielded up his honest heart to his consoler—and
gripping Randal’s hand, said, “Well, well, I
wronged you—beg your pardon. What now is
to be done?”

“Why, you can not consent to this marriage—impossible,”
replied Randal; “and we must
hope therefore to influence Frank, by his sense of
duty.”

“That’s it,” said the Squire; “for I’ll not
give way. Pretty pass things have come to,
indeed! A widow too, I hear. Artful jade—thought,
no doubt, to catch a Hazeldean of Hazeldean.
My estates go to an outlandish Papistical
set of mongrel brats! No, no, never!”

“But,” said the Parson, mildly, “perhaps we
may be unjustly prejudiced against this lady.
We should have consented to Violante—why
not to her? She is of good family?”

“Certainly,” said Randal.

“And good character?”

Randal shook his head, and sighed. The
Squire caught him roughly by the arm—”Answer
the Parson!” cried he, vehemently.

“Indeed, sir, I can not speak ill of the character
of a woman, who may, too, be Frank’s wife;
and the world is ill-natured, and not to be believed.
But you can judge for yourself, my dear
Mr. Hazeldean. Ask your brother whether Madame
di Negra is one whom he would advise his
nephew to marry.”

“My brother!” exclaimed the Squire furiously.
“Consult my distant brother on the affairs
of my own son!”

“He is a man of the world,” put in Randal.

“And of feeling and honor,” said the Parson,
“and, perhaps, through him, we may be enabled
to enlighten Frank, and save him from what appears
to be the snare of an artful woman.”

[Pg 65]

“Meanwhile,” said Randal, “I will seek Frank,
and do my best with him. Let me go now—I
will return in an hour or so.”

“I will accompany you,” said the Parson.

“Nay, pardon me, but I think we two young
men can talk more openly without a third person,
even so wise and kind as you.”

“Let Randal go,” growled the Squire. And
Randal went.

He spent some time with Frank, and the reader
will easily divine how that time was employed.
As he left Frank’s lodgings, he found himself
suddenly seized by the Squire himself.

“I was too impatient to stay at home and listen
to the Parson’s prosing,” said Mr. Hazeldean,
nervously. “I have shaken Dale off. Tell me
what has passed. Oh! don’t fear—I’m a man,
and can bear the worst.”

Randal drew the Squire’s arm within his, and
led him into the adjacent park.

“My dear sir,” said he, sorrowfully, “this is
very confidential what I am about to say. I
must repeat it to you, because without such confidence,
I see not how to advise you on the proper
course to take. But if I betray Frank, it is
for his good, and to his own father:—only do not
tell him. He would never forgive me—it would
for ever destroy my influence over him.”

“Go on, go on,” gasped the Squire; “speak
out. I’ll never tell the ungrateful boy that I
learned his secrets from another.”

“Then,” said Randal, “the secret of his entanglement
with Madame di Negra is simply
this—he found her in debt—nay, on the point of
being arrested—”

“Debt!—arrested! Jezabel!”

“And in paying the debt himself, and saving
her from arrest, he conferred on her the obligation
which no woman of honor could accept save from
her affianced husband. Poor Frank!—if sadly
taken in, still we must pity and forgive him!”

Suddenly, to Randal’s great surprise, the
Squire’s whole face brightened up.

“I see, I see!” he exclaimed, slapping his
thigh. “I have it—I have it. ‘Tis an affair of
money! I can buy her off. If she took money
from him, the mercenary, painted baggage! why,
then, she’ll take it from me. I don’t care what
it costs—half my fortune—all! I’d be content
never to see Hazeldean Hall again, if I could
save my son, my own son, from disgrace and
misery; for miserable he will be when he knows
he has broken my heart and his mother’s. And
for a creature like that! My boy, a thousand
hearty thanks to you. Where does the wretch
live? I’ll go to her at once.” And as he spoke,
the Squire actually pulled out his pocket-book
and began turning over and counting the bank-notes
in it.

Randal at first tried to combat this bold resolution
on the part of the Squire; but Mr. Hazeldean
had seized on it with all the obstinacy of
his straightforward English mind. He cut Randal’s
persuasive eloquence off in the midst.

“Don’t waste your breath. I’ve settled it;[Pg 66]
and if you don’t tell me where she lives, ’tis
easily found out, I suppose.”

Randal mused a moment. “After all,” thought
he, “why not? He will be sure so to speak as
to enlist her pride against himself, and to irritate
Frank to the utmost. Let him go.”

Accordingly, he gave the information required;
and, insisting with great earnestness on
the Squire’s promise, not to mention to Madam
di Negra his knowledge of Frank’s pecuniary
aid (for that would betray Randal as the informant);
and satisfying himself as he best might
with the Squire’s prompt assurance, “that he
knew how to settle matters, without saying why
or wherefore, as long as he opened his purse
wide enough,” he accompanied Mr. Hazeldean
back into the streets, and there left him—fixing
an hour in the evening for an interview at Limmer’s,
and hinting that it would be best to have
that interview without the presence of the Parson.
“Excellent good man,” said Randal, “but
not with sufficient knowledge of the world for affairs
of this kind, which you understand so well.”

“I should think so,” quoth the Squire, who
had quite recovered his good-humor. “And the
Parson is as soft as buttermilk. We must be
firm here—firm, sir.” And the Squire struck
the end of his stick on the pavement, nodded to
Randal, and went on to Mayfair as sturdily and
as confidently as if to purchase a prize cow at a
cattle-show.

CHAPTER XII

“Bring the light nearer,” said John Burley—”nearer
still.”

Leonard obeyed, and placed the candle on a
little table by the sick man’s bedside.

Burley’s mind was partially wandering; but
there was method in his madness. Horace Walpole
said that “his stomach would survive all
the rest of him.” That which in Burley survived
the last was his quaint wild genius. He
looked wistfully at the still flame of the candle.
“It lives ever in the air!” said he.

“What lives ever?”

Burley’s voice swelled—”Light!” He turned
from Leonard, and again contemplated the
little flame. “In the fixed star, in the Will-o’-the-wisp,
in the great sun that illumes half a
world, or the farthing rushlight by which the ragged
student strains his eyes—still the same
flower of the elements. Light in the universe,
thought in the soul—ay—ay—Go on with the
simile. My head swims. Extinguish the light!
You can not; fool, it vanishes from your eye, but
it is still in the space. Worlds must perish, suns
shrivel up, matter and spirit both fall into nothingness,
before the combinations whose union
makes that little flame, which the breath of a
babe can restore to darkness, shall lose the power
to unite into light once more. Lose the power!—no,
the necessity:—it is the one Must in creation.
Ay, ay, very dark riddles grow clear now—now
when I could not cast up an addition sum
in the baker’s bill! What wise man denied that[Pg 67]
two and two made four? Do they not make
four? I can’t answer him. But I could answer
a question that some wise men have contrived to
make much knottier.” He smiled softly, and
turned his face for some minutes to the wall.

This was the second night on which Leonard
had watched by his bedside, and Burley’s state
had grown rapidly worse. He could not last
many days, perhaps many hours. But he had
evinced an emotion beyond mere delight at seeing
Leonard again. He had since then been
calmer, more himself. “I feared I might have
ruined you by my bad example,” he said, with a
touch of humor that became pathos as he added,
“That idea preyed on me.”

“No, no; you did me great good.”

“Say that—say it often,” said Burley, earnestly;
“it makes my heart feel so light.”

He had listened to Leonard’s story with deep
interest, and was fond of talking to him of little
Helen. He detected the secret at the young
man’s heart, and cheered the hopes that lay there,
amidst fears and sorrows. Burley never talked
seriously of his repentance; it was not in his
nature to talk seriously of the things which he
felt solemnly. But his high animal spirits were
quenched with the animal power that fed them.
Now, we go out of our sensual existence only
when we are no longer enthralled by the Present,
in which the senses have their realm. The sensual
being vanishes when we are in the Past or
the Future. The Present was gone from Burley;
he could no more be its slave and its king.

It was most touching to see how the inner
character of this man unfolded itself, as the leaves
of the outer character fell off and withered—a
character no one would have guessed in him—an
inherent refinement that was almost womanly;
and he had all a woman’s abnegation of self. He
took the cares lavished on him so meekly. As
the features of the old man return in the stillness
of death to the aspect of youth—the lines effaced,
the wrinkles gone—so, in seeing Burley now, you
saw what he had been in his spring of promise.
But he himself saw only what he had failed to
be—powers squandered—life wasted. “I once
beheld,” he said, “a ship in a storm. It was a
cloudy, fitful day, and I could see the ship with
all its masts fighting hard for life and for death.
Then came night, dark as pitch, and I could only
guess that the ship fought on. Toward the dawn
the stars grew visible, and once more I saw the
ship—it was a wreck—it went down just as the
stars shone forth.”

When he had made that allusion to himself,
he sate very still for some time, then he spread
out his wasted hands, and gazed on them, and on
his shrunken limbs. “Good,” said he, laughing
low; “these hands were too large and rude for
handling the delicate webs of my own mechanism,
and these strong limbs ran away with me. If I
had been a sickly, puny fellow, perhaps my mind
would have had fair play. There was too much
of brute body here! Look at this hand now!
you can see the light through it! Good, good!”

[Pg 68]

Now, that evening, until he had retired to bed,
Burley had been unusually cheerful, and had talked
with much of his old eloquence, if with little
of his old humor. Among other matters, he had
spoken with considerable interest of some poems
and other papers in manuscript which had been
left in the house by a former lodger, and which,
the reader may remember, that Mrs. Goodyer had
urged him in vain to read, in his last visit to her
cottage. But then he had her husband Jacob to
chat with, and the spirit-bottle to finish, and the
wild craving for excitement plucked his thoughts
back to his London revels. Now poor Jacob was
dead, and it was not brandy that the sick man
drank from the widow’s cruise. And London lay
afar amidst its fogs, like a world resolved back
into nebulæ. So to please his hostess, and distract
his own solitary thoughts, he had condescended
(just before Leonard found him out) to
peruse the memorials of a life obscure to the
world, and new to his own experience of coarse
joys and woes. “I have been making a romance,
to amuse myself, from their contents,” said he.
“They may be of use to you, brother author. I
have told Mrs. Goodyer to place them in your
room. Among those papers is a journal—a woman’s
journal; it moved me greatly. A man
gets into another world, strange to him as the
orb of Sirius, if he can transport himself into the
centre of a woman’s heart, and see the life there,
so wholly unlike our own. Things of moment to
us, to it so trivial; things trifling to us, to it so
vast. There was this journal—in its dates reminding
me of stormy events of my own existence,
and grand doings in the world’s. And those
dates there, chronicling but the mysterious unrevealed
record of some obscure loving heart! And
in that chronicle, O, Sir Poet, there was as much
genius, vigor of thought, vitality of being, poured
and wasted, as ever kind friend will say was
lavished on the rude outer world by big John Burley!
Genius, genius; are we all alike, then, save
when we leash ourselves to some matter-of-fact
material, and float over the roaring seas on a
wooden plank or a herring-tub?” And after he
had uttered that cry of a secret anguish, John
Burley had begun to show symptoms of growing
fever and disturbed brain; and when they had
got him into bed, he lay there muttering to himself,
until toward midnight he had asked Leonard
to bring the light nearer to him.

So now he again was quiet—with his face
turned toward the wall; and Leonard stood by
the bedside sorrowfully, and Mrs. Goodyer, who
did not heed Burley’s talk, and thought only of
his physical state, was dipping cloths into iced
water to apply to his forehead. But as she approached
with these, and addressed him soothingly,
Burley raised himself on his arm, and
waved aside the bandages. “I do not need
them,” said he, in a collected voice. “I am
better now. I and that pleasant light understand
one another, and I believe all it tells me.
Pooh, pooh, I do not rave.” He looked so smilingly
and so kindly into her face, that the poor[Pg 69]
woman, who loved him as her own son, fairly
burst into tears. He drew her toward him and
kissed her forehead.

“Peace, old fool,” said he, fondly. “You
shall tell anglers hereafter how John Burley came
to fish for the one-eyed perch which he never
caught: and how, when he gave it up at the
last, his baits all gone, and the line broken
among the weeds, you comforted the baffled man.
There are many good fellows yet in the world
who will like to know that poor Burley did not
die on a dunghill. Kiss me! Come, boy, you
too. Now, God bless you, I should like to sleep.”
His cheeks were wet with the tears of both his
listeners, and there was a moisture in his own
eyes, which, nevertheless, beamed bright through
the moisture.

He laid himself down again, and the old woman
would have withdrawn the light. He moved
uneasily. “Not that,” he murmured—”light to
the last!” And putting forth his wan hand, he
drew aside the curtain so that the light might
fall full on his face. In a few minutes he was
asleep, breathing calmly and regularly as an infant.

The old woman wiped her eyes, and drew
Leonard softly into the adjoining room, in which
a bed had been made up for him. He had not
left the house since he had entered it with Dr.
Morgan. “You are young, sir,” said she, with
kindness, “and the young want sleep. Lie down
a bit: I will call you when he wakes.”

“No, I could not sleep,” said Leonard. “I
will watch for you.”

The old woman shook her head. “I must see
the last of him, sir; but I know he will be angry
when his eyes open on me, for he has grown very
thoughtful of others.”

“Ah, if he had but been as thoughtful of himself!”
murmured Leonard; and he seated himself
by the table, on which, as he leaned his
elbow, he dislodged some papers placed there.
They fell to the ground with a dumb, moaning,
sighing sound.

“What is that?” said he, starting.

The old woman picked up the manuscripts and
smoothed them carefully.

“Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here.
He thought they might keep you from fretting
about him, in case you would sit up and wake.
And he had a thought of me, too; for I have so
pined to find out the poor young lady, who left
them years ago. She was almost as dear to me
as he is; dearer perhaps until now—when—when—I
am about to lose him.”

Leonard turned from the papers, without a
glance at their contents: they had no interest
for him at such a moment.

The hostess went on—

“Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him:
she did not look like one long for this world.
She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers
besides these papers are still here; but I keep
them aired and dusted, and strew lavender over
them, in case she ever comes for them again.[Pg 70]
You never heard tell of her, did you, sir?” she
added, with great simplicity, and dropping a half
courtsey.

“Of her?—of whom?”

“Did not Mr. John tell you her name—dear—dear?—Mrs.
Bertram.”

Leonard started;—the very name so impressed
upon his memory by Harley L’Estrange.

“Bertram!” he repeated. “Are you sure?”

“O yes, sir! And many years after she had
left us, and we had heard no more of her, there
came a packet addressed to her here, from over
sea, sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John
would break the seal, to know if it would tell us
any thing about her; but it was all in a foreign
language like—we could not read a word.”

“Have you the packet? Pray, show it to me.
It may be of the greatest value. To-morrow will
do—I can not think of that just now. Poor Burley!”

Leonard’s manner indicated that he wished to
talk no more, and to be alone. So Mrs. Goodyer
left him, and stole back to Burley’s room on tiptoe.

The young man remained in deep reverie for
some moments. “Light,” he murmured. “How
often “Light” is the last word of those round
whom the shades are gathering!”[C] He moved,
and straight on his view through the cottage lattice
there streamed light, indeed—not the miserable
ray lit by a human hand—but the still and
holy effulgence of a moonlit heaven. It lay
broad upon the humble floors—pierced across the
threshold of the death-chamber, and halted clear
amidst its shadows.

Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the
silvery silent splendor.

“And,” he said inly—”and does this large
erring nature, marred by its genial faults—this
soul which should have filled a land, as yon orb
the room, with a light that linked earth to heaven—does
it pass away into the dark, and leave not
a ray behind? Nay, if the elements of light are
ever in the space, and when the flame goes out,
return to the vital air—so thought, once kindled,
lives for ever around and about us, a part of our
breathing atmosphere. Many a thinker, many
a poet, may yet illume the world, from the
thoughts which yon genius, that will have no
name, gave forth—to wander through air, and
recombine again in some new form of light.”

Thus he went on in vague speculations, seeking,
as youth enamored of fame seeks too fondly,[Pg 71]
to prove that mind never works, however erratically,
in vain—and to retain yet, as an influence
upon earth, the soul about to soar far beyond the
atmosphere where the elements that make fame
abide. Not thus had the dying man interpreted
the endurance of light and thought.

Suddenly, in the midst of his reverie, a low cry
broke on his ear. He shuddered as he heard, and
hastened forebodingly into the adjoining room.
The old woman was kneeling by the bedside, and
chafing Burley’s hand—eagerly looking into his
face. A glance sufficed to Leonard. All was
over. Burley had died in sleep—calmly, and
without a groan.

The eyes were half open, with that look of inexpressible
softness which death sometimes leaves;
and still they were turned toward the light; and
the light burned clear. Leonard closed tenderly
the heavy lids; and, as he covered the face, the
lips smiled a serene farewell.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE LITTLE GRAY GOSSIP.

Soon after Cousin Con’s marriage, we were
invited to stay for a few weeks with the
newly-married couple, during the festive winter
season; so away we went with merry hearts,
the clear frosty air and pleasant prospect before
us invigorating our spirits, as we took our
places inside the good old mail-coach, which
passed through the town of P——, where Cousin
Con resided, for there were no railways then.
Never was there a kinder or more genial soul
than Cousin Con; and David Danvers, the good-man,
as she laughingly called him, was, if possible,
kinder and more genial still. They were
surrounded by substantial comforts, and delighted
to see their friends in a sociable, easy way,
and to make them snug and cozy, our arrival being
the signal for a succession of such convivialities.
Very mirthful and enjoyable were these evenings,
for Con’s presence always shed radiant
sunshine, and David’s honest broad face beamed
upon her with affectionate pride. During the
days of their courtship at our house, they had
perhaps indulged in billing and cooing a little
too freely when in company with others, for
sober, middle-aged lovers like themselves; thereby
lying open to animadversions from prim spinsters,
who wondered that Miss Constance and
Mr. Danvers made themselves so ridiculous.

But now all this nonsense had sobered down,
and nothing could be detected beyond a sly
glance, or a squeeze of the hand now and then;
yet we often quizzed them about by-gones, and
declared that engaged pairs were insufferable—we
could always find them out among a hundred!

“I’ll bet you any thing you like,” cried Cousin
Con, with a good-humored laugh, “that among
our guests coming this evening” (there was to
be a tea-junketing), “you’ll not be able to point
out the engaged couple—for there will be only
one such present—though plenty of lads and
lasses that would like to be so happily situated!
But the couple I allude too are real turtle-doves,
and yet I defy you to find them out!”

[Pg 72]

“Done, Cousin Con!” we exclaimed; “and
what shall we wager?”

“Gloves! gloves to be sure!” cried David.
“Ladies always wager gloves; though I can
tell you, my Con is on the safe side now;” and
David rubbed his hands, delighted with the
joke; and we already, in perspective, beheld
our glove-box enriched with half-a-dozen pair of
snowy French sevens!

Never had we felt more interested in watching
the arrivals and movements of strangers,
than on this evening, for our honor was concerned,
to detect the lovers, and raise the vail.
Papas and mammas, and masters and misses,
came trooping in; old ladies, and middle-aged;
old gentlemen, and middle-aged—until the number
amounted to about thirty, and Cousin Con’s
drawing-rooms were comfortably filled. We
closely scrutinized all the young folks, and so
intently but covertly watched their proceedings,
that we could have revealed several innocent
flirtations, but nothing appeared that could lead
us to the turtle-doves and their engagement.
At length, we really had hopes, and ensconced
ourselves in a corner, to observe the more cautiously
a tall, beautiful girl, whose eyes incessantly
turned toward the door of the apartment;
while each time it opened to admit any one, she
sighed and looked disappointed, as if that one
was not the one she yearned to see. We were
deep in a reverie, conjuring up a romance of
which she was the heroine, when a little lady,
habited in gray, whose age might average
threescore, unceremoniously seated herself beside
us, and immediately commenced a conversation,
by asking if we were admiring pretty
Annie Mortimer—following the direction of our
looks. On receiving a reply in the affirmative,
she continued: “Ah, she’s a good, affectionate
girl; a great favorite of mine is sweet Annie
Mortimer.”

“Watching for her lover, no doubt?” we ventured
to say, hoping to gain the desired information,
and thinking of our white kid-gloves.
“She is an engaged young lady?”

“Engaged! engaged!” cried the little animated
lady: “no indeed. The fates forbid!
Annie Mortimer is not engaged.” The expression
of the little lady’s countenance at our bare
supposition of so natural a fact, amounted almost
to the ludicrous; and we with some difficulty
articulated a serious rejoinder, disavowing
all previous knowledge, and therefore erring
through ignorance. We had now time to examine
our new acquaintance more critically.
As we have already stated, she was habited in
gray; but not only was her attire gray, but she
was literally gray all over: gray hairs, braided
in a peculiar obsolete fashion, and quite uncovered;
gray gloves; gray shoes; and, above all,
gray eyes, soft, large, and peculiarly sad in expression,
yet beautiful eyes, redeeming the gray,
monotonous countenance from absolute plainness.
Mary Queen of Scots, we are told, had
gray eyes; and even she, poor lady, owned not
more speaking or history-telling orbs than did[Pg 73]
this little unknown gossip in gray. But our attention
was diverted from the contemplation, by
the entrance of another actor on the stage, to
whom Annie Mortimer darted forward with an
exclamation of delight and welcome. The new
comer was a slender, elderly gentleman, whose
white hairs, pale face, and benignant expression
presented nothing remarkable in their aspect,
beyond a certain air of elegance and refinement,
which characterized the whole outward man.

“That is a charming-looking old gentleman,”
said we to the gray lady; “is he Annie’s father?”

“Her father! Oh dear, no! That gentleman
is a bachelor; but he is Annie’s guardian,
and has supplied the place of a father to her,
for poor Annie is an orphan.”

“Oh!” we exclaimed, and there was a great
deal of meaning in our oh! for had we not read
and heard of youthful wards falling in love with
their guardians? and might not the fair Annie’s
taste incline this way? The little gray lady understood
our thoughts, for she smiled, but said
nothing; and while we were absorbed with
Annie and her supposed antiquated lover, she
glided into the circle, and presently we beheld
Annie’s guardian, with Annie leaning on his
arm, exchange a few words with her in an under
tone, as she passed them to an inner room.

“Who is that pleasing-looking old gentleman?”
said we to our hostess; “and what is
the name of the lady in gray, who went away
just as you came up? That is Annie Mortimer
we know, and we know also that she isn’t engaged!”

Cousin Con laughed heartily as she replied:
“That nice old gentleman is Mr. Worthington,
our poor curate; and a poor curate he is likely
ever to continue, so far as we can see. The
lady in gray we call our ‘little gray gossip,’
and a darling she is! As to Annie, you seem
to know all about her. I suppose little Bessie
has been lauding her up to the skies.”

“Who is little Bessie?” we inquired.

“Little Bessie is your little gray gossip: we
never call her any thing but Bessie to her face;
she is a harmless little old maid. But come this
way: Bessie is going to sing, for they won’t let
her rest till she complies; and Bessie singing,
and Bessie talking, are widely different creatures.”

Widely different indeed! Could this be the
little gray lady seated at the piano, and making
it speak? while her thrilling tones, as she sang
of ‘days gone by,’ went straight to each listener’s
heart, she herself looking ten years younger!
When the song was over, I observed Mr.
Worthington, with Annie still resting on his arm,
in a corner of the apartment, shaded by a projecting
piece of furniture; and I also noted the tear
on his furrowed cheek, which he hastily brushed
away, and stooped to answer some remark of
Annie’s, who, with fond affection, had evidently
observed it too, endeavoring to dispel the painful
illusion which remembrances of days gone
by occasioned.

We at length found the company separating,[Pg 74]
and our wager still unredeemed. The last to
depart was Mr. Worthington, escorting Annie
Mortimer and little Bessie, whom he shawled
most tenderly, no doubt because she was a poor
forlorn little old maid, and sang so sweetly.

The next morning at breakfast, Cousin Con
attacked us, supported by Mr. Danvers, both demanding
a solution of the mystery, or the scented
sevens! After a vast deal of laughing, talking,
and discussion, we were obliged to confess
ourselves beaten, for there had been an engaged
couple present on the previous evening, and we
had failed to discover them. No; it was not
Annie Mortimer; she had no lover. No; it
was not the Misses Halliday, or the Masters
Burton: they had flirted and danced, and danced
and flirted indiscriminately; but as to serious
engagements—pooh! pooh!

Who would have conjectured the romance of
reality that was now divulged? and how could
we have been so stupid as not to have read it at
a glance? These contradictory exclamations,
as is usual in such cases, ensued when the riddle
was unfolded. It is so easy to be wise when
we have learned the wisdom. Yet we cheerfully
lost our wager, and would have lost a hundred
such, for the sake of hearing a tale so far
removed from matter-of-fact; proving also that
enduring faith and affection are not so fabulous
as philosophers often pronounce them to be.

Bessie Prudholm was nearly related to David
Danvers, and she had been the only child of a
talented but improvident father, who, after a
short, brilliant career, as a public singer, suddenly
sank into obscurity and neglect, from the
total loss of his vocal powers, brought on by a
violent rheumatic cold and lasting prostration
of strength. At this juncture, Bessie had nearly
attained her twentieth year, and was still in
mourning for an excellent mother, by whom she
had been tenderly and carefully brought up.
From luxury and indulgence the descent to
poverty and privation was swift. Bessie, indeed,
inherited a very small income in right of
her deceased parent, sufficient for her own
wants, and even comforts, but totally inadequate
to meet the thousand demands, caprices, and
fancies of her ailing and exigent father. However,
for five years she battled bravely with adversity,
eking out their scanty means by her exertions—though,
from her father’s helpless condition,
and the constant and unremitting attention
he required, she was in a great measure debarred
from applying her efforts advantageously.
The poor, dying man, in his days of health, had
contributed to the enjoyment of the affluent, and
in turn been courted by them; but now, forgotten
and despised, he bitterly reviled the heartless
world, whose hollow meed of applause it
had formerly been the sole aim of his existence
to secure. Wealth became to his disordered
imagination the desideratum of existence, and
he attached inordinate value to it, in proportion
as he felt the bitter stings of comparative penury.
To guard his only child—whom he certainly
loved better than any thing else in the world,[Pg 75]
save himself—from this dreaded evil, the misguided
man, during his latter days, extracted
from her an inviolable assurance, never to become
the wife of any individual who could not
settle upon her, subject to no contingencies or
chances, the sum of at least one thousand pounds.

Bessie, who was fancy-free, and a lively-spirited
girl, by no means relished the slights and
privations which poverty entails. She therefore
willingly became bound by this solemn promise;
and when her father breathed his last, declaring
that she had made his mind comparatively easy,
little Bessie half smiled, even in the midst of
her deep and natural sorrow, to think how small
and easy a concession her poor father had exacted,
when her own opinions and views so perfectly
coincided with his. The orphan girl took
up her abode with the mother of David Danvers,
and continued to reside with that worthy lady
until the latter’s decease. It was beneath the
roof of Mrs. Danvers that Bessie first became
acquainted with Mr. Worthington—that acquaintance
speedily ripening into a mutual and
sincere attachment. He was poor and patronless
then, as he had continued ever since, with
slender likelihood of ever possessing £100 of
his own, much less £1000 to settle on a wife.
It is true, that in the chances and changes of
this mortal life, Paul Worthington might succeed
to a fine inheritance; but there were many
lives betwixt him and it, and Paul was not the
one to desire happiness at another’s expense,
nor was sweet little Bessie either.

Yet was Paul Worthington rich in one inestimable
possession, such as money can not purchase—even
in the love of a pure devoted heart,
which for him, and for his dear sake, bravely
endured the life-long loneliness and isolation
which their peculiar circumstances induced.
Paul did not see Bessie grow old and gray: in
his eyes, she never changed; she was to him
still beautiful, graceful, and enchanting; she
was his betrothed, and he came forth into the
world, from his books, and his arduous clerical
and parochial duties, to gaze at intervals into
her soft eyes, to press her tiny hand, to whisper
a fond word, and then to return to his lonely
home, like a second Josiah Cargill, to try and
find in severe study oblivion of sorrow.

Annie Mortimer had been sent to him as a
ministering angel: she was the orphan and
penniless daughter of Mr. Worthington’s dearest
friend and former college-chum, and she had
come to find a shelter beneath the humble roof
of the pious guardian, to whose earthly care she
had been solemnly bequeathed. Paul’s curacy
was not many miles distant from the town where
Bessie had fixed her resting-place; and it was
generally surmised by the select few who were
in the secret of little Bessie’s history, that she
regarded Annie Mortimer with especial favor
and affection, from the fact that Annie enjoyed
the privilege of solacing and cheering Paul
Worthington’s declining years. Each spoke of
her as a dear adopted daughter, and Annie
equally returned the affection of both.

[Pg 76]

Poor solitaries! what long anxious years they
had known, separated by circumstance, yet knit
together in the bonds of enduring love!

I pictured them at festive winter seasons, at
their humble solitary boards; and in summer
prime, when song-birds and bright perfumed
flowers call lovers forth into the sunshine rejoicingly.
They had not dared to rejoice during
their long engagement; yet Bessie was a sociable
creature, and did not mope or shut herself
up, but led a life of active usefulness, and
was a general favorite amongst all classes.
They had never contemplated the possibility of
evading Bessie’s solemn promise to her dying
father; to their tender consciences, that fatal
promise was as binding and stringent, as if the
gulf of marriage or conventual vows yawned betwixt
them. We had been inclined to indulge
some mirth at the expense of the little gray gossip,
when she first presented herself to our notice;
but now we regarded her as an object of
interest, surrounded by a halo of romance, fully
shared in by her charming, venerable lover.
And this was good Cousin Con’s elucidation of
the riddle, which she narrated with many digressions,
and with animated smiles, to conceal
tears of sympathy. Paul Worthington and little
Bessy did not like their history to be discussed
by the rising frivolous generation; it was so
unworldly, so sacred, and they looked forward
with humble hope so soon to be united for ever
in the better land, that it pained and distressed
them to be made a topic of conversation.

Were we relating fiction, it would be easy to
bring this antiquated pair together, even at the
eleventh hour; love and constancy making up
for the absence of one sweet ingredient, evanescent,
yet beautiful—the ingredient, we mean, of
youth. But as this is a romance of reality, we
are fain to divulge facts as they actually occurred,
and as we heard them from authentic
sources. Paul and Bessie, divided in their lives,
repose side by side in the old church-yard. He
dropped off first, and Bessie doffed her gray for
sombre habiliments of darker hue. Nor did she
long remain behind, loving little soul! leaving
her property to Annie Mortimer, and warning
her against long engagements.

The last time we heard of Annie, she was the
happy wife of an excellent man, who, fully coinciding
in the opinion of the little gray gossip,
protested strenuously against more than six
weeks’ courtship, and carried his point triumphantly.

THE MOURNER AND THE COMFORTER.

It was a lovely day in the month of August,
and the sun, which had shone with undiminished
splendor from the moment of dawn, was
now slowly declining, with that rich and prolonged
glow with which it seems especially to linger
around those scenes where it seldomest finds
admittance. For it was a valley in the north of
Scotland into which its light was streaming, and
many a craggy top and rugged side, rarely seen
without their cap of clouds or shroud of mist,[Pg 77]
were now throwing their mellow-tinted forms,
clear and soft, into a lake of unusual stillness.
High above the lake, and commanding a full view
of that and of the surrounding hills, stood one
of those countryfied hotels not unfrequently met
with on a tourist’s route, formerly only designed
for the lonely traveler or weary huntsman, but
which now, with the view to accommodate the
swarm of visitors which every summer increased,
had gone on stretching its cords and enlarging
its boundaries, till the original tenement looked
merely like the seed from which the rest had
sprung. Nor, even under these circumstances,
did the house admit of much of the luxury of
privacy; for, though the dormitories lay thick
and close along the narrow corridor, all accommodation
for the day was limited to two large
and long rooms, one above the other, which
fronted the lake. Of these, the lower one was
given up to pedestrian travelers—the sturdy,
sunburnt shooters of the moors, who arrive with
weary limbs and voracious appetites, and question
no accommodation which gives them food and
shelter; while the upper one was the resort of
ladies and family parties, and was furnished with
a low balcony, now covered with a rough awning.

Both these rooms, on the day we mention, were
filled with numerous guests. Touring was at its
height, and shooting had begun; and, while a
party of way-worn young men, coarsely clad and
thickly shod, were lying on the benches, or lolling
out of the windows of the lower apartment, a
number of traveling parties were clustered in
distinct groups in the room above; some lingering
round their tea-tables, while others sat on
the balcony, and seemed attentively watching the
evolutions of a small boat, the sole object on the
lake before them. It is pleasant to watch the
actions, however insignificant they may be, of a
distant group; to see the hand obey without
hearing the voice that has bidden; to guess at
their inward motives by their outward movements;
to make theories of their intentions, and
try to follow them out in their actions; and, as
at a pantomime, to tell the drift of the piece by
dumb show alone. And it is an idle practice,
too, and one especially made for the weary or the
listless traveler, giving them amusement without
thought, and occupation without trouble; for
people who have had their powers of attention
fatigued by incessant exertion, or weakened by
constant novelty, are glad to settle it upon the
merest trifle at last. So the loungers on the
balcony increased, and the little boat became a
centre of general interest to those who apparently
had not had one sympathy in common before.
So calm and gliding was its motion, so refreshing
the gentle air which played round it, that many
an eye from the shore envied the party who were
seated in it. These consisted of three individuals,
two large figures and a little one.

“It is Captain H—— and his little boy,” said
one voice, breaking silence; “they arrived here
yesterday.”

“They’ll be going to see the great waterfall,”
said another.

[Pg 78]

“They have best make haste about it; for
they have a mile to walk up-hill when they land,”
said a third.

“Rather they than I,” rejoined a languid
fourth; and again there was a pause. Meanwhile
the boat party seemed to be thinking little
about the waterfall, or the need for expedition.
For a few minutes the quick-glancing play of the
oars was seen, and then they ceased again; and
now an arm was stretched out toward some distant
object in the landscape, as if asking a question;
and then the little fellow pointed here and
there, as if asking many questions at once, and,
in short, the conjectures on the balcony were all
thrown out. But now the oars had rested longer
than usual, and a figure rose and stooped, and
seemed occupied with something at the bottom
of the boat. What were they about? They
were surely not going to fish at this time of
evening? No, they were not; for slowly a mast
was raised, and a sail unfurled, which at first
hung flapping, as if uncertain which side the
wind would take it, and then gently swelled out
to its full dimensions, and seemed too large a
wing for so tiny a body. A slight air had arisen;
the long reflected lines of colors, which every
object on the shore dripped, as it were, into the
lake, were gently stirred with a quivering motion;
every soft strip of liquid tint broke gradually into
a jagged and serrated edge; colors were mingled,
forms were confused; the mountains, which lay
in undiminished brightness above, seemed by
some invisible agency to be losing their second
selves from beneath them; long, cold white lines
rose apparently from below, and spread radiating
over all the liquid picture: in a few minutes, the
lake lay one vast sheet of bright silver, and half
the landscape was gone. The boat was no longer in
the same element: before, it had floated in a soft,
transparent ether; now, it glided upon a plain
of ice.

“I wish they had stuck to their oars,” said
the full, deep voice of an elderly gentleman;
“hoisting a sail on these lakes is very much like
trusting to luck in life—it may go on all right
for a while, and save you much trouble, but you
are never sure that it won’t give you the slip, and
that when you are least prepared.”

“No danger in the world, sir,” said a young
fop standing by, who knew as little about boating
on Scotch lakes as he did of most things any
where else. Meanwhile, the air had become
chill, the sun had sunk behind the hills, and the
boating party, tired, apparently, of their monotonous
amusement, turned the boat’s head toward
shore. For some minutes they advanced with
fuller and fuller bulging sail in the direction they
sought, when suddenly the breeze seemed not so
much to change as to be met by another and
stronger current of air, which came pouring
through the valley with a howling sound, and
then, bursting on the lake, drove its waters in
a furrow before it. The little boat started, and
swerved like a frightened creature; and the sail,
distended to its utmost, cowered down to the
water’s edge.

[Pg 79]

“Good God! why don’t they lower that sail?
Down with it! down with it!” shouted the same
deep voice from the balcony, regardless of the
impossibility of being heard. But the admonition
was needless; the boatman, with quick, eager
motions, was trying to lower it. Still it bent,
fuller and fuller, lower and lower. The man
evidently strained with desperate strength, defeating,
perhaps, with the clumsiness of anxiety,
the end in view; when, too impatient, apparently,
to witness their urgent peril without lending
his aid, the figure of Captain H—— rose up; in
one instant a piercing scream was borne faintly
to shore—the boat whelmed over, and all were
in the water.

For a few dreadful seconds nothing was seen
of the unhappy creatures; then a cap floated,
and then two struggling figures rose to the surface.
One was evidently the child, for his cap
was off, and his fair hair was seen; the other
head was covered. This latter buffeted the waters
with all the violence of a helpless, drowning man;
then he threw his arms above his head, sank, and
rose no more. The boy struggled less and less,
and seemed dead to all resistance before he sank,
too. The boat floated keel upward, almost within
reach of the sufferers; and now that the waters
had closed over them, the third figure was observed,
for the first time, at a considerable distance,
slowly and laboriously swimming toward
it, and in a few moments two arms were flung
over it, and there he hung. It was one of those
scenes which the heart quails to look on, yet
which chains the spectator to the spot. The
whole had passed in less than a minute: fear—despair—agony—and
death, had been pressed
into one of those short minutes, of which so many
pass without our knowing how. It is well. Idleness,
vanity, or vice—all that dismisses thought—may
dally with time, but the briefest space is
too long for that excess of consciousness where
time seems to stand still.

At this moment a lovely and gentle-looking
young woman entered the room. It was evident
that she knew nothing of the dreadful scene that
had just occurred, nor did she now remark the
intense excitement which still riveted the spectators
to the balcony; for, seeking, apparently,
to avoid all intercourse with strangers, she had
seated herself, with a book, on the chair farthest
removed from the window. Nor did she look up
at the first rush of hurried steps into the room;
but, when she did, there was something which
arrested her attention, for every eye was fixed
upon her with an undefinable expression of horror,
and every foot seemed to shrink back from
approaching her. There was also a murmur as
of one common and irrepressible feeling through
the whole house; quick footsteps were heard as
of men impelled by some dreadful anxiety; doors
were banged; voices shouted; and, could any
one have stood by a calm and indifferent spectator,
it would have been interesting to mark the
sudden change from the abstracted and composed
look with which Mrs. H—— (for she it was) first
raised her head from her book to the painful restlessness[Pg 80]
of inquiry with which she now glanced
from eye to eye, and seemed to question what
manner of tale they told.

It is something awful and dreadful to stand before
a fellow-creature laden with a sorrow which,
however we may commiserate it, it is theirs alone
to bear; to be compelled to tear away that vail of
unconsciousness which alone hides their misery
from their sight; and to feel that the faintness
gathering round our own heart alone enables theirs
to continue beating with tranquillity. We feel less
almost of pity for the suffering we are about to
inflict than for the peace which we are about to
remove; and the smile of unconsciousness which
precedes the knowledge of evil is still more painful
to look back upon than the bitterest tear that
follows it. And, if such be the feelings of the
messenger of heavy tidings, the mind that is to
receive them is correspondingly actuated. For
who is there that thanks you really for concealing
the evil that was already arrived—for prolonging
the happiness that was already gone?
Who cares for a reprieve when sentence is still
to follow? It is a pitiful soul that does not prefer
the sorrow of certainty to the peace of deceit; or,
rather, it is a blessed provision which enables us
to acknowledge the preference when it is no longer
in our power to choose. It seems intended
as a protection to the mind from something so
degrading to it as an unreal happiness, that both
those who have to inflict misery and those who
have to receive it should alike despise its solace.
Those who have trod the very brink of a precipice,
unknowing that it yawned beneath, look
back to those moments of their ignorance with
more of horror than of comfort; such security is
too close to danger for the mind ever to separate
them again. Nor need the bearer of sorrow embitter
his errand by hesitations and scruples how
to disclose it; he need not pause for a choice of
words or form of statement. In no circumstance
of life does the soul act so utterly independent
of all outward agency; it waits for no explanation,
wants no evidence; at the furthest idea of
danger it flies at once to its weakest part; an
embarrassed manner will rouse suspicions, and
a faltered word confirm them. Dreadful things
never require precision of terms—they are wholly
guessed before they are half-told. Happiness the
heart believes not in till it stands at our very
threshold; misery it flies at as if eager to meet.

So it was with the unfortunate Mrs. H——;
no one spoke of the accident, no one pointed to
the lake; no connecting link seemed to exist between
the security of ignorance and the agony
of knowledge. At one moment she raised her
head in placid indifference, at the next she knew
that her husband and child were lying beneath
the waters. And did she faint, or fall as one
stricken? No: for the suspicion was too sudden
to be sustained; and the next instant came the
thought, This must be a dream; God can not
have done it. And the eyes were closed, and
the convulsed hands pressed tight over them, as
if she would shut out mental vision as well; and
groans and sobs burst from the crowd, and men[Pg 81]
dashed from the room, unable to bear it; and
women, too, untrue to their calling. And there
was weeping and wringing of hands, and one
weak woman fainted; but still no sound or movement
came from her on whom the burden had
fallen. Then came the dreadful revulsion of
feeling; and, with contracted brow and gasping
breath, and voice pitched almost to a scream, she
said, “It is not true—tell me—it is not true—tell
me—tell me!” And, advancing with desperate
gestures, she made for the balcony. All recoiled
before her; when one gentle woman, small
and delicate as herself, opposed her, and, with
streaming eyes and trembling limbs, stood before
her. “Oh, go not there—go not there! cast your
heavy burden on the Lord!” These words broke
the spell. Mrs. H—— uttered a cry which long
rang in the ears of those that heard it, and sank,
shivering and powerless, in the arms of the kind
stranger.

Meanwhile, the dreadful scene had been witnessed
from all parts of the hotel, and every male
inmate poured from it. The listless tourist of
fashion forgot his languor, the way-worn pedestrian
his fatigue. The hill down to the lake was
trodden by eager, hurrying figures, all anxious to
give that which in such cases it is a relief to give,
viz., active assistance. Nor were these all, for
down came the sturdy shepherd from the hills;
and the troops of ragged, bare-legged urchins
from all sides; and distant figures of men and
women were seen pressing forward to help or to
hear; and the hitherto deserted-looking valley
was active with life. Meanwhile, the survivor
hung motionless over the upturned boat, borne
about at the will of the waters, which were now
lashed into great agitation. No one could tell
whether it was Captain H—— or the Highland
boatman, and no one could wish for the preservation
of the one more than the other. For life is
life to all; and the poor man’s wife and family
may have less time to mourn, but more cause to
want. And before the boat, that was manning
with eager volunteers, had left the shore, down
came also a tall, raw-boned woman, breathless,
more apparently with exertion than anxiety—her
eyes dry as stones, and her cheeks red with settled
color; one child dragging at her heels, another
at her breast. It was the boatman’s wife.
Different, indeed, was her suspense to that of the
sufferer who had been left above; but, perhaps,
equally true to her capacity. With her it was
fury rather than distress; she scolded the bystanders,
chid the little squalling child, and abused
her husband by turns.

“How dare he gang to risk his life, wi’ six
bairns at hame? Ae body knew nae sail was
safe on the lake for twa hours thegether; mair
fule he to try!” And then she flung the roaring
child on to the grass, bade the other mind it,
strode half-leg high into the water to help to
push off the boat; and then, returning to a place
where she could command a view of its movements,
she took up the child and hushed it tenderly
to sleep. Like her, every one now sought
some elevated position, and the progress of the[Pg 82]
boat seemed to suspend every other thought. It
soon neared the fatal spot, and in another minute
was alongside the upturned boat; the figure was
now lifted carefully in, something put round him,
and, from the languor of his movements, and the
care taken, the first impression on shore was that
Captain H—— was the one spared. But it was
a mercy to Mrs. H—— that she was not in a
state to know these surmises; for soon the survivor
sat steadily upright, worked his arms, and
rubbed his head, as if to restore animation; and,
long before the boat reached the shore, the coarse
figure and garments of the Highland boatman
were distantly recognized. Up started his wife.
Unaccustomed to mental emotions of any sudden
kind, they were strange and burdensome to her.

“What, Meggy! no stay to welcome your husband!”
said a bystander.

“Walcome him yoursal!” she replied; “I hae
no the time. I maun get his dry claes, and het
his parritch; and that’s the best walcome I can
gie him.” And so, perhaps, the husband thought,
too.

And now, what was there more to do? The
bodies of Captain H—— and his little son had
sunk in seventy fathom deep of water. If, in
their hidden currents and movements they cast
their victims aloft to the surface, all well; if not,
no human hand could reach them. There was
nothing to do! Two beings had ceased to exist,
who, as far as regarded the consciousness and
sympathies of the whole party, had never existed
at all before. There had been no influence upon
them in their lives, there was no blank to them
in their deaths. They had witnessed a dreadful
tragedy; they knew that she who had risen that
morning a happy wife and mother was now widowed
and childless, with a weight of woe upon
her, and a life of mourning before her; but there
were no forms to observe, no rites to prepare;
nothing necessarily to interfere with one habit
of the day, or to change one plan for the morrow.
It was only a matter of feeling; a great only, it
is true; but, as with every thing in life, from the
merest trifle to the most momentous occurrence,
the matter varied with the individual who felt.
All pitied, some sympathized, but few ventured
to help. Some wished themselves a hundred
miles off, because they could not help her; others
wished the same, because she distressed them;
and the solitary back room, hidden from all view
of the lake, to which the sufferer had been home,
after being visited by a few well-meaning or
curious women, was finally deserted by all save
the kind lady we have mentioned, and a good-natured
maid-servant, the drudge of the hotel,
who came in occasionally to assist.

We have told the tale exactly as it occurred;
the reader knows both plot and conclusion: and
now there only remains to say something of the
ways of human sorrow, and something, too, of the
ways of human goodness.

Grief falls differently on different hearts; some
must vent it, others can not. The coldest will
be the most unnerved, the tenderest the most
possessed; there is no rule. As for this poor[Pg 83]
lady, hers was of that sudden and extreme kind
for which insensibility is at first mercifully provided;
and it came to her, and yet not entirely—suspending
the sufferings of the mind, but not
deadening all the sensation of the body; for she
shivered and shuddered with that bloodless cold
which kept her pale, numb, and icy, like one in
the last hours before death. A large fire was
lighted, warm blankets were wrapped round her,
but the cold was too deep to be reached; and the
kind efforts made to restore animation were more
a relief to her attendants than to her. And yet
Miss Campbell stopped sometimes from the chafing
of the hands, and let those blue fingers lie
motionless in hers, and looked up at that wan
face with an expression as if she wished that
the eyes might never open again, but that death
might at once restore what it had just taken.
For some hours no change ensued, and then it
was gradual; the hands were withdrawn from
those that held them, and first laid, and then
clenched together; deep sighs of returning breath
and returning knowledge broke from her; the
wrappers were thrown off, first feebly, and then
restlessly. There were no dramatic startings,
no abrupt questionings; but, as blood came back
to the veins, anguish came back to the heart.
All the signs of excessive mental oppression now
began, a sad train as they are, one extreme leading
to the other. Before, there had been the
powerlessness of exertion, now, there was the
powerlessness of control; before she had been
benumbed by insensibility, now, she was impelled
as if bereft of sense. Like one distracted with intense
bodily pain, her whole frame seemed strained
to endure. The gentlest of voices whispered
comfort, she heard not; the kindest of arms supported
her, she rested not. There was the unvarying
moan, the weary pacing, the repetition
of the same action, the measurement of the same
distance, the body vibrating as a mere machine
to the restless recurrence of the same thought.

We have said that every outer sign of woe was
there—all but that which great sorrows set flowing,
but the greatest dry up—she shed no tears!
Tears are things for which a preparation of the
heart is needful; they are granted to anxiety for
the future, or lament for the past. They flow
with reminiscences of our own, or with the example
of others; they are sent to separations we
have long dreaded, and to disappointments we
can not forget; they come when our hearts are
softened, or when our hearts are wearied; but,
in the first amazement of unlooked-for woe, they
find no place: the cup that is suddenly whelmed
over lets no drop of water escape.

It was evident, however, through all the unruliness
of such distress, that the sufferer was a
creature of gentle and considerate nature; in the
whirlpool which convulsed every faculty of her
mind, the smooth surface of former habits was
occasionally thrown up. Though the hand which
sought to support her was cast aside with a restless,
excited movement, it was sought the next
instant with a momentary pressure of contrition.
Though the head was turned away one instant
from the whisper of consolation with a gesture[Pg 84]
of impatience, yet it was bowed the next as if in
entreaty of forgiveness. Poor creature! what
effort she could make to allay the storm which
was rioting within her was evidently made for
the sake of those around. With so much and so
suddenly to bear, she still showed the habit of
forbearance.

Meanwhile night had far advanced; many had
been the inquiries and expressions of sympathy
made at Mrs. H——’s door; but now, one by
one, the parties retired each to their rooms.
Few, however, rested that night as usual; however
differently the terrible picture might be carried
on the mind during the hours of light, it
forced itself with almost equal vividness upon all
in those of darkness. The father struggling to
reach the child, and then throwing up his arms
in agony, and that fair little head borne about
unresistingly by the waves before they covered it
over—these were the figures which haunted many
a pillow. Or, if the recollection of that scene
was lulled for a while, it was recalled again by
the weary sound of those footsteps which told of
a mourner who rested not. Of course, among
the number and medley of characters lying under
that roof, there was the usual proportion of the
selfish and the careless. None, however, slept
that night without confessing, in word or thought,
that life and death are in the hands of the Lord;
and not all, it is to be hoped, forgot the lesson.
One young man, in particular, possessed of fine
intellectual powers, but which unfortunately had
been developed among a people who, God help
them! affect to believe only what they understand,
was indebted to this day and night for a
great change in his opinions. His heart was
kind, though his understanding was perverted;
and the thought of that young, lovely, and feeble
woman, on whom a load of misery had fallen
which would have crushed the strongest of his
own sex, roused within him the strongest sense
of the insufficiency of all human aid or human
strength for beings who are framed to love and
yet ordained to lose. He was oppressed with
compassion, miserable with sympathy, he longed
with all the generosity of a manly heart to do
something, to suggest something, that should
help her, or satisfy himself. But what were fortitude,
philosophy, strength of mind? Mockeries,
nay, more, imbecilities, which he dared not mention
to her, nor so much as think of in the same
thought with her woe. Either he must accuse
the Power who had inflicted the wound, and so
deep he had not sunk, or he must acknowledge
His means of cure. Impelled, therefore, by a
feeling equally beyond his doubting or his proving,
he did that which for years German sophistry
had taught him to forbear; he gave but little,
but he felt that he gave his best—he prayed for
the suffering creature, and in the name of One
who suffered for all, and from that hour God’s
grace forsook him not.

But the most characteristic sympathizer on the
occasion was Sir Thomas ——, the fine old gentleman
who had shouted so loudly from the balcony.
He was at home in this valley, owned
the whole range of hills on one side of the lake[Pg 85]
from their fertile bases to their bleak tops, took
up his abode generally every summer in this
hotel, and felt for the stricken woman as if she
had been a guest of his own. Ever since the
fatal accident he had gone about in a perfect fret
of commiseration, inquiring every half-hour at
her door how she was, or what she had taken.
Severe bodily illness or intense mental distress
had never fallen upon that bluff person and warm
heart, and abstinence from food was in either
case the proof of an extremity for which he had
every compassion, but of which he had no knowledge.
He prescribed, therefore, for the poor lady
every thing that he would have relished himself,
and nothing at that moment could have made him
so happy as to have been allowed to send her up
the choicest meal that the country could produce.
Not that his benevolence was at all limited to
such manifestations; if it did not deal in sentiment,
it took the widest range of practice. His
laborers were dispatched round the lake to watch
for any traces of the late catastrophe; he himself
kept up an hour later planning how he could best
promote the comfort of her onward journey and
of her present stay; and though the good old
gentleman was now snoring loudly over the very
apartment which contained the object of his sympathy,
he would have laid down his life to save
those that were gone, and half his fortune to solace
her who was left.

Some hours had elapsed, the footsteps had
ceased, there was quiet, if not rest, in the chamber
of mourning; and, shortly after sunrise, a
side door in the hotel opened, and she who had
been as a sister to the stranger, never seen before,
came slowly forth. She was worn with
watching, her heart was sick with the sight and
sounds of such woe, and she sought the refreshment
of the outer air and the privacy of the early
day. It was a dawn promising a day as beautiful
as the preceding; the sun was beaming mildly
through an opening toward the east, wakening
the tops of the nearest hills, while all the rest of
the beautiful range lay huge and colorless, nodding,
as it were, to their drowsy reflections beneath,
and the lake itself looked as calm and
peaceful as if the winds had never swept over
its waters, nor those waters over all that a wife
and mother had loved. Man is such a speck on
this creation of which he is lord, that had every
human being now sleeping on the green sides of
the hills, been lying deep among their dark feet
in the lake, it would not have shown a ripple the
more. Miss Campbell, meanwhile, wandered
slowly on, and though apparently unmindful of the
beauty of the scene, she was evidently soothed by
its influence. All that dreary night long had she
cried unto God in ceaseless prayer, and felt that
without His help in her heart, and His word on
her lips, she had been but as a strengthless babe
before the sight of that anguish. But here beneath
His own heavens her communings were
freer; her soul seemed not so much to need Him
below, as to rise to Him above; and the solemn
dejection upon a very careworn, but sweet face,
became less painful, but perhaps more touching.
In her wanderings she had now left the hotel to[Pg 86]
her left hand, the boatman’s clay cottage was just
above, and below a little rough pier of stones, to
an iron ring in one of which the boat was usually
attached. She had stood on that self-same
spot the day before and watched Captain H——
and his little son as they walked down to the
pier, summoned the boatman, and launched into
the cool, smooth water. She now went down
herself, and stood with a feeling of awe upon the
same stones they had so lately left. The shores
were loose and shingly, many footsteps were
there, but one particularly riveted her gaze. It
was tiny in shape and light in print, and a whole
succession of them went off toward the side as
if following a butterfly, or attracted by a bright
stone. Alas! they we’re the last prints of that
little foot on the shores of this world! Miss
Campbell had seen the first thunderbolt of misery
burst upon his mother; she had borne the sight
of her as she lay stunned, and as she rose frenzied,
but that tiny footprint was worse than all, and she
burst into a passionate fit of tears. She felt as
if it were desecration to sweep them away, as if
she could have shrined them round from the winds
and waves, and thoughtless tread of others; but
a thought came to check her. What did it matter
how the trace of his little foot, or how the
memory of his short life were obliterated from
this earth? There was One above who had numbered
every hair of his innocent head, and in His
presence she humbly hoped both father and child
were now rejoicing.

She was just turning away when the sound of
steps approached, and the boatman’s wife came
up. Her features were coarse and her frame was
gaunt, as we have said, but she was no longer
the termagant of the day before, nor was she
ever so. But the lower classes, in the most
civilized lands, are often, both in joy and grief,
an enigma to those above them; if nature, rare
alike in all ranks, speak not for them, they have
no conventional imitation to put in her place.
The feeling of intense suspense was new to her,
and the violence she had assumed had been the
awkwardness which, under many eyes, knew not
otherwise how to express or, conceal; but she had
sound Scotch sense, and a tender woman’s heart,
and spoke them both now truly, if not gracefully.

“Ye’ll be frae the hotel, yonder?” she said;
“can ye tell me how the puir leddy has rested?
I was up mysel’ to the house, and they tell’t me
they could hear her greeting!”

Miss Campbell told her in a few words what
the reader knows, and asked for her husband.

“Oh! he’s weel eneugh in body, but sair disquieted
in mind. No that he’s unmindfu’ of the
mercy of the Lord to himsel’, but he can no just
keep the thocht away that it was he wha helped
those poor creatures to their end.” She then
proceeded earnestly to exculpate her husband,
assuring Miss Campbell that in spite of the heavy
wind and the entangled rope, all might even yet
have been well if the gentleman had kept his
seat. “But I just tell him that there’s Ane
above, stronger than the wind, who sunk them
in the lake, and could have raised them from it,
but it was no His pleasure. The puir leddy[Pg 87]
would ha’ been nane the happier if Andrew had
been ta’en as well, and I and the bairns muckle
the waur.” Then observing where Miss Campbell
stood, she continued, in a voice of much emotion,
“Ah! I mind them weel as they came awa’
down here; the bairnie was playing by as Andrew
loosened the boat—the sweet bairnie! so
happy and thochtless as he gaed in his beautiful
claes—I see him noo!” and the poor woman
wiped her eyes. “But there’s something ye’ll
like to see. Jeanie! gang awa’ up, and bring
the little bonnet that hangs on the peg. Andrew
went out again with the boat the night, and picked
it up. But it will no be dry.”

The child returned with a sad token. It was
the little fellow’s cap; a smart, town-made article,
with velvet band, and long silk tassel which
had been his first vanity, and his mother had
coaxed it smooth as she pulled the peak low
down over his fair forehead, and then, fumbling
his little fingers into his gloves, had given him a
kiss which she little thought was to be the last!

“I was coming awa’ up wi’ it mysel’, but the
leddy will no just bear to see it yet.”

“No, not yet,” said Miss Campbell, “if ever.
Let me take it. I shall remain with her till better
friends come here, or she goes to them;” and
giving the woman money, which she had difficulty
in making her accept, she possessed herself of
the cap, and turned away.

She soon reached the hotel, it was just five
o’clock, all blinds were down, and there was no
sign of life; but one figure was pacing up and
down, and seemed to be watching for her. It
was Sir Thomas. His sympathy had broken his
sleep in the morning, though it had not disturbed
it at night. He began in his abrupt way:

“Madam, I have been watching for you. I
heard you leave the house. Madam, I feel almost
ashamed to lift up my eyes to you; while we
have all been wishing and talking, you alone have
been acting. We are all obliged to you, madam;
there is not a creature here with a heart in them
to whom you have not given comfort!”

Miss Campbell tried to escape from the honest
overflowings of the old man’s feelings.

“You have only done what you liked: very
true, madam. It is choking work having to pity
without knowing how to help; but I would sooner
give ten thousand pounds than see what you have
seen. I would do any thing for the poor creature,
any thing, but I could not look at her.” He then
told her that his men had been sent with the
earliest dawn to different points of the lake, but
as yet without finding any traces of the late fatal
accident; and then his eyes fell upon the cap in
Miss Campbell’s hand, and he at once guessed
the history. “Picked up last evening, you say—sad,
sad—a dreadful thing!” and his eyes filling
more than it was convenient to hold, he turned
away, blew his nose, took a short turn, and coming
back again, continued, “But tell me, how has
she rested? what has she taken? You must not
let her weep too much!”

“Let her weep!” said Miss Campbell; “I
wish I could bid her. She has not shed a tear
yet, and mind and body alike want it. I left her[Pg 88]
lying back quiet in an arm-chair, but I fear this
quiet is worse than what has gone before!”

“God bless my heart!” said Sir Thomas, his
eyes now running over without control. “God
bless my heart! this is sad work. Not that I
ever wished a woman to cry before in my life, if
she could help it. Poor thing! poor thing! I’ll
send for a medical man: the nearest is fifteen
miles off!”

“I think it will be necessary. I am now going
back to her room.”

“Well, ma’am, I won’t detain you longer, but
don’t keep all the good to yourself. Let me
know if there is any thing that I, or my men, or,”
the old gentleman hesitated, “my money, madam,
can do, only don’t ask me to see her;” and so
they each went their way—Sir Thomas to the
stables to send off man and horse, and Miss
Campbell to the chamber of mourning.

She started as she entered; the blind was
drawn up, and, leaning against the shutter, in
apparent composure, stood Mrs. H——. That
composure was dreadful; it was the calm of intense
agitation, the silence of boiling heat, the
immovability of an object in the most rapid motion.
The light was full upon her, showing
cheek and forehead flushed, and veins bursting
on the small hands. Miss Campbell approached
with trembling limbs.

“Where is the servant?”—”I did not want her.”

“Will you not rest?”—”I can not!”

Miss Campbell was weary and worn out; the
picture before her was so terrible, she sunk on
the nearest chair in an agony of tears.

Without changing her position, Mrs. H——
turned her head, and said, gently, “Oh, do not
cry so! it is I who ought to cry, but my heart is
as dry as my eyes, and my head is so tight, and
I can not think for its aching; I can not think,
I can not understand, I can not remember, I don’t
even know your name, then why should this be
true? It is I who am ill, they are well, but they
never were so long from me before.” Then
coming forward, her face working, and her breath
held tightly, as if a scream were pressing behind,
“Tell me,” she said, “tell me—my husband and
child—” she tried hard to articulate, but the words
were lost in a frightful contortion. Miss Campbell
mastered herself, she saw the rack of mental
torture was strained to the utmost. Neither could
bear this much longer. She almost feared resistance,
but she felt there was one way to which
the sufferer would respond.

“I am weary and tired,” she said; “weary
with staying up with you all night. If you will
lie down, I will soon come and lie by your side.”

Poor Mrs. H—— said nothing, but let herself
be laid upon the bed.

Three mortal hours passed, she was burnt with
a fever which only her own tears could quench;
and those wide-open, dry eyes were fearful to
see. A knock came to the door, “How is she
now?” said Sir Thomas’s voice, “The doctor
is here: you look as if you wanted him yourself.
I’ll bring him up.”

The medical man entered. Such a case had
not occurred in his small country practice before,[Pg 89]
but he was a sensible and a kind man, and no
practice could have helped him here if he had
not been. He heard the whole sad history, felt
the throbbing pulse, saw the flush on the face,
and wide-open eyes, which now seemed scarcely
to notice any thing. He took Miss Campbell into
another room, and said that the patient must be
instantly roused, and then bled if necessary.

“But the first you can undertake better than
I, madam.” He looked round. “Is there no little
object which would recall?—nothing you could
bring before her sight? You understand me?”

Indeed, Miss Campbell did. She had not sat
by that bed-side for the last three hours without
feeling and fearing that this was necessary; but,
at the same time, she would rather have cut off
her own hand than undertaken it. She hesitated—but
for a moment, and then whispered something
to Sir Thomas.

“God bless my heart!” said he: “who would
have thought of it? Yes. I know it made me
cry like a child.”

And then he repeated her proposition to the
medical man, who gave immediate assent, and
she left the room. In a few minutes she entered
that of Mrs. H—— with the little boy’s cap in
her hand, placed it in a conspicuous position before
the bed, and then seated herself with a quick,
nervous motion by the bed-side. It was a horrid
pause, like that which precedes a cruel operation,
where you have taken upon yourself the second
degree of suffering—that of witnessing it. The
cap lay there on the small stone mantle-piece,
with its long, drabbled, weeping tassel, like a
funeral emblem. It was not many minutes before
it caught those eyes for which it was intended.
A suppressed exclamation broke from
her; she flew from the bed, looked at Miss Campbell
one instant in intense inquiry, and the next
had the cap in her hands. The touch of that wet
object seemed to dissolve the spell; her whole
frame trembled with sudden relaxation. She
sank, half-kneeling, on the floor, and tears spouted
from her eyes. No blessed rain from heaven to
famished earth was ever more welcome. Tears,
did we say? Torrents! Those eyes, late so hot
and dry, were as two arteries of the soul suddenly
opened. What a misery that had been which
had sealed them up! They streamed over her
face, blinding her riveted gaze, falling on her
hands, on the cap, on the floor. Meanwhile the
much-to-be-pitied sharer of her sorrow knelt by
her side, her whole frame scarcely less unnerved
than that she sought to support, uttering broken
ejaculations and prayers, and joining her tears
to those which flowed so passionately. But she
had a gentle and meek spirit to deal with. Mrs.
H—— crossed her hands over the cap and bowed
her head. Thus she continued a minute, and
then turning, still on her knees, she laid her head
on her companion’s shoulder.

“Help me up,” she said, “for I am without
strength.” And all weak, trembling, and sobbing,
she allowed herself to be undressed and put to bed.

Miss Campbell lay down in the same room.
She listened till the quivering, catching sobs had
given place to deep-drawn sighs, and these again[Pg 90]
to disturbed breathings, and then both slept the
sleep of utter exhaustion, and Miss Campbell,
fortunately, knew not when the mourner awoke
from it.

Oh, the dreary first-fruits of excessive sorrow!
The first days of a stricken heart, passed through,
writhed through, ground through, we scarcely
know or remember how, before the knowledge
of the bereavement has become habitual—while
it is still struggle and not endurance—the same
ceaseless recoil from the same ever-recurring
shock. It was a blessing that she was ill, very ill;
the body shared something of the weight at first.

Let no one, untried by such extremity, here
lift the word or look of deprecation. Let there
not be a thought of what she ought to have done,
or what they would have done. God’s love is
great, and a Christian’s faith is strong, but when
have the first encounters between old joys and
new sorrows been otherwise than fierce? From
time to time a few intervals of heavenly composure,
wonderful and gracious to the sufferer, may
be permitted, and even the dim light of future
peace discerned in the distance; but, in a moment,
the gauntlet of defiance is thrown again—no
matter what—an old look, an old word, which
comes rushing unbidden over the soul, and dreadful
feelings rise again only to spend themselves
by their own violence. It always seems to us as
if sorrow had a nature of its own, independent
of that whereon it has fallen, and sometimes
strangely at variance with it—scorching the gentle,
melting the passionate, dignifying the weak,
and prostrating the strong—and showing the
real nature, habits, or principles of the mind,
only in those defenses it raises up during the
intervals of relief. With Mrs. H—— these defenses
were reared on the only sure base, and
though the storm would sweep down her bulwarks,
and cover all over with the furious tide
of grief, yet the foundation was left to cling to,
and every renewal added somewhat to its strength.

Three days were spent thus, but the fourth she
was better, and on Miss Campbell’s approaching
her bed-side, she drew her to her, and, putting
her arms round her neck, imprinted a calm and
solemn kiss upon her cheek.

“Oh! what can I ever do for you, dear friend
and comforter? God, who has sent you to me
in my utmost need, He alone can reward you.
I don’t even know your name; but that matters
not, I know your heart. Now, you may tell me
all—all; before, I felt as if I could neither know
nor forget what had happened, before, it was as
if God had withdrawn His countenance; but
now He is gracious, He has heard your prayers.”

And then, with the avidity of fresh, hungry
sorrow, she besought Miss Campbell to tell her
all she knew; she besought and would not be
denied, for sorrow has royal authority, its requests
are commands. So, with the hand of each locked
together, and the eyes of each averted, they sat
questioning and answering in disjointed sentences
till the whole sad tale was told. Then, anxious
to turn a subject which could not be banished,
Miss Campbell spoke of the many hearts that
had bled, and the many prayers that had ascended[Pg 91]
for her, and told her of that kind old man who had
thought, acted, and grieved for her like a father.

“God bless him—God bless them all; but
chiefly you, my sister. I want no other name.”

“Call me Catherine,” said the faithful companion.

Passionate bursts of grief would succeed such
conversations; nevertheless, they were renewed
again and again, for, like all sufferers from severe
bereavements, her heart needed to create a world
for itself, where its loved ones still were, as a
defense against that outer one where they were
not, and to which she was only slowly and painfully
to be inured, if ever. In these times she
would love to tell Catherine—what Catherine
most loved to hear—how that her lost husband
was both a believer and a doer of Christ’s holy
word, and that her lost child had learned at her
knee what she herself had chiefly learned from
his father. For she had been brought up in ignorance
and indifference to religious truths, and
the greatest happiness of her life had commenced
that knowledge, which its greatest sorrow was
now to complete.

“I have been such a happy woman,” she would
say, “that I have pitied others less blessed, though
I trust they have not envied me.” And then
would follow sigh on sigh and tear on tear, and
again her soul writhed beneath the agony of that
implacable mental spasm.

Sometimes the mourner would appear to lose,
instead of gaining ground, and would own with
depression, and even with shame, her fear that
she was becoming more and more the sport of
ungovernable feeling. “My sorrow is sharp
enough,” she would say, “but it is a still sharper
pang when I feel I am not doing my duty under
it. It is not thus that he would have had me
act.” And her kind companion, always at hand
to give sympathy or comfort, would bid her not
exact or expect any thing from herself, but to
cast all upon God, reminding her in words of
tenderness that her soul was as a sick child, and
that strength would not be required until strength
was vouchsafed. “Strength,” said the mourner,
“no more strength or health for me.” And Miss
Campbell would whisper that, though “weariness
endureth for a night, joy comes in the morning.”
Or she would be silent, for she knew, as most women
do, alike how to soothe and when to humor.

It was a beautiful and a moving sight to see
two beings thus riveted together in the exercise
and receipt of the tenderest and most intimate
feelings, who had never known of each other’s
existence till the moment that made the one dependent
and the other indispensable. All the
shades and grades of conventional and natural
acquaintanceship, all the gradual insight into
mutual character, and the gradual growth into
mutual trust, which it is so sweet to look back
upon from the high ground of friendship, were
lost to them; but it mattered not, here they were
together, the one admitted into the sanctuary of
sorrow, the other sharing in the fullness of love,
with no reminiscence in common but one, and
that sufficient to bind them together for life.

Meanwhile the friend without was also unremitting[Pg 92]
in his way. He crossed not her threshold
in person, nor would have done so for the world,
but his thoughts were always reaching Mrs.
H—— in some kind form. Every delicate dainty
that money could procure—beautiful fruits and
flowers which had scarce entered this valley
before—every thing that could tempt the languid
appetite or divert the weary eye was in turn
thought of, and each handed in with a kind,
hearty inquiry, till the mourner listened with
pleasure for the step and voice. Nor was Miss
Campbell forgotten; all the brief snatches of air
and exercise she enjoyed were in his company,
and often did he insist on her coming out for a
short walk or drive when the persuasions of Mrs.
H—— had failed to induce her to leave a room
where she was the only joy. But now a fresh
object attracted Sir Thomas’s activity, for after
many days the earthly remains of one of the sufferers
were thrown up. It was the body of the
little boy. Sir Thomas directed all that was
necessary to be done, and having informed Miss
Campbell, the two friends, each strange to the
other, and bound together by the interest in one
equally strange to both, went out together up the
hill above the hotel, and were gone longer than
usual. The next day the intelligence was communicated
to Mrs. H——, who received it calmly,
but added, “I could have wished them both to have
rested together; but God’s will be done. I ought
not to think of them as on earth.”

The grave of little Harry H—— was dug far
from the burial-ground of his fathers, and strangers
followed him to it; but though there were
no familiar faces among those who stood round,
there were no cold ones; and when Sir Thomas,
as chief mourner, threw the earth upon the lowered
coffin, warm tears fell upon it also. Miss
Campbell had watched the procession from the
window, and told how the good old man walked
next behind the minister, the boatman and his
wife following him, and how a long train succeeded,
all pious and reverential in their bearing,
with that air of manly decorum which the Scotch
peasantry conspicuously show on such occasions.
And she who lay on a bed of sorrow and weakness
blessed them through her tears, and felt
that her child’s funeral was not lonely.

From this time the mourner visibly mended.
The funeral and the intelligence that preceded it
had insensibly given her that change of the same
theme, the want of which had been so much felt
at first. She had now taken up her burden, and,
for the dear sakes of those for whom she bore it,
it became almost sweet to her. She was not
worshiping her sorrow as an idol, but cherishing
it as a friend. Meanwhile she had received many
kind visits from the minister who had buried her
child, and had listened to his exhortations with
humility and gratitude; but his words were felt
as admonitions, Catherine’s as comfort. To her,
now dearer and dearer, every day she would confess
aloud the secret changes of her heart; how
at one time the world looked all black and dreary
before her, how at another she seemed already
to live in a brighter one beyond; how one day
life was a burden she knew not how to bear, and[Pg 93]
another how the bitterness of death seemed already
past. Then with true Christian politeness
she would lament over the selfishness of her grief,
and ask where Miss Campbell had learned to
know that feeling which she felt henceforth was
to be the only solace of her life—viz., the deep,
deep sympathy for others. And Catherine would
tell her, with that care-worn look which confirmed
all she said, how she had been sorely tried, not
by the death of those she loved, but by what was
worse—their sufferings and their sins. How she
had been laden with those misfortunes which
wound most and teach least, and which, although
coming equally from the hand of God, torment
you with the idea that, but for the wickedness or
weakness of some human agent, they need never
have been; till she had felt, wrongly no doubt,
that she could have better borne those on which
the stamp of the Divine Will was more legibly
impressed. She told her how the sting of sorrow,
like that of death, is sin; how comparatively light
it was to see those you love dead, dying, crippled,
maniacs, victims, in short, of any evil, rather than
victims of evil itself. She spoke of a heart-broken
sister and a hard-hearted brother; of a son—an
only one, like him just buried—who had gone on
from sin to sin, hardening his own heart, and
wringing those of others, till none but a mother’s
love remained to him, and that he outraged. She
told, in short, so much of the sad realities of life,
in which, if there was not more woe, there was
less comfort, that Mrs. H—— acknowledged in
her heart that such griefs had indeed been unendurable,
and returned with something like comfort
to the undisturbed sanctity of her own.

About this time a summons came which required
Sir Thomas to quit the valley in which
these scenes had been occurring. Mrs. H——
could have seen him, and almost longed to see
him; but he shrunk from her, fearing no longer
her sorrow so much as her gratitude.

“Tell her I love her,” he said, in his abrupt
way, “and always shall; but I can’t see her—at
least, not yet.” Then, explaining to Miss Campbell
all the little arrangements for the continuation
of the mourner’s comfort, which his absence
might interrupt, he authorized her to dispose of
his servants, his horses, and every thing that belonged
to him, and finally put into her hands a
small packet, directed to Mrs. H——, with instructions
when to give it. He had ascertained
that Mrs. H—— was wealthy, and that her great
afflictions entailed no minor privations. “But
you, my dear, are poor; at least, I hope so, for
I could not be happy unless I were of service to
you. I am just as much obliged to you as Mrs.
H—— is. Mind, you have promised to write to
me and to apply to me without reserve. No kindness,
no honor—nonsense. It is I who honor
you above every creature I know, but I would
not be a woman for the world; at least, the truth
is, I could not.” And so he turned hastily away.

And now the time approached when she, who
had entered this valley a happy wife and mother,
was to leave it widowed and childless, a sorrowing
and heavy-hearted woman, but not an unhappy[Pg 94]
one. She had but few near relations, and
those scattered in distant lands; but there were
friends who would break the first desolation of
her former home, and Catherine had promised to
bear her company till she had committed her into
their hands.

It was a lovely evening, the one before their
departure. Mrs. H—— was clad for the first time
in all that betokened her to be a mourner; but,
as Catherine looked from the black habiliments to
that pale face, she felt that there was the deepest
mourning of all. Slowly the widow passed through
that side-door we have mentioned, and stood once
more under God’s heaven. Neither had mentioned
to the other the errand on which they were
bound, but both felt that there was but one.
Slowly and feebly she mounted the gentle slope,
and often she stopped, for it was more than
weakness or fatigue that made her breath fail.
The way was beautiful, close to the rocky bed
and leafy sides of that sweetest of all sweet things
in the natural world, a Scotch burn. And now
they turned, for the rich strip of grass, winding
among bush and rock, which they had been following
as a path, here spread itself out in a level
shelf of turf, where the burn ran smoother, the
bushes grew higher, and where the hill started
upward again in bolder lines. Here there was
a fresh-covered grave. The widow knelt by it,
while Catherine stood back. Long was that head
bowed, first in anguish, and then in submission,
and then she turned her face toward the lake, on
which she had not looked since that fatal day,
and gazed steadily upon it. The child lay in his
narrow bed at her feet, but the father had a wider
one far beneath. Catherine now approached and
was folded in a silent embrace; then she gave
her that small packet which Sir Thomas had left,
and begged her to open it on the spot. It was a
legal deed, making over to Mary H——, in free
gift, the ground on which she stood—a broad
strip from the tip of the hill to the waters of the
lake. The widow’s tears rained fast upon it.

“Both God and man are very good to me,”
she said; “I am lonely but not forsaken. But,
Catherine, it is you to whom I must speak. I
have tried to speak before, but never felt I could
till now. Oh, Catherine! stay with me; let us
never be parted. God gave you to me when He
took all else beside; He has not done it for naught.
I can bear to return to my lonely home if you will
share it—I can bear to see this valley, this grave
again, if you are with me. I am not afraid of
tying your cheerfulness to my sorrow; I feel
that I am under a calamity, but I feel also that I
am under no curse—you will help to make it a
blessing. Oh! complete your sacred work, give
me years to requite to you your last few days to
me. You have none who need you more—none
who love you more. Oh! follow me; here, on my
child’s grave, I humbly entreat you, follow me.”

Catherine trembled; she stood silent a minute,
and then, with a low, firm voice, replied, “Here,
on your child’s grave, I promise you. Your people
shall be my people, and your God my God.”
She kept her promise and never repented it.

[Pg 95]

LIFE OF BLAKE, THE GREAT ADMIRAL.

Robert Blake was born at Bridgewater,
in August, 1599. His father, Humphrey
Blake, was a merchant trading with Spain—a
man whose temper seems to have been too sanguine
and adventurous for the ordinary action of
trade, finally involving him in difficulties which
clouded his latter days, and left his family in
straitened circumstances: his name, however,
was held in general respect; and we find that
he lived in one of the best houses in Bridgewater,
and twice filled the chair of its chief magistrate.
The perils to which mercantile enterprise was
then liable—the chance escapes and valorous
deeds which the successful adventurer had to
tell his friends and children on the dark winter
nights—doubtless formed a part of the food on
which the imagination of young Blake, “silent
and thoughtful from his childhood,” was fed in
the “old house at home.” At the Bridgewater
grammar-school, Robert received his early education,
making tolerable acquaintance with Latin
and Greek, and acquiring a strong bias toward
a literary life. This penchant was confirmed by
his subsequent career at Oxford, where he matriculated
at sixteen, and where he strove hard,
but fruitlessly, for scholarships and fellowships
at different colleges. His failure to obtain a
Merton fellowship has been attributed to a crotchet
of the warden’s, Sir Henry Savile, in favor of
tall men: “The young Somersetshire student,
thick-set, fair-complexioned, and only five feet
six, fell below his standard of manly beauty;”
and thus the Cavalier warden, in denying this
aspirant the means of cultivating literature on a
little university oatmeal, was turning back on
the world one who was fated to become a republican
power of the age. This shining light,
instead of comfortably and obscurely merging in
a petty constellation of Alma Mater, was to become
a bright particular star, and dwell apart.
The avowed liberalism of Robert may, however,
have done more in reality to shock Sir Henry,
than his inability to add a cubit to his stature.
It is pleasant to know, that the “admiral and
general at sea” never outgrew a tenderness for
literature—his first-love, despite the rebuff of
his advances. Even in the busiest turmoil of a
life teeming with accidents by flood and field, he
made it a point of pride not to forget his favorite
classics. Nor was it till after nine years’ experience
of college-life, and when his father was
no longer able to manage his res angusta vitæ,
that Robert finally abandoned his long-cherished
plans, and retired with a sigh and last adieu from
the banks of the Isis.

When he returned to Bridgewater, in time to
close his father’s eyes, and superintend the arrangements
of the family, he was already remarkable
for that “iron will, that grave demeanor,
that free and dauntless spirit,” which so distinguished
his after-course. His tastes were simple,
his manners somewhat bluntly austere; a refined
dignity of countenance, and a picturesque vigor
of conversation, invested him with a social interest,
to which his indignant invectives against[Pg 96]
court corruptions gave distinctive character. To
the Short Parliament he was sent as member for
his native town; and in 1645, was returned by
Taunton to the Long Parliament. At the dissolution
of the former, which he regarded as a
signal for action, he began to prepare arms
against the king; his being one of the first
troops in the field, and engaged in almost every
action of importance in the western counties.
His superiority to the men about him lay in the
“marvelous fertility, energy, and comprehensiveness
of his military genius.” Prince Rupert
alone, in the Royalist camp, could rival him as
a “partisan soldier.” His first distinguished exploit
was his defense of Prior’s Hill fort, at the
siege of Bristol—which contrasts so remarkably
with the pusillanimity of his chief, Colonel Fiennes.
Next comes his yet more brilliant defense
of Lyme—then a little fishing-town, with some
900 inhabitants, of which the defenses were a
dry ditch, a few hastily-formed earth-works, and
three small batteries, but which the Cavalier host
of Prince Maurice, trying storm, stratagem, blockade,
day after day, and week after week, failed
to reduce or dishearten. “At Oxford, where
Charles then was, the affair was an inexplicable
marvel and mystery: every hour the court expected
to hear that the ‘little vile fishing-town,’
as Clarendon contemptuously calls it, had fallen,
and that Maurice had marched away to enterprises
of greater moment; but every post brought
word to the wondering council, that Colonel
Blake still held out, and that his spirited defense
was rousing and rallying the dispersed adherents
of Parliament in those parts.” After the siege
was raised, the Royalists found that more men
of gentle blood had fallen under Blake’s fire at
Lyme, than in all other sieges and skirmishes in
the western counties since the opening of the war.

The hero’s fame had become a spell in the
west: it was seen that he rivaled Rupert in
rapid and brilliant execution, and excelled him
in the caution and sagacity of his plans. He
took Taunton—a place so important at that
juncture, as standing on and controlling the
great western highway—in July, 1644, within
a week of Cromwell’s defeat of Rupert at Marston
Moor. All the vigor of the Royalists was
brought to bear on the captured town; Blake’s
defense of which is justly characterized as
abounding with deeds of individual heroism—exhibiting
in its master-mind a rare combination
of civil and military genius. The spectacle of
an unwalled town, in an inland district, with no
single advantage of site, surrounded by powerful
castles and garrisons, and invested by an enemy
brave, watchful, numerous, and well provided
with artillery, successively resisting storm, strait,
and blockade for several months, thus paralyzing
the king’s power, and affording Cromwell time
to remodel the army, naturally arrested the attention
of military writers at that time; and
French authors of this class bestowed on Taunton
the name of the modern Saguntum. The
rage of the Royalists at this prolonged resistance
was extreme. Reckoning from the date
when Blake first seized the town, to that of[Pg 97]
Goring’s final retreat, the defense lasted exactly
a year, and under circumstances of almost overwhelming
difficulty to the besieged party, who,
in addition to the fatigue of nightly watches, and
the destruction of daily conflicts, suffered from
terrible scarcity of provisions. “Not a day passed
without a fire; sometimes eight or ten houses
were burning at the same moment; and in the
midst of all the fear, horror, and confusion incident
to such disasters, Blake and his little garrison
had to meet the storming-parties of an
enemy brave, exasperated, and ten times their
own strength. But every inch of ground was
gallantly defended. A broad belt of ruined cottages
and gardens was gradually formed between
the besiegers and the besieged; and on the heaps
of broken walls and burnt rafters, the obstinate
contest was renewed from day to day.” At last
relief arrived from London; and Goring, in savage
dudgeon, beat a retreat, notwithstanding the
wild oath he had registered, either to reduce that
haughty town, or to lay his bones in its trenches.

Blake was now the observed of all observers;
but, unlike most of his compeers, he abstained
from using his advantages for purposes of selfish
or personal aggrandizement. He kept aloof
from the “centre of intrigues,” and remained at
his post, “doing his duty humbly and faithfully
at a distance from Westminster; while other
men, with less than half his claims, were asking
and obtaining the highest honors and rewards
from a grateful and lavish country.” Nor, indeed,
did he at any time side with the ultras of
his party, but loudly disapproved of the policy
of the regicides. This, coupled with his influence,
so greatly deserved and so deservedly
great, made him an object of jealousy with
Cromwell and his party; and it was owing, perhaps,
to their anxiety to keep him removed from
the home sphere of action, that he was now appointed
to the chief naval command.

Hitherto, and for years afterward, no state, ancient
or modern, as Macaulay points out, had made
a separation between the military and the naval
service. Cimon and Lysander, Pompey and
Agrippa, had fought by sea as well as by land:
at Flodden, the right wing of the English was
led by her admiral, and the French admiral led
the Huguenots at Jarnac, &c. Accordingly,
Blake was summoned from his pacific government
at Taunton, to assume the post of “General
and Admiral at Sea;” a title afterward
changed to “General of the Fleet.” Two others
were associated with him in the command;
but Blake seems at least to have been recognized
as primus inter pares. The navy system was
in deplorable need of reform; and a reformer it
found in Robert Blake, from the very day he became
an admiral. His care for the well-being
of his men made him an object of their almost
adoring attachment. From first to last, he stood
alone as England’s model seaman. “Envy, hatred,
and jealousy dogged the steps of every
other officer in the fleet; but of him, both then
and afterward, every man spoke well.” The
“tremendous powers” intrusted to him by the
Council of State, he exercised with off-handed[Pg 98]
and masterly success—startling politicians and
officials of the ancien régime, by his bold and open
tactics, and his contempt for tortuous by-paths in
diplomacy. His wondrous exploits were performed
with extreme poverty of means. He was
the first to repudiate and disprove the supposed
fundamental maxim in marine warfare,
that no ship could attack a castle, or other
strong fortification, with any hope of success.
The early part of his naval career was occupied
in opposing and defeating the piratical performances
of Prince Rupert, which then constituted
the support of the exiled Stuarts. Blake’s utmost
vigilance and activity were required to put
down this extraordinary system of freebooting;
and by the time that he had successively overcome
Rupert, and the minor but stubborn adventurers,
Grenville and Carteret, he was in request
to conduct the formidable war with Holland,
and to cope with such veterans as Tromp,
De Witt, De Ruyter, &c.

On one occasion only did Blake suffer ever a
defeat; and this one is easily explained by—first,
Tromp’s overwhelming superiority of force;
secondly, the extreme deficiency of men in the
English fleet; and, thirdly, the cowardice or
disaffection of several of Blake’s captains at a
critical moment in the battle. Notwithstanding
this disaster, not a whisper was heard against
the admiral either in the Council of State or in
the city; his offer to resign was flatteringly rejected;
and he soon found, that the “misfortune
which might have ruined another man, had
given him strength and influence in the country.”
This disaster, in fact, gave him power to
effect reforms in the service, and to root out
abuses which had defied all his efforts in the
day of his success. He followed it up by the
great battle of Portland, and other triumphant
engagements.

Then came his sweeping tours de force in the
Mediterranean; in six months he established
himself as a power in that great midland sea,
from which his countrymen had been politically
excluded since the age of the Crusades—teaching
nations, to which England’s very name was
a strange sound, to respect its honors and its
rights; chastising the pirates of Barbary with
unprecedented severity; making Italy’s petty
princes feel the power of the northern Protestants;
causing the pope himself to tremble on
his seven hills; and startling the council-chambers
of Venice and Constantinople with the distant
echoes of our guns. And be it remembered,
that England had then no Malta, Corfu, and
Gibraltar as the bases of naval operations in the
Mediterranean: on the contrary, Blake found
that in almost every gulf and island of that sea—in
Malta, Venice, Genoa, Leghorn, Algiers,
Tunis, and Marseilles—there existed a rival and
an enemy; nor were there more than three or
four harbors in which he could obtain even bread
for love or money.

After this memorable cruise, he had to conduct
the Spanish war—a business quite to his
mind; for though his highest renown had been
gained in his conflicts with the Dutch, he had[Pg 99]
secretly disliked such encounters between two
Protestant states; whereas, in the case of Popish
Spain, his soul leaped at the anticipation of battle—sympathizing
as he did with the Puritan conviction,
that Spain was the devil’s stronghold in
Europe. At this period, Blake was suffering
from illness, and was sadly crippled in his naval
equipments, having to complain constantly of
the neglect at home to remedy the exigencies
of the service. “Our ships,” he writes, “extremely
foul, winter drawing on, our victuals
expiring, all stores failing, our men falling sick
through the badness of drink, and eating their
victuals boiled in salt water for two months’
space” (1655). His own constitution was thoroughly
undermined. For nearly a year, remarks
his biographer, “he had never quitted the ‘foul
and defective’ flag-ship. Want of exercise and
sweet food, beer, wine, water, bread, and vegetables,
had helped to develop scurvy and dropsy;
and his sufferings from these diseases were
now acute and continuous.” But his services
were indispensable, and Blake was not the man
to shrink from dying in harness. His sun set
gloriously at Santa Cruz—that miraculous and
unparalleled action, as Clarendon calls it, which
excited such grateful enthusiasm at home. At
home! words of fascination to the maimed and
enfeebled veteran, who now turned his thoughts
so anxiously toward the green hills of his native
land. Cromwell’s letter of thanks, the plaudits
of parliament, and the jeweled ring sent to him
by his loving countrymen, reached him while
homeward bound. But he was not again to
tread the shores he had defended so well.

As the ships rolled through the Bay of Biscay,
his sickness increased, and affectionate adherents
saw with dismay that he was drawing
near to the gates of the grave. “Some gleams
of the old spirit broke forth as they approached
the latitude of England. He inquired often and
anxiously if the white cliffs were yet in sight.
He longed to behold once more the swelling
downs, the free cities, the goodly churches of
his native land…. At last, the Lizard was announced.
Shortly afterward, the bold cliffs and
bare hills of Cornwall loomed out grandly in the
distance. But it was too late for the dying hero.
He had sent for the captains and other great
officers of his fleet, to bid them farewell; and
while they were yet in his cabin, the undulating
hills of Devonshire, glowing with the tints of
early autumn, came full in view…. But the
eyes which had so yearned to behold this scene
once more were at that very instant closing in
death. Foremost of the victorious squadron, the
St. George rode with its precious burden into
the Sound; and just as it came into full view
of the eager thousands crowding the beach, the
pier-heads, the walls of the citadel, &c., ready
to catch the first glimpse of the hero of Santa
Cruz, and salute him with a true English welcome—he,
in his silent cabin, in the midst of
his lion-hearted comrades, now sobbing like little
children, yielded up his soul to God.”

The corpse was embalmed, and conveyed to
Greenwich, where it lay in state for some days.[Pg 100]
On the 4th of September, 1657, the Thames bore
a solemn funeral procession, which moved slowly,
amid salvos of artillery, to Westminster,
where a new vault had been prepared in the
noble abbey. The tears of a nation made it hallowed
ground. A prince, of whom the epigram
declares that, if he never said a foolish thing, he
never did a wise one—saw fit to disturb the
hero’s grave, drag out the embalmed body, and
cast it into a pit in the abbey-yard. One of
Charles Stuart’s most witless performances!
For Blake is not to be confounded—though the
Merry Monarch thought otherwise—with the
Iretons and Bradshaws who were similarly exhumed.
The admiral was a moderate in the
closest, a patriot in the widest sense.

In the chivalric disposition of the man, there
was true affinity to the best qualities of the Cavalier,
mingled sometimes with a certain grim
humor, all his own. Many are the illustrations
we might adduce of this high-minded and generous
temperament. For instance: meeting a
French frigate of forty guns in the Straits, and
signaling for the captain to come on board his
flag-ship, the latter, considering the visit one of
friendship and ceremony, there being no declared
war between the two nations—though the French
conduct at Toulon had determined England on
measures of retaliation—readily complied with
Blake’s summons; but was astounded on entering
the admiral’s cabin, at being told he was a
prisoner, and requested to give up his sword.
No! was the surprised but resolute Frenchman’s
reply. Blake felt that an advantage had been
gained by a misconception, and scorning to make
a brave officer its victim, he told his guest he
might go back to his ship, if he wished, and
fight it out as long as he was able. The captain,
we are told, thanked him for his handsome
offer, and retired. After two hours’ hard fighting,
he struck his flag; like a true French knight,
he made a low bow, kissed his sword affectionately,
and delivered it to his conqueror. Again:
when Blake captured the Dutch herring-fleet
off Bochness, consisting of 600 boats, instead
of destroying or appropriating them, he merely
took a tithe of the whole freight, in merciful
consideration toward the poor families whose
entire capital and means of life it constituted.
This “characteristic act of clemency” was censured
by many as Quixotic, and worse. But
“Blake took no trouble to justify his noble instincts
against such critics. His was indeed a
happy fate: the only fault ever advanced by friend
or foe against his public life, was an excess of
generosity toward his vanquished enemies!”
His sense of the comic is amusingly evidenced
by the story of his ruse during a dearth in the
same siege. Tradition reports, that only one
animal, a hog, was left alive in the town, and
that more than half starved. In the afternoon,
Blake, feeling that in their depression a laugh
would do the defenders as much good as a dinner,
had the hog carried to all the posts and
whipped, so that its screams, heard in many
places, might make the enemy suppose that fresh
supplies had somehow been obtained.

[Pg 101]

The moral aspects of his character appear in
this memoir in an admirable light. If he did not
stand so high as some others in public notoriety,
it was mainly because, to stand higher than he
did, he must plant his feet on a bad eminence.
His patriotism was as pure as Cromwell’s was
selfish. Mr. Dixon, his biographer, alludes to
the strong points of contrast, as well as of resemblance
between the two men. Both, he says,
were sincerely religious, undauntedly brave, fertile
in expedients, irresistible in action. Born in
the same year, they began and almost closed
their lives at the same time. Both were country
gentlemen of moderate fortune; both were
of middle age when the revolution came. Without
previous knowledge or professional training,
both attained to the highest honors of their respective
services. But there the parallel ends.
Anxious only for the glory and interest of his
country, Blake took little or no care of his personal
aggrandizement. His contempt for money,
his impatience with the mere vanities of power,
were supreme. Bribery he abhorred in all its
shapes. He was frank and open to a fault; his
heart was ever in his hand, and his mind ever
on his lips. His honesty, modesty, generosity,
sincerity, and magnanimity were unimpeached.
Cromwell’s inferior moral qualities made him
distrust the great seaman; yet, now and then,
as in the case of the street tumult at Malaga, he
was fain to express his admiration of Robert
Blake. The latter was wholly unversed in the
science of nepotism, and “happy family” compacts;
for, although desirous of aiding his relatives,
he was jealous of the least offense on their
part, and never overlooked it. Several instances
of this disposition are on record. When his
brother Samuel, in rash zeal for the Commonwealth,
ventured to exceed his duty, and was
killed in a fray which ensued, Blake was terribly
shocked, but only said: “Sam had no business
there.” Afterward, however, he shut himself
up in his room, and bewailed his loss in the
words of Scripture: “Died Abner as a fool dieth!”
His brother Benjamin, again, to whom
he was strongly attached, falling under suspicion
of neglect of duty, was instantly broken, and sent
on shore. “This rigid measure of justice against
his own flesh and blood, silenced every complaint,
and the service gained immeasurably in spirit,
discipline, and confidence.” Yet more touching
was the great admiral’s inexorable treatment of
his favorite brother Humphrey, who, in a moment
of extreme agitation, had failed in his duty.
The captains went to Blake in a body, and argued
that Humphrey’s fault was a neglect rather
than a breach of orders, and suggested his being
sent away to England till it was forgotten. But
Blake was outwardly unmoved, though inwardly
his bowels did yearn over his brother, and sternly
said: “If none of you will accuse him, I
must be his accuser.” Humphrey was dismissed
from the service. It is affecting to know how
painfully Blake missed his familiar presence
during his sick and lonely passage homeward,
when the hand of death was upon that noble
heart. To Humphrey he bequeathed the greater[Pg 102]
part of the property which he left behind him.
In the rare intervals of private life which he
enjoyed on shore, Blake also compels our sincere
regard. When released for awhile from political
and professional duties, he loved to run down to
Bridgewater for a few days or weeks, and, as his
biographer says, with his chosen books, and one
or two devout and abstemious friends, to indulge
in all the luxuries of seclusion. “He was by
nature self-absorbed and taciturn. His morning
was usually occupied with a long walk, during
which he appeared to his simple neighbors to be
lost in profound thought, as if working out in
his own mind the details of one of his great
battles, or busy with some abstruse point of
Puritan theology. If accompanied by one of his
brothers, or by some other intimate friend, he
was still for the most part silent. Always good-humored,
and enjoying sarcasm when of a grave,
high class, he yet never talked from the loquacious
instinct, or encouraged others so to employ their
time and talents in his presence. Even his lively
and rattling brother Humphrey, his almost constant
companion when on shore, caught, from
long habit, the great man’s contemplative and
self-communing gait and manner; and when his
friends rallied him on the subject in after-years,
he used to say, that he had caught the trick of
silence while walking by the admiral’s side in his
long morning musings on Knoll Hill. A plain
dinner satisfied his wants. Religious conversation,
reading, and the details of business, generally
filled up the evening until supper-time; after
family prayers—always pronounced by the general
himself—he would invariably call for his cup
of sack and a dry crust of bread, and while he
drank two or three horns of Canary, would smile
and chat in his own dry manner with his friends
and domestics, asking minute questions about
their neighbors and acquaintance; or when
scholars or clergymen shared his simple repast,
affecting a droll anxiety—rich and pleasant in
the conqueror of Tromp—to prove, by the aptness
and abundance of his quotations, that, in becoming
an admiral, he had not forfeited his claim to be
considered a good classic.”

The care and interest with which he looked to
the well-being of his humblest followers, made
him eminently popular in the fleet. He was always
ready to hear complaints, and to rectify
grievances. When wounded at the battle of Portland,
and exhorted to go on shore for repose and
proper medical treatment, he refused to seek for
himself the relief which he had put in the way
of his meanest comrade. Even at the early period
of his cruise against the Cavalier corsairs of
Kinsale, such was Blake’s popularity, that numbers
of men were continually joining him from
the enemy’s fleet, although he offered them less
pay, and none of that license which they had enjoyed
under Prince Rupert’s flag. They gloried
in following a leader sans peur et sans reproche—one
with whose renown the whole country
speedily rang—the renown of a man who had
revived the traditional glories of the English
navy, and proved that its meteor flag could “yet
terrific burn.”

[Pg 103]

THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
BY FREDRIKA BREMER.

London possesses two scenes of popular enjoyment
on a great scale, in its British Museum
and its Zoological Gardens. In the former,
the glance is sent over the life of antiquity; in
the latter, over that of the present time in the
kingdom of nature; and in both may the Englishman
enjoy a view of England’s power and greatness,
because it is the spirit of England which
has compelled Egypt and Greece to remove hither
their gods, their heroic statues: it is England
whose courageous sons at this present moment
force their way into the interior of Africa, that
mysterious native land of miracles and of the
Leviathan; it is an Englishman who held in his
hand snow from the clefts of the remote Mountains
of the Moon; it is England which has aroused
that ancient Nineveh from her thousands of years
of sleep in the desert; England, which has caused
to arise from their graves, and to stand forth beneath
the sky of England, those witnesses of the
life and art of antiquity which are known under
the name of the Nineveh Marbles, those magnificent
but enigmatical figures which are called
the Nineveh Bulls, in the immense wings of
which one can not but admire the fine artistic
skill of the workmanship, and from the beautiful
human countenances of which glances Oriental
despotism—with eyes such as those with which
King Ahasuerus might have gazed on the beautiful
Esther, when she sank fainting before the
power of that glance. They have an extraordinary
expression—these countenances of Nineveh,
so magnificent, so strong, and at the same
time, so joyous—a something about them so
valiant and so joyously commanding! It was
an expression which surprised me, and which
I could not rightly comprehend. It would be
necessary for me to see them yet again before I
could fully satisfy myself whether this inexpressible,
proudly joyous glance is one of wisdom or
of stupidity! I could almost fancy it might be
the latter, when I contemplate the expression of
gentle majesty in the head of the Grecian Jupiter.
Nevertheless, whether it be wisdom or stupidity—these
representations of ancient Nineveh have
a real grandeur and originality about them. Were
they then representatives of life there? Was life
there thus proud and joyous, thus unconscious
of trouble, care, or death, thus valiant, and without
all arrogance? Had it such eyes? Ah!
and yet it has lain buried in the sand of the desert,
lain forgotten there many thousand years.
And now, when they once more look up with
those large, magnificent eyes, they discover another
world around them, another Nineveh which
can not understand what they would say. Thus
proudly might Nineveh have looked when the
prophet uttered above her his “woe!” Such a
glance does not accord with the life of earth.

In comparison with these latest discovered but
most ancient works of art, the Egyptian statues
fall infinitely short, bearing evidence of a degraded,[Pg 104]
sensual humanity, and the same as regarded
art. But neither of these, nor of the
Elgin marbles, nor of many other treasures of
art in the British Museum which testify at the
same time to the greatness of foregone ages, and
to the power of the English world-conquering
intelligence, shall I say any thing, because time
failed me rightly to observe them, and the Nineveh
marbles almost bewitched me by their
contemplation.

It is to me difficult to imagine a greater pleasure
than that of wandering through these halls,
or than by a visit to the Zoological Garden which
lies on one side of the Regent’s Park. I would
willingly reside near this park for a time, that I
might again and again wander about in this world
of animals from all zones, and listen to all that
they have to relate, ice-bears and lions, turtles
and eagles, the ourang-outang and the rhinoceros!
The English Zoological Garden, although
less fortunate in its locality than the Jardin des
Plantes in Paris, is much richer as regards animals.
That which at this time attracted hither
most visitors was the new guest of the garden,
a so-called river-horse or hippopotamus, lately
brought hither from Upper Egypt, where it was
taken when young. It was yet not full-grown,
and had here its own keeper—an Arab—its own
house, its own court, its own reservoir, to bathe
and swim in! Thus it lived in a really princely
hippopotamus fashion. I saw his highness ascend
out of his bath in a particularly good-humor, and
he looked to me like an enormous—pig, with
an enormously broad snout. He was very fat,
smooth, and gray, and awkward in his movements,
like the elephant. Long-necked giraffes
walked about, feeding from wooden racks in the
court adjoining that of the hippopotamus, and
glancing at us across it. One can scarcely imagine
a greater contrast than in these animals.

The eagles sate upon crags placed in a row
beneath a lofty transparent arch of iron work, an
arrangement which seemed to me excellent, and
which I hope seemed so to them, in case they
could forget that they were captives. Here they
might breathe, here spread out their huge wings,
see the free expanse of heaven, and the sun, and
build habitations for themselves upon the rock.
On the contrary, the lions, leopards, and such-like
noble beasts of the desert, seemed to me
particularly unhappy in their iron-grated stone
vaults; and their perpetual, uneasy walking
backward and forward in their cages—I could
not see that without a feeling of distress. How
beautiful they must be in the desert, or amid
tropical woods, or in the wild caverns of the
mountains, those grand, terrific beasts—how
fearfully beautiful! One day I saw these animals
during their feeding time. Two men went
round with wooden vessels filled with pieces of
raw meat; these were taken up with a large
iron-pronged fork, and put, or rather flung,
through the iron grating into the dens. It was
terrible to see the savage joy, the fury, with
which the food was received and swallowed
down by the beasts. Three pieces of meat were[Pg 105]
thrown into one great vault which was at that
time empty, a door was then drawn up at the
back of the vault, and three huge yellow lions
with shaggy manes rushed roaring in, and at
one spring each possessed himself of his piece
of flesh. One of the lions held his piece between
his teeth for certainly a quarter of an hour,
merely growling and gloating over it in savage
joy, while his flashing eyes glared upon the
spectators, and his tail was swung from side to
side with an expression of defiance. It was a
splendid, but a fearful sight. One of my friends
was accustomed sometimes to visit these animals
in company with his little girl, a beautiful child,
with a complexion like milk and cherries. The
sight of her invariably produced great excitement
in the lions. They seemed evidently to show
their love to her in a ravenous manner.

The serpents were motionless in their glass
house, and lay, half-asleep, curled around the
trunks of trees. In the evening by lamp-light
they become lively, and then, twisting about and
flashing forth their snaky splendors, they present
a fine spectacle. The snake-room, with its
walls of glass, behind which the snakes live, reminded
me of the old northern myth of Nastrond,
the roof of which was woven of snakes’ backs,
the final home of the ungodly—an unpleasant,
but vigorous picture. The most disagreeable
and the ugliest of all the snakes, was that little
snake which the beautiful Queen Cleopatra, herself
false as a serpent, placed at her breast; a
little gray, flat-headed snake which liked to bury
itself in the sand.

The monkey-family lead a sad life; stretch out
their hands for nuts or for bread, with mournful
human gestures; contentious, beaten, oppressed,
thrust aside, frightening one another, the stronger
the weaker—mournfully human also.

Sad, also, was the sight of an ourang-outang,
spite of all its queer grimaces, solitary in its
house, for it evidently suffered ennui, was restless,
and would go out. It embraced its keeper
and kissed him with real human tenderness.
The countenance, so human, yet without any
human intelligence, made a painful impression
upon me; so did the friendly tame creature here,
longing for its fellows, and seeing around it only
human beings. Thou poor animal! Fain would
I have seen thee in the primeval woods of Africa,
caressing thy wife in the clear moonlight of the
tropical night, sporting with her among the
branches of the trees, and sleeping upon them,
rocked by the warm night wind. There thy
ugliness would have had a sort of picturesque
beauty. After the strange beast-man had climbed
hither and thither along the iron railing, seizing
the bars with his hands, and feet which resembled
hands, and also with his teeth, he took
a white woolen blanket, wrapped it around him
in a very complicated manner, and ended by laying
himself down as a human being might do, in
his chilly, desolate room.

After this, all the more charming was the
spectacle presented by the water-fowl from every
zone—Ducks, Swans, and Co., all quite at home[Pg 106]
here, swimming in the clear waters, among little
green islands on which they had their little huts.
It was most charmingly pretty and complete.
And the mother-duck with her little, lively golden-yellow
flock, swimming neck and heels after
her, or seeking shelter under her wings, is at
all times one of the most lovely scenes of natural
life—resembling humanity in a beautiful manner.

Even among the wild beasts I saw a beautiful
human trait of maternal affection. A female
leopard had in her cage two young cubs, lively
and playful as puppies. When the man threw
the flesh into her cage, she drew herself back
and let the young ones first seize upon the piece.

Crows from all parts of the world here live together
in one neighborhood, and that the chattering
and laughter was loud here did not surprise
me, neither that the European crows so
well maintained their place among their fellows.
That which, however, astonished and delighted
me was, the sweet flute-like melodious tones of
the Australian crow. In the presence of this
crow from Paradise—for originally it must have
come therefrom—it seemed to me that all the
other crows ought to have kept silence with
their senseless chattering. But they were nothing
but crows, and they liked better to hear
themselves.

Parrots from all lands lived and quarreled together
in a large room, and they there made
such a loud screaming, that in order to stand it
out one must have been one of their own relations.
Better be among the silent, dejected,
stealthy, hissing, shining snakes, than in company
with parrots! The former might kill the
body, but the latter the soul.

Twilight came on, and drove me out of the
Zoological Garden each time I was there, and
before I had seen all its treasures. Would that
I might return there yet a third time and remain
still longer!

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED.

The most difficult likeness I ever had to take,
not even excepting my first attempt in the
art of Portrait-painting, was a likeness of a gentleman
named Faulkner. As far as drawing
and coloring went, I had no particular fault to
find with my picture; it was the expression of
the sitter which I had failed in rendering—a
failure quite as much his fault as mine. Mr.
Faulkner, like many other persons by whom I
have been employed, took it into his head that
he must assume an expression, because he was
sitting for his likeness; and, in consequence,
contrived to look as unlike himself as possible,
while I was painting him. I had tried to divert
his attention from his own face, by talking with
him on all sorts of topics. We had both traveled
a great deal, and felt interested alike in many
subjects connected with our wanderings over the
same countries. Occasionally, while we were
discussing our traveling experiences, the unlucky
set-look left his countenance, and I began
to work to some purpose; but it was always
disastrously sure to return again, before I had[Pg 107]
made any great progress—or, in other words,
just at the very time when I was most anxious
that it should not re-appear. The obstacle thus
thrown in the way of the satisfactory completion
of my portrait, was the more to be deplored, because
Mr. Faulkner’s natural expression was a
very remarkable one. I am not an author, so I
can not describe it. I ultimately succeeded in
painting it, however; and this was the way in
which I achieved my success:

On the morning when my sitter was coming
to me for the fourth time, I was looking at his
portrait in no very agreeable mood—looking at
it, in fact, with the disheartening conviction that
the picture would be a perfect failure, unless the
expression in the face represented were thoroughly
altered and improved from nature. The only
method of accomplishing this successfully, was
to make Mr. Faulkner, somehow, insensibly forget
that he was sitting for his picture. What
topic could I lead him to talk on, which would
entirely engross his attention while I was at
work on his likeness?—I was still puzzling my
brains to no purpose on this subject, when Mr.
Faulkner entered my studio; and, shortly afterward,
an accidental circumstance gained for me
the very object which my own ingenuity had
proved unequal to compass.

While I was “setting” my pallet, my sitter
amused himself by turning over some portfolios.
He happened to select one for special notice,
which contained several sketches that I had
made in the streets of Paris. He turned over
the first five views rapidly enough; but when
he came to the sixth, I saw his face flush directly;
and observed that he took the drawing out
of the portfolio, carried it to the window, and
remained silently absorbed in the contemplation
of it for full five minutes. After that, he turned
round to me; and asked, very anxiously, if I
had any objection to part with that sketch.

It was the least interesting drawing of the
series—merely a view in one of the streets running
by the backs of the houses in the Palais
Royal. Some four or five of these houses were
comprised in the view, which was of no particular
use to me in any way; and which was too
valueless, as a work of Art, for me to think of
selling it to my kind patron. I begged his acceptance
of it, at once. He thanked me quite
warmly; and then, seeing that I looked a little
surprised at the odd selection he had made from
my sketches, laughingly asked me if I could
guess why he had been so anxious to become
possessed of the view which I had given him?

“Probably”—I answered—”there is some remarkable
historical association connected with
that street at the back of the Palais Royal, of
which I am ignorant.”

“No”—said Mr. Faulkner—”at least, none
that I know of. The only association connected
with the place in my mind, is a purely personal
association. Look at this house in your drawing—the
house with the water-pipe running
down it from top to bottom. I once passed a
night there—a night I shall never forget to the[Pg 108]
day of my death. I have had some awkward
traveling adventures in my time; but that adventure—!
Well, well! suppose we begin the
sitting. I make but a bad return for your kindness
in giving me the sketch, by thus wasting
your time in mere talk.”

He had not long occupied the sitter’s chair
(looking pale and thoughtful), when he returned—involuntarily,
as it seemed—to the subject of
the house in the back street. Without, I hope,
showing any undue curiosity, I contrived to let
him see that I felt a deep interest in every thing
he now said. After two or three preliminary
hesitations, he at last, to my great joy, fairly
started on the narrative of his adventure. In
the interest of his subject he soon completely
forgot that he was sitting for his portrait—the
very expression that I wanted, came over his
face—my picture proceeded toward completion,
in the right direction, and to the best purpose.
At every fresh touch, I felt more and more certain
that I was now getting the better of my
grand difficulty; and I enjoyed the additional
gratification of having my work lightened by the
recital of a true story, which possessed, in my
estimation, all the excitement of the most exciting
romance.

This, as nearly as I can recollect, is, word for
word, how Mr. Faulkner told me the story:—

Shortly before the period when gambling-houses
were suppressed by the French Government,
I happened to be staying at Paris with an
English friend. We were both young men then,
and lived, I am afraid, a very dissipated life, in
the very dissipated city of our sojourn. One
night, we were idling about the neighborhood
of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement
we should next betake ourselves. My friend
proposed a visit to Frascati’s; but his suggestion
was not to my taste. I knew Frascati’s, as the
French saying is, by heart; had lost and won
plenty of five-franc pieces there, “merely for the
fun of the thing,” until it was “fun” no longer;
and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the
ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly
as a respectable gambling-house. “For Heaven’s
sake”—said I to my friend—”let us go
somewhere where we can see a little genuine,
blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming, with no
false gingerbread glitter thrown over it at all.
Let us get away from fashionable Frascati’s, to
a house where they don’t mind letting in a man
with a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged
or otherwise.”—”Very well,” said my friend,
“we needn’t go out of the Palais Royal to find
the sort of company you want. Here’s the place,
just before us; as blackguard a place, by all report,
as you could possibly wish to see.” In
another minute we arrived at the door, and entered
the house, the back of which you have
drawn in your sketch.

When we got up-stairs, and had left our hats
and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted
into the chief gambling-room. We did not
find many people assembled there. But, few as
the men were who looked up at us on our entrance,[Pg 109]
they were all types—miserable types—of
their respective classes. We had come to see
blackguards; but these men were something
worse. There is a comic side, more or less appreciable,
in all blackguardism—here, there was
nothing but tragedy; mute, weird tragedy. The
quiet in the room was horrible. The thin, haggard,
long-haired young man, whose sunken
eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the
cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply
player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly,
to register how often black won, and
how often red—never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled
old man, with the vulture eyes, and the darned
great coat, who had lost his last sous, and still
looked on desperately, after he could play no
longer—never spoke. Even the voice of the
croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled
and thickened in the atmosphere of the room.
I had entered the place to laugh; I felt that if I
stood quietly looking on much longer, I should
be more likely to weep. So, to excite myself
out of the depression of spirits which was fast
stealing over me, I unfortunately went to the
table, and began to play. Still more unfortunately,
as the event will show, I won—won prodigiously;
won incredibly; won at such a rate,
that the regular players at the table crowded
round me; and staring at my stakes with hungry,
superstitious eyes, whispered to one another
that the English stranger was going to break the
bank.

The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played
at it in every city in Europe, without, however,
the care or the wish to study the Theory of
Chances—that philosopher’s stone of all gamblers!
And a gambler, in the strict sense of
the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole
from the corroding passion for play. My gaming
was a mere idle amusement. I never resorted
to it by necessity, because I never knew
what it was to want money. I never practiced
it so incessantly as to lose more than I could afford,
or to gain more than I could coolly pocket,
without being thrown off my balance by my good
luck. In short, I had hitherto frequented gambling-tables—just
as I frequented ball-rooms and
opera-houses—because they amused me, and because
I had nothing better to do with my leisure
hours.

But, on this occasion, it was very different—now,
for the first time in my life, I felt what the
passion for play really was. My success first
bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning
of the word, intoxicated me. Incredible as it
may appear, it is nevertheless true, that I only
lost, when I attempted to estimate chances, and
played according to previous calculation. If I
left every thing to luck, and staked without any
care or consideration, I was sure to win—to win
in the face of every recognized probability in favor
of the bank. At first, some of the men present
ventured their money safely enough on my
color; but I speedily increased my stakes to
sums which they dared not risk. One after another
they left off playing, and breathlessly looked[Pg 110]
on at my game. Still, time after time, I staked
higher and higher; and still won. The excitement
in the room rose to fever pitch. The silence
was interrupted, by a deep, muttered chorus
of oaths and exclamations in different languages,
every time the gold was shoveled across to my
side of the table—even the imperturbable croupier
dashed his rake on the floor in a (French)
fury of astonishment at my success. But one
man present preserved his self-possession; and
that man was my friend. He came to my side,
and whispering in English, begged me to leave
the place, satisfied with what I had already gained.
I must do him the justice to say, that he
repeated his warnings and entreaties several
times; and only left me and went away, after I
had rejected his advice (I was to all intents and
purposes gambling-drunk) in terms which rendered
it impossible for him to address me again
that night.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind
me cried: “Permit me, my dear sir!—permit
me to restore to their proper place two Napoleons
which you have dropped. Wonderful
luck, sir!—I pledge you my word of honor as
an old soldier, in the course of my long experience
in this sort of thing, I never saw such luck
as yours!—never! Go on, sir—Sacré mille
bombes! Go on boldly, and break the bank!”

I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling
at me with inveterate civility, a tall man, dressed
in a frogged and braided surtout. If I had been
in my senses, I should have considered him, personally,
as being rather a suspicious specimen
of an old soldier. He had goggling, bloodshot
eyes, mangy mustaches, and a broken nose.
His voice betrayed a barrack-room intonation of
the worst order, and he had the dirtiest pair of
hands I ever saw—even in France. These little
personal peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling
influence on me. In the mad excitement,
the reckless triumph of that moment, I was ready
to “fraternize” with any body who encouraged
me in my game. I accepted the old soldier’s
offered pinch of snuff; clapped him on the back,
and swore he was the honestest fellow in the
world; the most glorious relic of the Grand
Army that I had ever met with. “Go on!”
cried my military friend, snapping his fingers in
ecstasy—”Go on, and win! Break the bank—Mille
tonnerres! my gallant English comrade,
break the bank!”

And I did go on—went on at such a rate, that
in another quarter of an hour the croupier called
out: “Gentlemen! the bank has discontinued
for to-night.” All the notes, and all the gold in
that “bank,” now lay in a heap under my hands;
the whole floating capital of the gambling-house
was waiting to pour into my pockets!

“Tie up the money in your pocket-handkerchief,
my worthy sir,” said the old soldier, as I
wildly plunged my hands into my heap of gold.
“Tie it up, as we used to tie up a bit of dinner
in the Grand Army; your winnings are too
heavy for any breeches pockets that ever were
sewed. There! that’s it!—shovel them in, notes[Pg 111]
and all! Credié! what luck!—Stop! another
Napoleon on the floor! Ah! sacré petit polisson
de Napoleon! have I found thee at last? Now,
then, sir—two tight double knots each way with
your honorable permission, and the money’s safe.
Feel it! feel it, fortunate sir! hard and round as
a cannon ball—Ah, bah! if they had only fired
such cannon balls at us at Austerlitz—nom d’une
pipe! if they only had! And now, as an ancient
grenadier, as an ex-brave of the French army,
what remains for me to do? I ask what?
Simply this: to entreat my valued English friend
to drink a bottle of champagne with me, and toast
the goddess Fortune in foaming goblets before
we part!”

Excellent ex-brave! Convivial ancient grenadier!
Champagne by all means! An English
cheer for an old soldier! Hurrah! hurrah! Another
English cheer for the goddess Fortune!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

“Bravo! the Englishman; the amiable, gracious
Englishman, in whose veins circulates the
vivacious blood of France! Another glass? Ah,
bah!—the bottle is empty! Never mind! Vive
le vin! I, the old soldier, order another bottle,
and half a pound of bon-bons with it!”

No, no, ex-brave; never—ancient grenadier!
Your bottle last time; my bottle this. Behold
it! Toast away! The French Army!—the
great Napoleon!—the present company! the
croupier! the honest croupier’s wife and daughters—if
he has any! the Ladies generally! Every
body in the world!

By the time the second bottle of champagne
was emptied, I felt as if I had been drinking
liquid fire—my brain seemed all a flame. No
excess in wine had ever had this effect on me
before in my life. Was it the result of a stimulant
acting upon my system when I was in a
highly-excited state? Was my stomach in a
particularly disordered condition? Or was the
champagne particularly strong?

“Ex-brave of the French Army!” cried I, in
a mad state of exhilaration. “I am on fire! how
are you? You have set me on fire! Do you
hear; my hero of Austerlitz? Let us have a
third bottle of champagne to put the flame out!”
The old soldier wagged his head, rolled his goggle-eyes,
until I expected to see them slip out
of their sockets; placed his dirty forefinger by
the side of his broken nose; solemnly ejaculated
“Coffee!” and immediately ran off into an inner
room.

The word pronounced by the eccentric veteran,
seemed to have a magical effect on the rest of
the company present. With one accord they all
rose to depart. Probably they had expected to
profit by my intoxication; but finding that my
new friend was benevolently bent on preventing
me from getting dead drunk, had now abandoned
all hope of thriving pleasantly on my winnings.
Whatever their motive might be, at any rate they
went away in a body. When the old soldier returned,
and sat down again opposite to me at the
table, we had the room to ourselves. I could
see the croupier, in a sort of vestibule which[Pg 112]
opened out of it, eating his supper in solitude.
The silence was now deeper than ever.

A sudden change, too, had come over the “ex-brave.”
He assumed a portentously solemn look;
and when he spoke to me again, his speech was
ornamented by no oaths, enforced by no finger-snapping,
enlivened by no apostrophes, or exclamations.

“Listen, my dear sir,” said he, in mysteriously
confidential tones—”listen to an old soldier’s advice.
I have been to the mistress of the house
(a very charming woman, with a genius for cookery!)
to impress on her the necessity of making
us some particularly strong and good coffee.
You must drink this coffee in order to get rid
of your little amiable exaltation of spirits, before
you think of going home—you must, my good
and gracious friend! With all that money to
take home to-night, it is a sacred duty to yourself
to have your wits about you. You are
known to be a winner to an enormous extent,
by several gentlemen present to-night, who, in
a certain point of view, are very worthy and
excellent fellows; but they are mortal men, my
dear sir, and they have their amiable weaknesses!
Need I say more? Ah, no, no! you understand
me! Now, this is what you must do—send for
a cabriolet when you feel quite well again—draw
up all the windows when you get into it—and
tell the driver to take you home only through
the large and well-lighted thoroughfares. Do
this; and you and your money will be safe. Do
this; and to-morrow you will thank an old soldier
for giving you a word of honest advice.”

Just as the ex-brave ended his oration in very
lachrymose tones, the coffee came in, ready poured
out in two cups. My attentive friend handed
me one of the cups, with a bow. I was parched
with thirst, and drank it off at a draught. Almost
instantly afterward, I was seized with a fit
of giddiness, and felt more completely intoxicated
than ever. The room whirled round and round
furiously; the old soldier seemed to be regularly
bobbing up and down before me, like the piston
of a steam-engine. I was half-deafened by a
violent singing in my ears; a feeling of utter
bewilderment, helplessness, idiotcy, overcame
me. I rose from my chair, holding on by the
table to keep my balance; and stammered out,
that I felt dreadfully unwell—so unwell, that I
did not know how I was to get home.

“My dear friend,” answered the old soldier;
and even his voice seemed to be bobbing up and
down, as he spoke—”My dear friend, it would
be madness to go home, in your state. You
would be sure to lose your money; you might
be robbed and murdered with the greatest ease.
I am going to sleep here: do you sleep here, too—they
make up capital beds in this house—take
one; sleep off the effects of the wine, and go
home safely with your winnings, to-morrow—to-morrow,
in broad daylight.”

I had no power of thinking, no feeling of any
kind, but the feeling that I must lie down somewhere,
immediately, and fall off into a cool, refreshing,
comfortable sleep. So I agreed eagerly[Pg 113]
to the proposal about the bed, and took the offered
arms of the old soldier and the croupier—the
latter having been summoned to show the way.
They led me along some passages and up a short
flight of stairs into the bedroom which I was to
occupy. The ex-brave shook me warmly by the
hand; proposed that we should breakfast together
the next morning; and then, followed by the
croupier, left me for the night.

I ran to the wash-hand stand; drank some of
the water in my jug; poured the rest out, and
plunged my face into it—then sat down in a
chair, and tried to compose myself. I soon felt
better. The change for my lungs, from the fetid
atmosphere of the gambling-room to the cool air
of the apartment I now occupied; the almost
equally refreshing change for my eyes, from the
glaring gas-lights of the “Salon” to the dim,
quiet flicker of one bedroom candle; aided wonderfully
the restorative effects of cold water.
The giddiness left me, and I began to feel a
little like a reasonable being again. My first
thought was of the risk of sleeping all night in
a gambling-house; my second, of the still greater
risk of trying to get out after the house was
closed, and of going home alone at night, through
the streets of Paris, with a large sum of money
about me. I had slept in worse places than this,
in the course of my travels; so I determined to
lock, bolt, and barricade my door.

Accordingly, I secured myself against all intrusion;
looked under the bed, and into the cupboard;
tried the fastening of the window; and
then, satisfied that I had taken every proper
precaution, pulled off my upper clothing, put
my light, which was a dim one, on the hearth
among a feathery litter of wood ashes; and got
into bed, with the handkerchief full of money
under my pillow.

I soon felt, not only that I could not go to
sleep, but that I could not even close my eyes.
I was wide awake, and in a high fever. Every
nerve in my body trembled—every one of my
senses seemed to be preternaturally sharpened.
I tossed, and rolled, and tried every kind of position,
and perseveringly sought out the cold corners
of the bed, and all to no purpose. Now, I thrust
my arms over the clothes; now, I poked them
under the clothes; now, I violently shot my legs
straight out, down to the bottom of the bed; now,
I convulsively coiled them up as near my chin as
they would go; now, I shook out my crumpled
pillow, changed it to the cool side, patted it flat,
and lay down quietly on my back; now, I fiercely
doubled it in two, set it up on end, thrust it
against the board of the bed, and tried a sitting
posture. Every effort was in vain; I groaned
with vexation, as I felt that I was in for a sleepless
night.

What could I do? I had no book to read.
And yet, unless I found out some method of diverting
my mind, I felt certain that I was in the
condition to imagine all sorts of horrors; to rack
my brains with forebodings of every possible and
impossible danger; in short, to pass the night in
suffering all conceivable varieties of nervous terror.[Pg 114]
I raised myself on my elbow, and looked
about the room—which was brightened by a
lovely moonlight pouring straight through the
window—to see if it contained any pictures or
ornaments, that I could at all clearly distinguish.
While my eyes wandered from wall to wall, a
remembrance of Le Maistre’s delightful little
book, “Voyage autour de ma Chambre,” occurred
to me. I resolved to imitate the French
author, and find occupation and amusement
enough to relieve the tedium of my wakefulness
by making a mental inventory of every article of
furniture I could see, and by following up to their
sources the multitude of associations which even
a chair, a table, or a wash-hand stand, may be
made to call forth.

In the nervous, unsettled state of my mind at
that moment, I found it much easier to make my
proposed inventory, than to make my proposed
reflections, and soon gave up all hope of thinking
in Le Maistre’s fanciful track—or, indeed, thinking
at all. I looked about the room at the different
articles of furniture, and did nothing more.
There was, first, the bed I was lying in—a four-post
bed, of all things in the world to meet with
in Paris!—yes, a thorough clumsy British four-poster,
with the regular top lined with chintz—the
regular fringed valance all round—the regular
stifling, unwholesome curtains, which I remembered
having mechanically drawn back against
the posts, without particularly noticing the bed
when I first got into the room. Then, there was
the marble-topped wash-hand stand, from which
the water I had spilt, in my hurry to pour it out,
was still dripping, slowly and more slowly, on to
the brick floor. Then, two small chairs, with
my coat, waistcoat, and trowsers flung on them.
Then, a large elbow chair covered with dirty-white
dimity: with my cravat and shirt-collar
thrown over the back. Then, a chest of drawers,
with two of the brass handles off, and a
tawdry, broken china inkstand placed on it by
way of ornament for the top. Then, the dressing-table,
adorned by a very small looking-glass,
and a very large pincushion. Then, the window—an
unusually large window. Then, a dark old
picture, which the feeble candle dimly showed
me. It was the picture of a fellow in a high
Spanish hat, crowned with a plume of towering
feathers. A swarthy sinister ruffian, looking
upward; shading his eyes with his hand, and
looking intently upward—it might be at some
tall gallows at which he was going to be hanged.
At any rate he had the appearance of thoroughly
deserving it.

This picture put a kind of constraint upon me
to look upward, too—at the top of the bed. It
was a gloomy and not an interesting object, and
I looked back at the picture. I counted the
feathers in the man’s hat; they stood out in relief;
three, white; two, green. I observed the
crown of his hat, which was of a conical shape,
according to the fashion supposed to have been
favored by Guido Fawkes. I wondered what he
was looking up at. It couldn’t be at the stars;
such a desperado was neither astrologer nor[Pg 115]
astronomer. It must be at the high gallows,
and he was going to be hanged presently.
Would the executioner come into possession of
his conical crowned hat, and plume of feathers?
I counted the feathers again; three, white; two,
green.

While I still lingered over this very improving
and intellectual employment, my thoughts insensibly
began to wander. The moonlight shining
into the room reminded me of a certain moonlight
night in England—the night after a pic-nic
party in a Welsh valley. Every incident of the
drive homeward through lovely scenery, which
the moonlight made lovelier than ever, came
back to my remembrance, though I had never
given the pic-nic a thought for years; though,
if I had tried to recollect it, I could certainly
have recalled little or nothing of that scene long
past. Of all the wonderful faculties that help
to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the
sublime truth more eloquently than memory?
Here was I, in a strange house of the most suspicious
character, in a situation of uncertainty,
and even of peril, which might seem to make
the cool exercise of my recollection almost out
of the question; nevertheless remembering, quite
involuntarily, places, people, conversations, minute
circumstances of every kind, which I had
thought forgotten forever, which I could not
possibly have recalled at will, even under the
most favorable auspices. And what cause had
produced in a moment the whole of this strange,
complicated, mysterious effect? Nothing but
some rays of moonlight shining in at my bedroom
window.